self-aware

I am a bitch.

That's why nobody can stand to be around me. Well, maybe Frank, and for limited exposures, Jolie. The trick, then, is to grow a thicker skin so I don't care about the aloneness bitchy brings.

So far, but not really

A steroid. The latest medication to come my way is a mineralcorticoid:

Fludrocortisone, a corticosteroid, is used to help control the amount of sodium and fluids in your body. It is used to treat Addison's disease and syndromes where excessive amounts of sodium are lost in the urine.

I'm not too sure about this. The list of possible side effects is long. Most important, though, is it causes weight gain.

So much for the 25 pounds I lost since December. I still had another 15 pounds to go until I was only "seriously overweight" and not obese. How will I achieve my goal of 104 pounds if I have to take this medication?

The doctor prescribed it because she feels it will help my adrenal insufficiency and eventually cure my deep fatigue. It sounded benign when she described it, but having looked it up, I'm not convinced.

On a similar note, I've started having ophthalmic migraines again, at least once a week. It started before the new medication. It's a form of vasospasm. Hmmm. Isn't that what my chest pain was supposed to be? Of course, the asshole cardiologist (in lieu of an actual exam), said that I'm just mentally ill and my vasospasms are an attention-seeking issue.

So, if I drop dead from a stroke, I'll be sure to have Frank let you and the cardiologist know.

bored, bored bored bored, bored...

I love the Fourth of July

I love my country. I love Fourth of July. Living in Chile for a year under the Pinochet regime cemented this for me; working with refugees continues to remind me how fortunate I am to live where I do.

Living where I do. I miss the big celebrations of the East Coast. I spent my evening watching A Capitol Fourth on PBS and the Boston Pops Fireworks Spectacular on CBS.

John Philip Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever may be the theme of July Fourth celebrations across the nation, but it is the victorious and explosive nature of the 1812 Overture that really captures the spirit of the day.

When the Capitol Fourth program came to a stirring rendition of the 1812 Overture, I was instantly reminded of the summer of 1994, when I was living alone in the Washington, DC area. The great thing about DC is that it doesn't suck to be alone there. There's always something interesting to do, regardless.

Every year in mid-August, one of the military bands stages a concert on the Mall. The big finale is the 1812 Overture. When I first found out about this, I marked the date on my calendar and prepared for a rendition of the piece unlike any I had ever heard.

Felt.

It was a hot but clear evening on the Mall, and as I made my way toward the Washington Monument, I noticed two huge military cannons on a street corner inside the park. I was still well over a block away from the concert performance area. The cannon was surrounded by a makeshift bunker of large sandbags. Soldiers in full fatigues were checking over the cannon.

I got to the ampitheater, spread out my blanket on the somewhat crispy grass and waited for the concert to start. I overheard someone say there were two canons on two separate corners, a quarter-mile apart. I wondered how we'd really hear them at the appropriate place in the music.

My concerns were unfounded. As the music swelled and the chorus let forth a beautiful vocal rise, the first canon went off, precisely when it needed to. The ground below me vibrated and rumbled as if I were sitting atop the Metro. Shortly after, the orchestra, truly fully emotionally involved in one of Tchaikovsky's master works, hit the next notes and BOOMBOOM, two cannons fired and the ground shook so hard, I was sure there was an earthquake in the heart of DC.

It was phenomenal. I salute the person who had the inspiration to haul large military ordnance onto the Mall as an accompaniment to an orchestral work. If you're gonna use a cannon in your arrangement, seriously, use a cannon. It's so worth it.

I want it but I sure don't need it

Droid. I want a Droid. Not the robotic kind that can be helpful good, bad, or flat-out evil as presented by our friends at Lucasfilm Ltd., but the kind that my cell phone company, Verizon, keeps trying to use as a tool of seduction.

Gadgets thrill me. Except for a distinct lack of cash, I'd be a technology early adopter again and again. Cable TV, interactive services, and the Internet were made with people like me in mind. As were cell phones (I've had one since 1991--yes, almost 20 years), recording devices, cameras, cameras that do cool things, regular phones that do cool things, Bluetooth, iPods, digital photo frames, wireless speakers, satellite radio, and whatever the next cool thing is that tickles my fancy.

Right now, it's anything Droid. I lust. I stare. I just don't need it--and on so many levels.

My phone is over two years old (I still have my 1991 phone, by the way, as well as every cell phone I have owned since, accessories included). I bought it while I was deep in the throes of shingles, and the memory of quite literally sweating out the wait for a sales helper at the Verizon store still makes my T4 dorsal root ganglion twitch. At the time, my phone was a slick, state-of-the art piece of technology wrapped in a stainless steel shell and it gave me goosebumps. Now, I wonder, have we just become too familiar?

The Droid is sexy. It's clever and smart and fun and all around the perfect date. Of course, I said that about my current phone when I bought it (and blogged about it--just look back in March 2008). There is absolutley nothing wrong with my phone that buying a new battery wouldn't cure. The truth is, I rarely use my phone. My husband and I have 400 shared mintes per month, and it's a rare occurrence, indeed, if we use 90 of them between us. That includes my attempts to check email and Facebook during boring meetings. I've lost the will to talk to people on the phone, but having the Internet and Apps in my hand is like giving a drunk the keys to the liquor store.

Still, a Droid would cost me $200, plus I'd have to jack up my monthly Verizon bill another $30, at least, just to meet Verizon's crack-dealer demands for this product.

My phone is great. The sound quality is outstanding--and that's the main reason I bought it. In fact, having a phone when I need one is the whole reason I got a cell phone in 1991 and the reason I have one now. A phone with the acoustics of a styrofoam cup would be missing the point. Sure, it may be turned off most of the time, and I forget to check for messages, but it's there when I need it, and when I need it, it's a reliable phone with excellent audio qualities.

I have no idea what the Droid sounds like. Right now, I'm all about its brains and beauty. And the internet. And Apps.

I am so shallow. I am so tempeted by the fruit of another...



Landscaping. Jeep tires. Sofa. Shoes with good arch support. Eye doctor. Yeah, yeah.

Yummy

Lately, I am madly in love with MorningStar spipcy black bean burgers. They're delicious. I buy them at Costco becuase it's a better value, a larger quantity, and a bigger patty.

They're good with a slice of cheddar cheese and regular burger condiments, but for best results, use Monterrey Jack cheese, a slice of avocado, and a little salsa. Bun optional.

Fabulous!

The vlaue of one's commitment

A random thought. Not so random, actually, but top of mind.

• Responsible
• Reliable.
• Consistent.
• Dependable.
• Committed.

When I commit to something, I follow through. I come to work every day, even on the days when that is a terrible struggle. If I say I'm going to be somewhere or do something, I do it.

Lately, I'm in the midst of unreliable people who pay lipservice to their commitments but their promises only have staying power until something more interesting presents itself.

There are priorities, sure, but I'm not talking about the last-minute emergency or once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity. I'm talking about people who are most committed to what interests them in the moment.

Maybe it isn't even the lack of dependability or reliability that has me feeling so resentful. I think it's that I am surrounded by people who think it is perfectly OK to bail out on any plan, any commitment, any promise--and to do it at any time unapologetically.

Is this who we've become as a culture, or have I just been trying too hard to maintain my integrity all these years?

treading water

Contrary to appearances, May has not disappeared or gone underground. In fact, her head is packed full of Thoughts that need to spill out as blog posts.

Busy. Busy. Busy. Work is busy. The nonprofit is quasi-busy. I'm struggling to keep up physically. The body is not cooperating.

I sleep a lot.

Being almost medication-free is interesting.

only me

To recap:
I have lost 22 pounds since December. Today I weigh ten pounds less than I did one year ago.

This morning I put on a pair of shorts I bought last summer. The shorts fit well when I bought them.

When I put those shorts on today, they were tight.

One more reason to hate my body. What a loser package--the body, the brain, the personality.

One more year. I just have to live with it all for one...more...year.

(These are the shorts pictured--obviously not as they are worn by me)

My new affirmation

I am trying to focus on reality. The wholly practical. The way life is. I made this my screen saver marquis so I don't forget the reason we put food into our mouths:

Food is nothing more than fuel. It is not joy, pleasure, reward or punishment. Flavor and texture are irrelevant distractions from food’s intended purpose. Food is only a mix of nutritional elements for the body to use in its functioning. Use only what you truly need and no more.

Well, here's proof

It may be the world's slowest weightloss, but I have proof it's happening. God knows, there's no proof of it when shopping. I'm still firmy entrenched in women's sizes, specifically 1X/16W. That being said, I can confidently say I no longer weigh 200 pounds.

Only 75 more pounds to go until I reach my goal.


(May needs a pedicure)

Ah, the smell issue redux

After reading a recent article on PsychCentral, I was reminded of having gone through the very situation described. Rather than recap, take a moment to re-read by clicking here.

When the PsychCentral newsletter showed up in my mailbox with this headline: Do You Think You Smell? Olfactory Reference Syndrome, I was eager to read that someone had finally, definitively described the relationship between endocrinology, medications, and a heightened sense of smell.

Unfortunately, that's not what the article concluded. In fact, it seemed no one had actually considered that particular link. The researchers (working with a bumper crop of 20 subjects), instead, concentrated on proving it was a mental disorder along the lines of, "I don't smell a thing--you must be nuts." Why not step back from looking for the origin or existence of the odor, and instead consider why there's a heightened olfactory perception in the person experiencing the distressing odors?

Is it really that much easier to look for one more proof of mental illness?

Here is the link to the PsychCentral article. My comments should show up within 24 hours, unless they are moderated into oblivion. I discuss my theory on the connection between medications, endocrinology, and the sense of smell, and I give the example of a college roommate with multiple hormone problems who experienced this situation. Except, nobody ever accused her of "just having OCD."