tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51491250231630514192024-02-06T22:34:00.131-05:00Begging The AnswerAngela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.comBlogger240125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-62876225545046216812015-04-28T20:13:00.002-04:002015-04-28T20:13:34.093-04:00O-o-o-o-o-o-klahoma!<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">One of the things that kept me from blogging over the past couple years was that .... I was writing. Articles! For money! It has certainly been a satisfying endeavor that frankly for the most part had sucked the well of my writing waters dried. I simply had no energy for extra writing, and in a way it hurt. Most of my time in Oklahoma went unchronicled while I continued to live it. There are stories that may be told in the coming days. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The story of us buying our first house, and the kindness we were shown by those who barely knew us when it came time to move. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">How difficult school drop-off time was for First Grader each and every day she was in Kindergarten and how bizarrely and unprecedentedly well she took to riding the bus in first grade. The fact that she is reading at a 4th grade reading level. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">How Kindergartner has made her very first best friend. In fact, when we told the kids that we were moving, Kindergartner’s very first reaction was, “I’m going to miss my best friend.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">So, so much to say. It is my hope that I’ll have the drive, for now at least, to capture some of these moments, both past, present and future.</span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-87792502117323881502015-04-28T20:12:00.001-04:002015-04-28T20:12:54.369-04:00Rain, Rain Go Away <div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It’s been raining here. And then it rained. And then it rained again. Our yard is flooded, soccer has been cancelled several times, and the hems of my jeans seem to be permanently damp.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There is so much going on in the world right now. Unrest in Baltimore. Thousands dead in Nepal. It makes my problems seem so insignificant, but they loom so greatly on my mind. I know I have no reason to complain. I’m trying so hard to have faith that everything will work out the way it is meant to. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">It’s just hard. Faith is hard.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I thought it was supposed to be easy, like something that just sort of rained down on you. But choosing to let go of control of your life and place it into something much bigger than yourself is turning out to be a difficult thing for me to do.</span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-30338643440353781502015-04-25T20:43:00.000-04:002015-04-27T21:15:07.141-04:00I Volunteered To Help In The 2-Year-Old’s Room At Church. Brilliant.<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A few weeks back we got a letter in the mail from our daughters' Sunday school asking for parent volunteers at church. And God help me, something moved my heart and I emailed the coordinator letting her know, “Yes, I’d love to volunteer!.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’m not a teacher. I rarely ever babysat. And I have only a bare-bones understanding of the Bible, not to mention all the stories I was supposed to learn, but somehow never got around to.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">This was emphasized in my mind once a couple years back when I went out to coffee with some ladies I met in church not too long after moving to Oklahoma. They were planning a vacation Bible school class.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“So we’re doing the story about Jesus and the well,” one mom said. The others nodded in agreement. I nodded for the sake of nodding. Jesus and the what?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I think we could maybe do blue jello in cups, like water in a well?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Everyone agreed that was a good idea. I agreed because who doesn’t agree to Jello? J-E-L-L-O and B-I-B-L-E have the same number of letters, so I think I’m on to something here.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Back to the point. A couple weeks ago was my first time, along with one other adult, winging it in the 2-year-old’s room. There were eight kiddos there with us, and fortunately, it mostly went well. We sang songs. I read the story of Adam and Eve (gotta start with the basics, right?) We tried to play duck-duck-goose, but ultimately had to defer to follow the leader when the kids simply didn’t get the idea of duck-duck-goose (apparently that is 3-year-old room material.) One kid pooped his pants. No one cried.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So I guess things went ok. My next turn in the room is mother’s day weekend. Wish me luck.</span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-35673305170254903342015-04-25T20:28:00.001-04:002015-04-25T20:28:58.939-04:00Soccer, Or More Accurately, Football. Wait, What Country Am I In?<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I am so proud of First grader playing soccer. Last year her team lost all but one game and she scored one goal all season. This year her team so far is 3 wins to 1 loss, and she has scored at least one if not more goals per game. Coming from someone who hated gym class and most organized sports and was always picked last, this makes me feel utterly relieved that she won’t have to go through the gym class hell that I went through. And now Kindergartener has assured me that come summertime she’ll be ready for soccer. I’m not sure why she picked that specific of a date, but hey, as long as she’s willing to try.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">On another topic, my kids still watch Peppa Pig. Which means I still watch Peppa Pig. Which means I start thinking in a British accent. ‘Ello there gov’na! What’s all this noise about, then.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I feel like I’m slowly working my way towards more cohesive posts again. I don’t feel particularly witty or verbose, but it is such a relief to be writing and putting my thoughts out there, even if there is no one to hear. It’s like relearning to ride a bike. And everyone knows how good <a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-want-to-ride-my-bicycle-i-want-to.html"><span class="s2">that turned out for me</span></a>.</span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-72045197182773114192015-04-25T20:27:00.001-04:002015-04-25T20:27:57.007-04:00Wherever Is My Heart, I’ll Call Home<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Well, that last post did the trick, and I’m guardedly optimistic about our upcoming move to Missouri. After all, Laura Ingalls Wilder eventually settled her family in Missouri and things turned out well for her, right? Right?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Actually, I am doing much better. Lots of talking with husband and a glass (or bottle) or two of wine seemed to help. </span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-32283692215663438092015-04-25T20:18:00.000-04:002015-04-25T20:18:09.930-04:00Like A Rolling Stone<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I think I need to blog again. I contemplated creating a whole new blog, but felt that for the sake of continuity I needed to revisit this old haunt. And it’s old. Toddler and Preschooler are now Kindergartener and First-Grader and the school year is almost over here in Oklahoma.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And we’re moving.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Again.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We must have been meant to be nomads. It’s the only explanation.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It’s hard for me to sort through how I feel about the move. For husband’s job, it’ll present new opportunities, albeit we won’t see an increase in pay. Unfortunately, his position as of right now is temporary, which is really really upsetting for me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am so so tired of moving. We bought a house in Oklahoma and now two-and-a-half years later we have to sell it. And although we made improvements, we haven’t built up enough equity, so to be honest we’ll be lucky to break even after selling it. Which means we get to start saving up a down payment for a house all over again.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Yippee.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As you can see, I’m not totally enthused by this move, but we don’t really have a choice. And I’m trying so so hard to see the positive in all of this, because I don’t want to bring husband down with my negativity, but honestly right now I’m just down.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I don’t want to move, and I don’t want to not move. I just want stability.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So here’s to hoping I post some more positive things on this blog in the days to come. Maybe, like it was once before, it will be a source of release and comfort. Or maybe I’ll just not post again for two years.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Time will tell.</span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-14570828142956138842013-04-21T01:06:00.000-04:002013-04-21T01:06:07.025-04:00What the hell have you been doing?
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"><b><i>So what the hell happened the past year?</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband and I struggled financially as we attempted to find jobs. Or a job. Any job that kept us afloat. It was bad. It made me panic to the point where I was completely frozen; afraid to move, afraid to breath, afraid to leave my home.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got some medication, to use only when I needed it. I used it, without shame, because it worked. And having it work was better than the immobilizing fear that trapped me in my own mind, in my own home. I thought once we moved my need for it would disappear. To my surprise, I continue to use it. Turns out moving from Wisconsin to Oklahoma is a tough transition, even when it’s for all the right reasons.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband got a job. A real job with a salary and benefits and a retirement plan. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also got a job. I do some actual paid writing, writing for legal blogs. So I guess that law degree wasn’t a big mistake after all. To be frank, the writing is very part time and very from the home. It has allowed me to experience the best of my children, while still bringing in a little extra income several times a month. It has fulfilled a dream I’ve had since I was old enough to write. A dream that one day I’d be paid to write. It satiated my need to write for someone, anyone, even if only in my little corner of the blogging universe. I’m not sure why that’s changed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We moved across the country for Husband’s job. Moving itself was a bizarre and ridiculous experience for all involved. People felt my wrath. I didn’t know I could wrath until that move. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My children, my two little loves. I don’t think I can describe them by their age anymore. I have one in preschool and the other in 4K. It’s two confusing. We’ll just call them FW and CW. I hope that’s enough to prevent confusion while still respecting their privacy. FW is older, and currently in 4K. CW is younger, and currently in preschool. FW can read, and it fills my heart with joy. My entire world changed when I learned I could read. I hope her’s does too. CW marches to the beat of a different drummer. I did too. It made me brave. I hope it does the same for her.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I no longer feel sadness that my fertility seems to be at an end. I have a beautiful little family and it is more than enough.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where’s the funny?</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, I’m pretty sure half a sleeping pill is lodged in my throat. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why return now?</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who knows. Part of me simply wants to chronicle my life experience, so that when my children and their children are grown, they can look back on all this and hopefully feel a little better about themselves. I’m not sure that makes sense. Then again, since when have I made sense? Let’s not rock the boat on this one. I’m sure it will all turn out in the end. It usually does.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It usually does.</span></span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-81188057422013040012013-04-21T01:02:00.000-04:002013-04-21T01:02:12.754-04:00So, hi.
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s been nearly a year.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not the same person. I had no idea I grew so much in a year. It must have happened while I was sleeping, or something. That’s when the best ideas come to my head. Except on evenings when I have terrible insomnia, evenings not unlike tonight. So basically I get ideas when I’m sleeping and also when I’m not sleeping. I’m kind of complicated like that.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This blog used to serve a purpose.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was to help me let go of all the stupid things I did as a child.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s done that. I no longer look down on myself with utter embarrassment.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was to come to terms with my bipolar depression.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s done that. Not only do I now accept my condition, but I’m comfortable telling just about anyone about it. Especially those close to me who had absolutely no idea, no idea because I lived far away, and in my emails and phone calls I masked. I was happy, happy, happy. Yes, I’m doing fine (turn the tables before they realize I’m drowning in my own mind), how are you? </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was to discuss my parenting mistakes, whether serious or hilarious.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s done that. Or perhaps it’s doing that. I haven’t decided yet. Nevertheless, my children seem to be thriving. I haven’t done them in yet, so I guess I can continue on the current trajectory with all its ups and downs.</span></span></div>
Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-7273255217817789832012-05-01T22:46:00.000-04:002012-05-02T07:54:25.423-04:00The Great Orange Crayon Meltdown Of 2012Husband is out-of-town, so for the next three days it's just me and my girls. We're going to stay up late watching chick-flicks and eating ice cream out of the container. We might also give each other make-overs and talk about boys we like. I haven't worked out all the details yet.<br />
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And I really feel like I need this quality time with my kids. I've been focusing so much on my studying lately, that I haven't been engaging with them one-on-one as much as I used to. I have to push them aside to continue pouring over old notes and textbooks. In a very small way, I already feel like I'm back at work.<br />
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All of this is probably what led up to the great orange crayon meltdown of 2012.<br />
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You see, around 8:30 last Friday morning I called out to my girls "Let's get our socks and shoes on! It's time to go to school!" Preschooler bounds to the steps and eagerly jams her shoes on her feet. Toddler is dawdling by some pictures they were drawing in crayon.<br />
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"Orange crayon," she says.<br />
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"Ok," I say, "Finish drawing with your orange crayon. It's time to go."<br />
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She makes some marks with the crayon, and then says a little louder, "ORANGE CRAYON."<br />
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"Yes," I reason, "You've drawn with your orange crayon. Now it's time to go." She pitter-patters up to me and starts to wail, "Ooorrrange crayyyyyooonn."<br />
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"Come on, sweetie, we have to go." I start putting her socks on, and she runs away screeching, "NO! NO! ORANGE CRAYON! ORANGE CRAYON!"<br />
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And as her wails reach a crescendo in my ears, I hear a second voice chime in, "NO! NO! STOP IT! AAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!"<br />
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Poor Preschooler is especially sensitive to her sister's feelings, and hearing so much angst emitting from her sibling's mouth was enough to send Preschooler into utter hysterics.<br />
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For five straight minutes, while I wrestled socks and shoes and coats on them, my girls screamed until they were both red in the face. The amount of unnecessary noise was staggering, and I would've cried too if the whole thing hadn't been so ludicrous.<br />
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Later that day, I did talk to Preschooler about some other coping strategies she has when Toddler cries. We talked about how she can cover her ears, or she can go to her room where it's nice and quiet. I wasn't sure whether any of that would stick, but she seemed to take it to heart. A couple days later, when Toddler started pitching a fit about something, Preschooler announced, "I HAVE TO GO TO MY ROOM!!!!" She scampered upstairs and about 5 minutes later she came back down with a smile on her face. "I feel better!" she said. "That's great!" I announced. "See! When Toddler cried you were able to go up to your room where it was nice and quiet." "Or the toy room!" she agreed. <br />
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So maybe there is a silver lining after all.Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-28945948126706024862012-04-17T09:05:00.000-04:002012-04-17T09:05:48.677-04:00Mentally Barred<a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2012/03/bad-blogger-bad.html" target="_blank">As I mentioned before</a>, I may be going back to work full time.<br />
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So, in an effort to open up as many doors as possible, I've decided to take the bar exam here in Wisconsin. For those not in the know, the bar exam is an exam the state requires a lawyer to pass before they can legally practice law in that state. It's a tough (and expensive) exam, spanning two full days, and covering every area of law imaginable.<br />
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So even though the exam isn't until the end of July, I've already started studying. And my brain is fried. Not that I've burned out or can't learn anything more. Just fried in the sense that all my mental energy is focused on re-learning difficult concepts that I haven't utilized for as many as five years or so. All of which leaves me with little mental energy for blogging.<br />
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So forgive me if my posts are infrequent for a while. I'm still here. I'm still going to read and comment on other blogs. It's a nice distraction from studying. <br />
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But until I have all my brain cells back, I may not be posting more than a few times a month or so, when my mood and energy levels allow me to.<br />
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I love you all, and am still around. But for a while, I'll be studying as I've never studied before. And coming from this overachiever, that's saying something.Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-69619020812675466712012-04-09T22:21:00.000-04:002012-04-09T22:21:44.035-04:00Lesson Learned? Do Not Talk On The Phone While Driving. You'll Just Do Something Stupid.As I headed home from the gym, I saw some one in the parking lot whose car battery had died. The poor soul finagled around with some jumper cables with a mixture of confusion, dread, and anger on his face. This reminded me of something I found out a couple years ago when I still lived in Ohio.<br />
<br />
Your car battery can't die if you leave your keys in the car and the car running. All night long.<br />
<br />
Oh yes I did.<br />
<br />
You see, I was on my way home from work when I got a call on my cell phone from an old friend I hadn't talked to in ages. I was so excited to hear from her that I broke several safety rules by talking on my cell phone while driving. I continued talking on the phone as I pulled into the parking lot. I got out of my car, and closed the door, still talking. Once I was in the house, I talked some more. I think I talked for two hours, total.<br />
<br />
What I didn't do? Turn off my car and take the keys out of the ignition.<br />
<br />
Yes, my car sat there running in my parking lot all night long.<br />
<br />
So imagine Husband's surprise when he wakes up at the butt-crack of dawn (he had an hour-and-a-half commute back in those days), and hears a car running. Who the hell else is up this early? Huh, that sound is right by our apartment. Wait a minute? That's OUR car running!<br />
<br />
Needless to say I never heard the end of this. Which is fair.<br />
<br />
Because it happened again.<br />
<br />
Yes, not once, but twice, I have forgotten to take the keys out of the ignition and have left my car running in the parking lot all night long. The second time (we were still living in Ohio), I was talking to my mom. Who I talk to practically every day.<br />
<br />
No excuses there.<br />
<br />
So now I'm hyper-vigilant about making sure I turn the car off before leaving. I've even turned it off, turned it on again and then turned it off again,<i> just to make sure</i>. <br />
<br />
This is blurring into OCD territory, and I have enough neurosis, thank you very much.Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-56493713153480883612012-03-29T22:16:00.001-04:002012-03-29T22:22:20.597-04:00Moms Always Know<div class="p1"><span class="s1">It started when she was 18 months old. She just had her 18-month-well-visit and was lagging behind a bit in her speech development.</span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Hmmmm........</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Then she got an ear infection. And then another. And then another</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">By twenty-one months she hadn’t gained any new words since that 18-month-well-visit. Not one.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“Husband,” I said, “I think there’s something wrong with her hearing.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“No there’s not, watch,” he said. “Toddler! Come here!”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">And Toddler toddled towards him.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“See? No problem.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Hmmmm........</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Three more months and three more ear infections, and Toddler and I find ourselves at the audiologist and ENT (ear, nose, and throat doctor.) The audiology test shows she is at the line between normal hearing and hearing loss. The ENT notices she has had a series of reoccurring ear infections. I notice that her speech is delayed enough that she now qualifies for speech-therapy, and explain it’s because she’s not hearing properly. But, the test says she’s technically normal.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“Let’s wait on it,” recommends the ENT. “Lots of times the ear infections die down during the spring and summer months. Then, if she doesn’t get more of them in the fall, we may be in the clear.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Hmmmm........</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Fall comes, and following that, winter. Toddler continues with speech-therapy, and while she progresses, she still struggles with beginning and ending sounds of words. I have her in to the doctor’s office at least six times, suspecting ear infections. Two were ear infections. The others? “Wow, there’s a lot of fluid behind her ears!” the doctor would exclaim. “But it’s not infected.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Hmmmm........</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Speech-therapy continues. About a month ago, the therapist asks, “Have you had her hearing tested?”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“Yeah, like a year ago.” I replied.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“Maybe you should have her retested,” she replies. I set up an appointment.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Finally, I bring her back the pediatrician a couple weeks ago with yet another suspected ear infection. And this time we see a different pediatrician. “Woah!” she says. “There’s A LOT of fluid behind her ear.” The pediatrician flips through her chart, noting she’s in speech therapy. “There’s no way she is hearing properly,” the pediatrician said. “She needs her hearing tested.” </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Good thing I have that appointment set up.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">A week ago I take her back to the audiologist. Again, she tests on the border line of normal hearing and hearing loss. But the tests for a toddler are limited. She responded to her name, and to white noise, but there’s no way to test what speech sounds she’s hearing and what she’s not. You might test an older child or an adult by asking them to repeat what you say. “Chair” you say, and then maybe they say “hair” or “where” if they’re not hearing the “ch” sound properly. But you can’t perform such a test on a two-year-old.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">I talk to the ENT. “Woah!” he says. “There’s A LOT of fluid back there!”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">So I’ve heard.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">So we start to talk about ear tubes. We agree that, infection or no infection, she needs tubes in her ears to drain all that fluid. It will probably help with her hearing, and hopefully her speech.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">And then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “What about her adenoids? I noticed she’s very congested.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“Yes,” I reply, “She always has a stuffy nose, always has a bunch of dried-up boogers up there.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“Does she snore?”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“Yup! That’s how we know she’s really asleep, and not just up in bed biding her time.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">“I think we should take her adenoids out too, while we do the ear tubes.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Apparently adenoids can also get in the way of ear fluid draining properly. Or so I’m told. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">So we set up the procedure for today. We’re to arrive at the hospital at 9:00 am for ear tubes and an adenoidectomy. That means that when she wakes up there’s no sippy cup of milk. And no breakfast. And that means that the first hour of her day was one epic temper tantrum. After that first hour, she seemed to be resigned to the fact that we weren’t feeding her this morning, but she was still pissed.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">But once we got to the hospital, SHE. WAS. A. CHAMP.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">She played with the toys in the waiting room. When we were sent back to an exam room, she accepted the trade of her monkey jammies for the astronaut-themed hospital gown with no compunctions whatsoever.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">She spent the next 45 minutes, while we waited for the anesthesiologist, playing peek-a-boo with the room’s curtain and generally entertaining herself.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">She lets the nurses take her vital signs without blinking an eye.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The only time we had tears? When we parted ways as they wheeled her towards the operating room and we went to the waiting room. But were those her tears, or mine? I’m still not sure. Even though getting ear tubes put in is one of the most common surgical procedures in the country, no one likes to see their baby have surgery.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">And what did we hear from the doctor when all was said and done? “She had A LOT of fluid drain from both ears. And her adenoids were HUGE. She’ll definitely start hearing better after this.”</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">She wasn’t hearing properly? WHO KNEW?</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Lesson learned? Trust your instincts. Moms always know.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL1QA4bwiyCpXvv0U9QPEvoUsBb1Ivg3tz1keRA-uWgcmIUwYApHi1t9tJ2G5ZcvnYIh-ixV8W-0MNQOemoLlq7egKfUetACZriHNJOtGBDFF-Z4RDQcVdMIq1rHfS-HwdUSo7WmWGxcDT/s1600/clarissa+hospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL1QA4bwiyCpXvv0U9QPEvoUsBb1Ivg3tz1keRA-uWgcmIUwYApHi1t9tJ2G5ZcvnYIh-ixV8W-0MNQOemoLlq7egKfUetACZriHNJOtGBDFF-Z4RDQcVdMIq1rHfS-HwdUSo7WmWGxcDT/s320/clarissa+hospital.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="p2" style="text-align: center;"><i>Good job, my little trouper! Hope you’ll be talking up an (understandable) storm, soon!</i></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"></span></div>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-34073920652764436142012-03-22T09:12:00.000-04:002012-03-22T09:12:44.349-04:0030 Million Day Blog Challenge #10: Some One or Something You're Proud OfI don't write about him often, although he has given me explicit permission to write whatever I want about him, good or bad.<br />
<br />
I'm going with good.<br />
<br />
We were friends before we were a couple, and I admired him so much. He was so easy-going, able to make friends with pretty much any one, outgoing, all things I was not. I felt honored just to be able to tag along with him.<br />
<br />
And then one day he felt rather honored just to be a part of my life. And we started dating.<br />
<br />
And for the first time in my life, I had a boyfriend who was respectful, who accepted me exactly as I was, who didn't abuse me. He was nothing but wonderful.<br />
<br />
And then one day, we got married. <br />
<br />
He supported me through my grueling law school experience, never complaining when I had to ignore him while committing to my studies and giving me a shoulder to cry on when things just got too hard.<br />
<br />
He nursed me after the birth of my first child, through a failed breastfeeding experience, a recovery that took weeks, mastitis, and postpartum depression.<br />
<br />
In fact, he supported me through all my crazy, my bipolar depression, my anxiety, never once questioning a diagnosis, or my need for medication. He was nothing but understanding and loving, and he was always there during my darkest days.<br />
<br />
From the very beginning of our relationship I knew he'd be a wonderful father, and that proved to be true. He takes a fully equal role in raising our kids, and I couldn't ask for a better father to my children.<br />
<br />
He worked his tail off to earn a PhD, something few people do. And then he worked his tail off at his first job, so that I may stay at home with my kids, at least for a little while.<br />
<br />
So this one's for you, Husband. I love you with all my heart.Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-47217651634880232372012-03-15T11:08:00.000-04:002012-03-15T11:08:53.697-04:00Bad Blogger, BadIt has come to my attention that I do not post as regularly as I used to.<br />
<br />
I'm not leaving the blogging world.<br />
<br />
I'm just distracted.<br />
<br />
Husband's job search is taking longer than expected. Although he's guaranteed to stay in his post-doc position for another year while he continues looking for permanent work, he won't make enough money to allow me to stay at home with the kids. We've made it through the past two years relying on his income and our savings. But it's gotten to the point where I have to get either a part-time or full-time job, lest our savings run out completely.<br />
<br />
And I'm conflicted.<br />
<br />
I have no doubt that the kids would love being in preschool for a full day if I went back to work full time. In fact, it would probably be good for Toddler, who still refuses to use a "big girl" cup or use the potty. She'll bring the cup to her mouth to drink, but won't actually swallow anything. She loves sitting on her potty, but refuses to actually pee or poop in the potty. Being in daycare/preschool and watching all the other kids do these activities may be the push she needs to start doing them herself. It would be an adjustment for Preschooler and Toddler, but once they got used to it they'd have so much fun they wouldn't think twice about missing me. <br />
<br />
But I'd miss them.<br />
<br />
When we lived in Ohio, I worked full time for three years. Both my kids were placed in full time daycare when they were just infants. And they thrived. I had no doubt that they were receiving good care. But I missed them with all my heart. You know how some people love being with their kids all weekend, but secretly feel good come Monday when they get to return to work and the adult world?<br />
<br />
I never felt like that.<br />
<br />
For three years, I never felt like that.<br />
<br />
And the activities we already do during daytime? Speech therapy for Toddler? Gymnastics for both girls? Play-dates? Not to mention that I wanted Preschooler to try out soccer and swimming lessons this summer? They'd all have to be moved to nights or weekends, or dropped all together.<br />
<br />
And working part time? It would mean working nights and weekends, and not earning that much. So I'd be at home with my kids during the day, but not with my family at night. And it would make taking time off for long-weekend visits to my parents' or elsewhere a bit trickier.<br />
<br />
So, it's complicated.<br />
<br />
Add to that the conundrum of <i>where</i> I'd look for a job. Husband is best off staying where we are in Wisconsin, completing the research he's been working on for the past two years. But for me, there are few jobs here that would allow me to utilize the skills I earned in law school without actually practicing law, which I don't particularly want to do. I worked crazy late hours while living in Ohio and have no wish to return to such an intense working schedule. For me, the best place to be where I can find work related to my degree without actually practicing law lies in Minnesota. But this would involve Husband leaving his research here in Wisconsin unfinished, and taking up a whole new post-doc position in Minnesota while he continued looking for more permanent work. <br />
<br />
So what do I do? Work part-time in retail or something similar? Find a full time job in Wisconsin totally unrelated to my degree and my previous work? Move my family to Minnesota?<br />
<br />
It's really complicated.<br />
<br />
Add to that the fact that the baby we've been trying for, for well over a year, hasn't happened. I know that God is in charge of this and he's saying, "Not yet." And it's probably for the best, even though I don't fully understand why. But it still hurts.<br />
<br />
So with all this crap floating around in my brain on a daily basis, it makes it hard to be wry or witty, or to write about the funny things that happen in my day-to-day life.<br />
<br />
So I'm not giving up on blogging.<br />
<br />
I'm just distractedAngela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-13761529875950971932012-03-10T15:20:00.000-05:002012-03-10T15:20:34.716-05:00There's No Holding Hands In Zumba!I don't like strangers touching me. Therefore, I'm the only person in the world who doesn't like professional massages. And hands-on prayer weirds me out. And don't even get me started on so-called "trust falls."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0YVqw82zwUIFaHmmty7qlFt1mLV4ccj3zojvaugTqP4zQNXeyxXoxcHCWIcdJHr9OZfyDGQQi0_nB5CLfNym0mbXeWCyJFdGNQOo_Sen_-N02lneS_-bFmqT9sKTTsLkurI8MErE-CPF/s1600/trust+fall.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0YVqw82zwUIFaHmmty7qlFt1mLV4ccj3zojvaugTqP4zQNXeyxXoxcHCWIcdJHr9OZfyDGQQi0_nB5CLfNym0mbXeWCyJFdGNQOo_Sen_-N02lneS_-bFmqT9sKTTsLkurI8MErE-CPF/s1600/trust+fall.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>NOOOOOO!!!!!!</i></div><br />
I've also started taking Zumba classes twice a week. It harkens back to my days as a dancer, although with much more jiggling. <br />
<br />
My normal Zumba instructor is a dude who kicks my butt with some fun routines for an hour. But last Tuesday? HE. WASN'T. THERE.<br />
<br />
There was a substitute Zumba instructor. And she had her heart set on bonding with me. <br />
<br />
Every few minutes she would make eye-contact with a class member, head their way and give them a high-five or a pat on the back or simply jammed with them. Ok. She's friendly. I'm sure that comes in handy sometimes.<br />
<br />
I was one of the first people she singled out. About 15 minutes into the class she headed my way and jammed with me. Okaaaaaaaay.<br />
<br />
But apparently our jam-session was so mind-blowing that about half an hour later she approached me once more and <i>held my hand while we zumba-ed together</i>. DOESN'T SHE KNOW I HAVE THE WORLD'S LARGEST PERSONAL BUBBLE?????<br />
<br />
I was so weirded out that I immediately excused myself for a drink from the bubbler and then slunk to the very back of the room where she would hopefully leave me alone for the rest of the class.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCARA4frMOdfe370a5XO3yLwYbus-OPUhzE_fLiQs1GXss97jARXSClJc1-sPV1ePLn7iWuXtxQ_0qLTf5PrAALlVLNFSrfwboescWapiLogoN_-wgKQH2odvzR3WbLY95dad_zC9aTV4V/s1600/bubbler.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCARA4frMOdfe370a5XO3yLwYbus-OPUhzE_fLiQs1GXss97jARXSClJc1-sPV1ePLn7iWuXtxQ_0qLTf5PrAALlVLNFSrfwboescWapiLogoN_-wgKQH2odvzR3WbLY95dad_zC9aTV4V/s1600/bubbler.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's called a bubbler. Not a drinking fountain. Not a water fountain. Bubbler.</i></div><br />
Fortunately I was able to get through the rest of the class without any touching or eye-contact or any other weirdness. <br />
<br />
But dear-almighty-god-in-heaven let my normal Zumba instructor be there next Tuesday.Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-28706917154172223172012-03-03T19:50:00.000-05:002012-03-03T19:50:25.637-05:00Sisterly LoveMy two girls get along like champs, at least at this young age. There's way more playing together than fighting; they're each other's best friends. And, like friends, they share.<div><br />
</div><div>Everything.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Even gross things.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Case in point. The other night my family went out to a local brewpub with my mom and dad for dinner. The kids ate macaroni and cheese with a side of apples and mandrin oranges. Near the end of the meal, Toddler starts choking and sputtering on a piece of orange. After a moment or two, she coughs up the offending orange onto her plate. She then places the spit-out orange into her <i>sister's</i> fruit bowl, and then Preschooler promptly eats that <i>very same orange</i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Yum. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Still, I know this sisterly love will only last for so long. Pretty soon they'll be old enough to annoy each other, and then it may not be until they're grown up that they can say they are best friends again.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But I bet by then they'll be over the whole "ABC gum" thing. At least, I hope they will.</div>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-21433148347459080132012-02-24T08:00:00.000-05:002012-02-24T08:00:15.181-05:00SculptHey y'all. Apparently, I'm temporarily southern. If you haven't already guessed, I enjoy writing. In that vein, I've been challenging myself to write in genres outside of this blog. Below is an example of something I've worked on. It's non-fiction, based on real things that happened in my real life. But instead of being all snarky about it, I've went in the opposite direction. Law school forced me to write whatever I needed to write in as few words as possible. In the following piece, I do my best to undo that habit. It may come off as too lyrical, but again, I'm pushing boundaries. I'll return to my usual snark next time. Enjoy!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
<br />
<div class="p1"><span class="s1">The Venus de Milo sits poised in the Louvre<i>.</i> Pale marble shoulders flow uninterrupted towards flawless breasts. A sleek profile, with hair curling around a comely ear, exposes the delicate line of an unscathed neck.</span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">A mask is placed over my nose and mouth, filling with a vaguely sweet fog. Just breath deeply. Count backwards from ten. My eyes involuntarily close as the gas steals my consciousness with unwarranted impunity. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>An artistic rendering of Venus might be bereft of arms, legs, or a corporeal form. But there is always a face, a head, and a neck. If nothing else, these parts comprise a goddess turned human by the deft hand of a skillful artist. At age seven, I lay insensate and oblivious to the scalpel carving a new silhouette, a bloody mélange of Venus incarnate. If you cut and shape a child, hacking away at what is ugly and distorted, will you create a woman that is whole and divine?</span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">I was born with a hemangioma on the side of my neck. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqipo05tM0LSPrh_etpIHICPuqQDta5YzDC5CXAZ3zWXOcZKb3_7MXudaFcgpP5u577dhiA3s5ChEal4Zk6SS-irPw1yYz2UYwOoucuE9IJc6WDm280PeRZ-vfZ1I-WLHtpRpvyFe0vBgT/s1600/Scan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqipo05tM0LSPrh_etpIHICPuqQDta5YzDC5CXAZ3zWXOcZKb3_7MXudaFcgpP5u577dhiA3s5ChEal4Zk6SS-irPw1yYz2UYwOoucuE9IJc6WDm280PeRZ-vfZ1I-WLHtpRpvyFe0vBgT/s320/Scan.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">It's a benign tumor of the blood vessels charmingly referred to as a strawberry birthmark. At six months, the red, bulbous growth enveloped my left ear and obstructed my hearing. <i>Maybe it will go away</i>. My infant neck was powerless to support its magnitude, which wrecked my countenance and twisted my spine. <i>Maybe she’ll outgrow it</i>. A hemangioma can become ulcerated and infected, adding illness to disfigurement. <i>Maybe it won’t</i><b><i> </i></b><i>go away</i>.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">These reasons were pleaded in hope that insurance would cover the desired series of treatments. A girl should not have to grow up looking so different. The insurance would not pay for cosmetic surgery. My doctor had a saying, a joke. “We’ll get you looking beautiful by your junior prom, I promise!” It became a mantra, really. You don’t look pretty now, but you will someday.</div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Plastic surgery is not pretty. Especially long term plastic surgery, which offers no immediate results and yields no instant gratification. Did Venus suffer the hunger and thirst that precedes an operation? Would she be fitted with an IV and put under anesthetic, only to wake up in terrible pain, confused, bruised, swollen, and vomiting? Is this what happens when a goddess impersonates a human? Each procedure quilted skin to skin with stitches so small and numerous that my doctor could never keep count. He always lost track after fifty. Can you stitch a human to imitate a goddess? Despite the surgical procedures, I still did not look normal, so the entire process would be repeated the next year. And the next. After all, a girl should not grow up looking so different.</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>For a while, youth shielded me from censure. The natural curiosity of other children had not developed into full-fledged criticism, and for a while they accepted my hemangioma as just another anomalous encounter in their brief life. But the year I was seven was the year, I had tissue expanders. Two sausage-shaped balloons were inserted into my neck and filled with saline. Their purpose was to stretch out my skin, so there would not be a gaping hole in my neck after they severed the remnants of my hemangioma. For two painful months the implants remained in my neck; two months spent not in the seclusion of a hospital, but at home exposed to the real world. It was for the best, though. After all, a girl should not have to grow up looking so different.</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>When I first came home from the hospital, something strange happened. Despite my best efforts to force my skull upright, my head constantly cocked to the right, My doctor explained my body was reacting to the foreign substance trapped inside the only way it could. It turned away from what was painful and unnatural. I thought that was odd, that my body no longer recognized itself. </span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>The bulbous implants embedded in my neck sparked a catalyst that fractured the definition of human. <i>Everybody</i> stared. <i>Everybody</i> asked questions. After the two months the implants were removed, but I still did not have that instant gratification I so longed for. I still did not look like every one else. I still wasn’t ready for the junior prom; and now the veil was lifted. </span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Questions and stares ranged from curiosity to disgust. I purposely kept my hair long so it would hide my neck and ear. My family took pains to remind me that my unusual appearance did not make me a bad person. I was kind, smart, and ambitious, but no one said beautiful. If some one loved me, they refrained from mentioning my appearance. Should a child grapple with humanity? I knew nothing but an alien shell. </div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My last operation was performed when I was fourteen. What was once inspired by a desire to prevent disability, morphed into pure art and confused beauty with perfection. This procedure involved a skin graft. A piece of skin was taken from my groin, and shaped into an earlobe. Trapped in the throes of puberty, just the mention of the word “groin” made me terribly uncomfortable. I was mortified that my doctor had not only seen that secret part of my body, but that he had managed to turn it into an earlobe. When I returned to school the next year, with an earlobe where there previously was none, I could not explain to my friends how it was done. I was too embarrassed. But mortification aside, this surgery was the most memorable because it was my last.</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I was tired of it all. I was tired of pain, bruising, swelling, and stitches. I was comfortable with my appearance. Beauty was subjective and fluid; I was never going to look perfect. But that was okay. Because I was smart, and kind, and a good friend. Because I had a family and friends and a God who all loved me, despite my funny-looking ear and my scars. It’s ok to grow up looking different.</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>When the skin graft operation was over, my mother and doctor discussed options for future treatments. But I <i>was</i> beautiful. I did not need more surgery. I owned my body. I had my own voice. </span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I declined any future treatments. </span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My doctor was astounded. My mother was worried. But, I was free. I wore my hair up again. I no longer cared who saw my ear and my neck. The artist never completed the sculpture, but a human emerged anyways. </span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Twenty-five years after that first operation, I gave birth to another hemangioma, a quarter-sized one attached to right leg of my youngest daughter. I’m inordinately proud this hemangioma. It’s a second chance to let nature, not the scalpel, take its course. At two years old, her hemangioma has already lightened considerably. </span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>A girl can grow up looking different.</span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1">* * *</span></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxv8AiCSFrlz8iJK8GSTm8LjszE3vKmoqKuD09BlnB9J-jhLq7zd612OkfMUM8T-yH0N4Sd52fPGqNti-NEM2vBctZDfC8GPYkoYOLKvcISsPIzAd5jVDJqlwJ9KXjKicYKHAQcIdM1KK/s1600/IMG_0296.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxv8AiCSFrlz8iJK8GSTm8LjszE3vKmoqKuD09BlnB9J-jhLq7zd612OkfMUM8T-yH0N4Sd52fPGqNti-NEM2vBctZDfC8GPYkoYOLKvcISsPIzAd5jVDJqlwJ9KXjKicYKHAQcIdM1KK/s200/IMG_0296.jpg" width="149" /></a></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>Close up of my left ear and neck, seventeen years after the last operation.</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc7UD9wJAZ49dMZYYnkUZBchlCFOAhrznyVhwPnJRxjcggh7wx8oRwgsHznhbQ9D7GOy77FBITvfKOQrCq6YuWhnVJibCGLR06EJoQJCQGDGUffwkzod1hYWaVKQypPLX9r4vLHpEz9AS/s1600/IMG_0300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc7UD9wJAZ49dMZYYnkUZBchlCFOAhrznyVhwPnJRxjcggh7wx8oRwgsHznhbQ9D7GOy77FBITvfKOQrCq6YuWhnVJibCGLR06EJoQJCQGDGUffwkzod1hYWaVKQypPLX9r4vLHpEz9AS/s320/IMG_0300.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>A picture of me at 9:00 pm on a Thursday night in my bathrobe.</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><br />
</span></div>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-10162863161467767012012-02-20T20:21:00.000-05:002012-02-20T20:21:55.718-05:0030 Million Day Blog Challenge #9: Short term goals for this month and why.The next prompt in my 30 (million) day blog challenge: Short term goals for this month and why.<br />
<br />
I started this post back in January, but never finished. So my first short term goal for the remaining nine days in February is to finish this post.<br />
<br />
My second short term goal for what is left of February is to <a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2012/02/february.html" target="_blank">make it through the hellish month that is February</a>. The weather has been strangely cooperative. February is easier to deal with when the daytime highs are in the low 40's (Fahrenheit).<br />
<br />
My third short term goal for February is to go back to the gym. The gym I've been paying for since November 2011 that I've neglected to frequent for the past eight or nine months. <br />
<br />
You see, sometime early last spring I gave up on going to the gym. My gym has free childcare, which I couldn't take advantage of because Toddler refused to be torn from my side. I'd drop her off kicking and screaming, and 15 minutes later I'd hear my name called over the loudspeaker to come retrieve my inconsolable child. "Don't worry," they said. "Just keep bringing her back, she'll get used to it." <br />
<br />
I tried that. <br />
<br />
They lied. <br />
<br />
That meant I had to go to the gym at night, relinquishing the few hours of family time we have when Husband comes home and/or alone time I have with Husband after the kids are asleep. But I'm tired of paying $45 a month to continue my inability to climb stairs without being winded. So I've decided to give the gym another try. Today, at exactly 9:13 am, I brought Toddler to the childcare room. She walked in a bit confused, but soon made a bee line to some toy cars with nary a look back. I got to work out for one glorious hour on my own terms, without having my name broadcast for all to hear. <br />
<br />
My final short term goal for February is to finish a short story I've been writing. I enjoy starting creative writing projects, but rarely finish them. And by rarely, I mean never. This also explains why I have a bevy of two-sentence blog posts waiting to be finished.<br />
<br />
And to keep things realistic, here are some more goals for this month: Eat. Breathe. Sleep. Wake.<br />
<br />
Now those are some goals I can manage! Basic existence for the win!Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-64636124713385064242012-02-18T10:09:00.002-05:002012-02-18T10:09:43.612-05:00Awww Crap!<a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2012/01/my-eyeballs-need-pajama-jeans.html" target="_blank">I did it again.</a>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-89144552149070928982012-02-15T21:20:00.000-05:002012-02-15T21:20:22.296-05:00The Valentine's Grinch<div class="p1"><span class="s1">You may have noticed that Valentine’s Day came and went with nary a word from me on this blog.</span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">That’s because Husband is a Valentine's Grinch. And now, so am I.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbyX-2XW5F2HhqYMR7Gh2ynL1LQV-qcTbRO5qjLOK3gj9KCQJ-5zs1sxvDOzmqXIL7OSKbHmJS83UkQktQZBaTjpxSM2ih-RsnF8ObEAB1MHumrTGvSyMHClXiqOQ-039YuiBgvsSP2i90/s1600/grinch+heart.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbyX-2XW5F2HhqYMR7Gh2ynL1LQV-qcTbRO5qjLOK3gj9KCQJ-5zs1sxvDOzmqXIL7OSKbHmJS83UkQktQZBaTjpxSM2ih-RsnF8ObEAB1MHumrTGvSyMHClXiqOQ-039YuiBgvsSP2i90/s1600/grinch+heart.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="p1" style="text-align: center;"><i>Screw you, Hallmark!</i></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">From day one, Husband made it clear Valentine’s Day was not for him. Too commercial. Too contrived. Too unnecessary. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">This used to piss me off mightily. What was wrong with gift-giving? What was wrong with setting aside one day a year to celebrate love? I wanted to feel special. Didn’t he want me to feel special?</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Thus, Valentine’s Day drove a minor wedge between us. And for me, at least, it became a point of stress, anger, and disappointment. I couldn’t let go of the expectation of Valentine’s Day accolades, even when I knew he wouldn’t cooperate.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Flash-forward 10 years, and finally something clicked. I do feel special. I do feel loved. Every single day. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">The funny thing is, I have nothing against Valentine’s Day. It is nice to set aside a day to show some one you love them. Lots of people use gift-giving as a way to show others that they love them, and that’s great. Sometimes people need a special gift, even if it’s just a small token, to feel loved. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">It’s just that, Husband and I show love differently.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Gift giving between Husband and I is kind of stressful. Did I spend too little? Too much? Will he truly appreciate it? </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">But the words he says, the things he does to help me out, and the time we share together every single day, outweigh any gift he could give me. We also usually do something extra-special for our Anniversary, but even that involves going somewhere extra-fun or extra-special together, as opposed to gift-giving. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">And for what it’s worth, when you share a joint bank account, and check it regularly, it’s difficult NOT to learn where gifts came from and how much they cost, which sort of ruins the surprise.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Maybe things will change. Maybe someday I’ll decide again that gifts are important, as a means to show you made an effort to think about something your significant other would like and acted accordingly. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">But between him and I, at least right now, ignoring Valentine’s Day makes both of us feel AWESOME.*</div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>*Caveat: Husband, if at any time you change your mind, and feel like celebrating this, or any other holiday, with items such as flowers, chocolate, and coffee, I would welcome these efforts with open arms, and would love you even more, forever and ever, amen.</i></span></div>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-30549899035121238392012-02-11T22:21:00.000-05:002012-02-11T22:21:52.429-05:00I'm A Real Hoot At Parties<div class="p1"><span class="s1">My husband is in the middle of looking for a new job and seeing as I’m a stay-at-home mom, his ability to find paying work is a bit vital. For two months now, I’ve been teetering on the edge of a panic attack, feeling like at any given moment I might cease being able to breath or move, and I’ll probably just feebly curl up into the fetal position behind the couch for the rest of my living days.</span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">After working with my therapist on controlling this anxiety for nearly a month and a half, I broke down and went to my psychiatrist for medication. And I’m surprised to find what a relief this is.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">I take medication every single day for my bipolar depression, and will probably do so until the day I die. This condition not necessarily situational, it just exists as an ever-present state of being. I’m ok with taking my depression medication, never once have I questioned or lamented it. It can and does keep me from dying.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">But I was very anxious about the mere thought of taking medication to deal with my anxiety.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">You see, my anxiety was so wrapped up in this job-hunt situation that I kept thinking I’d just get over it, or get used to it, or something. That I’d be able to talk myself through it. And though I just barely kept it all together, it was like putting a lid on a pot of boiling water. The water is rolling beneath, there is steam coming out the sides and it won’t be long before it starts bubbling over.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">So, I’ve turned to medication. And an hour after popping that first pill I feel... clearer. I’ve actually sat down and written this whole post from scratch, the first time I’ve been able to do so in months, and feel good about it.*</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">So, at least for a while, I’m on medication for depression AND anxiety.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">I’m a real hoot at parties.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">And I'm ok with this.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">*<i>Fun Fact</i>: <i>I have a plethora of half-written posts, so when I run into writer’s block I just flesh out one of them. Dirty Secret: Four of the past eight posts I’ve published came from that well and now the well’s done gone dry.</i></div><div class="p2"><span class="s1"></span></div>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-65971029309030985072012-02-06T20:10:00.000-05:002012-02-06T20:10:41.824-05:00February<div class="p1"><span class="s1">Because of my bipolar depression, I’m careful to note changes to and patterns in my mental state. This past November was rough, despite the fact that autumn and Thanksgiving are some of my favorite times of the year. I love autumn. Its cooling temperatures are a relief after a baking hot summer. It heralds the start of school, and even though I’m not a student, it still fills me with optimism for the upcoming year, and feeds my hungry need to keep learning new things.</span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">No, it’s February that’s supposed to be my worst month.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">I first realized this when I was in college, even before I knew I was bipolar. Like any good liberated woman on campus, I listened to my fair share of chick music; Ani DeFranco, Dar Williams, Indigo Girls, etc. I was only a few steps away from dreadlocks and patchouli. Fortunately, I liked washing my hair and smelling like flowers, albeit chemical flower odors manufactured by brand-name shampoos. Don’t judge; this was before I knew about Aveda.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Anyhow, my senior year in college was marred by a rough February. The thing is, nothing was really going wrong. I was getting straight A’s in school. I had an awesome group of friends. I had a loving boyfriend who would later become my husband. I had a part-time job in student leadership that was fulfilling enough that it would command a place on my resume for the next five years. Everything was going right.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">So why was I so depressed? I wondered.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Walking to and from class and work, I’d listend to *OLD LADY ALERT* mixed-cd’s on my brand-new discman. Every time this particular song came on I’d cry. Despite the tears, I always seemed to listen to this song rather than skip it over. I think, in a way, it was cathartic.</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">From “February” by Dar Williams:</div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1"><i>First we forgot where wed planted those bulbs last year,</i></div><div class="p2"><i><span class="s1"></span></i></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>Then we forgot that wed planted at all,</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>Then we forgot what plants are altogether,</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>And I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>The nights were long and cold and scary,</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>Can we live through february? </i></span></div><div class="p1"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="p1"><i>You know I think christmas was a long red glare,</i></div><div class="p2"><i><span class="s1"></span></i></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>Shot up like a warning, we gave presents without cards,</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>And then the snow,</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>And then the snow came, we were always out shoveling,</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>And we’d drop to sleep exhausted,</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span class="s1"><i>Then we’d wake up, and it’s snowing.</i></span></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">So... that's it. February is here, and I'm on alert. So far I'm doing ok. I have a lot of anxiety about something that I can't discuss here right now. The anxiety is bad, and I'm fighting to keep it at bay, lest it render me utterly catatonic. But it's entirely situational and as time passes and life events unfold, it will hopefully ease up. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Until then, I'll continue plowing through February, one day at a time.</div>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-54339990034904862862012-01-30T10:39:00.000-05:002012-01-30T10:39:38.640-05:00[Insert Witty Title Rhyming "House" With "Mouse"]We had mice in our house. Yes, mice. <i>Plural.</i><br />
<br />
I shouldn't be surprised. Our house backs up to a nature preserve, so we see an abundance of wildlife. But somehow we managed to make it all through last winter with nary a mouse in sight.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mIDNHwkHGXmspL3v1-Nyr-X58ijaOlhuWymwXqNHuuQEeJdhgA8JE24Tby8YPxaa75lWjA9AzaKHwBm88T2YZAsFAXGBkEvPQoNe9cCbwdpuPo8bCcwvIfkM2e5VUduepqurZiv8uPWV/s1600/mouse" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mIDNHwkHGXmspL3v1-Nyr-X58ijaOlhuWymwXqNHuuQEeJdhgA8JE24Tby8YPxaa75lWjA9AzaKHwBm88T2YZAsFAXGBkEvPQoNe9cCbwdpuPo8bCcwvIfkM2e5VUduepqurZiv8uPWV/s1600/mouse" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I thought we had immunity from these devils. </i> </div><br />
But a month ago I was cleaning out our pantry, when I noticed a couple of graham crackers have been nibbled at. <br />
<br />
Uh oh.<br />
<br />
I knew it was a mouse, but I figured that since I could find hardly any mouse droppings, it was just the one. We set out traps and, lo and behold, we caught a mouse.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwlpi1RCd-d9v9R5FuNwTTSQXlPqTo6xbqD2uxn2q0waZ0KdJepz42h2_1o8MvVN3Au7_fy3PHiURxwUs2RW16W-82Y8sEqChTOSfzIyvGY0hmJL7IppRhLW4K4DbQMYiLa2u3eULO3pl/s1600/mouse+trap" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwlpi1RCd-d9v9R5FuNwTTSQXlPqTo6xbqD2uxn2q0waZ0KdJepz42h2_1o8MvVN3Au7_fy3PHiURxwUs2RW16W-82Y8sEqChTOSfzIyvGY0hmJL7IppRhLW4K4DbQMYiLa2u3eULO3pl/s1600/mouse+trap" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Feel my rath!</i></div><br />
But late one night my husband went into the kitchen for a nighttime snack, and what was standing in the middle of our kitchen? Another mouse, mocking him, daring him to set up more traps. So, that's just what we did, and the next morning? There were <i>two</i> mice was in the traps.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwlpi1RCd-d9v9R5FuNwTTSQXlPqTo6xbqD2uxn2q0waZ0KdJepz42h2_1o8MvVN3Au7_fy3PHiURxwUs2RW16W-82Y8sEqChTOSfzIyvGY0hmJL7IppRhLW4K4DbQMYiLa2u3eULO3pl/s1600/mouse+trap" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwlpi1RCd-d9v9R5FuNwTTSQXlPqTo6xbqD2uxn2q0waZ0KdJepz42h2_1o8MvVN3Au7_fy3PHiURxwUs2RW16W-82Y8sEqChTOSfzIyvGY0hmJL7IppRhLW4K4DbQMYiLa2u3eULO3pl/s1600/mouse+trap" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Take that, [explative of your choosing here.] </i></div><br />
We still didn't find any mouse droppings, so we figured the problem was solved. But a few days later, what did Husband find in the basement? A small mouse nest containing a sizable pile of almonds. We never eat almonds. <i>Where did they come from?!</i><br />
<br />
So, we set the traps out one more time, just in case.<br />
<br />
And when I woke up the next morning, what sight greeted me in the kitchen? <i>Three </i>mice. Three mice. Three. It was like some sort of mouse suicide pact.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mIDNHwkHGXmspL3v1-Nyr-X58ijaOlhuWymwXqNHuuQEeJdhgA8JE24Tby8YPxaa75lWjA9AzaKHwBm88T2YZAsFAXGBkEvPQoNe9cCbwdpuPo8bCcwvIfkM2e5VUduepqurZiv8uPWV/s1600/mouse" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mIDNHwkHGXmspL3v1-Nyr-X58ijaOlhuWymwXqNHuuQEeJdhgA8JE24Tby8YPxaa75lWjA9AzaKHwBm88T2YZAsFAXGBkEvPQoNe9cCbwdpuPo8bCcwvIfkM2e5VUduepqurZiv8uPWV/s1600/mouse" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Ahhem.........AAAAAAAAAAA!</i></div><br />
So I'm fed up. We keep the kitchen nearly spotless, and keep our food wrapped up tightly. There's been no more indications of mice in our abode, but now I'm paranoid. I know those buggers are out there biding their time. And when I let my guard down, they'll reappear, wrecking havoc on my already jangled nerves.<br />
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Jerks.Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-89976025648588629562012-01-25T20:49:00.000-05:002012-01-25T20:49:31.601-05:00My Eyeballs Need Pajama JeansI clearly remember when I got my first pair of glasses. I was in second grade. When I put on those glasses and looked out the window, I was able to read the name of the elementary school across the street from the optometrist's office. Actually, it was the first time I saw the words period. Prior to, I had no idea there were words on the building at all.<br />
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Also, movies make a lot more sense when you can see what is going on.<br />
<br />
So, wearing glasses is old hat to me, almost as old as I am. At age 13 I got contact lenses. The contacts usually were not a problem. I kept them clean, and had no problem putting them on or removing them.<br />
<br />
Up until today.<br />
<br />
I recently switched to a new contact-lens-cleaning process. You put this hydrogen peroxide solution in a special case that has a bit of some metal in it. The hydrogen peroxide reacts with the metal in the case to create a lot of little bubbles that clean the lenses. And while you wouldn't want to put hydrogen peroxide directly in your eyes, after an overnight soak, the hydrogen peroxide has used itself up, or rendered itself harmless or something. SCIENCE!<br />
<br />
Unlike regular saline solution, you don't want to get hydrogen peroxide in your eyes. So the bottle is fitted with a red cap to remind you not to put it in your eye. The cap is red per the understanding that the people using the hydrogen peroxide solution may not be able to read something that says "WARNING! DO NOT PUT IN EYES" in anything less than 128 point font.<br />
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What the manufacturers didn't count on was my utter inability to register color or meaning in the depths of my morning fog.<br />
<br />
Fumbling around for my saline solution to wet my lenses before putting them in, my hand came across the bottle of hydrogen peroxide solution. I put a couple drops in my contact lens and then, plop! Onto my eye it went.<br />
<br />
To say it burned is an understatement. It was as if my eyeball was engulfed in the smouldering flames of the furthermost chasms of Hell. And once more, I was forced to ponder....<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrWnQKzjLpuwb-uKow75KpPj8kGltwudUSgkRByfug8SO6u_HGTV8PTkiJQ9RU1AJ79nuvzQWmFLuKLAnsFlpI7c-XLeZDrtmeKTyCZaljDlKj9UXX1zj02n_xtF19OrVbwvwCqbZpi1m/s1600/WHY%253F%253F%253F.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrWnQKzjLpuwb-uKow75KpPj8kGltwudUSgkRByfug8SO6u_HGTV8PTkiJQ9RU1AJ79nuvzQWmFLuKLAnsFlpI7c-XLeZDrtmeKTyCZaljDlKj9UXX1zj02n_xtF19OrVbwvwCqbZpi1m/s320/WHY%253F%253F%253F.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In my scramble to remove the offending lens from my eyeball, I succeeded in moving it, but not out of my eye. To the back of my eyeball. So I started poking myself in the eye in an effort to push the contact lens to the corner of my eye so I could get it out. It went something like this: Poke... AARRRGGHHH ... Poke poke ... AARRRGGHHH AARRRGGHHH ... Poke, poke, poke... AARRRGGHHH AARRRGGHHH AARRRGGHHH!!!!!!!<br />
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Finally, I resorted to rinsing my eye with water from the same cup we use to rinse after we brush our teeth. Not the most sanitary eye rinse, but given that I just set my eyeball on fire and then proceeded to stab at it, germs were not really a fear of mine. My fears centered around the very real possibility that my eyeball was going to burn a hole into my brain.<br />
<br />
After several cold water rinses, I was able to rinse the lens out of my eye into the sink. Huzzah! I'll just pour this extra water out and.... oh crap!<br />
<br />
I rinsed the contact lens down the drain.<br />
<br />
So now I look like a victim of pink-eye or possibly some form of stigmata, or maybe I'm just high all the time, and I have to wear my glasses all day long until I can trek off to the optometrist for new lenses. Seeing as usually wear my glasses only at night, it's the eyeball equivalent of staying in my pajamas all day long.<br />
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Is there a glasses-equivalent of Pajama Jeans? Please say yes.Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149125023163051419.post-13734892896053805092012-01-19T22:32:00.000-05:002012-01-19T22:32:26.605-05:00A Day In The Life...<div class="p1"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s come to my attention that my blog posts have been infrequent as of late. This is because I am doing fewer stupid things.</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I haven’t <a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2011/06/remember-that-time-my-van-was-stolen-at.html" target="_blank">lost my van</a> or <a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2011/05/this-is-why-doing-things-is-not-in-my_20.html" target="_blank">broken my toe</a>.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I haven’t <a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2010/09/falling-up.html" target="_blank">fallen down an up escalator</a>.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I haven’t picked up and discarded any <a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2011/08/move-over-ma-ingalls.html" target="_blank">new hobbies</a>. I haven’t had any kitchen mishaps or <a href="http://beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com/2010/12/i-cant-bake-dear-god-i-cannot-bake.html" target="_blank">baking failures</a>.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact, I successfully baked several types of Christmas cookies this year.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Take that, former me!</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast, here is an average day in my life...</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>6:00</b> Alarm clock goes off.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I yell at it, turn it off, and go back to sleep</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>6:05</b> My kids wake up.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who needs an alarm clock?</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>6:10</b> Drink three cups of coffee.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now I’m able to see again.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>7:30</b> Skip taking a shower. I’m not leaving the house today. You’re lucky I got dressed.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>8:00</b> Toddler sits on the potty, albeit with her pants still on. I make a big fat deal about it anyways.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>8:30</b> Clean kitchen. For every one dish I put in the dishwasher, Toddler takes two out.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>9:00</b> Read Toddler and Preschooler the world’s dumbest Disney princess book. Three times. They cry for more, more, MORE. I g</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">o slightly insane.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>9:30</b> Clean toy room.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">For every one toy I put away, Toddler takes two out.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m sensing a pattern here.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>10:00</b> Tell Toddler, “It’s time to sit on the potty!”</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Toddler pitches a fit.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I just love potty training.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>10:30</b> Get a bloody nose.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Stupid sinus infection.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>11:00</b> Serve ravioli for lunch.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Preschooler complains she doesn’t like it, but cleans her plate anyways.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hypocrite.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>11:15 </b>Toddler decides to eat ravioli using her face.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>11:25</b> Impromptu bath.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Preschooler cries because I filled the tub with too much water.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I drain some water.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Toddler cries because there is not enough water.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Go more insane.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>11:35</b> Get Toddler out of the bath.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Realize I forgot to bring a clean diaper upstairs. Leave a dripping wet Toddler upstairs while I rush to get a diaper.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">MOTHER OF THE YEAR.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>11:40</b> Get another nosebleed.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Clearly I’ve developed nose cancer.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>1:00</b> Finally get around to taking that shower while the kids nap.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The sound of the shower wakes them up.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dammit!</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>2:00</b> Give Preschooler some grapes.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>2:15</b> Give Preschooler some crackers</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>2:30</b> Give Preschooler some cheese.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">That hollow leg of hers must be full by now.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>3:00</b> Set Preschooler and Toddler up with an art project involving glue and sequins.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>3:10</b> Vacuum approximately 19,403 sequins off of the floor.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>3:15</b> Remove several sequins from Toddler’s nose.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>4:30</b> Crazy time begins.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kids start their daily whine-fest.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">By this point in the day we’re all rather tired of looking at each other.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">How much longer till Husband gets home?</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>5:00</b> Make dinner while two screaming children cling to my pants leg.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">This should be some sort of olympic sport.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I deserve a medal.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>5:30</b> Eat dinner.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Preschooler takes three bites and claims she’s done. Toddler decides she only needs to look at her food tonight, and take in all nutrition via telepathy.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>6:00</b> Grocery shopping with children in tow.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">They really like to “help.”</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>7:30</b> Bedtime for the wee ones. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>8:15</b> Workout time for Husband and I.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">No that’s not a euphemism for sexy time.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">We’re actually exercising.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a far cry from my previous 8:15 routine of eating a bag of Fritos in front of the TV.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>9:30</b> Sneak into my kids’ room to watch them sleep.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best part of my day.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, there you have it.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A day in my life.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Also, we have mice in our house.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">More on that another time.</span></div>Angela@BeggingTheAnswerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04830105276629288446noreply@blogger.com7