Recent Developments

Due to recent developments, I am going to have to add d) not a member of a cult to my boyfriend pre-qualification checklist.  Therefore, Jason Segel may or may not be still pre-qualified.  I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.

Normal

I am happy to report that my fusion is "normal" and healing at an appropriate rate.  Dr. Sanford said that I don't need to go back to him.  (Thank goodness because I can't believe I would have to self-refer for a third time.)  He said I could do whatever I wanted within reason:  yoga, lifting weights, etc.  He made me try to hop on one foot.  I think the psychedelic posters were affecting his reasoning there because I couldn't even hop when I was a kid.  I hop impaired.  I don't know when I'm going to find the time to do yoga when I'm working.  Maybe I can start getting up at 3:00am.

Because I wasn't working, I went for a walk, where I nearly stepped on this little guy.  I barely screamed and I wasn't barely scared at all because he looked like a Red Racer, and because I am a master herpetologist, I know will not eat me alive.

I also put up all of my Christmas decorations, which are not that many, but I wanted to be ready for my Christmas tree that I'm going to pick out this weekend.  I'm super excited because Kristen said her husband would deliver the tree to my house (and presumably bring it in) and he can carry a bigger tree than Sara, so I could conceivably get a 10 foot tree.  I don't anticipate that because it would look mighty Charlie Brown with just a couple of ornaments.

Coup de foudre

I've decided Max watches too much TV and by too much TV I mean, my mom watches The Walton's on the Hallmark channel for way too many hours during the day.  I'm not opposed to a moderate amount of Little House on the Prairie in one's life because everyone could use a little Laura and Pa to balance out the day, but more than one hour of The Walton's is bordering on ridiculous.  Because of this, I've made the decision that unless there is some high quality shows on like Kim and Kourtney Take New York or The Real Housewives of _____, Max and I are going to listen to NPR.

Sunday Max and I were listening to NPR while simultaneously trying not to chew on the mess my dad has on his desk, when I fell in love with Jason Siegel and I decided that he is my new love and should be my boyfriend.  I will present my argument in three parts.

Part I:  Jason Segel is pre-qualified to be my boyfriend in that a) he’s funny b) he has a job and c)  he doesn’t live with his momma (I think.)  He also meets Sara’s qualifications in that he doesn’t have any facial or neck tattoos.

Part II:  Jason Segel has brought back the Muppets, which I was excited about already, but realized today as I was teaching adjectives, is extremely useful.  I contend that the Muppets are the French teacher’s second best tool, after The Simpsons for teaching adjectives.  (The Simpsons have the Muppets beat by a slim margin because you can also use all of the family vocabulary with The Simpsons.  I mean, what are you going to say about the Muppets?  Miss Piggy and Kermit have been dating for decades?  You'd think they’d make that shit legal already.)  Miss Piggy, she’s fantastic for teaching words like fat, because you can’t use kids for that because they tend to get sensitive about being called fat.  This Muppet resurrection, if done properly, could carry me through until the end of my teaching career and that, is exciting news indeed.

Part III:  Jason Segel seems like a guy who wouldn’t be opposed to someone who has a pot smoking dog and a duck for pets.  This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but sometimes I think it’s been a deal breaker.

I do have some concerns.  Like maybe Jason Segel is taken or maybe he lives in a house that isn’t duck or pot smoking dog friendly or maybe he doesn't know who Alfie the Christmas Tree is or, heaven forbid, he spends all day watching The Waltons.

Adventures with Max

Friday Max and I left the world of Grandma and Grandpa for a day-camping excursion!  We had been invited to spend the afternoon with Gretchen out in the desert riding quads and motorcycles.  First, my mom and I found Max a suitable rugged outfit that would express masculinity, outdoorsiness, and ability to drink Coors Light out of coozie all day long.  I think we nailed it.

Rugged Masculinity

 Then we put together two bags:  one with diapers and one with toys, blankets and other baby accoutrements and Max and I set off to Stoddard Wells Road Off Roading Area.  It was the first time I was alone and driving with Max and I thought I might throw up with the responsibility of it all on our way out there.  Once we got there Max was in awe.  The sounds...the sights... He didn't know what was going on and didn't make a peep.  This is a guy who is normally pretty fussy and he didn't make two noises the whole time we were out there.  We watched the kids ride quads until lunch time, but as it turned out he was too busy watching Gretchen do dishes to eat most of his lunch.

Me and Max

Max and his new friends

Mostly Max enjoyed the services of some professional moms.  Stephanie, Gretchen's sister, had his pants off, diaper changed, and pants back on before I would have even gotten them down over his butt.  Max was like, thank god finally someone who knows what they're doing, Amateur Hour over here is such a drag.   I was in awe because those are some skills I don't have.

Gretchen and Max

Max could not have had a better afternoon and he made a fantastic impression on everyone, which as I told him on the way home, is good so we'll be invited back.  Later, in Round III of Me v. Sleeper, the sleeper won.

Yesterday I was back over to take care of Max and I was in charge of breakfast:  rice cereal and a bottle.  Having never mixed up rice cereal and not having any type of ratio to go off of, I measured what I thought was the proper amount of formula to rice ratio and fed Max the first bite.  You can tell by his look that he clearly was not impressed.  I believe if he could talk he would have said, "What the fuck is this shit?  Can't you even make rice cereal?  Jesus, amateur."  I quickly remixed until I found a consistency that was palatable to the rice cereal gourmand.  Later in the day we went for a walk, which included hysterical screaming and crying for at least a half an hour until he fell asleep.

Before I went to my mom's, I went to feed the duck when I noticed that the cleaning ladies had not shut the gate to the little backyard.  I had a moment of panic and visions of me having to scour the neighborhood with pictures of my duck, crying "Duck, PDub, come here!  Duck, come here!"  Lucikly none of that was necessary because as soon as I shut the back door PDub came out of her hiding place underneath the chair and said, "Beep!"  And I replied, "Oh good duck.  You're a good duck.  Good duck."

Christmas!

My fast walk yesterday sort of did me in and I spent most of Thanksgiving in a pain killer light haze in my mom's recliner chair giggling at my dad and the baby.  This morning I woke up with a huge cramp in my right ass, which made me limp around and is still not entirely worked out.  I'm not sure what that's about.

In any case, I'm so glad Thanksgiving is over so I can start to get ready for Christmas!  I have not been excited about Christmas in years.  In fact, I have found Christmas a nuisance for at least the past four years.  But this year...this year...  I've already listened to Johnny Mathis' Merry Christmas! and the Muppets (with John Denver) Christmas Album, which as everyone knows is the official start of the Christmas season.  Yesterday Max and I discussed recipes for Christmas Eve.  (Mostly, he tried to chew on the magazine, but it was interaction.)  I've put away my Thanksgiving decorations and as soon as the cleaning ladies are done cleaning my house I'm going to start decorating for Christmas.  And next weekend I'm going to buy the biggest Christmas tree Sara can carry.

The Chicken Duck

This is the American Coot bird aka the Stupid Chicken Duck because it looks like a chicken.  I hate this duck.  There's tons of them at the college and every time I see them, I scrunch my face up in disgust and have, on occasion, said out loud, "I hate you stupid chicken ducks."  This duck's an insult to the duck world.

Conversations With My Health Care Providers

November 22, 2011

9:15 Conversation #1 with the referral lady in my doctor's office.  She tells me that Dr. Earle's note back to her says "Advise Bethany that she can not have a referral to the neurosurgeon and if she wants to make an appointment to see me we can discuss it at that time."  I do not scream, yell or cry.

9:16 Conversation #2 again, with the referral lady in my doctor's office.  "Bethany," she says, "I made you an appointment with the neurologist, do you want to keep it?"  "NO," I replied, "I don't need to see the neurologist.  I want to see the neurosurgeon.  The guy who operated on my back."

9:17 Conversation #3 to make an appointment with Dr. Earle for December 6 so I can ask her how many discsetemies and fusions she has done in her lifetime.

9:20 Conversation #4 with the neurosurgeon's office to find out if he has my X-Ray and a fact gathering call to find out information to use with Dr. Earle.  This conversation devolves into big tears when she tells me that the neurosurgeon still hasn't even released me back to my regular doctor.  I tell the lady, "I'm sorry, I'm just so frustrated."  

2:00-3:30- Conversation #5 with Blue Shield.  I explain my predicament.  Heather calls Choice Medical who says call the doctor's office, but since they only have one line and it's always busy, Heather has to call me back.  She finds out this information:  my referral was not "denied" it was "cancelled" because I didn't see my doctor.  I explained that I saw the PA and for every other referral the PA was sufficient, including the referral to the neurologist that just got made this week.  Heather seems somewhat puzzled by this as well, but the bottom line is I have to see Dr. Earle if I want to go to physical therapy.  She tells me I can self-refer to the neurosurgeon.  I'm a bit annoyed because last week when I found out my appointment had been cancelled I called Blue Shield to ask if that was a possibility and the lady told me no.  I ask if Dr. Earle can say no to physical therapy because the only time I've ever seen Dr. Earle about my back she  told me that the only way I was going to get rid of the pain in my leg was to take Lyrica, lose weight and that I couldn't go to physical therapy because "physical therapy does nothing."  Heather tells me that if Dr. Earle says no, then I need to switch doctors.  I don't tell Heather that this whole business has made me decide to leave Blue Shield.

3:30  Conversation #6 with the neurosurgeon's office to self-refer myself back to the neurosurgeon.  Self-referral means I have a higher co-pay and if Dr. Sanford wants to order tests it has to go back to my doctor. 

The part of me who wants to go to physical therapy is fighting with the part of me that is pissed the fuck off and wants to be a complete bitch and start the conversation with Dr. Earle by asking all of the questions she will be incapable of answering because she is not a neurosurgeon and then presenting her with an invoice that includes the $10 co-pay for the appointment last week, the $20 difference between my regular co-pay and the self-referral co-pay, gas to get to her Palmdale Road office and the three hours I needed a sub for that bullshit on Thursday.  In any case, Jessica's going to go with me to my appointment with Dr. Earle because I do not trust myself.

Worth a Try

Since Earl had tried to get to the butter earlier, I thought I'd see if it could entice him down the hallway.

Check out Earl hiding behind the couch.

I know what you're thinking, and no, I've not been drinking.

Despite

Why is Eric Church so mad at me?  I was thinking about buying his new album, Chief, but when I saw the cover my dislike of displeasing people kicked in.  I don't know what I did to Eric Church but it wasn't right.  And I'm sorry.

Well, despite my lack of neurosurgeon appointments and physical therapy, the weather forced me into the gym this morning where I walked 3.2 miles in one hour!  Yea me.  I felt a little conspicuous because I know that 3.2 mph is not really all that impressive so if people don't know about my recovery they're most likely just thinking, wow, fat people sure have to walk slow.  I wanted to tell everyone around me, "I know it's slow but I just had surgery and this is actually quite fast for me,"  but unlike my mother, I generally avoid telling random strangers my personal life.  The gym did have it's advantages in that I realized that I have lost quite a bit of aerobic strength because my heart rate got up there walking 3.2mph. Also, I remembered why I hate the gym:  because it is boring as fuck and there is nothing to look out without looking like you're staring.  I held out some hope that I would see someone I knew so they could chat me up and I could say, "I know it's slow but with my surgery this is actually quite fast for me," but no one I knew was at the gym.    After my hypersonic 3.2 miles, I went for a swim.  Let me just say that the clientele in the pool at 9:00 in the morning is quite different than the clientele in the pool any other time of the day.  I actually startled when I walked in.  I was at least 30 years too young to be in the pool or I was missing several tattoos.  I swam 10 laps (or 5 laps if you only count up and back as one lap) because I thought, since I hadn't been to physical therapy and wasn't sure what I should be doing perhaps I shouldn't go balls to the wall on my first swim.  Good thing too because I was straight wore out and decided to get in the spa where I'm hoping I didn't contract some kind of flesh eating disease or a yeast infection.  That felt so fantastic that I entertained the notion of researching a spa for my house until the clientele changed and I got creeped out and left at a the pace that would be the exact opposite of hypersonic.

On my way to my mom's house to not put the pan underneath the turkey because I, of course, did that yesterday like I was supposed to, I felt sufficiently wore out and calm to attempt to call the doctor's office.  After 15 minutes of trying, I finally got the referral lady who told me that the PA I saw on Thursday wrote a note saying that I was doing well, not reporting any new pain, but it might be ok for me to go to the neurologist.  I said, "AHHHHHHHHHH I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE NEUROLOGIST! I WANT TO GO TO THE NEUROSURGEON- THE ONE WHO DID MY SURGERY."  The lady said, "I don't know why he put that." "I do," I replied, "He kept saying, you want to go to the neurologist?  And I kept saying no, I want to go to the neurosurgeon."  Far be it for me to assume that the PA would understand the difference between the two, but perhaps this is also part of my problem.  She was supposed to write the actual doctor a note.  I said, "Put on there that I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or anything ahhrrrhh."  She was supposed to call me back, but you'll be surprised to know that she did not.

After that I went to my second job which if I don't have next semester will not make me sad, because I am beyond over that place.

Turkey Trot

This morning Sara and I did the AV Turkey Trot 5k.  In ONE HOUR.  One hour....which for you math geniuses is 3.0mph and the fastest I have walked so far.  When they sounded the starting bell, everyone took off running or walking at a fast past and we were, for a good half a mile, the last people.  I didn't care because I was happy to be outside, and slowly but surely Sara and I started passing people.  We were not the last people in, but I sure was contented with myself to have walked 3.0mph because that is a somewhat respectable pace.

This morning, poor Earl.  He got spooked by something in the hallway and cried for a half an hour before scrambling down to my doorway in a Scooby Doo-esque run, then he was afraid to come in my room and decided to live in the bathroom across the hall, until I went in to comb my hair and knocked the lotion bottle over onto him.  This guy can't win.  Something is out to get him in every room, but the living room.

I'm on vacation all this week.  It's a good thing because I know I'm going to need to spend lots of hours of my life on the phone with my doctor's office, Choice Medical and Blue Shield because despite my optimism that the doctor would say, "What?  You can't go back to the neurosurgeon?  Why that's some baloney, let's see how I can solve this problem for you."  What he said was, "Well, what would the neurosurgeon do exactly?  I'm not sure....well, you're telling me you're feeling better."  To which I said, "I don't know, I'm not the neurosurgeon, but I think he probably knows when he needs to see patients better than you or I." And "Well, in that case, I feel worse."  It was not a very positive reception.  And he said they'd call me by the end of Thursday so I would have an "answer either way."  I have had no such call.  There were tears Thursday morning.  PDub's namesake, Peggy, suggested I borrow their gun and go out to the desert and shoot things to make myself feel better.  She did specify that I should not go shoot the doctor, which I wasn't even considering anyways.

I don't know about the gun, though it might have been handy last week when Sara and I saw a Mojave Green on our walk.  He was not a happy camper.  I suppose if Sara or I had had a gun, we could have shot him.  As it was, we just screamed and got the heck away from him in case he tried to eat us whole in one swallow.

Choice Medical Sucks

Friday after my four mile walk and subsequent lunch with Sara and Bill, I went to go get an x-ray in anticipation of my appointment with the neurosurgeon this Thursday which I no longer have, because per the Choice Medical Director, I have to see my primary care physician to "justify" my follow up appointment with the neurosurgeon who did my surgery and who has to verify that my fusion is healing well.  Also, no physical therapy.  I am beyond mad.  I am beyond pissed off.  Un-fucking believable.  I made this appointment in September and it's been cancelled less than 48 hours before.  I spent the afternoon on the phone with the various doctors' offices trying to get an appointment.  I did manage to get an appointment with someone in my doctor's office, whom I've never seen before, at 8 am on Thursday.  So I'll go to see a doctor, who, let's review, is not a neurosurgeon and whom I've never seen before in my life for him to "justify" me going back to the neurosurgeon who felt it was important that he see me this week to make sure my fusion was healing properly.  And also Doctor X, who is not a neurosurgeon and who has not seen me before in his life will get to "justify" whether I can go to physical therapy after having had major surgery.  I did not call Choice Medical because I just can't imagine that I would actually be able to speak to the asswipe who actually made this decision and said that this has to be justified in order to express to him or her my absolute disbelief in this fucking unbelievable bullshit, nor do I trust myself to have a conversation in which fucking unbelievable god damn fucking bullshit doesn't leave my mouth.

Counting the days until open enrollment.

Do Not Cry

My motto this week has been "Do not cry" because it's been a somewhat crazy week.  Tuesday I made a trip to the St. Mary's ER after a lovely dinner and TV show at Sara's house.  I had changed purses and therefore didn't have my inhaler and also forgot to borrow the baby's when I was at my mom and dad's.  If I know one thing, it's that I will always need to go to the ER if I don't have my inhaler.  After only an hour and half, my lungs had had enough cat and I drove myself to the ER.  Good thing too because I thought I had at least some expired albuterol for my nebulizer here at the house, but turns out I didn't.  I got there in time for the evening freak show.  I filled out my paperwork, minus my phone number because I couldn't think straight enough to remember it and put on my best wheezing routine to get myself seen right away.  (I am an ER breathing treatment pro.)  I amazed the respiratory therapist and the doctor with my quick recovery because if I know a second thing, it's that my lungs react very quickly to a breathing treatment.  I was out an hour later, a $100 lighter and with three prescriptions.

Wednesday I got to work and after reading my email, uttered a string of swear words that vibrated across the campus.  Then I told the principal, "Today's mantra is: do not cry.  There is no crying in French class or After School."  I checked in with him after school and he hadn't cried and neither had I, so it was a good day.  I stood up and walked around all periods, but period 5.  Then, I stood up in my college class and I topped off the day with a trip to Target, which for the people who are not sure why you might care, that was a lot of stinking standing up for me.

Thursday I had a much harder time not crying and ended up having a small breakdown which resulted in the massive need to rearrange my classroom and clean before I could continue to work.  After that I came home to drink massive amounts of alcohol.  I may have been a little drunk.  And in my drunkenness, I decided to call Bill to find out why the fuck he hadn't called me to go walking on my day off.  Because he answered the phone, I proceeded to talk massive amounts of shit; including, but not limited to telling him that Sara's a catch, Jessica is not a skanky whore, insulting his manhood and then he had better walk with me or I was never going to speak to him again.  It was top 5 moment in my shit talking Hall of Fame.

Friday I walked four miles.  Four!! Yep and I felt fan fucking tastic afterwards.  Then I went to not one evening activity, but two.  It was a pretty big day.

Today, well, today, I planned, finished Max's quilt, bought Max some friends, walked 3 miles, babysat Max and went to Target.  And I feel pretty darn good.  I'm hoping that this recent foray into normalcy will be permanent and I am on the road to being back to normal.  I haven't had a string of this much activity in two years!

I have not even had time to do extrême-sofa this week!

Max's new friends.

(They were just visiting at his house, they're going to live here.)

Lost butter

At least Earl didn't break my new butter dish. Mother fucker.

Week in Review

Wednesday:  Max comes to the last ten minutes of 6th period French.  He loves it and it was the best part of the day because I had decided that I hated French and teaching French and pretty much everything that had to do with education.  The duck abandons her month long effort to hatch non-existent eggs in a fabulous and elaborately constructed nest and emerges famished and pissed the fuck off.

Thursday: Rain and double rainbows outside my classroom.

Friday:  After a day of giving tests and mostly sitting at my desk, one of the students in 6th period said, "Ms. Thompson, you look a lot less tired today." to which I replied, "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in weeks.  Thank you."  I must look fucking exhausted all the damn time.

Saturday:  Shopping kicks my ass.  Also, I go to a house with a cat.  Party in my alveoli.

This morning:  My refrigerator door will not shut, so I use masking tape to tape it shut.  Sara asks when I will be moving to the trailerhood.

6:32PM

Halloween kicks everyone's ass.

(I'll be joining them shortly.)