Cranky Fibro Girl

Harnessing the healing power of snark

The Big Head

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When my brother and I get together, the topic of conversation often turns to a discussion of our big heads. I don’t mean that metaphorically (although I have certainly been guilty of that many times). I mean it literally; as in, hats never fit me; when my chiropractor is working on me she often remarks, “Wow, your head is really heavy!”; and in the wedding picture of me and my husband dancing our first dance cheek to cheek, my head appears to be approximately 85 times the size of his.

I would REALLY like to tell you that having a very large heads corresponds to some kind of exceptional quality, like extra brains or heightened critical thinking skills. And I suppose I could. But I know that I would just be completely making that up, and I don’t like to just pull things out of my ass like that when it’s something someone could actually (factually) check.

However I did discover one unexpected advantage to having a big head today. If for some reason, like for example, your dermatologist is about to scrape what is either a wart or a benign Something-With-A-Really-Complicated-Medical-Name off the top of your scalp, and you have to get injected with anesthetic directly into your head? It’s really not so bad. Nothing like getting multiple shots in the ass.

So there you go. Big head? Big needle? No problem.

Keeping Me Humble

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Recently I have been having some really great sessions with my coach, where we are clearing out a lot of old “stuff” in my life and making room for new stuff to come in. I’ve been pretty excited about all the progress I’m making, and so one night I described in grand detail to my husband how I’ve reached this fabulous new mental and emotional place from which to launch the next phase of my life.

Ha.

Apparently what really happened was that cleaning out all of that inner, mental space means that now I just have more time and energy to spend obsessing about the fact that there is something growing on the top of my head. This means that we have been having a lot of conversations like this:

My husband: “So, what do you want to do for dinner?”

Me (hysterically): “I DON’T WANT TO HAVE A HEAD MOLE!”

I also got my permanent crown last week, which means that when I’m not freaking out over the Foreign Body Protruding From My Scalp I’m walking around the house announcing things like, “My fake tooth feels so shiny and smooth!”

Not surprisingly, things around here are going a little more slowly (I have a head mole!) than I had anticipated (And a fake tooth!) as I figure out a new strategy (My fake tooth, it is so smooth!) for dealing with this new level (Now all my other teeth feel so sharp and pointy!) of crazy-ass, monkey-mind chatter (Maybe I’m part wolf!)

Seriously, my mind? One scary place.

Grammar Snob Strikes Again!

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So today I had to go back to the dentist again, for the third time in nine days. And while that did indeed mean more drilling (or as I like to think of it, being poked with sharp, hot sticks), the good news is that it also meant more novocaine and more nitrous oxide.

As I was lying in the chair, floating along in my own little dream world, I heard the dentist explaining to his assistant why he was employing a particular technique at that time, and how that was going to save us all a lot of time and effort in the long run.

“I’m killing birds here,” he said, “Multiple stones.”

“Multiple stones,” agreed the assistant.

And somehow, despite the drilling, and the drugs, and the four hands and seventeen million dental instruments currently occupying my mouth at that moment, The Grammar Snob in me was still able to register that something was wrong with what they’d just said. And so, struggling up from my murky internal depths I found the strength to mutter,

“No. Muldible birds.”

“What?”

“It’s muldible birds, dot stodes.”

Apparently, you just can’t keep good grammar down.

Me And My Big Mouth

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Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

This is officially Week 14 of Working Out With A Trainer. And I was so excited to go in and see her today, because I had PROGRESS to report! Namely, that I can tell I’ve lost inches around my waist because none of my pants will stay up anymore and now I am one of those “Baggy Pants People”.

So in order to “celebrate”, after every exercise on a machine I got to do 20 second drills of jumping jacks or jumping rope. (Clearly, she and I have completely different ideas of what constitutes a celebration.) And for my extra-special BONUS treat? Two sets of reverse curls on the incline bench.

Next time I’m just gonna buy a belt and keep my big mouth shut.

Hot Sticks

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As I believe I’ve mentioned here once or twice, we live with three cats. We love them for so many reasons, not the least of which is that they provide us with so many hours of entertainment with the wacky things they do, and then we get to say things like, “Well, it looks like the aliens are beaming messages into their brains again.” Because really, what other explanation is there for those times when they awaken from a dead sleep because, “My God, I must lick my own ass 75 times in a row RIGHT NOW!”

Additionally, having cats gives us the opportunity to refer to other creatures in the third person, as in, “The Bailey just pooed in the tub again,” or, “The Tigger just captured another lizard and is ‘playing’ with it in your office.” I have no idea why we do this. Perhaps it’s not actually the cats’ brains that the aliens are after. (Mwa-ha-ha! We’ve gotten the humans to refer to the felines in the third person. By next month they will be referring to them as, “Your Royal Highnesses, The Supreme Rulers Of The Universe”!) [Read more…] about Hot Sticks

Nice Try, But No Cigar

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Today was “leg day” with my trainer at the gym.

She showed me this exercise she wanted me to do that was a combination of a squat, a squeeze, and a ballet position. It is designed to work your entire lower body, but it looked really hard. So I decided to try and stall for time.

Me: “I never took ballet. I’m too short to be a ballerina.”

My Trainer: “True. But you’re not too short to squeeze your ass.”

Just Taking The Wind Right Out Of My Sails

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Today, I was attacked by nature.

I was outside, doing my part to be a good neighbor and bring the trash can back down to the house, when suddenly I noticed an odd sensation in my right hand.

So I looked down and discovered that half of my right hand was entirely covered in fire ants, and the “odd sensation” was actually THE BURNING PAIN OF THEIR FLAMING, VENOMOUS BITES!

Not surprisingly (for someone with a severe anxiety disorder, I mean), I’ve spent this entire day manically flexing my hand to make sure I haven’t lost any mobility in my muscles, and wondering if there is any such thing as “Fire Ant Anti-Venom” and should I really be making more of an effort to find some, along with trying really hard not to freak out and envision their poison slowly yet relentlessly traveling up my arm in order to wreak its deadly havoc throughout my entire body.

So I just emailed this beautifully crafted story of my day to a friend of mine, and do you know his response was? “Be thankful, because when I get bitten by fire ants, I can die.”

Thanks, dude. Way to completely eliminate All Dramatic Impact Whatsoever from my story.

And don’t even get me started on the conversation I just had with another male friend who, when I gently suggested that women might possibly have had more of a role in the shaping of our history than would be suggested by the traditional, “accepted” textbooks, went off on a rant against “revisionist” history, where clearly “revisionist” was a code word for “fascist, communist, anti-American, mother-hating, puppy-killing, Nazi brainwashing propaganda.”

Geez! What does a girl have to do around here to get a friendly audience?

8 Week Check-In

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I never thought I would be writing these particular words about myself, but this is my 8th week of working out with a trainer. This, despite the fact that when I went in last Thursday for my lower body workout she greeted me by saying, “I don’t know if it’s because I’m in a bad mood or what, but I am TOTALLY gonna kick your ass today!”

Me: (totally lying, with giant fake grin and two thumbs up) “GREAT!” (because if I don’t at least fake happiness, she will just make the workout Even. Worse.)

I can say that I have seen myself make a lot of progress over the past eight weeks, and I think that is due at least in part to my setting the bar of expectations as low as is humanly possible in our first session together.

(Sample conversation from our first workout.)

Me: “And what did you say these were?…Legs, huh?”
Me: “And what do they do again?”

Unfortunately however, sometimes my previous exercise experience gets me into trouble. Because then my trainer discovers that I can do a bit more than I let on. Like the time she had me lay face-down on a balance ball and then curl my torso up, like a backwards sit-up, to work my back.

My trainer: “OK, go ahead and try this. You probably won’t be able to…”

Me: (curling up to almost 90 degrees)

My trainer: “Holy s*&%!””

Me: “Oh by the way, I’m really flexible.”

Or times like this.

My trainer: (hands me a couple of really heavy weights)
Me: (I am able to lift them.)
My trainer: “Wow, your triceps are really strong!”
Me: “I have no idea how that happened!”

But it is definitely worth it, because now I can go up to my husband, accost him with a random body part, yell, “Feel this!”, and there is actually something muscle-like for him to feel. (And he enjoys this much better than being accosted with random mystery items from the refrigerator and having to, “Smell this!”)

So anyway, I just wanted to check in here with this update, because the more people who know about this, the harder it is for me to weasel out of going. And also to say:

Yay me!