I don’t normally participate in Wordless Wednesday, but when I saw Sandy’s post today over at Momisodes, I felt compelled to post a rebuttal:

Sry. Mommy haz bin spending too much time on interwebz…

Do you know what I did not have to do yesterday? I did not have to go to the orthopedist to get some shots. Every Tuesday for the past three weeks I left work an hour early and drove the ten miles or so to my orthopedist’s office. I would drive the speed limit, or just under, and arrive with a huge lump in my throat because I knew what was coming. Pain. Lots of pain.

While not pleasant, the first shots were not as painful as I had anticipated. Ditto for round two. Round three, however…sweet Lord in heaven. If the first round of shots had been that bad I would never had returned for the subsequent shots. The procedure involves extracting some joint fluid from the knee area before inserting the Synvisc, but this last time Dr. P. had trouble getting the joint fluid out. He apologized and said he’d have to go in again from a different angle. Out came the big needle, in went the small needle to numb again and in went the big needle.

The numbing agent doesn’t really do the job when it comes to the deep tissue, so while Dr. P. was digging in with that needle and fondling my kneecap to get the joint fluid out, I was near tears and clutching David Sedaris to my chest.

“I notice you bring a book in here every time but never end up reading it,” said Dr. P.

“Yeah, well it gets kind of difficult to concentrate on the words instead of the pain and I just give up,” I replied.

Eventually Dr. P. got enough joint fluid out to make him happy and was able to finish the procedure. “I don’t think you’ll ever see me in here again,” I said. He smiled and said he’d like to see me in two months to check my progress and see if the Synvisc has made any difference in my recovery. Hey, if the appointment doesn’t involve needles, I’ll be there.

So with the exception of that appointment two months down the road, it appears the “Saga of Wounded Knee” has come to a close. Thank God. Was that whole series tedious or what? Knee blah blah blah. Knee yadda yadda yadda.

The thing is, while I’m well on the road to a physical recovery, the psychological part of the injury has as tight a hold on me as ever. The first snowfall is at least four months away and I’m already freaking out about winter. Nearly every highway overpass in Michigan is marked with a sign that says “Caution-Bridge May Be Icy.” It can July and 90 degrees outside and this sign will scare the shit out of me because, my God, the bridge may be icy, my driveway may be icy, and every single inch of pavement on which I set foot MAY BE ICY. Then I’ll clutch my knee, remember the horrible feeling of slipping on that ice and want to vomit.

Yeah, it’s going to be a long winter.

Is anyone else reading the glut of BlogHer recaps and feeling just a teensy bit jealous?  How about insanely jealous?

**Raises hand**

I should have gone last year when it was in Chicago.  Chicago is only a mere 150 miles away and it would have been nice to have had my first conference experience be only a few hours from home.  You know, so I could flee if I had to.  From what I hear, most people experience a few pee-your-pants moments at BlogHer.

Now that this year’s conference is over, I’m dying to find out where next year’s will be held.  I think it’s time they bring it on over to the other side of the country again.  How about Boston?  Boston is one of my favorite cities.  They have a nice, clean public transportation system and the some of the best seafood restaurants in the country.  And history.  Don’t forget about the history.

Wherever it’s held, I’ve already decided I will not miss next year’s conference.  I’m going.  I’m already planning my swag and business cards and will put in my vacation time request at work as soon as I know next year’s schedule.

So, if any of my blogging friends are interested in accompanying me (Donielle? Meg? Ginger? Anyone?), let me know because I’d really love to have some company.

For the past few weeks I’ve been contemplating what to do about the blog. What to do in regards to how far I want to go with this. Sometimes I get into such a funk that I don’t feel like writing at all. Sometimes I get so busy that I feel guilty for taking the time to write. Though he would never say it, I’m sure Nathan is getting tired of hearing “blog this” and “blog that.” Blog blog blog blog blog.

Nathan recently told me, “You’d go crazy if you didn’t have your blog.” He’s right. This blog helps keep me sane. Those few long-time readers I have may recall several posts in which I grumbled about work. Those posts have since been deleted, but my feelings about the job remain. I am not fulfilling my life’s dream. I do what I do because I have to do it. I have to put food on the table. What I’d rather be doing is what I do here. I want to write. More importantly, I want to get paid to write.

Unfortunately I can’t quit my job and blog full time. At least not right now. I think that’s a possibility in the future, but we’re talking a few years down the road. That being said, I’m going to be trying out some new things here in the next few weeks, most of them having to do with monetization.

Monetizing a blog is a tricky thing. You don’t want to alienate your current readers, but you also don’t want to limit your potential out of fear people won’t like it. I talked to Nathan about this very issue last night and came to the conclusion that this is a fairly risk-free venture for me since my readership is so low as it is. I don’t want to lose any of you, but I’d also like to be able to spend some time with my kid before she graduates high school.

There are several possibilities I’m considering right now, from doing product reviews to adding more affiliate links, but one thing I know for certain is I will not stop writing about my life and my family. I’ll continue to be my dorky and candid self and write embarrassing posts about my social handicaps. The well will never run dry there. Trust me.

Anyway, I wanted to put this out there because you few, you happy few, you band of readers totally rock. You’re the reason I’ve kept it going for this long.

Thanks.

-H

The true art of memory is the art of attention.
-Samuel Johnson

A few months ago when I heard Jeannette Walls speak at the university, one of the questions she answered during the Q & A afterwards was, “Is your memory really that good?” If you’ve read her book The Glass Castle, you’ll understand why that question was asked because Walls wrote an incredibly detailed account of her childhood. Walls’ response was yes, she does have an excellent memory, although she did admit she probably used a little artistic license when writing the dialogue between herself and other family members.

I have a pretty good memory, but I didn’t think I had a superior memory until I heard back from that former boyfriend now band director I e-mailed last week. He was quick, I’ll give him that. He e-mailed me back the next day, but his e-mail was very, very cordial. It was the kind of cordial reserved for crazy folk and those you avoid when you see them coming your way at the grocery store. I’m sure in his book I fit into both of those categories.

The thing that bothered me most about his reply, other than it was written as though I was the mother of one of his students, was that he started out by admitting it “took him a couple of seconds” to remember me.

What the hell? Okay, I get that I blind-sided him a little bit by e-mailing him out of the blue, but we were friends. We were good friends before we ever started dating and making out in his bedroom in various states of undress. I also understand that maybe I’ve been indulging in a little too much Romy and Michelle sentimentality lately and should just stop e-mailing people I haven’t spoken to since high school.

But still, you don’t tell someone YOU DATED that it took time for them to hop back into your memory, even if it only took “a couple of seconds.” I don’t care who you are. That’s a huge ego killer.

That I’m still thinking about this days later indicates how much it bothered me. I finally decided to ask Nathan the crucial question that has been on my mind since receiving the band director’s reply.

“If you saw a girl’s boobs in high school, do you think you’d remember the girl or just the boobs?”

“I don’t think I ever saw a girl’s boobs when I was in high school,” he said.

I sighed. “Well say you had, do you think you’d remember the boobs or the girl’s name?”

“I’d remember yours,” he said and reached for the hem of my t-shirt.

Right. My fault for expecting a serious answer to a question about boobs.

While this band director doesn’t know it, he inadvertently poured salt into an open wound. It would seem that being utterly forgettable is my “thing.” It’s not a thing I’ve accepted like prematurely graying hair or having to go to the bathroom every time I’m in Target. Being forgotten is my Achilles heel, my kryptonite and the one thing guaranteed to send me to the freezer section of my local market for some Ben and Jerry’s. It has happened enough that I was quite sure Terri was going to stand me up at Panera Bread last week and I hate that a mature, intelligent woman like myself is reduced to such childish, hormonal bouts of insecurity.

I think I’m too sensitive. Okay, I know I’m too sensitive, but I also know that I pay attention. I’m a writer. That’s what I do. As writers, we train ourselves to pay attention and remember things; things that mean nothing and things that mean everything, and as bloggers we put it all out here for the world to see. Maybe that’s why I keep doing this. Maybe I’m afraid that if I stop putting little bits of myself out here I’ll disappear completely and be forgotten by more than just the band director.

I probably shouldn’t be so hard on the guy. I certainly haven’t forgotten who I was dating twenty years ago, but men do not pay attention. That much I have learned in eleven years of marriage, so maybe his slight was an honest admission and nothing more. But would it have killed him to have left that part out? The part about having to work to remember me? Nobody really wants to know being remembered took some time. That just means being forgotten was pretty easy.

Maybe I should have attached a picture of my chest. It might have only taken him a second to remember me then.

Please visit my friend Meg over at Sleepy New Mommy and read her post about a dear friend serving his third tour in Iraq.  It would seem this soldier is in need of some support and could use some friendly greetings from folks at home.  Meg has his contact info if you might be interested in sending him a card or letter. 

One morning about three weeks ago I went out to the garage to retrieve a Lean Pocket for lunch and found the door to the deep freeze ajar. There was a huge puddle beneath the freezer that indicated the door had been ajar for some time. Most of the meat had thawed but was still cool to the touch so I chose to toss only those things which would endanger our lives if we re-froze them and thawed them again (scallops, anyone?)

I did not toss the chicken. I had two five-pound bags of boneless, skinless chicken breasts in that freezer that I did not want to lose. Common sense usually dictates that one not refreeze meat that has been thawed, but sometimes frugality trumps common sense and you roll the dice and hope it all works out.

Let me put your minds at ease by telling you this is not a story that winds up with one or all of us lying prone and miserable on the bathroom floor. Our stomachs and bowels are all peacefully intact, however I’m quite sure if I had been yakking my guts out I would have had considerably more fun than I had at Perkins with my daughter last night.

But let me go back to that chicken first. Last week I wanted grilled chicken for dinner and went down to the deep freeze to retrieve a few breasts. I pulled out one of the five-pound bags and found I could not extract just the few breasts I wanted to cook because they had all fused together when they froze again.

Since I had no choice but to thaw all five pounds of the chicken, I cooked what I needed and stuck the rest in the fridge to steep in various marinades. A few days ago we grilled the chicken for meals later in the week. Chicken salads were on the menu for dinner last night until I pulled out the untouched bag of Andy Boy romaine hearts and realized they had all browned. You suck, Andy Boy. Thanks for wasting my money.

Even though we had plenty of other options for meals at home, the easiest of which being stick the chicken in the microwave and throw some rice in the rice cooker, Nathan and I decided to eat out. We mulled over where to go until we realized it was Thursday and kids eat free at Perkins on Thursday. So to Perkins we went and that’s when the fun began.

Instead of a detailed synopsis of the dinner and the complete embarrassment we felt by claiming the child as ours, let me just list the things Autumn threw on the ground or across the table:

• The children’s menu
• A paper place mat
• An orange crayon
• A green crayon
• A tub of creamer
• Rice
• Her spoon

When she started reaching for handfuls of macaroni and cheese, we felt it was time to call it quits and pulled her plate away to have it boxed up. That resulted in cries of anguish and more frantic reaching across the table for things she could toss. I grabbed her wrists firmly in my hands and told her to STOP. IT. NOW. Oh the meltdown. Screams and tears and wails erupted for a good two minutes. Those poor Perkins diners. I almost feel compelled to reimburse them for their meals, but I guess that’s what you get for visiting on a night kids eat free.

Being the philosophical one of the bunch, I reasoned that Nathan and I were either reaping some wicked bad karma or just needed a reminder that dining out is one of those luxuries we can do without. I’m going to go with the latter because there’s also a third option that’s just too painful to consider; that my child is turning into a spoiled rotten brat. Lord, help us.

So there you have it, folks. The story of how a freezer door left open a few weeks ago resulted in an unpleasant dining experience for multiple families last night. I believe that’s what’s called the butterfly effect.

I found this cool site called Flash Earth which provides satellite images of the entire world. You can’t find your home by address like you can with Google Earth, but if you know which continent you live on and where your state resides on said continent, you should be able to find your home like I did. But I live in Michigan and might have an unfair advantage over those who live in boxier landlocked states (really, how hard is it to find a mitten on a map anyway?)

The great thing about Flash Earth is the multiple layers of maps available from different sources. NASA updates theirs daily while other maps come from such archived sources as Microsoft Visual Earth and Yahoo Maps. The image below came from Ask.com maps and provided the closest and clearest image of my house over the other databases. It looks like the same image TerraServer offers for a fee on their website. I believe it’s circa 2001, a few years before we moved in and ruined the lawn.

The last time I saw my friend Terri was at my wedding eleven years ago. I met her at band camp just before my freshman year of high school. We became instant friends and were close until she graduated the year before me. She married a guy about a year later and moved to a town about a half hour away. Over the years I’d occasionally run into her mother at the grocery store or the beauty salon and would receive a quick synopsis of Terri’s life. Bev would hand me her daughter’s phone number every time and would practically order me to call. I never did because I suck at keeping in touch with people.

Terri was the first person I looked up when I joined Facebook, and for the past few month’s we’ve exchanged e-mails and the occasional gifts of virtual hugs and flowers. She’s now living in the area again and we finally decided to meet for dinner last night. I picked Panera Bread because it’s one of those places Nathan and I don’t visit much anymore because it lacks an adequate toddler menu.

It was great fun catching up with Terri. I have to admit to being a little worried we wouldn’t have anything to talk about, but those worries vanished as soon as we hugged. She told me I haven’t changed a bit, which was very kind and a huge lie.

We ordered our meals, settled in a booth and brought each other up to speed on the past eleven years. She now has three children, ages 16, 15, and 14. We talked about the kids, our lives and reminisced a lot about high school. I’m normally not that sentimental about my high school years, but bringing up names of people I haven’t spoken to since graduation seemed familiar and somewhat comforting. She told me a guy I used to date is now the band director at a nearby high school and I told her a certain squatty little tuba player has grown up into a lean and attractive father of two boys named Nathan and Noah (ha!)

We called it a night after nearly two hours of talking and made promises to each other that we wouldn’t let another eleven years pass before we met again. I do believe I also committed to attending her 20th high school reunion with her next year.

I had a great time, but since any trip of mine down memory lane wouldn’t be complete without a little embarrassment, I proceeded to look up the former boyfriend now band director when I got home. I sent him an e-mail, a short and restrained piece that lacked the idiocy of the socially awkward e-mail I sent to another former classmate a few months back. I’m quite sure he’s not going to know what to make of me, but I’m kind of looking forward to hearing from him.