Help! I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up

My husband was just approved by our insurance company to get a CPAP machine. Continuous Positive Airway Pressure. It’s for his sleep apnea, which causes a horrible snoring problem. Not so much a problem for him, but a problem for me. He sleeps right through it while I sneak off to the guest room in search of peace in the deep dark deluge of the night.

But soon I will be sleeping with a masked man. That could be exciting…? Or is it just the sign of the times - the beginning of the end. Doomsday is upon us. And it all starts with durable medical equipment in my bedroom.

Middle age.

But don’t worry; it will happen to you too - if it hasn’t already. The men in our lives will soon be buying thick gold chains and wearing their shirts half unbuttoned, with gabardine pants and orthopedic shoes. I am already praying for no comb-overs. (Please, God?) Before we know it, it will be time to put a down payment on a single level condo unit in a retirement community. Prunes will become a dietary staple. My friends and I will buy each other Life Alerts for birthday presents.

So, yes, I will be sleeping with a masked man, and although it is not the masked man of comic books and super hero marvels, at least it’s just in time for Halloween.

“The really frightening thing about middle age is the knowledge that you'll grow out of it.”
~Doris Day

We're Not in Kansas

Whenever I’m feeling low blue sad fat ugly….I just take a little trip to the local Wal-Mart store and do some people watching and then I don’t feel so bad.

Flat hair and grey teeth and spikes, oh my!

The person in front of me at the check-out was buying a cart full of sugar-coated cereal and cartons of cigarettes. One hundred and twenty-one dollars’ worth. That’ll keep the old heart ticking.

And I swear I saw a woman four feet wide.

"Well, we're not living in a trailer park, so we'll be all right."
~Dorothy

Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes

Dear Lottery Gods:

I bought two tickets for tonight’s drawing. I am asking for your help to win. I am not greedy. I am not searching for mega-millions. Just a few hundred thousand will do. Or even a few thousand - just a little something to ease the pain. A little Jersey Cash, if you will.

Yes, I know, money can’t buy you love but I already have that. And I know money is the root of all evil but I am good. I am a hard worker who has just grown weary and tired. I have a husband who was laid off earlier this year. We have a small modest house with a big gigantic mortgage. Our attic needs insulation. Our kitchen needs a new ceiling, among other things. Our windows need new…windows. We have no fun money and therefore we have become…un-fun. We cancelled a trip to our nation’s capital. We never go out anymore. We sit at home and make faces at each other for entertainment. We watch The History Channel.

So….please?

Okay.
Thanks.
Bye.

"The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it."
~Edith Wharton

Doctor! Doctor!

I haven’t been to the doctor in a while, a few years at least. My husband has been bugging me to make an appointment. I have had the office number sitting on my desk for the past three to four weeks and still I have not called for an appointment. I should have my blood work done. I should have my heartbeat checked. I should have my body poked and prodded for irregular lumps and bumps.

But I don’t wanna go to the doctor!

I cannot even remember the last time I had a cold. My cholesterol levels have always been perfect. I don’t have any illnesses or diseases to speak of. I am not on any medications. I don’t get infections. I exercise. I eat right. I do not smoke.

I do get headaches. I have tightness in my shoulders. I have an aching in my left hip that occasionally flares up. But to me, these are just the normal everyday aches and pains of life that do not require a doctor’s visit. And I get PMS just like every other woman. Well, maybe I have PMS a little worse than other women. If I were on a trial jury where the accused was a woman who killed her husband, no matter what her defense was I would vote “not guilty by reason of PMS”. So, okay, maybe I have very bad PMS. Maybe I have PMDD – premenstrual dysphoric disorder, which is what I self-diagnosed two or three years ago. I have tried every natural remedy from St. John’s Wort to mega doses of calcium and organic mangosteen juice, all to no avail. It is probably time to go see a professional.

But I don’t wanna go to the doctor!


"The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease." ~Voltaire

I have PMS and a handgun, any questions?

Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’

Last night I was searching on the internet for the correct spelling of a drug (for those of you that don’t know, I moonlight as a medical transcriptionist) and I came across a message board with references to rolling, taking a bean, and pre- and post-loading with herbal supplements. Upon further reading, I realized it was a message board about taking ecstasy and how to get the most out of it. And there I sat, a 41-year-old female barefoot at my desk at home in New Jersey at 8:30 in the evening on a Thursday night suddenly wishing I had tried it just once. Rolling.

Never having really delved into the big bad world of drugs, other than the one or two non-inhaling Bill-Clinton-like experiences or popping the occasional Percocet that wasn’t prescribed to me, I wondered how my life would have been different if I had.  I know many people with a past history in that that big bad world, hardcore addicts and recreational users, and I see them now and their lives seem just fine - great, in fact. They live in lush tropical lands. They have children and wives and productive jobs. They are beautiful as supermodels.

And there I sat, a 41-year-old female barefoot at my desk at home in New Jersey at 8:30 in the evening on a Thursday night suddenly wondering.

I wondered if this was just another rite of passage I had missed out on, growing up in the small safe world that I did? Would I appreciate my life that much more, had I had that battle or another to overcome? If it is our experiences that form us, what happens when we lack those experiences? Or is it simply just that some people float and flitter through life, smelling the flowers, tasting the nectar, while others trudge through it like it is one big snow drift after another?

"Actually I don't remember being born, it must have happened during one of my black outs."
~Jim Morrison

(Note: I do not in any way advocate drug use nor am I attempting to glamorize it. I have seen first-hand the damage it can do.)

Down the Rabbit Hole

I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date! Okay, not a date. I haven’t had a date, important or otherwise, in years. I overslept. I was late for work. This morning there was peaceful sleepy slumber, which is quite unusual for me, with a snorer to the left of me and a loudly purring Cheshire to the right of me. I rarely oversleep. Even on weekends I am awake before seven. But it was hard to fall asleep last night. My husband was tossing and turning, and turning and tossing. His heart was pounding out of his chest. He was feeling electrical zaps in his brain.

Does your life ever feel like you’ve just stepped into Wonderland? Tim Burton’s version, no less?

My husband is the Mad Hatter. He has fallen down the rabbit hole. He is encountering strange ordeals and peculiar experiences. He ran out of his Paxil prescription on Sunday, and is beginning to feel the awful withdrawal effects. You are not supposed to stop taking it cold turkey; you are supposed to taper off it. But he had no choice. His prescription is with the mail order pharmacy, and it has been delayed. His doctor won’t give him another prescription in the meantime, and even if he did his local pharmacist won’t sell him anything less than another 30-day supply which insurance most likely wouldn’t cover. So he waits. He anxiously checks his bank account to see if the pharmacy has debited the co-pay. He calls the insurance company to see what the hold-up is. He calls the doctor’s office to see why they haven’t submitted their electronic signature to the pharmacy. They tell him they have done so. It is a crazy waiting situation, he a pawn in the Queen of Heart’s game of big healthcare nonsense.

The anxiety of wondering and worrying when he will get the Paxil adds to the anxiety he is already feeling from not having his regular doses of Paxil, this in addition to the everyday anxiety he feels, the reason he takes Paxil in the first place.

This is not easy for me either. And there is nothing I can do to help him. But I may steal some of his Paxil when it finally does arrive.

Goodbye. I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.

Caterpillar: Who... are... you?
Alice: Why, I hardly know, sir. I've changed so much since this morning, you see...
Caterpillar: No, I do not C, explain yourself.
Alice: I'm afraid I can't explain myself, you see, because I'm not myself, you know.
Caterpillar: I do not know.
Alice: I can't put it any more clearly, sir, because it isn't clear to me.
~Lewis Carroll                     

She Bang

The time has come to turn on the heat. The furnace is firing up, boiling happy and steaming mad. The radiators go bump in the night.

My husband and I bought our house just over three years ago. Prior to that, we had both been apartment dwellers and didn’t have to deal with furnaces, boilers, steam heat, and big heavy old-fashioned radiators. Of course, I had assumed my husband would know what to do with the big angry steel creature in our basement just because he is, well, a man. But I was never so wrong in my life. Once that first winter rolled round, he was turning dials and knobs, pushing buttons and levers. I asked what he was doing, and he said he didn’t know. He hadn’t a clue. So, wait…stop! There are flames and gas and gurgling boiling water! There are pressure gauges and hot steam! There are rusted and crusted pipes! There are asbestos-wrapped appendages strategically placed throughout our basement!

This was dangerous stuff.

So if our house were ever to be toasty and warm, I knew I would have to take it upon myself to learn about the boiling beast. I researched online. I bought a book. I found out our ancient heating system was one of the best there are, if it is functioning properly. I called the heating company for a serviceman to come out. I watched him as he poked and prodded and drained and refilled. I asked him question after question about our lean mean heating machine.

And now I know its secrets. I know how its steam is forced up through the pipes to heat the radiators, only to return again in its condensed form. I know the angle of its pipes have to be just so for this to happen. I know its pressure gauge should always remain on a very low setting. I know I have to purge it of its murky inky water every so often. I know that if the water in the indicator is rising and falling as if it were hurricane season, it is just not happy about one thing or another.

The radiators do still clang and bang, but I am no longer afraid.

“May you have warmth in your igloo, oil in your lamp, and peace in your heart” ~Eskimo Proverb

Slumpty Dumpty

So yesterday I wore a trash bag to work. Working in a large, somewhat upscale law firm, there are fashionistas to the left of me and fashionistas to the right of me, but with a husband out of work and a mortgage too big for my britches, I have become a recessionista. Hence, the trash bag dress.

Okay, so you probably guessed it wasn’t actually a trash bag. But it sure felt like it. It was a pretty silver gray color, and was meant to be a tunic type of dress, short and fitted on the lower half and then bloused out above the waist. And that’s how it was when I left home in the morning. By the time I had gotten to work, though, the bottom half must have stretched out from sitting in the car, and my outfit was now just a sloppy oversized mess of a dress. I swear there are garment gremlins in my car, determined to wreak havoc on my wardrobe and self-confidence as I drive to work every day. They hide under the floor mats and sit silently invisible in the back seat along with the hair frizz goblins and the mismatched shoe ghouls.

I must hold an exorcism.

Just around the corner in every woman's mind - is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her. ~Wilhela Cushman

This is the dress that malfunctioned.