Big win!

My dear friend Jana had a giveaway on her blog as part of telling the six-part story of illustrating a Christmas book, What Think Ye of Christmas?

I knew the book was out last year in time for Christmas, but wasn't aware of the back story. So many things came together to make the project happen--it's a pretty amazing read. I commented on the different posts in the series and was eligible for various fabulous prizes.

Today, Jana announced the recipients for the drawing--and I won the art print of one of the book's illustrations and a copy of the book.

Here are the options I have to choose from. Not sure how I'm going to manage to select just one; they're all fabulous!

Jana is giving away one last prize: up to 10 copies of the book, What Think Ye of Christmas? for folks on your Christmas list. Follow the link at the bottom of the post announcing the winners (or here) and leave a comment to be eligible for the prize!

Whoever said "Hell is other people" was right

As part of my outreach duties at work, I've been trying to enlist more volunteer help with Symposium planning.

I had a great bunch of people step up to help with Seattle--many of whom I've never met. And one volunteer set us up with FREE meeting space that a symposium-goer described as a definite step up from the rowing club we'd used for the past few years.

Anyway, I finished the final program today, posted it online and on Facebook, and sent PDFs to all the volunteers/participants.

I was getting ready to leave the office when I checked my work email one last time and saw a new message saying there was a change of venue for the Sunday night event Portland. Had I not seen the previous email about it?

Um, NO.

So I've been scrambling to update the final program (with change of venue in red and magenta so it's hard to miss) and reposting the revised version everywhere imaginable.

Thank heavens I saw the message and got to it quickly. I'll have to announce it repeatedly at the event so we don't have people looking at their preliminary programs and going to the wrong place.

This is the kind of last-minute switcheroo that makes me wary of delegating planning responsibilities to others. Sure, it's more work to do it all myself. But it's also more stressful for me to respond to surprises from delegates. (Delegees?)

Anyway, the last place I want to be at 8:08 pm on a Friday night is the office.

Back among the living

Got sick a week ago with a nasty GI bug. Had to cancel a speaking appearance at WSU's Diversity Conference--sad about that. But was too sick to commit to being away from a loo for an hour to be part of the panel discussion.

When Mike took me to urgent care Saturday, I directed him to the one I've been to before. I stared blearily at their pharmacy window when I saw the Altius sticker--our old insurance. I say to Mike, I don't know if they take our new insurance. Turns out they didn't and we ended up trekking to North Ogden to another urgent care.

Didn't see the clinic's front entrance and ended up running through a gauntlet of cheery wellness fair people at the back door. Goodie bag? No. Snack? No. Did we want to hear about their OMG, NO! I'm barely mobile and worried I'm gonna shit myself, so no, I'm not interested in your promotions and balloons and whatnot.

I described my symptoms to the Dr--onset, duration, etc. He prodded, sent someone in to take blood. He couldn't tell if what I had was food borne, bacterial, or viral without the blood work, but he did say that since my left side was more tender, I might want to get checked out for diverticulitis.

AWESOME. My grandma and 70-something year old mom had/have that.

After I was feeling more human, I called urgent care to ask about my second round of test results and if the nice weekend Dr could refer me to a gastroenterologist for follow up. "What kind of Dr is that?" said the young-sounding nitwit on the phone. I wasn't hopeful she'd actually pass on my request, since the Dr I saw was now on a 3-week trip to Europe. And my test results: normal, she said.

I did get a call back later that evening (!) and was informed that I have to be completely over whatever bug I had and wait another 6-8 weeks after that to do any follow up on the diverticulitis. And if I need a colonoscopy, the prep is cleaning out my bowels. That was so fun when nature/Mexican food did it, I can't wait to do it again!

So I have that to look forward to--and someday, possibly, the return of my appetite.

Spot On, Pissed Off

A few weeks ago, I noticed what looked kind of like a pee spot on the dresser where we keep bed linens. On Friday I finally investigated more closely and found yes, it was urine, and cleaned it up.

Fast forward to Sunday afternoon: Mike comes upstairs to vacuum. I moved a couple of things on the floor so he could maneuver better. That's when I noticed a chess board leaning against the room divider we use to hide the washer/dryer had streaks on it--like it had been peed on from above and the liquid ran down and pooled at the bottom. Sure enough!

I start looking around the upstairs and find that Luther has apparently been relieving himself all.over.the.upstairs. Pee tracks on the washer, with more pee dried in the drawer under the washer and tray that the washer sits in. Pee stains on my filing cabinet, the bottom of one of Mike's bookshelves, and one a handful of books. Pee stains on the faux bricks underneath the cast iron stove/gas log heater. More pee by the stereo and evidence of pee on our collection of records, still trussed in plastic wrap from the move. And loads of dried pee under the AC unit, where the plastic face/filter from the defunct AC unit was resting against the wall. The favorite spot, I guess. I ran out of Nature's Miracle before I was able to treat them all.

Six peed-on spots--that we know of. And Friday, I discovered one of the dogs had SHAT in the living room after my morning workout and before I came downstairs for lunch. Again, probably Luther since I saw him sniffing the area and there's a size differential between his and Libby's, um, output.

WTF?!?

I'm flabbergasted. Not only at how much pee there was to clean up, but also at how long this appears to have been happening.

I was kinda freaking out and voiced my frustration and exasperation to Mike when apparently he doesn't like my tone and said so. I go to wash my hands and he tells me to come back to where he is. Since this sounds more like an order than an invitation, I say I'm going to go wash THE URINE off my hands. This gets me another "I don't like how you're talking to me." Mike repeats this after everything I say until I finally stop talking.

When I come out of the bathroom, he's sitting on the futon. I sit by him and say, "I'm sorry. What was it you wanted to tell me?" He mumbles something. I asked for a repeat. "I don't remember what it was now," he said slightly more audibly. I sat there for a couple of minutes waiting to see if he'd remember or elaborate. Nada. So I walked over to my desk and Googled "why is my dog peeing in the house?"

Even housebroken dogs can start peeing in the house--out of distress or insecurity. One site I read said that bringing a new dog into the home can cause the other dog to start marking territory--just to prove that the turf is REALLY HIS, despite the interloper.

We got Libby in March...so that's about one pee spot a month--IF we've found them all. I'm almost scared to investigate further downstairs.

To be really effective at deterring, you have to catch the dog in the act. Yeah, RIGHT. I was working from home Friday and didn't "catch" Luther shitting in the house; how are we supposed to do that when we have JOBS and can't be at home 24/7 to monitor toileting?

Anyway, Mike went out and bought a couple of big jugs of Nature's Miracle. I thanked him, but he's still not verbally interacting with me. So after liberally sploshing NM over the known trouble spots and blogging about the whole, ever-growing mess, I MAY venture downstairs to see if I've been forgiven or not.

Would it kill you to call first?

A couple of church ladies dropped by our house tonight. Mike had on more clothing than I did, so the door answering fell to him. I hid in the kitchen wondering who on earth would be ringing our doorbell at 8:30 pm on a Sunday.

Mike let them in. As he hustled the barking dogs out the back door, he asked what I wanted to do.

When our surprise guests showed up, I was wearing my bathrobe. Only my bathrobe. Not exactly attire for a social call.

I told Mike I didn't want to talk to them. I hoped they weren't far enough in the house to see me in the kitchen silently wishing them gone.

I overheard them chatting with Mike about the house and joking about "not telling" me about the plate of brownies they'd brought. Finally, they left.

I don't know what makes Mormons so mannerless. If they were dropping by because they were unable to reach me by phone, that's one thing. More often than not, there's no courtesy call preceding the drop-in visit. People just show up and expect that you'll be happy to see them, no matter how ill-timed or unannounced the visit. And don't think bringing brownies gets you off the hook; it's still rude.

When they interrupt my lazy evening of cuddling with mi esposo in my bathrobe and making an apple crisp between new episodes True Blood and Mad Men, don't assume I'll be happy about it.

Well, someone had to do it.

A week off wasn't really enough down time after the August Symposium, so I worked from home* on Monday. (* = in this instance, I lolled around in my PJs all day, caught up on recreational blog reading, and played lots of solitaire).

I arrived at the office Tuesday morning, unpacked my gear, and tackled the most pressing post-symposium tasks. About an hour later, I headed to the loo.

The normally-white toilet seat wasn't. That's weird, I thought. Looked further and saw evidence of a gastric explosion elsewhere. Yetch. I fled to the upstairs restroom to take care of nature's call.

Afterward, I asked the office manager what had happened to the downstairs loo? She said a constituent had come in Monday to make a purchase and abruptly disappeared into the restroom for a long time. There was a fierce stench and when the constituent finally emerged, the person left the office in haste.

The office manager apparently closed the restroom door and told Mike and others in the office Monday that they might want to use the upstairs loo instead--and said she forgot all about it until I asked. Convenient.

I set to work cleaning the toilet seat, the toilet front/base, toilet bowl, and floors. The constituent had clearly done some work, too, as evidenced by the wet mop and used paper towels. But there was more to clean before I would be willing to use this loo myself or make it available to the public.

As I was scrubbing, I recalled a friend's blog post wherein she put an odious service task into perspective by calling it "cleaning for Jesus." You can read her story here: http://mamaheather.blogspot.com/2008/07/service-with-smile.html

That recollection shifted my view of the task: I was scrubbing up remnants of an epic gastric blow for Jesus. It wasn't fun, but it was a task that needed to be done and it appeared I was the only one who would step up and do it.

It was also an exercise in compassion. Who among us hasn't been far away from their own toilet in a moment of gastric distress? It's bad enough when you're home and much worse to have happen in public--much less in the presence of people who know you.

In any case, I'm armed with a mantra that helps me serve others a little more gamely than I would otherwise. Still, I hope "cleaning for Jesus" is NOT a mantra I'll have to use again soon.

Got the shivers

A couple of weeks ago, I had a vivid dream that a black guy burst into my workplace, came barreling into my office, started pounding on me, and tried to steal my laptop. It was alarming enough that I woke up with the physical reactions one might expect had the scenario actually happened--breathing heavy, fists clenched, prepared to defend myself, and thinking neener neener, my laptop has Lo-Jack.

Flash forward to today: my co-worker had locked the front door a few minutes early. Right afterward, there was some knocking and so she went to open the door.

In walks a black guy with a small gas can, saying his car had stopped in front of our building and could he use the phone to call a friend? My co-worker obliged. He said he worked "down there" and could walk to work from here, but wanted to make a call.

Meanwhile, I'm in my office about coming out of my skin, wondering if my vivid dream is going to play out while I'm awake?

I didn't want to seem too interested in what was happening in the next room, in case my fear was palpable.

Curiously, the guy didn't tell his friend exactly where he was--just gave him the street name, nor did he ask what our address was while he was on the call.

When he hung up, he said he was going to walk down to the 7-11. My co-worker walked him to the front door and locked up after him, noting that he put his gas can in the trunk. (Not aware there's a Chevron two blocks north of the 7-11?)

I was irrationally glad when he left. And then I felt a follow-up jolt of liberal guilt for being all wigged out about a black guy seeking help in a rainstorm.

I've read Gavin de Becker's book, The Gift of Fear, which describes how our instinctual fears can protect us when we pay attention to creeped out feelings, the odd request, the out-of-place stranger, the story that doesn't add up.

Maybe I'm extra-paranoid given the many office break-ins before we had security doors/bars and an alarm installed. Heck, I got spooked last night by a box elder bug flying past my head and later by the printer doing one of its loud, clacking, random fire-ups while I was in the loo. It DID sound suspiciously like someone was trying to get in the building.

Anyway, I was weirded out enough that I'm not sticking around. I'm only staying long enough to post this before going home where I have TWO BARKY DOGS to protect me.

KAPOW.

In a session this morning, our counselor said something that I immediately, painfully recognized as an old, deep core issue of mine--one that shows up daily but that I've avoided naming with such clarity or working on.

After the initial WHOA/OMG moment, I acknowledged yes, that is my issue. It's been with me a long time. I fight a daily battle with it. It's always around, the endless loop of hypercritical thoughts that I try and often fail to push away and that sometimes sends me careening over the edge.

I turned to my husband and partner of 3 1/2 years and said this is my issue. He's seen symptoms of it, but I've never really identified it to or with him. He didn't know it was there or how much of a grip it has on me or that it was undergirding some of the trouble spots in our relationship. On some level, I knew but it had never roiled to the surface with such painful, inescapable clarity.

He was concerned, confused. "You're amazing," he said. "How can this be your issue?"

I'm not sure. I do know that I have to tackle this NOW. No more hiding. It's time to work through it. We talked about ways Mike can help when the issue shows up now that we both know it's there and are aware of some of the shapes it takes.

On the way to the car after the session, I thanked Mike for listening and being supportive. I said that was a HUGE admission/acknowledgment for me. It was scary and painful to name my issue out loud. I felt naked--and not good naked. Exposed.

We drove most of the way to Salt Lake in silence. I was still marveling and in awe of what happened. Seeing the issue clearly--THAT clearly--for the first time and recognizing that it's time to work on it.

I turned to Mike and said "OMG, I still can't believe what happened. That was HUGE! And there's no going back now that it's out in the open. Not that I want to go back; it's simply IMPOSSIBLE to go back now."

Later, I imagined my former therapist and teacher, Lee Gibson, encouraging me to work this issue, to get really CLEAR about it, and saying with a chuckle, "That's your homework, kiddo. This issue can repress you or empower you. Decide which it's going to be and get to work."

Even though someone else did the facilitating this morning, I'm pretty sure Lee had a hand in it somehow. Point taken, Big Guy. I'm on it.

2010, Let Me Count The Ways You Suck

Can I get a 2010 do-over?

We're what, barely six weeks in and it's been shitstorm after bloody, freaking shitstorm.

Jan 1-2, marital spat.

Jan 5, test results confirm we're reproductively challenged.

Jan 6, my mom's dear friend, Nancy Wright, lost her battle with cancer.

Jan 7, witnessed a kid urinating on our driveway/neighboring office building.

Jan 9, day-long board meeting. AZ weather and visiting friends were pluses.

Jan 10, I started getting sick.

Jan 11, diagnosis--bronchitis. Nasty cough and 103 degree fever at its worst.

Jan 11-18, illin'. Too sick to travel to Nancy's memorial service in California.

Jan 19, first day back at the office, still dragging.

Jan 20, second kid uses office driveway as urinal. Buddy up with West High security.

Jan 22-24, first good thing--a half-anniversary trip to Las Vegas.

Jan 29, dinner with friends, then a late night trip to Idaho to help w/family crisis.

Jan 31, long night, little sleep, much stress = illness returns. Same weekend, baby nephew gets sick.

Feb 2, Baby Alex admitted to the hospital. I visit dr again and get 2nd Rx.

Feb 3, the only day I make it to the office.

Feb 4, Alex home from the hospital, but his health problems are serious and far from over. :(

Feb 5, appointment with urologist who outlines our options for reproducing. Gives us a Guide to Understanding Fertility Problems comic book. Unfunniest comic book EVER.

Feb 5-7, slept through everything except the Superbowl. Found out we will no longer be teaching Sunday School. Good timing for a break.

Feb 8, worried about PK. He's been listless and not his usual self since we got back from Idaho.

Feb 9, called the vet this morning. Brought PK in. Got him into the carrier without yowl or protest. They made me leave while they drew blood. The vet came in a few minutes later, said his kidneys are failing, and gently started talking about quality of life--which means The End is near. I started crying before he was done. Managed to mop up before the techs came in to show me how to insert the IV.

I cried all the way home. Left a weepy voice mail for Mike. Cried on the phone to my mom. Gave PK anti-nausea meds and tried to feed him the prescription food. He ate some, but threw everything up later.

Now I'm looking over the computer at him curled up on the carpet; he keeps shifting to find a comfortable position. Ignoring work. Wondering how I'll get used to the idea of putting him down and adjusting to his absence.