Detox

I realized, mere moments ago, that I need to detox.  From Facebook.  And I'm totally freaking serious.

Just twenty minutes ago, as I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror dripping wet and completely naked, I picked up my phone (that normally doesn't come to the bathroom when I shower but this time it did because I was texting info to a friend on the way up the stairs) and checked Facebook.

We'll get to my phone attachment in another therapeutic Facebook post, baby steps....

So, you know, normally checking FB isn't a big deal, except when you should be putting on your clothes so you can go dowstairs and cook food for your children.

Except when you are buck ass naked and soaking ass wet.

Except when you have a pile of laundry to throw in the washer.

Except when you have, you know, life to live and shit to do.  Which, if I'm being honest is all the freaking time.

But yet.......

So in the span of about seven minutes, four spent checking everyone else's updates, one spent checking to see who "liked" my most recent post, and two realizing that I have completely wrapped up nearly every shred of my self-worth and self-esteem into who likes my status updates, I realized that I need to take a break. 

I also started to recognize feelings of jealousy and sadness when I see someone going on an epic vacation I can never afford, or two friends spending time without me, or a family doing something together that our family can't afford to do.  I started to get a chip on my shoulder.

Then I noticed that I started to wonder what's wrong with me if someone I thought for sure would LIKE one of my posts, and didn't like it.  It's hard to wrap your brain around the idea that likely they just didn't see it, but still.  But still.  You wonder.

And then you start to worry more about what everyone else is doing, what you're missing, and then you suddenly realize as you're standing in your bathroom with not a shred of clothing that somehow this social media thing has crossed the line for you.  What you're missing is YOUR life.

And then you think about simply needing to disentangle yourself.  You think, I'll just shut it down for a month, and see how that goes.  And then you sit down at your computer to find out how and then it dawns on you just how horrifically, irreversibly intertwined your life has become with Facebook.

How that one innocent little account that you created so many years ago has connected you with so many aspects of your life and the only portal, the only entrance is through your Facebook account.  Seriously, just take a look.

So then the wheels start turning and you think about how you can still keep an iron in all these fires without having to BE on Facebook, and you can't.  You absolutely can't.  Unless you have some other random account that no one knows that you accept no friend requests to, maybe that will work.

Except you realize that you HAVE to be "friends" with people in order to even be added to or take part in certain groups.  And then you start to have a panic attack, the kind where it feels like there's a big ass sumo wrestler sitting on your chest and there's not a goddamn thing you can do to get him off.

And then you realize that you'll still be checking Facebook even if you have no friends because all the communication from certain groups comes through Facebook.  And who the hell wants to use an email account anymore when, with a few keyboard strokes and the click of the "enter" button you've successfully communicated your message to everyone you need to talk to.

And then you'll still be looking at the status updates of everyone you have to be friends with in order to play "the game" and you start to realize you'll still be comparing yourself with others.  You'll wonder why some people are friends on Facebook but they've never "friended" you.

You'll feel all those things you don't want to feel and why you wanted to disengage yourself in the first place: jealousy, sadness, rejection, and that you still, after all these years, don't fit in or measure up to everyone else.

And then you find a therapist because you read the blog you just wrote and realize you need some serious help. Even as I type this I realize how bizarre all this sounds.

And as the panic attack subsides you decide you're going to try anyway, do the best you can and give yourself a break.

For a moment you question if you can handle the change, can you break away, can you get by.  And it's sad to you that you have to even wonder if you can do it.

That speaks volumes without saying much of anything at all.

And Facebook isn't bad, it's just bad for me.  It's been incredible to connect with amazing people from so many areas of my life.  But it's also become a major source for how I feel about myself, and no one should ever be in a place where the yardstick by which they measure their success is on a computer screen.

One month.  I'm going to try.  I suspect it will be hard but I hope it will be a relief.

Come Monday morning at 7:30AM PST (I hope to hell I can sort my stuff out by then) my personal facebook page is going dark.   No judgments here, just looking for some peace.

Maude VS Snowmageddon

The past couple of weeks I have been plagued with unusual stomach issues.  I am left to assume my innerds are simply pissed off that I had to endure two colonoscopies within two months, and my tummy doesn’t appreciate the “Golytely” but the doctor said that couldn’t be the case.  I call bullshit, but whatever, I’m not the MD.

To give you a sense of how BAD my stomach was bothering me, I cut my Thursday interval workout short by ten minutes.  Yes, you are reading that right, I cut my run short.  If you know me, you know I would run with a limb partially severed if I could.  Needless to say I was one hurtin’ unit.

 

Channeling my inner #BAMR before I left.

Yesterday I was looking so very longingly at the beautiful white snowflakes, gently cascading through the light breeze.  Yes, it looked like my world was a snow globe, and after being cooped up for nearly two days straight I couldn’t resist the urge to attempt a short, easy run in the snow.

My plan was four miles around the Nike campus, on the wood chip berm.  I figured it wouldn’t be icy and it would be safer than a road run.  I tossed on my warm weather gear, set the Garmin, put on my headphones and headed out the door.

Clearly, I wasn't the only one crazy enough to run!

My first few steps made me laugh out loud.  And I mean I laughed like a little kid on Christmas morning who has opened the one gift that would make their Christmas complete.  I could hear myself hysterically giggling over 38 Special’s “Hold On Loosely” blasting in my ears, an appropriate tune for trying to keep my balance.

And holy cow Batman, let me tell you what a workout running in the snow can be.  I think it was around 4-6 inches of fluffy stuff, and I’m fairly certain I looked like Phoebe from Friends.  My Garmin told me I was running a 9:30 pace, far slower than my usual, but quite frankly it was the best that I could do!

Still laughing, I kept going, “running” like I did as a small girl in Spokane Valley, WA.  I felt like I was 11 again, rewinding my life 30 years.  I felt freedom, fun, joy and excitement.  I remembered trying to outrun my brother’s well-formed and accurately thrown snowballs.  

I remembered running home dodging piles of snow in the road, before the plows could get to the side streets.  I remember laughter and fun with friends on many cold, winter mornings.  I remembered making a sled hill with ice on our sloped driveway and the cussing my father did when he came home from work!  

Snowflake catching!

I remember trying to catch snowflakes on my tongue and I ran for at least 2 miles with the goofiest of grins on my face, tongue hanging out, laughing all at once.  Have you ever run while trying to catch snowflakes on your tongue?  I have, and Portlanders will not like this, but I hope to do it again someday.

As I ran I was somewhat panicked that my stomach issues would re-surface but they never did.  My legs, and my lungs, were on FIRE at about mile 1.5, but no other issues.  Finally.  Then, my Garmin crapped out on me at mile 2.0 (I charged it to 11% because I am that crazy and I wanted to know my distance).

When my Garmin shut down, I realized my mistake: I was wearing headphones, too.  Who cares how far or fast I go?  Who cares about music?  I took them off and ran the rest of my route with no music and no idea on distance or time.  

The guardians, as I call them, this time keeping a silent, watchful eye on me through the Nike Hollister trail

I simply ran in the quiet and calm that one feels after a run well done.  The only thing I heard was blissful nothingness, save for the sound of my breathing and my laughter.  Yes, even at mile 3 I was still laughing out loud.

As I rounded the corner to my house I wanted to keep running, keep going, to never stop.  This run, in the snow, was the best run I’ve been on in a long, long time.  But, it was time to go inside, I promised my family a short run, and they might have been worried had I not returned.  

And I’m glad I ran the run I promised myself because, for the first time in a long time I felt healthy, happy and completely at peace.

My eyebrows, clearly in need of maintenance, were snow-capped, too.

Maude VS The Math Homework

Math and I have always had a hate-hate relationship.  I hated the class and I hated the homework, and judging by my current level of mathematical prowess, math hates me too.

I suffered through math all through school, eventually coming to my senses one week into pre-calculus my senior year of high school and dropping math entirely.  I took my one required algebra class in college and moved forward with my life, never looking back.

Math hasn’t haunted me, I haven’t given it a thought in all these years, that is until FOURTH. GRADE. MATH. (insert the DUN-DUN-DUN ominous sounding music)

Honestly, I’d rather poke my eyes out AND remove my toenails AT THE SAME TIME, than “try” to “help” my 4^th grader with her math homework.  Apparently, she feels the same way I do about it all.

Says the sassy pants 9 year old:

                “ I don’t know WHY we have to do MATH! UGH!”

                “Why do we HAVE to do HOMEWORK? UGH!”

                “Math homework is SO. STUPID! UGH!”

                (it’s important for you to hear the proper TONE in these exclamations, too, and that tone is one of complete and TOTAL disgust, disbelief and complete inconvenience all rolled into one lovely fingernails-on-the-chalkboard sound).

Math in our house is a daily battle, too.  There are lots of heavy sighs, exclamations and tears.  And my daughter carries on the exact same way.

I can count on one hand (that’s about as far as my math skills go anyway) the number of times we’ve had a pleasant math homework experience.  You’d think I asked her to clean an OUTHOUSE or something, the way she carries on.

And my favorite part of “helping” is when I’m telling her something that is wrong.  Take, for example, our recent battle with LONG DIVISION.  My nemesis.  (other than the Pythagorean theorem)  The child asks for my help.  I help her the way I was taught.  

And I get the two syllable “Mo-om” which only means that I am a total dumbass.  “That’s NOT how WE were taught to do it.” And I want to then say, then just F-ing DO IT already.” 

But instead I ask her how THEY learned, and my eyes immediately roll back into my brain because my feeble mind can’t possibly process an additional method of long division computation.  As it is, it took years, yes, probably YEARS, for me to master the concept of LONG DIVISION, and I barely even remember it.

Our most recent exchange centered around “factors”.  What the F are factors?  Well, I’m probably the only person who doesn’t know, and I’m totally OK with that.  What I DO know about factors are that my daughter absolutely positively refused REFUSED to do them.  

What she WANTED was for ME to do her math FOR HER.  Which is really super funny because she KNOWS I can’t do math.  She even says things like “I better wait for Dad to get home so I can have him help me with my math”.  

Yet, I think she enjoys watching me squirm.  She intentionally pushes my buttons.  She wants me to go all Mulk (menopausal hulk) on her so she can get out of doing the math because she is crying so hysterically hard that she can’t hardly breathe.

Yes, folks, this is an actual avoidance tactic, and I have it on good authority that it’s not just my kid using it.  And of course I feel like a total jackass too because A) I’m completely incompetent with 4^th grade math and B) I can’t keep my shit together long enough to wait her out.

I did finally realize, however, why I don’t like math.  It’s that it’s trickery.  Witchcraft.  Slight of hand magic.  Every math problem (story problems in particular) are DESIGNED to trick you.  I don’t like that.  

I prefer something a little more straightforward.  A good multiple choice question, with A,B,C and D answers with an obvious choice.  I don’t like riddles.  I don’t like trick questions.  It’s the academic equivalent of “pull my finger.”  Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.

In the end, I’m most afraid of what comes next, FIFTH GRADE MATH.  If fifth grade math involves using macaroni pieces to solve the problems, I’m going to be OK.  If it’s any more complicated than long division, the girl and I are both completely screwed.

I had no idea

Full disclosure: If you and I are just getting to know each other, or we're related, you probably want to skip this post.  If you don't heed my advance and brutally honest warning, you can't say you weren't warned.  And if you decide not to be my friend, I'll understand, but family?  Well, you're screwed.  Sorry.

So I was in the shower today after a long sweaty run this morning.  If you don't know me, you don't know that I have long hair.  I mean LONG LONG hair, long hair for a 41 year old married mother of two kids. 

If I were still 21 it would work for me, but I'm 41 and too lazy to cut it.  So, yeah, it's excessively long.

If you HAVE long hair, you'll know what I'm going to tell you.  If you don't, trust me I'm totally not making this up.

Washing & conditioning my hair also takes a really long time.  The scrubbing in the shampoo part takes FOR-EV-ER, as does the conditioner rising.  So I have lots of time during the final rinse to notice (today) that there's a couple long hairs that have now washed down into my butt crack.

I'm a thin lady, but trust me I have enough junk in my trunk that I do still have two hamburger buns, one for each cheek.  There's enough fatty tissue there to create a space where long hair can slip into, and then get stuck.

As the water runs down your back you can feel it pulling on those little dangling participles trapped in your ass crack.  And, in the interest of being open, I'm telling you there's no good, polite, lady like way to get them out.  You have to pull them out.  And it's not easy because you have to kind of DIG in there to get them.

And when you do, you will be in for the shock of your life (well, at least I WAS in for the shock of my life).  I found hair in my butt.  HAIR.  IN MY BUTT.  And not like hair on your arm hair, oh no, it's hairy hair hair.  Gross. 

And before you think "how does she not know she has hair in her ass? does she not WASH back there?" I assure you I do, but I use one of those poofy sponge thingys, my bare hand has not been back there scrubbing my rear bumper.

Don't say I didn't I gave you fair warning about this post.  You have no one to blame but yourself if you've made it this far.  Kind of like a Madonna video, you're finding it hard to look away, you're hooked, you're stuck and you're really going to be grossed out in a minute.

Instantly, and I mean IMMEDIATELY I felt a rush of horror, the likes of which I last felt while watching the movie Friday the 13th in Lynnae's basement on Halloween in the 9th grade. 

HORROR. 

I realized that as that doctor was shoving that camera in my ass last month, he had to push it through a mangy patch of what I imagine to be dark ass hair.  Or, ass hair that is dark.  And mangy.  You dig?

Then, another wave of terror: I'm going back soon for the second round.  Immediately I think, should I wax it?  Bleach it?  Is that what "bleaching your butthole" is? 

Thank you Google, old friend.  I learned far more about ass hair, waxing and bleaching in a five minute google search than most married 41 year old mothers learn in their entire lives.

And I can say based on my very thorough research (and my instant scrubbing of our search history) that the next guy is, unfortunately, going to have to part the black seas, so to speak. 

I don't even want a physician near my ass crack, certainly not someone with piercings in unsavory places and low standards on hygiene.  Nope, I'm going au natural and I hope to hell that's a normal thing. 

If going in for a colonoscopy with ass hair is wrong, then I don't want to be right. 

Round Two

I've dealt with enough medical tests and follow up phone calls to know that when a doctor calls you, on a Saturday, it's probably not going to be the news you wanted.

Recently I underwent an exploratory (and in my mind totally unnecessary) ass-probing (er colonoscopy) which I was generous enough to share with you in a three part series, the first of which is here:  Maude VS The Colonoscopy

I tried not to be too graphic, but I did toss in a few things here and there that I would say might preclude you from reading the series on a smart phone over a meal.  I mean let's be REAL, the whole IDEA of what a colonoscopy is SUPER GROSS, not to mention the steps taken to be "prepared".

After the entire debacle (you can read it here: Maude VS The Procedure I wasn't really too concerned with the results.  I'm 41, I'm healthy and this was just "one of those things they told me to do" after having been diagnosed with breast cancer in July 2012.

I knew they removed one polyp and took a sample of the other.  He assured me he wasn't concerned, and thus nor was I.  So when the phone rang yesterday (a Saturday) and I heard his voice I knew I wasn't going to like what he was going to say.

I love how physicians always lead with "the good news is" because the fact that THEY are calling, not the nurse means it's really not SUPER good news, no matter what they say.  But, they are doctors, not politicians, so how are they going to spin it anyway?

But there is good news, and none of it is really BAD, but scary nonetheless.  So the ulcerative colitis that plagued me in my thirties is gone.  Chalk that up to not working in a stressful, high pressure, lose lose situation job.  Check.

The first polyp was consistent with the kind that are commonly found in people ten years older than me.  So I was slightly offended, like "how the hell is MY colon aging so fast?" but I realized later that it's not every day a healthy 41 year old goes in for a butt scoping.

These could easily be found in 41 year old colons, and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.  But that does mean over time that kind of polyp can turn cancerous, but it takes a lot of time.  Probably as much as my children take to put their damn shoes on every morning.

So then we got to the "but" or the "however" section of the call.  Before he even started talking I new what I was in for, read Maude VS The Prep but again I recommend not while consuming any sort of sustenance.  No matter what came out of his mouth, I knew undoubtedly that I'm in for another round of "Golightly" and A&D ointment.

Indeed, my instincts are rarely off (with the exception of thinking the original procedure was routine) and yes, I won the repeat colonoscopy lottery.  Most people win it with maybe a 5 year sentence, but no, I get to go back in as soon as humanly possible.

What he found was a polyp that he couldn't remove, that turned out to be, well I guess the best way to explain it is pre-cancerous.  If not removed I'm in trouble.  BIG trouble.  And from the sounds of it, there will be a "procedure", not just a violating ass camera experience without so much as a kiss goodnight afterward.  A specialist has to remove it (thank GOD because I don't want the other guy to EVER get NEAR my ass again) and there's probably going to be an incision, and yet another scar on my body.

Oh but the best part is now I'm signed on to this whole ass scoping adventure much more frequently than every 5 years, which would have been my original sentence based on the first polyp.  But no, I'm lucky (trust me) but never quite THAT lucky.  Looking more like every two years since these are the kind that can keep "popping up" and causing trouble.  Kind of like my children.

So the lesson in ALL of this is, even though I made a TON of horrendously inappropriate jokes about a "routine" procedure, it just shows to go you that even something as simple as a colonoscopy (or a mammogram, though I've well covered that topic) can really be a lifesaving adventure.  And, I do mean adventure.

If you have been putting off having a colonoscopy and you read my original three posts and said "screw that" please reconsider.  Honestly, as much as it sucks (and it does, what can I say I'm a realist) it's the smartest thing you can do.