What happens when you take nighttime cold meds before work?

...You get one very blurry, bleary, confused me. Apparently I don't function well with some cold medicines, and have noted such to myself for future reference.

First I "forgot" how to back out of my garage in such a way as to avoid hitting the garbage can with my passenger side mirror (I tried four times to back out without hitting the damn thing, while hubby patiently waited. I finally gave him a look which said 'get that effing can out of my way NOW,' which he did). Later, I accidentally faxed a recipe for "Super-Crunchy 'Fried' Chicken" to a very important client instead of exhibits to a letter. After that (yes, unfortunately, there is more), I was faxing another letter to a list of clients with a 5-page attachment. No problem, but the attachment was backwards (i.e. pg. 5, 4, 3, etc.) so I re-sent the entire package with the attachment in proper numerical order. Great - until I realized that that letter shouldn't have had an attachment at all!

So now I'm faced with the knowledge that I'm a moron, at least for a day. But no worries - I'm in good company.



I feel like hell and look worse. What's more - I just don't have time to be sick. No mom does. With that, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my two lovely children for this godawful virus. I'm so proud that you're sharing!

On the plus side, the boss is gone until next week. I feel like hell, but I'm relaxed and happy.

I'm sad but I'm laughing
I'm brave but I'm chicken shit
I'm sick but I'm pretty, baby
And what it all boils down to
Is that no one's really got it figured out just yet
But I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing the piano

One Hand In My Pocket - Alanis Morissette

Running on empty

I need my tunes for almost everything. I've always said MY tunes, MY music, though I'm not sure why. I guess that's my short 'n simple for "my favorite songs." I have so many favorites. I have songs I listen to for any given reason/time. At a very young age I would often retreat to my room to "listen to my music." Back then it was a huge stack of 45s from my mom's teen years - The Beatles; The Byrds; The Zombies; Elvis; Four Tops; The Beach Boys; The Rolling Stones - you get the picture. I was the only kid I knew who could sing word-for-word all the songs our parents had listened to AND all of the current pop tunes. To this day I'm a sort of walking jukebox, with thousands of song lyrics in my head.

When I'm running I really need music. The music keeps me from focusing on my body - my knees - my breathing - the pain. The music (I swear) makes the endorphin rush faster and stronger, and some songs seem to actually cause the rush. I save those songs for my omigodicantdoit times.

Yesterday, however, I was unable to find my ipod. I looked everywhere for it: the kitchen, where I usually leave it; my car; my purse (three times), to no avail. Because I really try to get out the door by 5:00 so I'm running when there are plenty of people out and when it's still daylight, and because it was already 5:30 I decided to just go. There would be no music. I knew it would suck.

And suck it did. I felt like I couldn't get my pace down; I am so used to pacing my steps by the beat of the music that I was clumsy and uncoordinated (or so it seemed). By the time I had run only a mile my breathing was too loud and too fast. I was sure I'd never make the whole run.

And so I resorted to my old tried-and-true coping mechanisms: counting and singing. "One, two, running shoes; three, four, push for more; five, six, kick some bricks (ok, so that one sucked, but in a split second it was all I could come up with that rhymed); seven, eight, lay them straight (had to continue with the bricks scenario, didn't I?); nine, ten I will win..." And my rule to myself was that the lyrics could not repeat. After about 10 such prose-filled songs I ran out of things that rhymed and it stopped helping me, so I switched to just counting.

I would have to say that counting has been my safety net, my comfort when all else fails, since I was a tot, and has only been reinforced. While being anesthetised for a surgery, it's common practice to have the patient count - usually backward from 10, with the idea that you never reach 1. And what about in the military? Left, right, leftrightleft is really another way of counting, of pacing. Isn't it? And music - music is counting too - "whole notes are 4 counts; half notes are 2 counts; quarter notes are 1 count; etc.) See, mom, I did pay attention in piano lessons! Dance relies on counting...

Counting helped me during labor. I counted through the hard pains and it helped me get through it. I should inject here that "hard pains" doesn't quite express the pain of hard labor, so for all who have not yet given birth naturally (meaning with NO pain killers whatever), "easy pains" are actually very painful. Counting works for me because I know that a number is associated with my destination or goal - my goal or destination is a number; I can count, therefore I can do it. There is an end point. Yes, I do realize that numbers are infinite.....

Sometimes when I'm walking alone for any distance - to pick up lunch for myself, for instance, I count my steps. I rarely count past 100, choosing most times to simply start over after 100. I dunno why. One might think I'm a teeny tiny bit OCD, and one might be correct. As long as no one knows that I count my steps to the store then I'm likely still considered "normal," not that "normal" is a good thing in my mind....

And really, truly, honestly, the whole world can be broken down into numbers - mathematics. Great concept for engineering folks who love that sort of thing (dad and mensa-boy in my family), but what about everyone else?

Counting works....It will get me to my destination - to my goals.

And time doesn’t wait for me, it keeps on rollin'
There's a long road
I've gotta stay in time with
I've got to keep on chasin' that dream,
though I may never find it
I'm always just behind it.

Long Time - Boston

Rapid Eye Movement

Another vivid dream....

This morning I awoke with my dream trailing into this world; I was still weepy.

I had just been dreaming about someone I haven't thought about in years - other than for a very brief period this past year as I was searching for him to let him know about our upcoming 20 year high school reunion. I was on the reunion committee and his name was on my alphabetical list of names to call. I was unable to locate him, so I gave up.

I'll call him Bill. In my dreamworld I had just learned that Bill had recently passed away (cause unknown to me now) and had left a sort of diary, with the last entry dated 10/28. [No clue how I remember the date so clearly] I no longer recall if the year was 2007, but I remember feeling that it was very recent, so it must have been. That particular entry referenced me in part, and now the exact wording is hazy, but I remember the words "like the unhappiness in 'AtlantaMom's' life."

I remember that I was crying, but I don't remember why, and I awoke still feeling weepy and upset.

I first met Bill in 6th grade at a science fair. Our science projects had each won ribbons at our respective elementary schools, so we traveled with others who had received ribbons to a regional science fair. I remember that his table was set up near mine and that we chatted throughout most of the day.

The following year he was transferred to my jr. high and we continued at the same jr. high school and then high school, sharing classes from time to time. We were always friendly and I always liked him a lot, but we didn't share the same group of friends in high school.

We met up again in college, as we attended the same large state university. From time to time we would run into one another and I was always pleasantly surprised to see him again. Until one particular night....

The last time we ran into one another at the university, I was invited to a party at his apartment. He had three roommates and I was aquaintances with them all. It was to be a big get-together with tons of free beer and snacks. In college the words "free drinks" is akin to the words "You've just won the lottery!" Everyone met up the apartment and played drinking games for hours. Great music was blaring, people were laughing and yelling and having a great time. At some point I excused myself to use the restroom, after someone pointed me toward the nearest one.

While I was in the restroom, someone began to beat on the bathroom door. "Just a second," I remember saying. No sooner had I said those words than the door began to open (I remember the lock was funny on that door and it didn't quite work). It was Bill, and he was trying to come in. With all my strength I was trying to hold the door shut with my foot while I tried to get my jeans up as quickly as I could. I remember feeling angry that he wouldn't wait just a goddamned minute for me to finish. I let the door open as I zipped, and as I walked into the bedroom I began to chastise him for trying to come in on me. I was headed angrily toward the bedroom door, which was shut. As I reached for the knob he grabbed me from behind. I noted then that the door was locked. He suddenly pushed me backward onto the bed, and was on top of me pinning me down.

Now my feelings were mixed: anger, surprise, shock and fear. What was he doing? This was Bill! I had known Bill since we were kids!

He wouldn't let me up, and by the blank look on his face I could see where this was going. I knew that he was not planning on stopping. Now I was very afraid - and in shock.

I started to scream at the top of my lungs. "BILL! GET OFF ME!" over and over. The music on the other side of the door was very loud, and I remember thinking that no one would ever hear me, and since everyone was drunk no one would miss me or him. But somehow someone heard me. The door suddenly flew open, slamming into the wall - I think it was kicked in - and there stood one of his roommates. I don't remember what anyone said, but I think I was able to utter a quick "thanks" before I ran out without looking back. I got my things and left right then.

I didn't see or speak to Bill again for 7 years or so - not until our 10 year high school reunion. At the reunion he kept following me around until I finally told him I was still angry with him for what had happened and he played dumb. I reminded him that he had attacked me and he denied it. I told him to go away and leave me alone, and he did.

I never saw Bill again or heard from him again. I did hear, through the grapevine, that he had become a police officer. Perfect.

The question is this: Why did I dream about Bill? What did that dream mean? What was I crying about?

In graduate school we discussed dream interpretation only for a short while, as my professor put very little stock in it. It was during our Sigmund Freud phase when we entertained such notions, and for entertainment purposes only we each offered some dream content for analysis by the class. I took away very little from that portion of the class, except that my offering of "I dreamt my teeth were falling out" meant that I was having some "loss of control" issues in my life at that time. Having had that same dream many times, I must point out that those were indeed times in which my life was out of control. Freud could have been onto something with his dream interpretation stuff.

Many times I've lied - Many times I've listened
Many times I've wondered how much there is to know.
Many dreams come true and some have silver linings
I live for my dream and a pocketful of gold.
Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing
Many many men can't see the open road.

Over The Hills And Far Away - Led Zeppelin


I wonder if some part of my subconcious is trying to make sense of things long repressed. Maybe I'm finally at a point in my life where those parts of me feel safe enough to break through to and resolve the big nasties I've ignored for so long. Or maybe I'm dying of cancer and the part of me that knows that is trying to resolve everything and tie up loose ends. Or maybe my dream was a vision, and Bill is repenting for the pain he caused me those long years ago. Or maybe this is what happens as we age. Or maybe......Ahh, I could speculate 'till I'm blue in the face, and it would get me no closer to the answer. Maybe there is no answer.

I would be remiss if I didn't admit that I feel a sort of benign interest in what my next dream(s) will reveal - about my past, present or future.

Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace,
sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relay,
the story was quite clear

All I see turns to brown,
as the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand,
as I scan this wasted land
Trying to find,
trying to find where I've been.

Kashmir - Led Zeppelin

Dreams

I awoke this morning in the dream-wakefullness state that sometimes happens after a very clear, vivid dream when the dream continues, though hazy, but awareness and realization have begun to creep in.

I awoke repeating the name of the clinic where I once worked as a substance abuse therapist, the private methadone clinic. The name of the clinic was actually initials, and none of the counselors who worked there ever knew what those initials stood for. The closest explanation I ever got for them was that the building/company had been incorporated at one time and when ownership changed, the initials remained. Ok, so was it initials of people? There was never a time to push harder for more information. I remember reaching for anything that would make sense.

Maybe my slow leak has reached other pockets of crap, long repressed.

What a time that was. What a job!

My son was just a baby at the time, so it was about 8.5 years ago when my daily scrutiny of the classifieds finally paid off. I don't recall the exact ad, but I do remember that it was teeny and said very little. It read something like "Drug counselors needed. Call 555-555-5555." I did. And I got an interview. I was told to bring my resume and was given the address. I was so excited.

I had searched in vain for a job in my field for six months! Apparently counseling jobs in the substance abuse field are few and far between in Georgia...

When I arrived, I walked through the door and was instantly confused. Was I in the right place? It didn't look like any doctor's office or therapist's office I had ever seen before. People would walk through the door and line up behind one another, with the line leading to another room which I was unable to see from my vantage point. There was a tiny seating area with a couch and two chairs and a coffee table. A strange-looking woman with a tiny dog was seated at a Queen Anne-style desk. She said she would let the doctor know I was here and that I could wait on the couch. Dana was her name, she said. She told me the Yorkie's name, but I can't quite call that name up. Ankle-biter works for me. Dana, as it turned out, had some odd tics, tics that one could see (with her neck and head) and tics that one could hear (she sounded exactly like a dolphin to me, with very audible clicks and rattles).

In a snap judgment I decided that Dana was a receptionist with serious side effects from drugs, which was how she had been recruited for the job. I couldn't have been more wrong.

From time to time I noticed a very large (tall and obese) person walking to and fro. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, as the hair was cut in a bowl shape. The person wore no makeup, sweat pants, a long sleeved University of Georgia tee-shirt and tennis shoes, untied (presumably because the fat feet crammed inside the shoes and spilling out over the top of them would cause the shoes to explode if they had been tied). To give an idea of the person's facial features and hair, I would have to say that the closest comparison would be Bruce Jenner, but a very fat and very tall Bruce Jenner. This person walked with a purpose, so I guessed he/she was a counselor. I was aghast, however, at the appearance. What sort of work ethic was that? The person seemed to have an oddly shaped chest, giving the impression of either huge, saggy breasts or .... well, huge, saggy man boobs.

I was called to the back and interviewed by, as it turned out, the nurse. Nurse Goochy, as in "goochy goochy goo." She looked over my curriculum vitae and said that I couldn't work there because the federal rules which governed methadone clinics required that each person working there have at least a full year of experience. But I was fresh out of school! My face fell and my heart sunk. "You have beautiful eyes," she said, out of the blue. [I'm not sure why I remember that....it's strange how the mind works].

She ushered me down the short hall toward "Dr. Blunt's office," past a very official but tiny room. I saw an examination table, stainless steel counter and sink, and a few other clinic-type items. The doctor's office was tiny, with a large, disorganized desk, a computer server to the left of the desk on a black metal shelf, and some photographs. I felt nervous. Would he be nice? Would he say I couldn't work there because of my lack of experience?

I sat for what felt like an eternity, though it was likely only 5 minutes or so. The fat Bruce Jenner walked in. I don't think I breathed for a few minutes. I was not expecting THIS person to be Dr. Blunt. What kind of doctor walks around dressed like that?? Where was his white lab coat? He shook my hand as he was sitting down - a huge, meaty, sweaty hand. "I'm doctor Blunt," he said, in a strange voice. For a man that large I expected an equally large and deep voice. His voice was, in fact, affected somehow, not quite effeminate, but definitely not masculine either.

After a brief discussion about my vitae and training and very little experience, he shook his head as he explained as Nurse Goochy had, "We need a year of experience to comply with the guidelines." With nothing to lose at this point I raised my voice and said defiantly, "Well if no one will give me a job, how can I get EXPERIENCE? I want this job and I would be good at it." And with that, he stood up, which was my que to stand and follow him out - out the door and out of a job. Instead, he said, "Well let's show you around first."

And then I knew that I had won him over and that I would indeed have this job - the job of my dreams. He explained that the salary was "only $26,000," to which I eagerly nodded. I was fresh out of graduate school with two babies - $26,000 seemed like a fortune to me at that moment, and besides, this was MY DREAM JOB....

I can't recall how or exactly when I learned this, but I soon learned that he, that is Dr. Blunt, was a SHE. Yes, folks, you heard right. Courtesy of a sex change at some unknown time prior to my meeting her, he became a she. I also learned that she (I was never really comfortable calling him a her) had been a naval pilot and was a psychiatrist. Oh - and Dana the receptionist? She was the doctor's "partner" and was a counselor. Dr. Blunt was a man and became a woman and now called herself a lesbian. It just got better and better....You can't make this shit up....

She also had a fuse the size of an amoeba. She would often violently spew at any and everyone - cursing at us all until we quivvered in fear. Some were actually reduced to tears during staff meetings. And the oddly shaped chest? It was oddly shaped because she had ginormous breasts which she loved to let hang free. I'm pretty sure they reached her waist. I guess wearing a bra after some 30-40 years of not wearing one never did catch on - even though there was a clear and obvious need for one. I'm attributing all of this to hormone therapy, which he/she/it must have been taking to achieve womanhood - as if a few pills and surgery could create a complete woman out of a man.

And oh, but I have barely scratched the surface of that job and those memories.

Pppfffffffffffffffffftttttttttttttttttttttttt

Yes, it's leaking, and it feels good.

Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd but please tell me who I am
I said now watch what you say
or they'll be calling you a radical, a liberal, a fanatical,
criminal.
Now won't you sign up your name,
we'd like to feel you're acceptable,
respectable, presentable, a vegetable.....

The Logical Song - Supertramp

*names have been changed*

Pfffffffffffffffffttttttttttttttttttt

Pfffffttttt. The combination of my mental tirade yesterday and biting my tongue one too many times has created a slow leak. I can almost picture the nasty little trail I'm leaving behind me. Already I feel lighter. I look forward to the day when it has all seeped out, "it" being the crap, the "bad gunky," as Stephen King puts it in Lisey's Story. Yes, one day I'll be positively buoyant!

Until then I'll continue as I am - an effing hypocrite. I have a deep bag I go to from time to time, and reach into it for the appropriate advice. "Don't sweat the small stuff" is one of my favorite sayings. And my references to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Every child can related to that one. The girl looked everywhere for happiness, only to find that she had always had the power.... Oh, yes, I am chock full of advice for anyone who will listen -- my husband, kids, friends, family. But for myself.... Well I am sometimes sure that I'm beyond help; I am damaged goods. I've been glued and stitched and repaired so many times that I hardly know what's me anymore. The beautiful and very valuable Meissen loses its value the very first time it's broken and repaired, even if the naked eye can't detect the superglue, and even if the cracks are invisible. The treasure is such only while in pristine condition. Once that's lost it's just pretty trash. But no one else has to know that. It'll be my little secret. I'll take it to my grave.

And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed
Just to get it all out, what's in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning and I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs,
WHAT’S GOING ON

What's Going On - 4 Non Blondes

2 days of no running has really hurt. My knees are a mess. I really don't get it. My brain can't grasp why I can run 2 days in a row without a single problem, but on the third suddenly I develop waterballoon knees. I am able to walk without pain today, and my right knee looks completely normal. The left is still a tad squishy, especially at the top, but ever so much better.

I miss my drug - my runner's high.

Last night my husband and I played with the Wii. Oh, how we love that game system! We are both highly competitive, which makes for some real fun and plenty of cursing. We usually run through all the sports games except the boxing. Since the system scores each player and keeps tabs (pushing each to achieve "pro" status), it's all the more exciting. Thankfully, the gaming systems are all set up in the basement and the bedrooms are a full two floors above that, so the kids can't hear us down there playing. It's noteworthy that the games are in the basement, away from sensitive ears because we tend to get caught up in the game and shout such expletives as "COCK SUCKER!" or "SHIT!" (you get the idea.)

Bowling was our first love, and I used to win every time. At some point, however, hubby figured it out and started kicking bootay. He figured out how to score a strike 3/4 of the time. It really burns my hide! I so hate to lose. He in fact beats me at least as much as I beat him at all of the games except golf.

That knowledge is truly a gem, given the fact that he has played golf in real life since he was a young boy, and is good at it. I, on the other hand, stick to goofy golf. In my mind the only fun or pleasant part of a real golf course is driving around the cart and drinking tons of beer. Those holes are much more fun and interesting with a nice buzz. Wii golf, though, is aparently my forte, and i can par like a pro.

Tennis is a tough one. Each player has two "mii"s on his/her team, hitting the ball back (or missing it, whatever the case may be). We were both breathing hard and sweating during the tennis matches. We played best of 5 games twice. We each won a game.

And then there is baseball. With two players, one "pitches" while the other "bats." No small feat when you're doing both with a "wiimote." But last night the planets must have been in allignment, because I was kicking some serious wii ass.

All told, I beat him in 4 out of the 5 games we played: bowling, golf, 1 of 2 tennis games and baseball. Maybe some of the crap I started leaking yesterday has lightened my load. That's a good thing. No, that's a great thing.

While in these days of quiet desperation
As I wander through the world in which I live
I search everywhere for some new inspiration
But it's more than cold reality can give
If I need a cause for celebration
Or a comfort I can use to ease my mind
I rely on my imagination
And I dream of an imaginary time

Everybody Has a Dream - Billy Joel

Take this job and shove it!

Elephantiasis of the Knees

Eww and ouch.

I haven't a clue as to why this happens. I went out for my run, taking the old familiar route because I wasn't able to get to my run before 5 (because I had to pick the dog up from daycare. Yes, really. www.dogdaysatlanta.com). With the new route I must be more careful about the time of day I run, so that route was scrapped for yesterday. Off I went, pleased to be running but cold and a bit agitated at having to run later.

I have re-run the route in my head and cannot find anything about yesterday's run that was out of the ordinary, but my knees tell a very different story. I tried to take a picture with my phone to better illustrate the enormity of my left knee, but the puny megapixels in the camera make the shot seem grainy and I'm unable to get a proper angle. If I'm able to snap a decent one later I'll post it and revise my blog.

The question I need answered is why. Why does this happen on some days and not on others? It makes no sense to me.

Now, to be clear about my body's baseline for beginning running I should take a moment to jot down what the poor bod has gone through. I should also probably admit, at least to myself, that I expected major joint problems in my life, though I expected them much later - when I'm OLD. 38 is NOT old, gawddammit!

A quick 'n dirty of my body's physical past: (1) ballet ongoing from age 3-17, including pointe from age 11; (2) soccer for a couple of years; (3) gymnastics for a year; (4) track for a year (5) aerobics age 18-23; I taught aerobics for a few years in this time frame; (6) after doing nothing for about 3-4 years I returned to step aerobics to lose 2nd baby weight and began teaching again and kept that up for 2 years; (7) Taekwondo 4.5 years; (8) nothing for 3-4 years and then began karate and did that for one year until a partial rotator cuff tear and finally (9) running.

It's likely that the 14 years of dance was my downfall, followed by the aerobics and martial arts, all of which put undue stress on feet, muscles, joints, etc. It's funny that sports are encouraged at such a young age, with no one ever mentioning the fact that if you stick with a sport seriously for any length of time and suffer injuries (which one cannot escape if training for years and years), then the body will indeed pay for that later; assuming, of course, that the injuries are not serious enough to halt the sport completely at the time.

I suppose that if we're told at age 3 or 4 that we have an affinity for x or y sport and must continue to work hard and train constantly, but "later, when you're a mommy you might have trouble walking sometimes because your knees will hurt so much and your back and neck will probably bother you a lot too," then we might not continue. I'm not sure if I would have forged ahead or not. Obviously at age 3-4 I was unable to make such decisions and those were made for me. But later I was a semi-pro ballerina (read: trained all the time, part of a ballet company, tickets to performances were expensive, dancers got paid ZERO) and at that time it was all I cared about. I had dreams of going to NY to continue and move forward. Alas, the mother and father units needed more control over me than that - and neither was willing to cough up the dough that would have been required for such - so they sent me to one of the state universities and chose my major for me. Hint: it wasn't dance.

Good god can I go off on a tangent or what?! And all that was just to get around to admitting that going into this running gig I was already damaged goods. I suppose I was trying to explain myself to the 4 people who actually READ my ramblings.....

Note to self: go off on work tangent tomorrow. Key words for tomorrow's work tangent: sexual harrassment, arrogance, disrespectfulness, moodiness, racist, sexist, god complex.....and much much more!