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I wrote most of a post yesterday and planned to finish today. What have I been doing instead?

Writing cover letter examples and re-working Superhighway's husband's resume. He was fired recently and, boy, do I know how it feels to have an unemployed hubby. It chewed up most of my time here today.

I took two calls from Superhighway's hubby regarding what he should say on an application he's submitting.

I helped my mom with her tax questions. That's okay...I love my mom. I'd do anything for her.

I listened to Crazy complain about her bipolar sister.

I contemplated helping Foot Lady figure out how to help her mom do her taxes. I decided Foot would have to figure it out by herself.

My dearest friend, C., reminded me recently of how these small (okay, the first thing was definitely not small) can drain any energy I have to spare, in addition to any I don't have to spare. I am hereby promising myself that I'm going to work harder on reining myself in.

Finally, I'm taking Thursday and Friday off. No medical visits, just some vital rest time. I plan to see a movie tomorrow. After that, I hope to prevent myself from cleaning my house.

See you next week. Have a lovely Easter weekend (or whatever you celebrate).

3.18.2008
Yesterday, Hubby gave me a copy of his latest book. This is the book he wrote while he was supposed to be contributing to our income, a source of prodigious conflict between us. It was published by an academic press and, though it's available at your local bookstore and I'd love to recommend it, doing so would require that I reveal personal information about myself. One of the things I love about the blog universe is that it's a private place for me. No one knows me, none of my daily friends even knows this blog exists. I'm truly, deeply myself here, in a way I could never be should those dear and not so dear gain access to it.

As I began reading, I remembered why I love Hubby, why I've loved him more than any single being I've ever met. It recalls for me, immediately and deeply, why our relationship endures despite stress, conflict and both the individual and personal erosions of daily life. Hubby understands my vision of life, the spontaneous recognitions that no one else can see with me. He not only understands, but he remembers and values.

His words cause me to see the world in new ways. They amuse me and move me in the deepest parts of my being. His vision of the world and mine intertwine. Perhaps that's so of all long-term relationships, that all couples create an insular existence, a language and value system uniquely their own. We all share a language singularly ours that communicates when it's time to leave the party or silently share a private joke amidst a crowd.

Our friendship, the many ways he intrigues and calls me to myself, sustain this partnership. We are very different in some critical ways. The erosions of daily life hone our separate personalities into our unique, authentic selves. As we grow into who we are, our differences are clarified and magnified. And yet, it is he who invites me to stand back and look at myself as an individual human being who is worthy of love. It is he who invites me to step back and see him as the magical being sent for me to love. Hubby knows things I don't know, his thought processes work differently than mine. And yet, it is his words that recall for me how deeply our lives are entwined.

3.26.1008
I'm well into the book now, reminded as I read every word, turn every page, that love is a wondrous gift. I'm grateful every day, no matter what, for the person who embodies that gift.

Go Ahead. Ask Me Anything.

At my office (and with virtually everyone who knows me), I'm the go-to girl for questions no one else can answer. Medical, scientific, grammatical, computers. You get my drift; they ask me about any subject that puzzles them or confounds them or that they're mildly curious about.

Sometimes it gets on my nerves. Do they think I'm a medical professional? Do they think I know anything about computers? Why, in God's name, do people assume I'm the person to ask? I know why. If I don't know the answer to the question, I don't make stuff up. My dad always did that. If you asked him something and he didn't know the answer, he'd just wing it. Sometimes if I don't know, I find the topic compelling enough to find the answer. The real reason they ask me, though, is that I can't keep my mouth shut.

Case in point. Last week, Crazy Employee wandered into my office in a daze.

"I have a knot on the back of my head and it really hurts."

I actually asked her some questions, like when it had developed, did it hurt only when she touched or all the time, etc. That's right. I actually pursued this, without pausing to consider the consequences, both short and long term.

I decided that it was probably a swollen lymph node. I've spent considerable time lately looking at a map of the lymphathic system while my physical therapist massaged my lymph nodes. It's fascinating stuff and almost worth lymphedema to learn about it.

Crazy was enormously relieved. She thought a tumor had sprung up over night. I assured her that I didn't think that's the usual way they develop (as if I really know). Crazy eventually called her doctor, who agreed with my "diagnosis." Off she went to immediately share with the rest of the office that, thanks to me, she was relieved to learn the problem wasn't cancer and that it was verified by someone who was trained to know.

Big mouth. People ask me things and out come answers. I don't think about it until they've gone on their merry way, when I once again wonder why the hell they're asking me. Admittedly, I have a rather half-assed store of knowledge on a broad range of topics. I have many interests and a surprising memory for the things I read.

The people I know and trust well enough for me to complain to about this blind belief that I'm the bearer of esoteric wisdom tell me to simply stop answering their questions. Excellent advice, but I've never been able to follow it. Open mouth, answer comes out.

The inability to, once again, keep my mouth shut has, once again, furthered my reputation around Crazy Land. It's become part of my unofficial job description.

I have a question myself. Knowing that providing information spawns more trust in my boundless knowledge, knowing that it irritates me to no end, why is it that I can't stop myself from participating?

Quiz of the Day

Which Classic Female Literary Character Are you?

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Daylight Savings Time in Crazy Land

Daylight savings time renders an otherwise godawful week in Crazyland virtually unbearable. The only good news? My good friend, the Hemorrhoid Guy, was appalled at how dark everything is when I arrive in the morning, so he took it upon himself to see to it that many new lights were installed on every corner of both buildings. When I arrived this morning, it might as well have been high noon. I wondered if the glare was keeping Lillian awake or maybe helping her find her meth pipe a little easier. I confess that thought made feel a bit impish; I had an almost irresistible urge to intentionally set off the building alarm. I was a good girl; I did not do it. I wonder if that counts as one of my good deeds for the day? Probably not.

Both Crazy Employee and the Superhighway are on vacation this week, leaving me to fend off some of the phone traffic. By around 10:00 o'clock, our lovely and brilliant young receptionist has managed to drag herself out of bed and make it to work. That makes things much easier for me. To be fair, when Owner and Hemorrhoid Guy are here, their respective male organs don't seem to impede their ability to answer the phone. The same cannot be said of Golf Pro and Mr. Moneybags. The Foot Lady is of no help, either. If her foot can't be involved, then it's no dice, I guess.

This week also brought me another Hurt Guy. The foreman (whom I probably haven't introduced before), The Ladies' Man, was fabulous and is working hard to get that boy back to work so he's not sitting around all day watching reruns of Law and Order on Crazy Land's dime. Preventing people from taking up residence in their recliner while we pay the price is one of my primary missions in life. Unfortunately, I think L.M. is going to have to come up with an unlimited amount of "restricted duty" activities. This is a knee injury and I'm praying that we won't eventually discover a torn meniscus. If we do, our workers' comp rates are bound to rise. That is never, ever good. The injury isn't a big deal yet, but you know how I hate the paperwork.

Hemorrhoid Guy had to make an appearance at a Benefit Review Conference for the scary Don Quixote. Don has changed his story so many times that even he can't keep up anymore. He's now claiming that his broken hand qualifies as a permanent disability. Sadly, Don had neglected to inform his state-provided attorney that he's actually been working. That kind of argues against the claim of disability and, of course, his attorney was outraged that he hadn't mentioned this important fact prior to the actual hearing. Don tried to engage Hemorrhoid in, no doubt, bitter dialog, but H.G. slipped away before the scary guy could corner him.

Our incredibly liberal local version of the Worker's Comp system has decided to pass Don on to a higher authority, so there will be a new hearing on May 7. Since I know very little about the working conditions and schedules of any of our field employees, I won't have to attend. Poor Hemorrhoid will be in attendance, but he's taking along some reinforcements in the person of the actual foreman of the job. Let's hope that the foreman will remember that loyalty to his fellow "working man" must not outweigh the facts. If he doesn't, I believe Hemorrhoid could take him in a tussle. Fisticuffs might well break out over this particular case. H.G. and I are very, very serious about worker's comp fraud.

Is there more? Well, of course there is, including an encounter with Mr. Moneybags. I needed some information from him this morning to relay to the Ladies' Man, so I had no choice. Moneybags was off and running right away about what an idiot Loathsome is. I agreed. Then he moved on to the "liberal (read Democrats) idiots" who are supporting Spitzer. Maybe Moneybags knows something I don't, but I haven't heard of much defense being mounted by even the party's most faithful. Time to exit. When he took a breath, I told him I knew Foot Lady had finally made some coffee and that I simply had to get down there immediately. It was a rare moment when self preservation outweighed excellent Southern manners. Mercifully brief, or as brief as it gets with Moneybags.

So that's it. I still have two and a half days to go. The phone will be ringing any moment now. My eyes are burning and watering from allergies and I just spilled yogurt down the front of my shirt. Yes, I'm writing this at lunch because otherwise there is no time and I can't live without you. As predicted, the phone is ringing.

German Shepherd

The Perfectionist

Doggedly dedicated to getting the job done, you don't let silly little distractions get in the way of putting in a full day's work. And after you come home, chowing down on a little grub and taking a little catnap is all it takes to get you up and at 'em for round two, whatever that may entail. Your dogma emphasizes the importance of hard work, and you swim laps around your dog-paddling, time-wasting co-workers. Your cleverness leads to you often being entrusted with some pretty important tasks, which you are always more than happy to sink your canines into. You really dig being outdoors and love a bit of exercise, but you draw the line at the ridiculous stuff, choosing a game of beach volleyball over Pilates in the park any day.

Healer

Everything and Nothing

I've read that everyone we meet has been sent to teach us something. If that's so, I'm hard at work.

I encounter my father, in various guises, everywhere. I'm surrounded by narcissists--at work and at home. Hubby is so self-involved that I'm surprised he even notices I'm in the room. Sometimes I'm not sure that he does.

Stepson doesn't know anything about me. He never asks about what I'm interested in, what my life is like. He knows nothing about my childhood. Our conversations are always about him.

Not everyone in Crazy Land is a narcissist, but we've got more than our share. The Foot Lady, Crazy Employee, Owner, Loathsome, The Golf Pro--for all of them the world is a mirror.

If there's anything at which I'm expert, it's dealing with narcissists. Unfortunately, the way I deal with them is very unhealthy. Being highly intuitive, I'm able to figure out what they want and how they want it, then give it to them. Not so difficult, really. Generally what they want is validation; only preferences for the means of validation differ between individuals. I anticipate their needs. I hide my own. Or I believe the needs I have can't be met by other people.

I'm so chameleon-like that everyone thinks I'm like them, but I'm not, you know. There are a lot of things I have to fake. I don't know what occurs in non-catastrophic childhoods. It's as alien to me as living on another planet. It's such a strange thing, to try so hard to picture what "normal" (for for that matter, dysfunctional) childhood looks like. I won't ever know.

So what am I learning? Apparently, not much. I continue to live with a man who has an absolutely astounding sense of personal entitlement. At work, I shift certain characteristics to the foreground and others to the background, depending on who I'm with at any given time. I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not; I'm merely rearranging parts of my personality. Morphing into someone others find more palatable and easy to understand is probably one of those things I'm supposed to learn not to do.

At the moment, I think the lesson to be learned is to love myself, just as I am. That's a mighty tall order. I've lived my life, dedicated to figuring out how to fit in with everyone else, working on social skills, fixing the things that were wrong with me.

I've decided to stop trying to change myself into someone I'm not. What does that have to do with my dad? Everything and nothing.

Juvenilia

Since I don't have much to say today. I decided to post a poem sent to me from an old friend. I wrote it when I was 16 (so, you know, read it with compassion) after my father drove to a local city to see his 18 year old girlfriend, whom he had married 5 years previously. We were speeding along in the darkness, I was sitting in the backseat, hating him with a vengeance. I wrote the poem, in part, as a way to ignore him. So here goes:

Highways of Darkness

Highways in the darkness,
breathing wind like icy softness.
We are racing toward Heaven
or wherever we may be going.
My mind is like a ribbon--twisted and misleading
and it will take a new eternity
to untangle your mind from within it.
Perhaps it will unravel
when the light up dawn is upon us.
But until then the darkness is beautiful,
for we've never seen the light
on the highways of forever.

Mike Huckabee

I'm listening to a Mike Huckabee rally on CNN streaming media.

What do you suppose is going on in Mike's head?

Hubby Was Fired

Hubby lost his job on Friday. He was doing data transcription for the IRS, but wasn't able to meet the minimum production and quality standards. When I told him that he has to have a job, he went out the front door and sat on the porch steps until I left for a haircut appointment. Pouting. I guess I was supposed to tell him not to worry about it. He should just go ahead and sit around the house, doing absolutely nothing. I'll figure out a way to pay the bills, I'll do all the cleaning; he can relax and write another book.

It's all my fault, really. I should have been a lot less patient a lot sooner. I wasn't willing to deal with long term unpleasantness. As long as Hubby didn't hit me or bring another person into the relationship, my minimum standards were met. By the time I was too sick to keep up with things, doing nothing had become an ingrained habit for him. I'm guilty of bad parenting.

I spent a lot of time cleaning this weekend. It was nowhere near as much time as I need, but my stamina is still very limited. Luckily, I was able to meet my own production and quality standards.

I watched the final regular time seconds in the Mavs-Lakers game, then allowed myself to be talked into watching the overtime even though I knew how it would end. I hate Kobe. I also hate Mark Cuban. Ditto Jason Kidd. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much more I hate Isaiah than the whole lot of them thrown together.

I also managed to catch some college hoops, Georgetown vs. Marquette. Patrick Ewing, Jr. plays for Georgetown, so for this game, they were my default favorite team.

I'm still reading When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron. Perfect timing on my part. My backup read, when my concentration is too poor to devote to Pema, is called Acid Row. It's written by a British author. British writers are sometimes more than I can do. For example, the people in this book live on an estate, but that doesn't mean they're wealthy. "Estate" in this context means public housing. Who knew.

The new hair stylist didn't make me want to shave my head. That's more than I can say about my most recent stylist, Erika. Much like Dr. Sandbox, her fatal flaw is an inability to listen. The thing is, I'm not all that picky. After you've been bald, things can only get better.

I've already had two conversations with Foot Lady and one with Owner. It's 10:39 a.m. and I already need a nap.

Love and Let Go

"...the great need for...loving-kindness toward oneself, and developing from that the awakening of a fearlessly compassionate attitude toward our own pain and that of others."

"...dissolving the dualistic tension between us and them, this and that, good and bad, by inviting what we usually avoid. My teacher, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, described this as 'leaning into the sharp points.'"

"...may we not forget...that 'Chaos should be regarded as extremely good news."

from When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, Pema Chodron

Yes, yes, yes.

Heroes

I just spent an hour on the phone with my health insurance provider, straightening out my complex maze of doctor bills. For many years, I've tried to do at least one good deed every day. I recently upped that ante to 3. My second good deed of the day was to be patient and cordial with the insurance guy who helped me get it all cleared up. He was obviously surprised when I thanked him and wished him a good day, even though we came up with another $900 in bills I have to pay. I'm certain he talks with a lot of angry people every day and I hope our conversation makes his day a little better. My previous good deed today was traffic-related. One more to go.

I happened to see Elizabeth Edwards on television over the weekend and was once again impressed with her positive energy and commitment to getting on with life, even though she battles Stage 4 breast cancer. "She's my hero," I thought. Lance Armstrong is also my hero. Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I had absolutely no heroes. Now I do. I have three.

I discovered that I am my own hero.

Thanks for Waiting

Thanks, everyone, for checking in on me while I tried to wrap up the end of year OSHA reports and deal with my hurt employees. I haven't had time to be online much at all. All of our clients want their information in a slightly different form. Small differences eat up a lot of time when I'm dependent on co-workers for some of the numbers.

I have a check-up appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. She offices on the other side of town. The traffic takes such a toll on me that by the time I get there, I need at least an extra tranquilizer or two.

I know we'll talk about my weight and the amount of time I've been sleeping, but I don't think those are symptoms of depression. I think I sleep a lot because of the ordeal of breast cancer treatment. Fatigue can last a long time. I don't know about the weight thing. I eat. I don't work out excessively.

I have to leave now to have any hope of arriving on time. Psychiatrist gets very testy with me when I'm late.

Heading to the Tattoo Parlor

I may not be officially back, but I'm back for right now. There are so many things to catch up on.

Last night, Hubby started his new seasonal job with the IRS. He's working 6:00 p.m. to 2:30 a.m. He called me around 10:00 last night to tell me that the job (data transcription) is hard. Here's a man who's got a degree from an excellent university, who's written 3 books and edited another, written articles and manuals, types 90 words per minute, but he can not do IRS data transcription. I assured him that it will become easier over time. God forbid that something should have a learning curve.

I talked with Stepson a couple of nights ago. He's afflicted with the same "can't do" attitude as his dad. Ever since he first started working, he's quit job after job because they were too hard. They both make me want to get a tattoo on my forehead that reads, "If it's fun, you pay them. You do not get paid to have fun." I'm not sure my head's big enough to fit that on it, though. I know. I'll use my neck like that guy on Project Runway. I could probably fit in lots of edifying slogans if I used my forehead and my neck.

When Stepson called the other night, I told him I was watching Anthony Bourdain on the Travel Channel. I love Anthony because he goes places tourists never go...and eats things I would never, ever, ever eat. In the meantime, he drinks like a fish and smokes a lot. I'm amazed he's lived this long--high fat food, alcohol and nicotine should have killed him long ago. When I told Stepson about Anthony's zest for alcohol, it was the single most interesting thing I've said to him in probably twenty years. He turned his television on and started excitedly searching for the program. Great.

Hubby had told me that on Monday Stepson had worked a 17 hour day. Of course, I immediately started wondering once again why Stepson won't take out a student loan and learn about whatever it is that he wants to do. It's some medical technology thing. He doesn't talk about it enough for me to remember. That's saying something. I pay close attention to what people say to me, especially when it's my stepson. When I commented about the long day, he told me they didn't do much; there was a lot of standing around. However, he wanted to try to force this company to pay him more than the agreed-upon wage until his friend talked him out of it.

Let's see. We have a 39 year old high school graduate who hasn't had a long-term (more than two weeks) job in about a decade and is now doing manual labor for a living. He has no special skills whatsoever. None. Attitude, yes, in abundance. Skills, no. Somehow I don't think that places him in a favorable position for negotiation. If I were his supervisor, I'd tell him to go find somebody who'll pay him that much and hire a young person to take his place. No, I didn't say that to him. Maybe I should have. He's 39, though. Now you see why I need all the tattoo space. It would be like a silent reminder.

I spent about an hour with Owner this morning, listening to him complain about his life. Even he knows how absurd and, frankly, insulting that is to me. He's wasted his life. He has medical issues he hasn't addressed...a lump on one of his feet, his cholesterol hasn't been checked, he hasn't had a colonoscopy. I told him to make an appointment with a doctor. Owner doesn't like being fat and weak. I told him to get up and start moving. Life has beaten Owner down. There's only so much of that I can take.

Here again, this is where the tattoo would be useful. I might need to take a little bit of neck space for one that says, "You have a privileged life. Get over yourself." I could just incline my head a little bit so that he could see it and roll my eyes suggestively to that area. I wouldn't ever have to say anything.

There's plenty more to say, but I have to get back to my really hard job and my wasted life that's beaten me down so much I can't manage to get my cholesterol checked.

Silence on the Home Front

Having some suicidal ideation today. Very unusual. I haven't had that happen in years. Trying to survive breast cancer doesn't allow time for thoughts of intentionally dying. Friends please note: I will not check out. Thinking does not equal doing.

Still all quiet on the home front. I pointed out that Hubby lacks initiative. I won't apologize for saying it and I won't retract it. He sees the world from his own limited point of view and believes that failing to seek employment every day, not doing any housework, not doing any yard work, not doing laundry, not cooking does not constitute lack of initiative. Hence, he feels quite justified in the silent treatment. He clearly doesn't remember who he's married to.

I'm still buried in paperwork. It turns out that the client for whom much of the paperwork is being done may be going belly up. Crazy Land employment would then be in jeopardy.

Hmmm....can't imagine why I'm down.

Monday, Bloody Monday

Hubby is angry with me and hasn't spoken to me since late afternoon Thursday. It's a highly triggering situation, mirroring a period in my early teens when no one in my house spoke to me for a couple of months. I'm reminding myself that I don't live in danger anymore. Not speaking is simply not speaking.

Today, I'm bogged down with a pre-qualification questionnaire from one of our clients. If I were to gaze into my crystal ball, I'd predict this is going to keep me bogged down for a bit.

The problem with working through lunch is that I tend to forget the lunch part.

Mandatory Waiting Period

In Crazy Land, there is a mandatory 48 hour waiting period whenever you need information from Mr. Moneybags. Sometimes the waiting period is longer, but it's never shorter. I have two tasks to complete which require data from him. So I'm waiting.

At Last. The Nipple Report

I was told not to wear jewelry, but I didn't think that meant rings because I don't need any nipples on my fingers. Brenda, the nurse, made me take off my rings and jeans, then attached a pad to my back to ground me. I wasn't sure I heard her correctly, so I asked her again why I needed the pad. I still have no idea why I had to be grounded, but removing all metal from my body prevented me from being burned in those places.

Jennifer, his PA, came in and asked me if they'd given me any nipples to try. I know. Go ahead and laugh. She handed me a plastic nipple and told me to put it where I wanted the new one located. Well heck, I didn't know. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to find the right place. I turned around and asked everyone (Brenda, Jennifer and one of Dr. Kronowitz's fellows) what they thought. They reached a consensus opinion and helped me to move it to a better site. When Dr. Kronowitz came in, he didn't think much of the placement and moved it to where he thought it should be. Couldn't we have just waited for him?

The room had a chair much like a dentist's chair, but much more comfy. After they reclined the chair, Brenda put a cool, damp cloth over my eyes and turned on some "new age" music. It was all very calming. Then Dr. K. went to work. He double checked to make sure I couldn't feel anything.

He was in high spirits and we all had a fabulous time. He made me laugh almost the entire hour and a half that it took to create the new nipple. There were a couple of places that hurt, but Dr. Kronowitz gave me some local anesthesia immediately. The fact that it hurt is great news. That means the nerves are forming new connections. Someday I may actually have sensation in the new girl.

It's a little like breast origami; Dr. Kroniwitz cut some of the existing skin and twisted and turned it until it looked like a nipple. They asked me, after he left to report to my mom, if I wanted to see it. Of course I did. They asked if I was sure. I have to say it wasn't pretty.

Jennifer put a piece of foam over the new nipple. It's 2 inches in diameter and about 1.5 inches tall, with a hole cut in the middle like a donut. That will prevent the new nipple from being compressed and potentially dying.

I'll wear my dressings for the next two weeks, then in 3 months, I'll go back for the tattoo. Maybe no more nerves will have reconnected by then. Three months after that, I'll have my final surgery. The end is in sight.

Size 2 Is Not Fabulous

I broke down and bought some new (on sale) pants for work this weekend. It's official. I'm now down to a size 2. I see women on t.v. diet commercials, enthused about reaching that size. I'm not thrilled.

Even I can see how tiny I am now. All of my doctors have commented, as did my physical therapist. I only note that my jeans are baggy and all of my old clothes (sizes 6 and 8) hang off of me.

My mom thinks I'm not eating enough. She's started bringing food over and checking my menu items. I'm eating enough. As a matter of fact, I just consumed 3 Shrimp en Brochette, fries and a very large piece of cheesecake.

As you can see, I'm working on it.