A Thought to start out the new year:
Why don't "empty" calories weigh less?
(No scientific answers, please. We no likey science here.)
Have a SAFE and FUN night!!
In my garden there is a large place for sentiment. My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams. The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful. ~Abram L. Urban
Honestly, I can't believe I've stuck with it this long.
So THANK YOU for being a friend. In a totally Golden Girls sorta way.
Here's to another year of bitching, soap box ranting, and random edjumacating.
And many mooooooooore.
The song "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake is probably as cheezy of a song as you could pick for a "Life Soundrack." But if I were to sit down and figure out a soundtrack to my life, that song would pop up several times.
Every time I made a change in my life, I'd get in my car and turn on the radio and Whitesnake would be playing, "I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time. So here I go again."
It seemed so routine. I felt like it was a sign from God to keep me strong. I know, "Sign from God? On the radio? Take it easy, crazy lady!" That's not the point.
I had it down. I knew when my time somewhere was up. When the tension builds between you and the friend you're staying with or you find a piece of paper in your boyfriend's wallet that says Hot Blond - 612-555-9008, you pretty much know you need to be moving on. I could have everything I owned - anywhere I was staying - in my trunk in under twenty minutes. Then I'd hop in to take off and that song would play. And for some reason, it always made me feel better, like everything was going to be okay. Whether I'd left a cheating boyfriend, lost a friend in an argument or had another blowout with my mom - I knew I would be okay. Even when I didn't have anywhere to go, I knew I would be okay.
I guess that's why being on my own never scared me much. I'd left home at 17 out of what I saw as a necessity. My life after that - for four years - was a whirlwind of safe havens, crack houses and mirages of home. I did what was necessary to take care of myself and never really saw a reason to be afraid. Covering myself with my clothes so I could sleep in the backseat of my car, sleeping on disgusting carpet - whatever it took, I had the strength to get through it. I just always felt like the two people I trusted the most - God and myself - were on top of everything.
So while I do suppose I owe Whitesnake a good amount of gratitude for helping me through all those crazy years of my youth, I have a message for them:
You wrote the song that kept me strong through every bad boyfriend, ill-fated friendship, job loss and family fued of my young adult life. Could you please write one for me now? Something rockin' with good guitar riffs and a catchy chorus about working too much and needing a vacation?
Thanks! Love you!
Forever Your Fan,
Amy of the Butrfly Garden (My Official Title)
Tonight we light a candle for Isabella Grace.
And for all the other babies who left the world too soon.
Hi, there! Look at you, all dolled up your paper gown! You look cold, dear. Why don’t you hop up on that table and I’ll get your blood pressure taken.
You seem nervous…everything okay?
What’s that? Bad experiences here at the OB/*GYN office, huh? We get a lot like you. A lot.
So many, in fact, we started to document it. Just look at them all (We're also documenting them at Brillig's place, don't forget to add your link there as well!):
**UPDATED 11-20-07 - If you're a damn pervert looking for porn, look elsewhere you sick bastard. Thank you.**
The story that started this whole gynecological fest was about my old doctor, Dr. H. I thought it was only fair that I talk about him again.
When I got pregnant, it was a … surprise. I was at a time in my life where I was just starting to live a responsible life - working, taking care of a family. But I had yet to get myself on a regular schedule with my physical exams. And yes…even my gynecologist visit. I still went every year, it was just randomly done in response to my mom’s nagging. Usually because she wanted me to make appointments for both of us. So we could go together! (So, you’re starting to see how this whole experience has been for me, right?)
That led to me calling every professional clinic in the area of a certain suburb asking if they had a female doctor named Chris. Because that’s all I knew about ‘my‘ doctor.
So, back to me getting pregnant. I thought it was time I started seeing, you know, ONE doctor. Maybe learn his name, get to know him a bit. So I looked at the pictures on the internet and whittled down my selections.
“She looks like a beeee-otch!” (She did, like the bad lady in Austin Powers!)
“He looks too old.”
“Hey, Dr. H, huh? He looks like a nice guy. Good looking, but still too old for me. That’s my doctor.”
Turns out, that is NOT the best way to pick your doctor. Hmph.
Dr. H was a nice guy. And he was good looking but too old for me. But he was also very timid when it came to talking about my lady parts. I would like that in a regular guy, but not my gynecologist. After all, it IS his job.
When he did my b*reast exam, if I looked down, he looked away.
He stammered and blushed any time he had to say ‘b*reast’ or ‘v*agina.’ And, of course, anything associated with the br*east or v*agina.
And I mentioned before how chronically late he was, but just to document it again: Standard hour wait in the waiting room and half hour wait in the exam room. An hour and a half. Of just waiting.
But all these flaws were just minor things. Crap, it’s not like I’m marrying the guy, right? He’s just gotta keep an eye on my goods for almost a year.
That all changed the day he called me fat.
I must have been eight months along. I knew I was putting on weight. I may not have understood the way calories worked exactly, but I knew eating brownies, marshmallows and chocolate syrup on chocolate ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery wasn’t exactly keeping me slim. But, HELLO? I was PREGNANT! That’s what my family said! “Honey! You’re NOT fat - you’re PREGNANT!”
Yet here this man, who asked me about my sexual partners in a ‘round about way’ was flat out telling me, “You’re gaining weight too fast, you need to watch what you eat and start walking more.”
“Well, I TRY to walk, but it’s been a hundred degrees outside! That can’t be good for the baby!” I pleaded. How the hell could he be telling me to this??
“Then try walking at night.”
“At NIGHT? That’s not safe!”
“Sure it is.” He said smugly.
“Where do you live? Edina??? Because where I live, it is NOT safe for a hugely pregnant woman to go walking by herself late at night!” And it wasn’t.
I went home that night more pissed than I ever had been at a doctor. I had doctors tell me I was overweight before. (I lived with my grandparents for a while when I was younger. They liked to feed me.) But I had never had one do it with so much arrogance.
I kept him on as my obstetrician until the end of my pregnancy with my 6 week exam. But ONLY because I loved his nurse and she knew a lot about me.
But after the boob incident, that sucker was outta there.
VirtualSprite said of male ob/gyns, “My feeling, if you don't have the parts, you don't have an opinion.”
And I couldn’t agree more. My new doctor is a woman.
Back to the drawing board.
The lighthouse also had a captain's cabin from a boat that had shipwrecked near here. (Thus, requiring the construction of a lighthouse).
There were so many cool things to play with inside! We even took turns manning the ship.
I am very proud to have received it. I haven't been doing much lately and that's been making me kind of feel bad. I naturally want to throw out an excuse like, "I've been so busy" or "we're really broke." But that goes against my main belief about charity - which is that we all have something to give. I can make time and I will.
However, I also believe that being a good philanthropist means knowing your stuff. It means not falling for the lies of people who prey on helpful souls. Even in the wake of tragedy, there are always people looking to make a sucker out of a good, honest person.
That's why it is so important that charities' volunteers know their stuff as well.
When I was home last week, I was very busy
on the computer cleaning the house when the phone rang.
I looked at the caller ID:
I thought it might be the bill collection place that calls here a couple times a week and leaves messages. I’m pretty sure they’re calling for the guy who used to have our number and wanted to tell them to QUIT CALLING, so I answered the phone.
“Hi Ms. H. This is _____ calling on behalf of police officers in the Minneapolis area. Blah blah blah for two full minutes I can’t let you get a word in or you’ll tell me no so I’m just going to keep talking and not even use punctuation because that would give you the opportunity to shoot me down Our tax refundable donations start at just twenty five dollars but you can be a Gold donor for only thirty so how much may I put you down for Ms. H?”
“Do you have a website?”
“Uh. Um. Well. I…don’ t know what it is.”
“Really? Well, why don’t you call me back when you have that information, okay?”
“Well, ma’am, we can take your donation right over the phone.”
“So…you are calling me and telling me that you are Someone, collecting for Something and I’m just supposed to take your word for it and give you my credit card number - even though you don’t even know the website of the company you are representing?”
“Well, it’s just that I’m talking to YOU right now and…I can get someone to verify this for you…”
“You can get someone else there with you to tell me what you just told me? Impressive.”
“Well, they’re my supervisor…”
“Honey, I am BUSY. Why don’t you get that information and give me a call back when you have it, okay?”
“That sounds fair, ma’am. Thank you.”
Asking for donations is a lot like selling things. Really, you are selling your organization. I wouldn’t buy something from someone who didn’t have any information on their product. I also don’t buy things from telemarketers. Charities need to figure some of these things out if they plan to *sell themselves* to the future generations. Because we're smart, suspicious and critical.
And calling me "ma’am" repeatedly just makes me mad.