Disneyland Fail

Yeah.  I decided I HAD to go to Disneyland.  I mean, Mark was heading off on another trip to Who Knows Where (okay, it was Tajikistan) and I thought I should get to do something fancy and expensive, too.  It's only fair.  "Wait," you may be thinking.  "Mark's trip was not only paid for by your Church, it was not 'fancy' unless you consider working 17 hour days while battling e-coli a holiday."

Well, shut up.  I HAD to go to Disneyland.

Testing, 123.

Why did the last one be stupid?  Did Blogger hear about my Wordpress account?  Ugh

Vive la France!

Two days ago, over 130 people were murdered in France.  Innocent people who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time... 

Ya know - risky places - like a soccer game, eating at a restaurant, visiting with friends at a bar, enjoying a rock concert.   

Naturally, Facebook and other social media EXPLODED with the kind of responses that only the truly meme-iophiles can compose -  

"I stand with France!" 

"We're with you, Paris!"  

Profile photos were 'shopped' so that the colors of the French flag were everywhere.  We were irate.  We were hurt.  We were one with our amis.  

But about 3 hours into our heart-felt show of love and support, the first Somebody had to point out, "Why is PARIS so special?  Look around.  What about ---  Where are their memes and flags and shows of support?!!!"   

Um... WHAT the???   So all night I stewed and burned and fretted - and worried about the stroke I was about to have - while mentally giving lectures, and writing speeches, and letters to the editor.  The following are my feelings without all of the swearing that always bounces around my head.

So, for those of you who said I should publish my Facebook 'musings,' here's your 'book.' Enjoy. Oh, and pretend it's written in blue, white and red.  

                                                       ***********

I'm truly perplexed by some of the comments on Facebook critical of why so many people are changing their profile pictures and posting big memes that say things like "We're with you, Paris." They think that because thousands of people are killed every day by despots, and little girls are kidnapped from schools and raped, and people are suffering every day without a break, focusing on Paris is somehow... what's the word...? Wrong? Misguided? Whatever.

So, lemme see. Let's say the people a couple of streets over from me have their house burned down over and over and over. Nobody but the police and fire department personnel can go onto their property and help, because it's just too dangerous. So none of the rest of us can personally help, no matter how much we want to or how hard we try. But, even though we don't KNOW them or anyone like them, or understand their culture or clothing or rules, we donate money and we pay taxes so the help can be delivered by professionals. We pray for them and feel so badly for them because it's been going on for years and years and years.

There's another family a few doors down from us. We and some of our other neighbors have been to their beautiful and historic home a time or two. Their home had nearly been taken over by some truly horrible people about 60 years ago. It was bombed and partially destroyed - in fact, many of our ancestors and friends went there and risked their own lives and fought to keep them safe. So some of us even have a bit of their history in our family stories. Heck, we've even learned some of their language at school and read books written by them and have seen some of them in movies.

Over the last 60 years, they've rebuilt that home and made it a showplace of lovely things. They've felt safe, and except for a few break-ins and a couple of cross burnings on the lawn within the past few years, they've been able to move forward.

But a couple of days ago, their home was savagely attacked by evil men. Men who just wanted to hurt and discourage them - and you know why? It's because they offered THEIR support to the people whose house was constantly burning. They offered them shelter.

We were shocked! How awful! How evil! And most of us want to show our support. Because we on our street know what it's like to have evil men savagely attack our homes - it happened to us back in 2001. And we know what it's like to have some people across town say our own house deserved it because we tried to help others whose homes were being destroyed.

We put our signs up for and send our messages to the fancy house that was just hit. We know that it doesn't diminish the pain or hurt or fear of the people who are living under constant siege - they're never far from our thoughts.

I know that the people under siege would also raise a flag of support and solidarity if they could. Because that's what people do. They support one another when they take a hit.

So yeah. I'm gonna post Paris memes and keep my face blue, white and red - to show solidarity to the people who were hurt because they showed solidarity with and took in people who were hurt.

I Heart My Liver

Well, sometimes God just yanks you into something you don't appreciate until someone pulls out the i.v. and lets you put your shirt back on.

See, in the wee, small hours of Sunday, I woke up feeling like a knife-y thing was coring my heart like an apple.  I did the appropriate "systems check" deal - no numb arm, no achy jaw or neck, no nausea.  I couldn't remember if  "feeling like you swallowed an auger and it is now trying to exit through the spine" was a symptom of heart attack, but it didn't seem likely, so I just decided to lay there and think for a minute before doing anything extreme . . .  like asking for help from the doctor asleep next to me.

I couldn't come up with a definitive diagnosis, so I thought, "Well, do I have a gut feeling I'm going to die soon?" (I wonder this a lot.) Because I know God WILL give me a warning.  Sure, we don't hear of that happening a lot, but it's ME.  I just KNOW I'll have a peaceful feeling and enough time to gather my loved ones around for a pep talk.  So I was reassured when I didn't get the "You have 4 hours," and when the pain left in a few minutes, I fell asleep.  Then BAM!  Here we went again with the coring and boring.

More thinking:
"I'm not burping up the 2 cups of gummy bears I downed while watching episodes of Community before I came to bed, so it's not reflux . . . "  Then, when the pain got to a "9" I thought, "If I start to get really woozy, as I'm passing out I'll smack Mark and he'll wake up, instinctively know I'm dying and will start CPR & bring me back."    I have no idea why I thought that would be an okay solution and that we'd all just have a big laugh about it later, but that scenario played out a couple of more times until I finally fell asleep.

Some time Sunday afternoon I started wondering if I'd been a tad silly.  All of the information that I gleaned from the professionals - web md, google searches, and family members - implied that I had missed a great opportunity to be saved from a heart attack.  So I thought I'd drop my doc an email on Sunday night to ask if he'd like me to get some tests. Clearly, my less than hysterical approach was not okayed by Big Pharm, as my doc's Monday morning reply was  "go to the e.r. asap."  I took that to mean, "Meh.  It's probably nothing, so enjoy Candy Crush for the rest of the day."  

My big mistake was telling Sidney what the doc said.  She went into full Defcon 5 mode and was giving me worst-case scenarios, telling me how hard it would be for everyone if I died, and threatening phone calls to friends.  Stuff like, "If I call Debbie, she'll come over and we'll hog tie you and take you in."  (She actually dropped several names of women we know. Let that be a warning to anyone who thinks it's a peachy idea to let their children make friends.)  After waffling for a couple of hours with "Okay, let me get dressed"  then "Nah, I'm okay" and "Well, my chest DOES feel a bit tweaky" I decided that Sidney would stroke out if I didn't make a decision.  So I got dressed ("You couldn't find those underwear last time we went to the e.r. either, Mom!") and off we went.

The good thing about going to the e.r. with chest pain is that a nurse swoops into the waiting room within 90 seconds - the pee left on the chair by the last person doesn't even soak into your jeans -  summons you to the place where, lets face it, lots of people die,  and practically has e.k.g. leads on your chest before the door closes behind you. Because nothing promotes healing like someone using tiny sharp, sticky things as an excuse to grope your breasts.  Guys have a totally different, pleasant experience with e.k.g. leads but they get payback with catheters, so if you're a man, just think, "OW!"

To make a long story less long than if I wrote about the full 6 hours I was there, I'll summarize:  My heart is fine, my doctor looked amazingly like "The Dean" from Community and my liver is a mess.

Still no idea why I had chest pain, but the knowledge that there aren't many more organs that can be removed from my body without serious repercussions has moved me to the point that I'm okay with meeting some new medical professionals.  Especially since they will have no excuse to handle my breasts.  

It took forever, but it was worth the wait.

On March 16, 2012 

Stephanie Elizabeth May

became our new daughter when she married Scott in the 

San Diego LDS Temple.

Lemme tell you about Stephanie -

Steph is a wash and wear beauty.  

She doesn't get caught up in fashion or wear designer clothes yet she 

could be a cover girl.  

Her wedding dress came from eBay but she looked as though she'd been

personally fitted by Vera Wang.  

She had me do her wedding makeup, but I suspect it was simply because

it's a given that women get fancied up for stuff like that 

and because she loves me.  

She doesn't wear chapstick because she believes it's addictive.

 Her biggest fashion statement is wearing one of her crocheted 

animal hats.  

Steph is brilliant.  She is one of those people who can still play while

acing all of her classes in college and pharmacy school.  

She is an amazing cook who googles Indian recipes and takes pictures of her 

favorites and posts them on facebook under 

titles like "Bread Porn."

She knows how to work hard and has spent summers sweating in the fields 

picking melons, and moving boxes in a warehouse 

with the big boys.

She is competitive and will take you apart as quickly and viciously in a 

game of Yatzee as if she was after a Super Bowl ring.  

She is funny and happy and quick and I miss her when she's gone.

But what I love most 

is that she loves my son with a fierce loyalty, and 

when I see the way she looks at him and the way he looks back

I'm grateful that she said 

"Yes."

Gone too soon.

The Remains of Halloween, a photo by pietroizzo on Flickr.

I worked so hard on my little pumpkin friend. Shaping his face with a carrot peeler and sharpened knife; sculpting cheeks and wrinkles, frowning brows, and a sneer.

Soon, a black spot appeared on his cheek and grew like a porous cancer. I thought that if I laid him on his side, the ventilation moving through his head might dry the tissue and slow the moldy growth. But alas.

As I picked him up, the skull started to cave in, and my fingers began to penetrate the fuzzy gray soft tissue beneath the skin.

I tossed him in the garbage. But first, I stuffed a kleenex into the hole on his face, dribbled on some bright bloody red hot sauce, and left his corpse for Mark to find in the morning.

Happy Week Before Halloween.