(**This post is a follow-up to the previous one**)
"I think we might need a vomit receptacle," I uttered to mom as we got into her car to go to the hospital.
The combination of pain medication, no food, no drink and nerves had taken its toll on my insides. I knew riding in a moving vehicle could only add to my body's urge to rid itself of what little was in my stomach.
And I was right. Luckily, the paper-towel lined bowl did its job and the three sips of Diet Squirt I had secretly taken earlier left little mess. Ok! I thought, let's get this party started - the sooner my gall bladder is out the sooner I can eat!
*******
Imagine my surprise when the surgeon informed me that no, he would not necessarily be taking out my gall bladder; in fact, he was pretty sure the problem was endometriosis, but there was no way of knowing for sure until he took a look inside me. If there was no endometriosis, then he would maybe take out my gall bladder, maybe even my appendix, depending on how everything looked.
The nurse I had spoken with earlier had obviously gotten her messages mixed. I knew I should have been more aghast at not knowing what exactly would occur in the operating room. But at this point, all I wanted was for the pain to stop, so I signed the papers, donned my beautiful backless gown and hoped for the best.
*******
The worst part about being wheeled into surgery was the fact that I couldn't really see - I had to take out my contacts and had forgotten my glasses. The nurses, in their periwinkle masks, had the frightening appearance of being one-eyed, and the giant lights above the operating table looked like mushy globes of orange jello. This was an unnecessary addition to the unsettling experience of being strapped onto the operating table. I hadn't signed up for electro-shock therapy, had I?!
Surely sensing my uneasiness, the anesthesiologist asked me if I could feel the "jolly juice" he had just begun administering.
Quite pleased with his concoction, I happily answered, "Yes, sir!" The last thing I remember is everyone in the room chuckling behind their periwinkle masks...
******
The next thing I remember is everyone in the room trying to calm me down as I came thrashing out of my induced sleep, unable to take a deep breath and in toe-curling pain.
Nurse: "Amanda, you have to calm down, we're going to transfer you onto another bed."
My inner voice: "But I can't breathe!"
Nurse: "We're going to put this oxygen mask on you."
My inner voice: "I still can't breathe! My side hurts! I'm thirsty! I'm dying!"
Ok, so I was a bit dramatic in my post-anesthetic state. But in my defense, I had forgotten I didn't have my contacts in and thought, at the very least, I was losing my eye sight. Damn jolly juice.
I spent the next few hours trying to keep my eyes open and form understandable words so that my husband and mom didn't think I was permanently brain damaged. I think I accomplished that when I solved a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune before either of them. They will probably deny that.
My post-surgery meal wasn't as glorious as I had hoped, for two reasons. One, I was again incredibly nauseous, and two, the liquid platter of broth, jello and sprite wasn't particularly pleasing to the eye. Although in fairness to the hospital staff, I don't think anything would have been at that point.
I did manage enough of an alert state to remember the surgeon coming in to tell us he had removed endometrium cells from an ovary, a fallopian tube and my outer uterus. The good news: my gall bladder and appendix were in top form. The bad news: I had endometriosis.
After my husband and mom left me to nod off in pure exhaustion, I took inventory of my emotions. I was struggling not to feel sorry for myself. My research had told me endometriosis is incurable, and can sometimes cause infertility. I knew there were worse things to have in life, but my physical pain and irrational mental state left me unable to summon what optimism I had at the beginning of the day.
It was at that time one of nurses (who I was already convinced was wearing angel wings as she filled my IV with morphine), relayed to me her struggle with the disease.
She was barely 20, and doctors could not figure out what was causing her pain. By the time they took her in for surgery, she had two cysts on her ovaries, one the size of a grapefruit, the other the size of a lemon. After a painful recovery, they told her she'd never conceive.
Two years later, she had the first of what would be four children. Her endometriosis has never returned.
As she left my darkened room, I was sure I saw a halo shimmering above her head. Or maybe it was just the morphine....
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I know I promised hunting tales....
...but something unpredictable, and often taken for granted, took center stage this week: my health.
During my recovery, I've been debating whether to write about this particular experience. A lot of people consider health matters to be private and share such information with close family and friends only; I have not been so different in this respect.
But I wonder: why is it when our health is less than perfect, we keep it to ourselves as though there is some fault in being sick or having a physical abnormality? I suspect it is an inherent fear of being different that drives this behavior, although I can also understand the desire to keep some things private in an effort to maintain one's personal identity.
I have decided that for me, sharing will outweigh the benefits of keeping mum. My decision is seasoned by an ingredient essential to the diet of some writers: the hope of reaching others and maybe having a positive influence on their life. So I will share. I'll break down my medical journey into a couple of blogs - partly because you didn't come here to read a book, mostly because my pain medication only allows me to be alert for a few hours at a time....
By noon on Monday (November 23rd), the dull ache in my upper right abdomen had turned into a sharp pinch. This sharp pinch was turning into a painful barrier between me and my ability to take a deep breath or get up out of a chair. A month earlier, I had the very same experience, and I promised myself that if in 30 days this particular pain reemerged at this particular time - the second day of my menstrual cycle - I would go to the doctor. By noon on Monday, I knew I needed to keep my promise.
Four hours later, I struggled not to cry as my doctor pushed on the spot just under my ribcage that, in retrospect, I should have protected with some sort of armor. Puzzled, he asked a second time if there was any pain in my lower pelvic region.
"No," I repeated; his response was a wrinkled brow.
"And you only feel it during the beginning of your period?" he queried.
"Yes, and for the last four months," I dutifully answered (I had practiced on the way to the clinic).
But my answers didn't seem to be what he wanted to hear. Urine and blood tests had cleared me of liver disease or a bacterial infection. We were down to gall bladder malfunction or endometriosis. I wasn't surprised by either suggestion, as I had done online research during my second encounter with the strange pain. I was prepared - kind of.
After consulting with another doctor, mine decided I should do the same with a surgeon the following day. (In our small community, the surgeon comes to the hospital once a week, so if you have a reason to see him, it's best to try and catch him as soon as possible.) My doctor also sent me home with a prescription for pain medication - I think it was guilt therapy for almost making me cry.
Tuesday morning I received a phone call from a nurse at the hospital reminding me not to eat or drink because they weren't sure what kind of tests the surgeon would want to do on me. Mildly inconvenient, but ok, I could manage that. During the next call, she told me the doctors were consulting about my "case" and that I should plan to come in at 3:30 that day. No eating or drinking until 3:30?! Fine. I was already thirsty and nauseous from taking my pain medication without food, but I would tough it out until 3:30. This pro-active health stuff was starting to get annoying.
Then my phone rang again.
"Hi Amanda," came the now familiar nurse's voice, "your doctors and the surgeon have decided you will be coming in today to have your gall bladder removed!" (Yes, she said it as though it would be punctuated with an exclamation point.)
My thoughts raced: Wait! How did they know it was my gall bladder? I hadn't even come in for a consultation! Isn't there some sort of 24-hour-notification period before surgery?!
I'd never had surgery and I have to admit, the casual way in which my first under-the-knife experience was scheduled had me irrationally questioning the knowledge of three medical school graduates.
I mean, they could have at least softened the news by telling me I could have a cracker. Instead, I was quickly informed that anything ingested at this point would most certainly increase my sickness post-surgery. This day just kept getting better.
During my recovery, I've been debating whether to write about this particular experience. A lot of people consider health matters to be private and share such information with close family and friends only; I have not been so different in this respect.
But I wonder: why is it when our health is less than perfect, we keep it to ourselves as though there is some fault in being sick or having a physical abnormality? I suspect it is an inherent fear of being different that drives this behavior, although I can also understand the desire to keep some things private in an effort to maintain one's personal identity.
I have decided that for me, sharing will outweigh the benefits of keeping mum. My decision is seasoned by an ingredient essential to the diet of some writers: the hope of reaching others and maybe having a positive influence on their life. So I will share. I'll break down my medical journey into a couple of blogs - partly because you didn't come here to read a book, mostly because my pain medication only allows me to be alert for a few hours at a time....
By noon on Monday (November 23rd), the dull ache in my upper right abdomen had turned into a sharp pinch. This sharp pinch was turning into a painful barrier between me and my ability to take a deep breath or get up out of a chair. A month earlier, I had the very same experience, and I promised myself that if in 30 days this particular pain reemerged at this particular time - the second day of my menstrual cycle - I would go to the doctor. By noon on Monday, I knew I needed to keep my promise.
Four hours later, I struggled not to cry as my doctor pushed on the spot just under my ribcage that, in retrospect, I should have protected with some sort of armor. Puzzled, he asked a second time if there was any pain in my lower pelvic region.
"No," I repeated; his response was a wrinkled brow.
"And you only feel it during the beginning of your period?" he queried.
"Yes, and for the last four months," I dutifully answered (I had practiced on the way to the clinic).
But my answers didn't seem to be what he wanted to hear. Urine and blood tests had cleared me of liver disease or a bacterial infection. We were down to gall bladder malfunction or endometriosis. I wasn't surprised by either suggestion, as I had done online research during my second encounter with the strange pain. I was prepared - kind of.
After consulting with another doctor, mine decided I should do the same with a surgeon the following day. (In our small community, the surgeon comes to the hospital once a week, so if you have a reason to see him, it's best to try and catch him as soon as possible.) My doctor also sent me home with a prescription for pain medication - I think it was guilt therapy for almost making me cry.
Tuesday morning I received a phone call from a nurse at the hospital reminding me not to eat or drink because they weren't sure what kind of tests the surgeon would want to do on me. Mildly inconvenient, but ok, I could manage that. During the next call, she told me the doctors were consulting about my "case" and that I should plan to come in at 3:30 that day. No eating or drinking until 3:30?! Fine. I was already thirsty and nauseous from taking my pain medication without food, but I would tough it out until 3:30. This pro-active health stuff was starting to get annoying.
Then my phone rang again.
"Hi Amanda," came the now familiar nurse's voice, "your doctors and the surgeon have decided you will be coming in today to have your gall bladder removed!" (Yes, she said it as though it would be punctuated with an exclamation point.)
My thoughts raced: Wait! How did they know it was my gall bladder? I hadn't even come in for a consultation! Isn't there some sort of 24-hour-notification period before surgery?!
I'd never had surgery and I have to admit, the casual way in which my first under-the-knife experience was scheduled had me irrationally questioning the knowledge of three medical school graduates.
I mean, they could have at least softened the news by telling me I could have a cracker. Instead, I was quickly informed that anything ingested at this point would most certainly increase my sickness post-surgery. This day just kept getting better.
Friday, November 20, 2009
I can't even think of a clever title....sensing a theme, here
Now that I'm officially jobless, you would think I would have nothing but time to sit and blog. Thing is, there's these issues of trying to find a new job and move into a new house that have kind of been consuming me.
Although, to be completely honest, I've been feeling less than creative and inspired lately. And I'm not one to sit and stare at the computer screen trying to force literary genius to fly out of my fingertips. Plus, that wouldn't be very fun for you. I guess this is what they call "writer's block"?
Bear with me. Your reward will be pictures of me in a hunting blind with camouflage paint all over my face. True story.
Although, to be completely honest, I've been feeling less than creative and inspired lately. And I'm not one to sit and stare at the computer screen trying to force literary genius to fly out of my fingertips. Plus, that wouldn't be very fun for you. I guess this is what they call "writer's block"?
Bear with me. Your reward will be pictures of me in a hunting blind with camouflage paint all over my face. True story.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Change is good (?)
A Google search will tell you that in the year 29, Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist, and Livia Augustus (wife of Ceasar) passed away. I imagine Year 29 is fairly proud of the historical significance of its lifespan.
So what will be the significance of my 29th year, which I just entered last week? I know for sure it will be a timeline of many changes. I'm moving away, as I did at the tender age of 18, from the rural life that has blanketed me with such comfort and familiarity. With this move comes a search for a more fulfilling career, a more fulfilling life - this search is daunting, to say the least. But with this move also comes the familiar excitement of unknown possibilites; this excitement tells me, as it always has, that change is good. Scary, uncertain, and as unstable as the weather...but good.
I like to taste the many flavors of life, so I am not surprised that in this, my 29th year, I have tired of the experiences I've had thus far (although 'tired of' does not mean regret) and am hungry for shiny new ones I can add to the casserole of my life.
But sometimes I wonder: does too much change lead to too much disruption?
I've decided that change often means you have to disrupt something. Consider the four seasons: winter snows are disrupted by the warm spring sun; spring's newborn blooms are disrupted by summer's dehydrating temperatures; summer's long, lazy days are disrupted by fall's daylight savings time; and fall's canvas of orange, red and yellow is disrupted by winter's grey-soaked paintbrush.
But after the initial disruption, each season settles in and proves that change has also brought something beautiful, in the form of fresh spring rains, blazing summer sunsets, crisp fall breezes or magical winter snows.
So in this, my 29th year, I will embrace change and the disruption that comes with it. Yes, I will embrace the teeter-tottering between two homes as we wait for the completion of harvest; the sleepless nights wondering if I'm completely insane to think I'll ever be a published writer; and the small knot that ties itself up in my stomach when I think of leaving what is to some a vast, boring stretch of nothingness, but to me, is the heart of serenity and portrayer of mother earth's beauty.
I will embrace it, knowing that change will bring me my own beautiful transformation, as it always has...
So what will be the significance of my 29th year, which I just entered last week? I know for sure it will be a timeline of many changes. I'm moving away, as I did at the tender age of 18, from the rural life that has blanketed me with such comfort and familiarity. With this move comes a search for a more fulfilling career, a more fulfilling life - this search is daunting, to say the least. But with this move also comes the familiar excitement of unknown possibilites; this excitement tells me, as it always has, that change is good. Scary, uncertain, and as unstable as the weather...but good.
I like to taste the many flavors of life, so I am not surprised that in this, my 29th year, I have tired of the experiences I've had thus far (although 'tired of' does not mean regret) and am hungry for shiny new ones I can add to the casserole of my life.
But sometimes I wonder: does too much change lead to too much disruption?
I've decided that change often means you have to disrupt something. Consider the four seasons: winter snows are disrupted by the warm spring sun; spring's newborn blooms are disrupted by summer's dehydrating temperatures; summer's long, lazy days are disrupted by fall's daylight savings time; and fall's canvas of orange, red and yellow is disrupted by winter's grey-soaked paintbrush.
But after the initial disruption, each season settles in and proves that change has also brought something beautiful, in the form of fresh spring rains, blazing summer sunsets, crisp fall breezes or magical winter snows.
So in this, my 29th year, I will embrace change and the disruption that comes with it. Yes, I will embrace the teeter-tottering between two homes as we wait for the completion of harvest; the sleepless nights wondering if I'm completely insane to think I'll ever be a published writer; and the small knot that ties itself up in my stomach when I think of leaving what is to some a vast, boring stretch of nothingness, but to me, is the heart of serenity and portrayer of mother earth's beauty.
I will embrace it, knowing that change will bring me my own beautiful transformation, as it always has...
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
A duck, a dog and my heart
I've always considered witnessing my pet baby duck being devoured by a vicious tomcat as the worst thing I've ever had the misfortune of being present for. My nine-year-old heart nearly failed that day, just as I had failed my fuzzy companion.
Nineteen years later, I almost had to move that incident down to second place on the list...
Tyler and his brother Dan are harvesting in a field just adjacent to our houses. Tyler unloads the corn from the combine into Dan's grain cart; Dan hauls the picked crop to our grain bins for storage.
Today, after assembling Tyler's lunch, I walked out to the bins to deliver my culinary creation to Dan for him to relay to Tyler. As I made my way back towards to the house, Dan lurched the tractor into gear, beginning his trek to the field. I turned to see if I was out of his path - I was, but Bobbi Sue (our 12-year-old lab) was trotting from the other direction, directly into it.
In the next five seconds, the following occurred:
1. I realized Dan was fumbling with the controls and did not see Bobbi.
2. I realized Bobbi was at her highest rate of speed and would never make it if Dan didn't hit the brakes.
3. An image of Bobbi being squished like a bug under the enormous tractor tire flashed through my mind.
4. I began jumping and waving my hands, realizing that yelling was ineffective against the roar of the tractor.
5. Dan looked up, tapped his brakes, and by some miracle, Bobbi sped up. I honestly had no idea she had another gear.
6. Dan and I exchanged a relieved glance.
7. I stopped and placed my hands on my knees, recognizing that my ticker felt exactly as it had the day my duck fell victim to the food chain.
And so to thank her for not taking away my duck's title, Bobbi Sue is getting extra treats and scratches today. I think the ordeal might have affected her heart, too.......
Nineteen years later, I almost had to move that incident down to second place on the list...
Tyler and his brother Dan are harvesting in a field just adjacent to our houses. Tyler unloads the corn from the combine into Dan's grain cart; Dan hauls the picked crop to our grain bins for storage.
Today, after assembling Tyler's lunch, I walked out to the bins to deliver my culinary creation to Dan for him to relay to Tyler. As I made my way back towards to the house, Dan lurched the tractor into gear, beginning his trek to the field. I turned to see if I was out of his path - I was, but Bobbi Sue (our 12-year-old lab) was trotting from the other direction, directly into it.
In the next five seconds, the following occurred:
1. I realized Dan was fumbling with the controls and did not see Bobbi.
2. I realized Bobbi was at her highest rate of speed and would never make it if Dan didn't hit the brakes.
3. An image of Bobbi being squished like a bug under the enormous tractor tire flashed through my mind.
4. I began jumping and waving my hands, realizing that yelling was ineffective against the roar of the tractor.
5. Dan looked up, tapped his brakes, and by some miracle, Bobbi sped up. I honestly had no idea she had another gear.
6. Dan and I exchanged a relieved glance.
7. I stopped and placed my hands on my knees, recognizing that my ticker felt exactly as it had the day my duck fell victim to the food chain.
And so to thank her for not taking away my duck's title, Bobbi Sue is getting extra treats and scratches today. I think the ordeal might have affected her heart, too.......
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Nauseating News
Excuse me this once - I'm going to hop up onto my soapbox:
Upon reading that Michael Vick will be starring in his own TV show, I had to swallow to make sure my lunch stayed in place.
On most controversial issues, I can usually open my mind enough to at least objectively listen to what the other side has to say. But you bring torturing helpless animals to the table and I'm as good as deaf.
I do not care that he had a hard upbringing. He overcame that with flying colors by utilizing his athletic skill to grant him god-like status in the NFL. And don't tell me "he just didn't know better; he was used to seeing dogs treated in a certain manner." I absolutely CANNOT believe someone doesn't know ripping out a dog's teeth or killing it by electric shock is not only heartless, but illegal. And to make money off of these actions? How much more money does someone need when they're the quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons?!?!
So he served 18 months. Now his supporters are saying that because he did so, we should leave him alone and let him play football. I might be ok with that, except for the small fact that his job involves being a role model for kids. Sure, he's making appearances with the Humane Society - he has to if he wants to play! I am sickened by the idea that anyone believes someone capable of such intentional cruelty can be truly remorseful.
Now his "docu-series" is going to be all about his difficult upbringing, his struggle to succeed, and his demise after being found guilty and sent to prison. And rest assured, there will be the inevitable story of his comeback, his transformation and the lessons he's learned along the way.
I only hope that at the end of the last episode, they don't forget to show Vick and the producers at BET, arm in arm, skipping to the bank....(cue cheesy sob-story music; cue me vomiting.)
Upon reading that Michael Vick will be starring in his own TV show, I had to swallow to make sure my lunch stayed in place.
On most controversial issues, I can usually open my mind enough to at least objectively listen to what the other side has to say. But you bring torturing helpless animals to the table and I'm as good as deaf.
I do not care that he had a hard upbringing. He overcame that with flying colors by utilizing his athletic skill to grant him god-like status in the NFL. And don't tell me "he just didn't know better; he was used to seeing dogs treated in a certain manner." I absolutely CANNOT believe someone doesn't know ripping out a dog's teeth or killing it by electric shock is not only heartless, but illegal. And to make money off of these actions? How much more money does someone need when they're the quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons?!?!
So he served 18 months. Now his supporters are saying that because he did so, we should leave him alone and let him play football. I might be ok with that, except for the small fact that his job involves being a role model for kids. Sure, he's making appearances with the Humane Society - he has to if he wants to play! I am sickened by the idea that anyone believes someone capable of such intentional cruelty can be truly remorseful.
Now his "docu-series" is going to be all about his difficult upbringing, his struggle to succeed, and his demise after being found guilty and sent to prison. And rest assured, there will be the inevitable story of his comeback, his transformation and the lessons he's learned along the way.
I only hope that at the end of the last episode, they don't forget to show Vick and the producers at BET, arm in arm, skipping to the bank....(cue cheesy sob-story music; cue me vomiting.)
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Trend-setting lawn care
I feel it is time to broadcast my latest extraordinary adventure...
My husband I are moving....
Starting in about a month, I'll be electronically connecting with you from our new home in Lincoln. Tyler's going to be part owner of a construction company, and me, well...I'm considering applying at McDonald's because meditating has not brought me a new job. In fact, my future posts will most likely center around my search for a brilliant career as a columnist; if I'm still writing about it in a year, you will then most likely be reading about ulcers - mine, specifically.
So the last few months have been filled with weekly hour-and-a-half trips to the new place to move in a few things, mow the lawn, etc. It was actually kind of fun, until harvest arrived and Tyler became one with the combine. Now I've got the sole responsibility of hauling up boxes when I can and of course, mowing. This is not difficult, I realize, but because sometimes difficulty in simple situations is my specialty (hey - watch the blonde jokes!), last week's excursion left me deciding that having a manicured lawn isn't THAT big of deal...
After convincing myself that yard work in 40-mph wind and sub-50 degree weather would be good for me, I bundled up in two shirts, a sweatshirt, a coat, a hat and a pair of gloves. I wedged my RedBull into the cup holder and secured my iPod headphones into place. "Ok, Amanda, remember - turn key to first position, push throttle up, pull choke, turn key rest of way."
The sound that answered my efforts was such that I would not have been surprised to look up and see someone strangling a cat - a really, really big cat.
Crap, now I was going to have to seek help. I had already called Tyler earlier to inquire about the location of fuel for the mower, and he informed me that because the combine and field were on fire, he did not have time to help me. Pssh. Where are his priorities, anyway? So I did what any 28-year-old married woman would do: I called my mom.
But turns out, even moms can't fix mowers over the phone, so I reluctantly took her advice to try and find a mechanically-inclined neighbor. After a 10-minute door-knocking marathon, I returned, plopped down on the mower and asked the two neighbors who had come back with me what to do: my new canine friends were all out of options.
Luckily, a very nice man from the Mower Medic (yes, I picked it out of the YellowPages because I liked the name), talked me through a variety of options and we finally figured out there was an air bubble in the fuel line. A switch of a lever with just the right amount of choke and I was up and running!
Thirty minutes into my task, I felt upon my already numb nose a drop of cold water. That drop turned into enough rain that after fifteen more minutes, I hustled my Hustler right back into the garage.
Now our house has a reverse mullet. I bet the neighbors are jealous they didn't think of it first.
My husband I are moving....
Starting in about a month, I'll be electronically connecting with you from our new home in Lincoln. Tyler's going to be part owner of a construction company, and me, well...I'm considering applying at McDonald's because meditating has not brought me a new job. In fact, my future posts will most likely center around my search for a brilliant career as a columnist; if I'm still writing about it in a year, you will then most likely be reading about ulcers - mine, specifically.
So the last few months have been filled with weekly hour-and-a-half trips to the new place to move in a few things, mow the lawn, etc. It was actually kind of fun, until harvest arrived and Tyler became one with the combine. Now I've got the sole responsibility of hauling up boxes when I can and of course, mowing. This is not difficult, I realize, but because sometimes difficulty in simple situations is my specialty (hey - watch the blonde jokes!), last week's excursion left me deciding that having a manicured lawn isn't THAT big of deal...
After convincing myself that yard work in 40-mph wind and sub-50 degree weather would be good for me, I bundled up in two shirts, a sweatshirt, a coat, a hat and a pair of gloves. I wedged my RedBull into the cup holder and secured my iPod headphones into place. "Ok, Amanda, remember - turn key to first position, push throttle up, pull choke, turn key rest of way."
The sound that answered my efforts was such that I would not have been surprised to look up and see someone strangling a cat - a really, really big cat.
Crap, now I was going to have to seek help. I had already called Tyler earlier to inquire about the location of fuel for the mower, and he informed me that because the combine and field were on fire, he did not have time to help me. Pssh. Where are his priorities, anyway? So I did what any 28-year-old married woman would do: I called my mom.
But turns out, even moms can't fix mowers over the phone, so I reluctantly took her advice to try and find a mechanically-inclined neighbor. After a 10-minute door-knocking marathon, I returned, plopped down on the mower and asked the two neighbors who had come back with me what to do: my new canine friends were all out of options.
Luckily, a very nice man from the Mower Medic (yes, I picked it out of the YellowPages because I liked the name), talked me through a variety of options and we finally figured out there was an air bubble in the fuel line. A switch of a lever with just the right amount of choke and I was up and running!
Thirty minutes into my task, I felt upon my already numb nose a drop of cold water. That drop turned into enough rain that after fifteen more minutes, I hustled my Hustler right back into the garage.
Now our house has a reverse mullet. I bet the neighbors are jealous they didn't think of it first.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Just in case you ever need to....
....you can stop a sneeze by lightly squeezing the tip of your tongue between your teeth. I tried it.
Having said that, halting a 95 mph particle release from your body might actually not be such a good idea. But my eyes didn't pop out of my head or anything, so I'm just saying, it might be beneficial when you're driving down the freeway or ice-skating.
Having said that, halting a 95 mph particle release from your body might actually not be such a good idea. But my eyes didn't pop out of my head or anything, so I'm just saying, it might be beneficial when you're driving down the freeway or ice-skating.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Ya Don't Say!
Over coffee and the serenity of a Sunday morning, Tyler and I engaged in a little war of words yesterday - we played Scrabble.
We've had the game for a while but have only played it once. I recently re-discovered it's old-fashioned charm during a weekend at the lake with my mom and mom-in-law. Blanketed by near-perfect weather during Labor Day weekend, we sat outside, hunched over the board, laughing and enjoying the rare, quiet afternoons. (I had correctly thought that the absence of our husbands would provide us with the perfect setting for female bonding over a game that requires patience!)
Yesterday's event was not quite as zen-like: we weren't outside and were frequently stalled when our Internet connection failed to allow us dictionary access. (No hard copy of a dictionary in this Gen-X home!) Nonetheless, it kept us from thinking we needed to do anything else but sit and relax.
A highlight of the battle ensued when I argued that 'ya' is a bona fide English language word. No, I didn't know this for sure, but I needed to get rid of that Y! Tyler was not convinced, so we consulted the expert. Waiting for our Internet to work turned out to be successful for me and surprising for both of us: http://www.dictionary.com/ will tell you that 'ya' is indeed a word.
Intrigued, I looked up a few other questionables today: 'eh', 'yo', 'yah', 'duh' 'wanna' and just for fun, 'lol' (the texting abbreviation for 'laughing out loud').
Yes, they all turned up with definitions and uses in a sentence. Now, as I tried to explain to Tyler yesterday in defense of my points earned with 'ya', a lot of people do use such terms. But I'm not sure I wanted to be right on this argument- I mean, doesn't classification of such utterances justify dumbing down our conversations to something like:
"Yo, ya wanna go catch a movie?"
"Duh! Ya asked me yesterday, remember, eh? I'm so lol-ing at you right now!"
Oh well, at least it makes for easier Scrabble play.
We've had the game for a while but have only played it once. I recently re-discovered it's old-fashioned charm during a weekend at the lake with my mom and mom-in-law. Blanketed by near-perfect weather during Labor Day weekend, we sat outside, hunched over the board, laughing and enjoying the rare, quiet afternoons. (I had correctly thought that the absence of our husbands would provide us with the perfect setting for female bonding over a game that requires patience!)
Yesterday's event was not quite as zen-like: we weren't outside and were frequently stalled when our Internet connection failed to allow us dictionary access. (No hard copy of a dictionary in this Gen-X home!) Nonetheless, it kept us from thinking we needed to do anything else but sit and relax.
A highlight of the battle ensued when I argued that 'ya' is a bona fide English language word. No, I didn't know this for sure, but I needed to get rid of that Y! Tyler was not convinced, so we consulted the expert. Waiting for our Internet to work turned out to be successful for me and surprising for both of us: http://www.dictionary.com/ will tell you that 'ya' is indeed a word.
Intrigued, I looked up a few other questionables today: 'eh', 'yo', 'yah', 'duh' 'wanna' and just for fun, 'lol' (the texting abbreviation for 'laughing out loud').
Yes, they all turned up with definitions and uses in a sentence. Now, as I tried to explain to Tyler yesterday in defense of my points earned with 'ya', a lot of people do use such terms. But I'm not sure I wanted to be right on this argument- I mean, doesn't classification of such utterances justify dumbing down our conversations to something like:
"Yo, ya wanna go catch a movie?"
"Duh! Ya asked me yesterday, remember, eh? I'm so lol-ing at you right now!"
Oh well, at least it makes for easier Scrabble play.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tending the Crop
Tomorrow is the first day of September. Today was the first day in months I didn't have to fight the breathtaking humidity on my jog. I have pumpkins on my front porch. The corn is turning, the nights are cooling and the farmers are preparing to reap the results of a summer spent toiling over their crop.
As a little ode to that hard work and the summer that is all but behind us, I'm posting some pictures from an almost chilly morning of irrigating with Tyler a couple of weeks ago. Not long after, the lawns of corn and soybeans began their transformation into golden maturity.
Tyler in action...or posing??
Golf clubs double as tools for opening and shutting the pipe gates - just takes a little 'tap, tap, tap'!
Ok, so the golf clubs aren't JUST for irrigating.
Each little stream sustains an entire row.
Pivot road = mud showers!
Oil in the motor makes the pivot go 'round.
Two weeks from starting to drop (ie, the ear itself will hang towards the ground).
Soybeans awaiting their turn for a drink from the pivot
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