Went to the doctor today

So, I hate to complain (believe it or not). And I hate to ask for help (believe it or not). But, ever since my epic walk, I've been hurting. Cry-for-my-mommy kind of hurting. Limping-on-my-way-to-the-photocopier kind of hurting. Six weeks of relentless, wake-up-in-the-night, hurts-to-stand-up, hurts-to-sit-down, hurts-to move, hurts-to-stand-still sort of pain.

The extra-large bottle of Advil I've chewed through in the last month has not helped.

Even N, when she was over, after I admitted I needed some help with the hooch, noted that she had never seen me wince with pain. Oh, I'd talked about it, but never actually shown it.

Of course, if I had stopped doing stuff, that might have helped, but it is spring, and there is yard work to do. The house might be a dump, and there is studying and knitting to do, but I will garden, dammit!

After this past weekend, when my mommy was clucking and fawning over me (she who doesn't give sympathy to anyone) I knew it was bad. I was going "ow, ow, ow!" as I eased myself down into the passenger seat of her car. Hanging onto the roof of the car as if my one arm could ease the pain of my 180-pound, five-foot-eleven inch body slowly drifting into a seat that is only about eight inches off the ground.

I made a doctor's appointment, and explained why I was there.

I didn't even finish explaining the symptoms, and the always-kind-and-delightful Dr. W was telling me that I have sciatica.

I suspected as much. Google is my friend, after all.

I now have a killer prescription for anti-inflammatories, a referral to a physiotherapist, a recommendation for a chiropractor (a former schoolmate of my doctor's) and a strong suggestion to visit my friend the massage therapist.

Apparently, this is serious shit, and it's going to take me six weeks to get better. No matter what.

That takes me to the middle of July. Man, I am pissed at my own stupidity right now. Forty minutes, waiting for the bus, would have saved me all this. Twelve weeks of pain and torture for forty minutes. That'll show me. I could have been knitting for that forty minutes.

Crazy phone conversations.

Me and Mom are sitting in the office. I'm adding stuff to her computer, and the phone rings:

Mom: Hello?

Other person: blah, blah, blah,

Mom: Well, I'm in the office with my daughter. She's doing some computer stuff for me.

Other person: ...

Mom: I only have one daughter, and she's home. I need to pay attention to her.

Other person: ...

Mom: Yes, I know.

Other person: ...

Mom: Yes, I know I am computer illiterate, but my daughter is helping me with that right now.

Me: ::leans over and speaks directly into the mouthpiece:: She knows just enough to be dangerous.

Mom: My daughter is doing that part for me right now. I will look later. I promise. ::hangs up::

Me: Who was that?

Mom: Your Uncle Screws-up-a-lot-but-has-good-intentions.

Me: Oh, that's nice. He's kind of creepy, eh?

Mom: Yeah, but he remembers everyone's birthday.

Me: That's nice. He's not a bad man, he's just made some seriously bad choices.

Mom: Yup. But he's paid me back every penny I loaned him.

Me: That's nice. ::thinks to herself: thank FSM I haven't borrowed money from my mother since I started earning more than she does. About ten years ago. Whew!"::

Next day:

Me: :: Phone rings, I pick it up:: Hello?

Other person: Hello? Is this Aunt Misstea's Mom's place"

Me: Yes, this is her daughter, Misstea. How are you, Grandma?

Other person / Grandma: Oh, you can tell it's me? I've been trying to phone your mom, and she's never home. And I love you. It was so good to see you last week.

Me: I love you too, Grandma. It was a real treat to see you too.

Grandma: You know, your mom is never home, and I can't remember anything so I worry.

Me: Well, you know that mom is busy, and that no news is good news.

Grandma: That's true, but I still get scared. I can't remember much anymore.

Me: That's OK. I'm home this weekend for mom's birthday. We had a barbecue at Big B's campsite up at (redacted) and we had pie and well, we're busy playing with the babies, and you know how time just scoots away...

Grandma: Yes, I know... but there's a new baby coming, right?

Me: :: knowing there are two babies coming:: That's right, and we are very excited about that. Would you like to talk to Mom?

Grandma: Yes.

Mom and Grandma have the exact same conversation. Except it extends to dead people that I don't know.

Math problem

Big J: How many miles is 623 km?

Me: About 400.

Dad: Let me figure it out... you need to divide by 1.61 ::gets out pen and paper::

Big J: Never mind, I'll find a calculator.

Dad: 387 or so.

Mom: Misstea said "about 400!"

Big J: :: playing with the calculator on his phone:: So I got 18 miles to the gallon. Good to know.

Me: Is that kettle going to be boiling any time soon?

It was my mom's birthday, but I got the presents

This was my kitchen at 11 pm on Friday night:

This was my kitchen at midnight:

These were the pies at 8 am Saturday morning:

The pies made it to Nodnarb via public transit and Greyhound successfully.

And were a big hit, I tell you. I had a piece (I normally don't eat baked goods) and it tasted pretty good, if I say so myself. Next time (if there is one), I'm going to add peaches.

And mom decided to drive me home. There was no arguing with her, because with me as an excuse, she got out of playing "supportive spouse" at my dad's favourite cause. We stopped at a greenhouse on the way (owned by a fellow congregant at my parent's church, don't ya know). Just to "look."

You see, last spring, while I was taking long walks exploring my neighbourhood, I saw all these amazing trees with pink and white flowers. Gorgeous. I found out that those trees were ornamental crab trees. I could talk of nothing except how much I loved those trees.

Mom bought me one. I didn't want her to, but she tells me that they spend money on my brothers, and I need to have my turn too. Fair play, equal treatment and all that. Hearing that, I let my inner twelve-year-old out and got a little greedy - eight perennial plants somehow wound up in my arms as well.

I can't wait for the weather to clear up so I can get busy planting.

Oh, and Mom bought me a spade as well. The only shovels I have are for pushing snow.

When we got back to Chez Peepee, mom inspected my garden boxes, checked out my eight (yes, 8) rosebushes and pronounced that I do indeed need a fence, but it's a pretty good house, meant just for me. She's seen it before, but wanted to reassure herself (and also me) that I'm in a pretty good spot.

In other news, my brother is participating in a quad rally that is donating the proceeds to the education trust fund established for the kids of my classmate that died. I'm going to send as big a cheque as I can afford. After this past couple days spent with my family, I'm even more aware of how lucky I really am.

This is how much I love my mom

I'm baking pies to celebrate her 60th birthday.

Wish me luck. I haven't baked anything except banana bread for ten years.

Saturn is not a planet...

it's my seventh tattoo.

When I purchased the yagon, I thought I was being clever. And efficient.

When I think I am being clever and efficient, I know something stupid and annoying is going to happen.

Back story...

About a 30 minute walk from my house is a shopping centre and several huge stores. Every once in a while (meaning, about four times a year) I walk over, stock up, and then take a taxi home. That was last weekend's plan. I was going to get stuff to build a garden box and my bedding plants.

I stopped in at Ukrainian Tire to look at "outdoor dryers" aka clotheslines to us ordinary folk, and right where all the old lady shopping carts were, and the out-of-stock clothes dryers should be, was the wagon.

I picked it up, found the resident surly, pimply-faced, sixteen-year-old to give me a price check. The price was suitable, and the lines at the checkout weren't too long, so I bought it. I tucked it under my arm, walked across the street to the liquor store (because all major stock-ups include wine) and then carried on to Lesbian Heaven, aka Home Depot. When I picked the box up after paying for the wine, I lost my balance (I'm not very steady on my feet, believe it or not) and the corner of the box scraped the inside of my arm.

Part of the office is taking up a collection to buy me a tricycle so I can pull around my yagon, and the rest are wondering what the hell I got up to on the weekend to have such a reminder.

I don't know which group makes me laugh harder.

Can we talk about how much I love my yagon? Really, it's the best $70 I've ever spent. I can't wait for the bouncer, oops I mean greeter at Supervalu tries to give me a hard time.

Baby steps

I have a sticky note on my bathroom mirror.

It says: "If it's only going to take five minutes, just do it, all ready!"

You see, I have a motivation problem. When it comes to chores, anyway. I need sticky notes to remind me to clean up after myself (though it's amazing what one can do in the hour before company comes over. Just sayin').

Today, I read that sticky note, and I was out and about doing a bunch of stuff in the yard, and really, what was more thing?

So I changed the burned-out light bulb over my front door. It burned out in... oh... December? I'm really not sure.

And I washed the glass too. It was pretty gross.