Something's Wrong With Me

My friend Elaine's blog is entitled "Too Much Information". Today, I'm going to go with that theme and share what might be TMI for you. You've been warned.



Menstrual cramps suck. I'm sure all you girls can agree with this. Once a month for the past 20+ years I have bemoaned the fact that I was born female. But now each month, I'm not only bemoaning, I am also puking. Yep - for three months in a row as soon as those cramps start up, I start puking. It's horrible. And it can only mean that there is something wrong with me. After 20+ years of "normal" pain, this just can't be right.

The first time it happened I attributed it to an unhealthy, and possibly illegal, amount of ibuprofin consumption and not eating enough to handle such high quantities of pills. I figured Pat would give me a big "told you so" since he doesn't understand the need to take 5 pills and then take 3 more just a few hours later, continuously all day. It came at an unfortunate time - my mother and sister were flying in to visit me. I left work early, called Pat and asked him to leave work early, too. You see, I had not yet taken my car to be vacuumed and it would certainly not be okay to pick up my family with all that dog hair floating around. Pat is a lovely man and was able to get the car ready in time to meet Mom and Anne, while I stayed at home puking every hour. I thought I might be feeling a little better by early afternoon - I'd already puked four times, how much more could there be in me? So, I went along with Pat to the airport. Alas, I was not better and I got to experience the joy of puking in an airport bathroom. I don't recommend it. Then, about seven hours after it started, I really was all better. We went out for Mexican food to celebrate.

So the next month I made sure to eat properly, cut back on the chocolate and drink lots of water and only take 2 ibuprofen as the packaging requests you to do. Unfortunately, this did nothing to help the pain and it did nothing to prevent the puking. Another full day spent laying on the floor of my bathroom. If the pain wasn't going to drive me over the edge, the dripping of the shower threatened to do so. I seriously contemplated going to Urgent Care, but couldn't bring myself to get up off the floor. Six hours later, I was all better. I celebrated by packing up the dogs and going to an agility trial in Pinetop the next day.

But now I was worried because this was actually my body responding to itself, not to an overdose of ibuprofen. Though I have tons of sick time accrued, it really isn't going to work for me to call in sick once a month, every month. I went to the doctor for my not-quite-as-yearly-as-it-should-be yearly exam. She agreed that this was not normal for me. Her recommendation was that perhaps it was if I managed the pain better, I might not get the nausea. She prescribed me some Vicadin. I wasn't sure how I would react to Vicadin - it really isn't much better to miss work because I am knocked out than it is to miss work because I'm sick.

Yesterday was the test day. I went to work and the cramps hadn't started. I was very excited that perhaps I was cured! Then a little bit of cramps, so I took a Vicadin. I found that I could work through the pain-killer high, though it was challenging. If I could just close my eyes.... Then, uh-oh! Nauseau hits. I go home. I spend the next six hours between my real bed and my bed on the floor of the bathroom. Hmmm, the shower isn't dripping anymore. The Vicadin helped me sleep through most of the day, but any time I moved I felt like I could puke. I did only puke once, so that was an improvement. Seven hours later, I was all better - just a little woozy from the drugs. I went to play soccer to celebrate. (I had agreed to sub for the team and if I didn't play, they would have had to forfeit. I didn't run at all, just stayed back on D. We lost in overtime and that goal was partially my fault. Perhaps I should have let them forfeit.)

Now it's time to make another doctor's appointment and get this figured out. When my busy events season starts in the fall, I won't have the luxury of being able to go home sick. I predict lots of doctor's visits in my future.

Yesterday I Got So Old I Felt Like I Could Cry

Alternate post title: Robert Smith Will Always Love Me

Thanks to two great friends, I went to see the Cure concert last night. Nicole, friend #1, was gracious enough to be seven months pregnant, not sleeping at all, having long days at work and thus ending up too tired and grumpy at the end of the day to want to use her Cure concert tickets. (Isn't she thoughtful??) Jamie, friend #2, is spontaneous enough to say yes when I call him at 5:30 pm to see if he's up for a concert after our 6:20 pm soccer game.

The Cure is the one band I missed seeing back in the day when I was young and cool. Better late than never.

Right when we walked into the venue, I looked around and just couldn't believe how old everyone was. They were all OLD, you know - the same age as me. I can't believe how old I've gotten. When did that happen? When the band played In Between Days, which starts with "Yesterday I got so old", Jamie and I just looked at each other and said, "Yep." That pretty much sums it up. I no longer feel any need to look up old high school and college acquaintances, because I'm pretty sure that this crowd was a cross-section of them all. They are just as middle-aged and ordinary as I am.

Of course, there were a lot of freaks there, but not in the male eye-makeup wearing manner that you might have seen at a Cure concert 20 years ago. I'm talking more along the lines of this guy:

He sang every song at the top of his lungs and danced wildly all night. I wonder if back in the day he had teased hair and lipstick like Robert Smith? I'm guessing yes and that it kills him that male pattern baldness took over. However, he was having the time of his life and I made Jamie pretend to take a picture of me so that I could capture his pure joy on camera.

Then there was this guy: Yes, that IS a pony tail growing out of the back of his bald skull. His likeness to Riff Raff from the Rocky Horror Picture Show kept me entertained most of the night. I couldn't get a good angle shot of him, but seriously. They are twins.And lastly was this freak:

Ew. She was in Row 31. THIRTY ONE rows away from the stage, yet she thought flashing the band would be a good idea. She also had on this necklace. I'm pretty sure she was at the wrong concert.

The tickets that we bought from Nicole were awesome. If you go to the Dodge Theater and you can't get front row, you should definitely get Row 32 in Section 4, especially if you are short. It's the last row on the main floor and the sound booth is right behind you. When everyone in the 31 rows in front of you stands up, you can stand on the seat of your chair and lean against the wall of the sound booth and see everything perfectly! Here's the view (If you click the photo to enlarge it, you'll get a better idea):
I can't believe how good Robert Smith sounded. His voice has not changed at all. The band played for 3 1/2 hours with only a very little break for the stupid encore cheering tradition. They played a lot of the old stuff, but not necessarily the old stuff I really wanted to hear. Missing was Love Cats, (I really wanted to hear that I am "wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, pretty") Let's Go To Bed and Why Can't I Be You? There was no keyboardist, so these songs might not have been quite the same anyway. I also would have liked to hear Letter to Elise. The songs I was pleased to hear were the standbys of Boys Don't Cry (though I'm pretty sure he messed up the lyrics), Hot, Hot, Hot and Killing An Arab. And thankfully they did not play Friday I'm in Love.

Of course, they did play Lovesong and here is Robert Smith telling me that he will always love me. Awww.

Sorry about the crap audio, you can only do so much with a little camera.

Overall I would say it was a good show. I'm very happy that I went. I can now check off "Be in the same room as Robert Smith" from my list of things to do before I die.

Meet the NFBFs

One of my best friends has made it very clear that he is not to be named or pictured on my blog. In light of this I have christened him my Nameless Faceless Best Friend, or NFBF. After 15 years of friendship, I thought I knew everything about him, but maybe my NFBF has something to hide that I don't know about. Hmmm. I'll have to do some investigating! His wife, my other best friend, has not been quite so clear but out of respect to the male half of the couple, she will share his new moniker.

The reason that I bring up the NFBFs today is because I am missing them dreadfully. Every year at the beginning of June they take their NFBF offspring on vacation. This year, in addition to the usual result of leaving our soccer teams scrambling for a goalie and sending my life into a general malaise without their presence, Mrs. NFBF has left me the job of taking care of her foster cats.

The plan was for the kittens to be returned to the shelter before their vacation, but the kitties weren't quite big enough to go up for adoption. Every day I walk over to the NFBF house to feed and play with the kittens and Mama Cat. Tired of being torn to shreds as they climb up my legs, I have trimmed all their little claws. None of the kittens enjoyed this one bit, but since I am no longer coming home with multiple itchy, allergicly-reacting scratches all over my legs and hands, I feel that the kitten-torture was well worth it. I have brushed Mama Cat to get rid of the tangles that grew into her fur from neglecting herself while taking care of her babies. (So, Mr. and Mrs. NFBF - rest assured that all is well in your absence.)

Eight more days til their return. I am counting.

Frankie's Cool Tricks

Frankie can look sad on command. Wanna see?


He can also answer the very important question of his gender:

Lilipalooza

Lili, the fearless leader of our book club (and the lovely redhead in the pink and black dress above) is leaving us to return to Austin, Texas. Though we love her, we feel a little tiny prick of hatred at being deserted. We may not be as big as Texas, but we are certainly as loud as Texas. Isn't that worth something? We've given her three good years and this is how she repays us?

Last night was her going-away party, aptly named Lilipalooza. Another good name would have been Lambda Iota Lambda Iota frat night, since towards the end it started to somewhat resemble a frat party, with the main differences being 1) the spankings were not administered with a paddle (they were barehanded) and 2) instead of a run-down frat house, the party was hosted at a gorgeous, fancy-schmancy house in North Scottsdale. (Thanks, Mari!)

The night did not have a good start, as the directions provided on the evite weren't really the directions to the party. Despite arguing for a good long time with the security guards at Silver Leaf, I was not allowed into that neighborhood to search for the house Google wanted me to go to. After a few frustrated calls, I finally got directions to a neighborhood that doesn't even share major cross streets with the neighborhood to which I had been directed. The correct neighborhood had a nice security guard, though one with no sense of direction, and she sent me on another wild goose chase. ERGH! If I didn't think so highly of Lili, I would have given up and gone home. Luckily I finally found the party (and I was LATE! LATE! "Jill" and "late" are two words that are not usually mentioned together without the word "never" separating them). The company of the book club girls and their spouses was enough to buoy my foul mood, and those foul moods of the other drivers who experienced my same fate. I think alcohol might have helped a lot of them and while I wasn't partaking in the mood-enhancing elixirs, I was eating a lot of fresh raspberries. Mmmmm, raspberries.

The party was a huge success. I think it was fun enough that Lili has decided that her friends and family in Austin have nothing on us here in Phoenix. (Right, Lili? You have decided to stay, right? Right??) We all gave Lili gifts of our favorite childhood books in honor of her upcoming adoption from China. I think Wayne might have been a little confused about the gift theme since he gave her a book of "You Might Be a Redneck" jokes or something like that. Or perhaps that really is what his parents read to him at bedtime.

The frat party started when the jello shots came out. And like real shots, they came in a syringe. And yes, as mentioned before, there really was spanking. I will expound on that just enough to say that my only involvement was as photographer.

Lili, we will miss you!




Here is the food table before I devoured the raspberries. I may have eaten more than my fair share of the shrimp, too.