UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.
So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.
PCOS Signs, Definitions, and a Poem Feb 26, 2010
For the last 20 ohmygodI’mnotkidding years, I’ve had painful ovulation followed by puffy, painful, uterus-numbing cramps. I’ve been told to “suck it up”, to take an Asprin and call back in the morning, to eat some chocolate and get over it.
When I turned 25 and had my first “real job” with my first “real insurance” and “real boyfriend”, I decided to stop putting up with it and have someone fix me. Mr. Flinger (pre-Flinger days) urged me to find someone to help because sitting on the floor crying in the bathroom for 5 days during your period just didn’t seem right. Either that or suck-it-up and eat a Hersheys.
The doctors told me, after a short conusltation (three times) that having a baby would help. “Are you ready to be pregnant?” “Um, no?” “Oh, too bad, having a baby would really fix this.” “I was hoping for another solution than bringing a child in to the world because I wanted to skip my period for nine months.” “oh.” * (this conversation actually happened. Kaiser Permanente is a joy to be a part of.)
Finally I did have a baby! And oh! She was right! I had no ovulation pain! And then I had a baby cut out of my body, a uterine infection, post-partum depression, and a revenge from my ovaries they could’ve made a movie out of. Rated R.
After another baby and a few more years, I decided I didn’t want to take Birth Control Pills any longer as I near the age of “WOOPS” where hormones are no longer reliable and pills can have more damange to the body and produce tiny people in the mean time.
And it happened again.
I sought out my OB here. She confirmed it’s a cyst. “Some people get those,” she said. And sent me home to let it burst and get re-absorbed.
That motherfucking hurt.
Both emotionally and physically.
Finally, oh FINALLY, a week ago I found a doctor who sat and talked to me for an hour. In one hour she figured out the key to look in to.
PCOS. Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.
PCOS, according to Medline:
Polycystic ovary disease affects hormone cycles. Hormones help regulate the normal development of eggs in the ovaries. It is not completely understood why or how hormone cycles are interrupted, although there are several ideas.
Follicles are sacs within the ovaries that contain eggs. In polycystic ovary disease, there are many poorly developed follicles in the ovaries. The eggs in these follicles do not mature and, therefore, cannot be released from the ovaries. Instead, they form cysts in the ovary.
So when I ovulate, which doesn’t happen on Birth Control pills or during pregnancy, the only times I’ve had relief, my body starts the ovulation process as usual putting cysts in the follicles. One grows to maturity and the others get pissed off and jealous and start a war in my ovaries. Then they grow, get angry, and burst and I cry on the bathroom floor.
Yesterday, ass I lay on the floor in Yoga, cussing out my ovaries, I heard a “pop” of the egg getting released. (ok, not really, but aren’t you that in tune to your body, too? no?) I told Mr. Flinger, “THERE WILL BE NO SEXY TIME” as our potential child makes its way down the long hall to the exit. I find myself curling up and squeezing my ovaries like I could just pop the cysts all bubble-wrap style.
For the first time in my life, though, I have something to look up. Some reason. Something to diagnose.
It can lead to stroke, type 2 diabetes, and heart disease.
It’s painful. It prevents losing weight. It causes depression.
I’ve never been to happy to hear those words.
Knowing is not just half the battle, it’s been my whole battle. Knowing means finding a solution.
So here, this week, as I clutch my pissed off ovaries again, I’m hopeful it’s one of the last months I do this. An end of a horrific era. And in that light, I find myself singing ALA Adam Sandler: Piece Of Shit Ovaries.
I ovulate like a Terminator.
Not like other gals
Producing eggs and cysts and such
that never make it down canals
It hurts like a mothah
and you crackers otta know
Being an egg in my ovary
Is one giant free throw
There’s competition among the follicles
and most always lose
‘cause that piece of shit ovary
Stubborn and refuse
Piece of Shit Ovary
I got a piece of shit ovary
Broken mother uckah ovary
I got a piece of shit ovary
Nothing Beyond Feb 24, 2010
The room is hot today. Hotter than usual. I ponder this as my heart races.
Perhaps it is not the room, but my head.
Thoughts pound within the sides of my skull. Anger, frustration, uncertainty. I hear the sound of the room breathing, Pranayama. In. Out. In. Out.
We begin our salutations. I stretch. I try to release. My tummy folds on itself and I judge it. I feel myself tense and I release again. I remind myself it birthed two children that I love dearly and not to hate it for its work.
I breath in again. And out.
We fold in to downward dog. Breathing. The voice from the teacher reminds us to be center. “Nothing Beyond” she says. Nothing Beyond I remind myself. Centered. On this mat. In this room. In this heat. Right now.
I find myself rattling off a todo list and wondering if I’ve heard back from so-and-so. I catch myself.
I envision a mountain. I try, as two of my favorite authors both stated in their path to meditation, to let my thoughts be as clouds to me, the mountain. I try to acknowledge my thoughts but not dwell upon them.
I do another pushup, another stretch, another Vinyasa.
In our final Savasana I feel myself pulled by gravity. I am grounded. I am stable. I am strong and empowered.
I am a little more able to work. To focus. To be.
It is the “being” that I am most working on.
Being nothing beyond.
This is the goal.
Change Feb 23, 2010
Life is a constant ebb and flow. It is change. I’ve been revisiting my favorite Buddha Book, re-reading the passages I underlined 10 years ago. Change is a big topic in Buddhism. Change is a big topic in my life right now.
Even if it’s great, change is still…. Change.
Change is leaving a house you brought your baby home in. Change is giving the children a backyard to grow in. Change is watching your baby grow in to a caring little man. Change is watching your daughter learn to read.
I’ve never dealt well with change and yet I seek it almost in earnest. I seek to better our lives daily. I push to find new challenges. I work to bring a healthier lifestyle and a better approach to obstacles. But sometimes, even so, I wish for things to stay as they were. Not physically, perhaps, except in the way my body used to look at 18. No, more on an existential plane. In the way my children snuggled my chest as they slept as babies. In the way my husband looked in my eyes on our wedding day. In the way we celebrated our accomplishments the day we got news we were moving back to Seattle.
Change can be powerful, wonderful and completely overwhelming. One day, I know, I’ll look back at these two weeks and know it went well.
In the mean time, I’ll just push on keeping my head above water however hard I have to tred. Change is coming like a tide. I’m gearing up for the ride.
Be vewy vewy quiet Feb 19, 2010
I feel a bit like Elmer Fudd these days. I can see the rabbit, our house, just right——-> there. Right now we’re close. We’re SO CLOSE. We have a closing date that is nearly impossible to believe. We have boxes in the house. We have painters coming. We have a zillion tons of energy and hope surging through our family. We buzz in anticipation.
But oh god do not say a word or you’ll scare it.
Denial is a funny thing. Denial says not to pack a single box until you know for sure. But denial hears good news and waits. Denial hears a closing date and doubts. Denial looks around the house and thinks, “we don’t have that much stuff anyway.”
Denial. She’s funny, no?
We enter the last seven days. THE LAST SEVEN DAYS. Paperwork is signed, bank records are sent. Boxes are stacking. Painters are scheduled.
Work is intense these days. A deadline lands the day after we close. But it focuses me. Grounds me. Keeps me from too much denial.
I see the date coming faster and closer and all I can think of is “be vewy vewy quiet.”
Please god to not scare the rabbit away. It’s always my luck to be chasing a bunny in women’s clothes. And dooped in the end.
It’s time to change all that.
In the softest most quiet voice I can muster: We got the house.
You’re all invited to our backyard for a huge BBQ and fresh lettuce.
And rabbit stew.
Because there are huge images on this blog Feb 17, 2010
Wow. Apparently I think you’re all blind. Or slightly blind. Or have the terrible eyesight I have.
500 pixel mix tapes. HELLO!
Really, I just wanted to push that huge tape down a post. I have posts. In my head. And all you get is some hopped-up-on-pain-killers dribble about the Olympics.
That’s right. PAINKILLERS.
No, wait, THE OLYMPICS ON DRUGS.
I have a failed root canal that got an infection and turned me in to a 34 year old woman in the fetal position on the couch moaning, “MYTEEFMYTEEF.” It was so attractive.
I begged three dentists to DO SOMETHING OMG and one did. Anti-biotics and Vicodin. And a new! root! canal! to look forward to. I win.
I bet those skaters are hopped up on something. Something with sparkles. I bet they snort glitter pre-skate.
So in short, as a review, lessons learned are: 1. Brush and floss daily 2. Take Vicodin and do not blog 3. snort glitter pre-competition.
Just say no to drugs.
The Best Meat Loaf Feb 17, 2010
My family loves meat loaf. Well, they love this meat loaf. The kids love to help me make it by squishing the ingredients together with their hands. They feel so empowered that they made their own dinner, it’s never a fight to have them finish it.
Truly, you have no idea how miraculous those words are.
I promised you the recipe and here I am delivering. FINALLY. GAWD. (Sorry)
3/4 cup Ketchup (we use organic low-sugar)
3/4 cup quaker oats
4 egg whites
1 Onion chopped
1 1/4 pd lean ground turkey
1pkg Knorr dry vegetable soup mix
Heat oven to 350.
Mix turkey, oats, egg whites, salsa, onion, and soup mix together. Mold into 13x13 pan. Top with the Ketchup and bake for 1 hour.
We like it with a side of asparagus cooked in olive oil.
We made you mixed tapes Feb 14, 2010
That’s love yo. That’s love.
Adelaide by Old 97’s
Whistle For The Choir by The Fratellis
High School Stalker by Hello Saferide
The World’s Greatest by Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy
Sea Green, See Blue by Jaymay
Anyone Else But You by The Moldy Peaches
You Love Me by Kimya Dawson
Bury Me Closer by Palomar
Chariots by Joseph Childress
Birthday Present by Mirah
Fairytale by Sarah Bareilles
If We Go To The West by Nina Nastasia
Pollen by Mirah
Persimmon (Unplugged) by Hot Bitch Arsenal
Simple Song by Emily Arin
You Could Be Happy by Snow Patrol
5 Years Time by Noah And The Whale
Honey Bee by Zee Avi
Remember The Mountain Bed by Billy Brag and Wilco
Ugly Love by Eels
Grow Old with You by Adam Sandler
If you Love Me by Flight Of The Conchords
Just you and Me by Zee Avi
Where is the Love by Black Eyes Peas
If you love me by Tim Minchin
Story Book Love by Mark Knopfler
Let’s Do It by Louis Armstrong
Beautiful by G Love and Tristan Prettyman
In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel
I’m Yours by Jason Maraz (new version- live)
Crazy For You by Adele
The Luckiest by Ben Folds Five
You are so beautiful
She’s got a way by Billy Joel
I always knew I was Demi and he was my Ashton Feb 11, 2010
We don’t “DO” Valentine’s Day. We never have. We do “The Discount Chocolate Day” on February 15th, but not a day before. We do “let’s go to the mountain today” or “let’s make home-made cookies” or “let’s go to the beach” but we don’t do Vday.
Vday is too.. I dunno.. Venereal sounding for me.
I’ve always told Mr. Flinger if I asked him to do something nice for me on Valentine’s day it means he’s in deep shit. VERY deep shit. Instead, I prefer not getting a dozen roses or a card with a half-assed scribbled, “with love, your-husband-that-sleeps-next-to-you-every-night-remember-me?” He better be making an effort to love the me other days of the year and if he’s not, he will have to do much more than get a card or purchase some diabetes-inducing chocolate. He better buy me an island in the Pacific.
So we don’t do gifts. We don’t do a special dinner. We don’t do a date night or a holiday or a trip.
Instead, let’s all gather around and watch some fantastically fun songs. Shall we? Gather hands now and sing along.
Lalallalalalal Let’s Make Out! Lalallalalalalalal Let’s Make Out!
I love you more than a kid loves candy. More than a PMSing woman loves chocolate. Well, almost as much as that last one.
And if that doesn’t make you smile, here’s a little more “risque” card:
Who says I’m not romantic?
I’ll even make some good-carb pancakes for the children in the shape of a heart with some strawberries just for Love-Day.
Are you gagging yet?
In the spirit of Ashton, let’s all tell the people we hate on Valentine’s day how we really feel and go back to loving our people the rest of the year. Deal? Deal.
Carb Swap- A Great Alternative Pancake Feb 11, 2010
I’ve started reducing our sugar intake thanks to The Belly Fat Cure and half a dozen other resources that have scared the ever-living-shit out of me in regards to sugar.
DEATH IN A PACKET ZOMG.
Sweet, lovely, death.
Anyway, so I’ve cut back on our sugar. Turns out? You only need about 15g of sugar A DAY to live. I KNOW! RIGHT? Crazy effers. But it’s true. I started this and am living to talk about it.
The kids, tho, are a harder sell.
So in the spirit of keeping our favorite foods around, and believe me when I tell you my son is a pancake connoisseur, (he man knows his pancakes) I’m adopting this new recipe for a healthier, lower carb pancake.
2 1/3 cups Organic Soy Flour
2 TBSP. plus 1/2 tsp. Baking Powder
1 tsp. Xylitol
1/2 tsp. Salt
1 1/3 cups half and half
1/3 cups Almost Breeze Vanilla Unsweetened Almond Milk
2/3 cup water
5 Tbsp melted butter, divided
1. Sift together the flour, baking powder, xylitol, and salt in to a large bowl; set aside. In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, half-and-half, almost milk and water until blended.
2. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients. Pour wet ingredients in to the well and stir until just combined. Blend in 4 Tbsp. of the melted butter.
3. Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Add the remaining Tbsp. of butter to the pan. Add about 1/3 cup of batter per pancake and cook until golden and bubbly. Flip over and cook about 45 seconds more. Repeat until the batter is gone.
4. Top each take of pancakes with a Tbsp of butter and serve with a side of Joseph’s Sugar Free Maple Syrup. Optional: Blueberries!
Desk is to Chair as Ass is to Spreading Wildly Without Concern Of Emotional Recoil Feb 09, 2010
Here’s something. You remember those horrific questions on the SAT and GRE? Those “This is to That as That is to _____” and then you have to pick from a list that matches NOTHING and OMG my fourteenth #2 pencil just broke and I need a smoke and I don’t even smoke.
I’m a living proof those standardize tests do two things:
1. Prove nothing. I was told, after each test, to just go live barefoot in the kitchen because you stupid whore, you can’t even do a multiple choice test well and mygod what will society do with a creative thinker? and
b) traumatize me forever.
Which is obvious with the start of this post.
In other traumatic, although not unexpected news, I’ve gained weight. That’s right, laugh all you want. EATING CLEAN IS MAKING ME FAT. Yes. You read it here. DO NOT EAT CLEAN. Go! Eat your High Fructose Corn Syrup and your Corn-based by products and corn-fed chicken and turn in to a giant stalk of corn because at least you’ll be tall and thin and not round like an apple.
I say this for your health. Go eat a candy bar. Pronto.
I could probably blame a lot of things. I can blame my mid-thirty estrogen-imbalance. I could blame my new full time desk job. I could blame my love of a good dark stout or the fact that I am now making homemade meals nightly that rock our worlds and OMNOMNOM.
But I’m not.
I’m sitting here, on my spreading ass, in total awe. SHOCK and AWE if you will.
And so? Enters Hot Yoga.
If you haven’t done it, it’s like a sauna with other half-naked people sweating but bending over in front of you so as to reveal things about them that you will wish you could forget. But it will be branded in your mind forever.
FOREVER I TELL YOU.
The man who wore the tiny speedo-ish shorts? With the belly? And the tattoos? And the, OMG the, loudest breathing ever? And the slap-slap of your thighs? You are a hero to someone. I think maybe yourself.
The lady with the bra and shorts that twisted in ways I envision people pretending to know how in inappropriate chat rooms, just.. wow.
I have no room to judge, though. This is why I think Hot Yoga is the great equalizer. I left there as red as a ricotta, wet as rain. My pores were shiny. My legs shook. The heavy-tattoed-speedo wearing bearded man? Suddenly looked smart. A SPEEDO! DUH!
As painful as it was, as reminiscent of a Galveston Gulf Coast Mid-Afternoon in August, I ache to return. Ache being the optimal word. It’s oddly addicting, oddly rewarding and simply odd. Which fits me just fine. Unlike my pants right now.