Apparently my guilt can be assuaged with garden implements.

About 7 years ago, when I moved into the last place, I put a silly postcard on the front door:

It was a bit of an inside joke – nobody in the house had a “real” job, I’d just come back from travelling for months.  I still identified strongly with slacker culture. 

When we moved into our current house (the one we “own”, by which I mean the one we pay the bank gobs of money for the privilege of fixing up), I moved the postcard with us.  At least one of us still didn’t have a “real” job, and it annoyed me that my octogenarian neighbours always wanted to know why we weren’t working if we happened to be home during the day.  Took a day off?   Don’t work til 6pm?  Haha, no, check the postcard.  Totally forgot about that part of life.

The postcard has remained while we pasted “My dog is friendly, HONEST” and then “Baby sleeping, ring doorbell UPON PAIN OF DEATH” signs over top of it.  To be honest, it’s one of those things I’ve forgotten was there.  Certainly the ironic slacker message is no longer relevant.

To go with our grown-up house that we pay for with our real jobs, for the past few years we’ve had a nomad handyman/yard helper/whatever type of guy who shows up randomly to see if we need our walk shovelled, or our leaves raked, or our eaves cleaned out.  We give him 20 bucks, he gives us about an hours work doing things we don’t particularly want to do.  He only shows up every 6 weeks or so, and I think he only stops if he can actually SEE something that needs to be done, so it’s a very symbiotic relationship.  He works when he feels like it, making a pretty reasonable wage; we don’t get ostracized by the neighbours. (Much.)

Except last week he knocked on the door, and I was a little surprised to see him.  It was a miserable day, and there wasn’t anything that needed shovelling or tending to.  It’s spring; we’re just waiting around for things to melt.  He asked if he could scrape the ice off our walk, or at least try, and failing that, maybe he could take the 20 bucks and come back in a few days to do it?  Or anything else?  He’d leave his ice scraper.  He really needed money to put gas in the car to go see his kids.  He understood it was an imposition.

And while he was fumbling through his apologetic business proposition, he made reference to the postcard on the door. 

I realized that he had been interpreting it as a criticism of people who don’t have jobs. 

I gave him the 20 bucks, and he made an attempt on the 6-inch-thick glacier that is our front walk, gave up, and left his ice scraper, thanking me profusely and promising to return.

I went back inside and took the damn postcard down.  I was completely mortified, three years’ worth of embarrassed.  I was heartbroken that this intrepid soul, who showed up willing to work hard, who went out and found jobs when he needed them, thought we were judging him for not having a “real” job.  He had no idea that I respect him for carving out his own path, for getting out there and just doing it.  That, frankly, some days I wish I had the guts to ask someone if I could rake their lawn when I needed twenty bucks, too.

Mind you…he hasn’t come back yet, either.

Well, at least I have an ice scraper.  Maybe next time he’ll leave a rototiller, I really need one of those.

Building a blanket burrito for better Monster Protection.

When I was a kid, I was inadvertently allowed to watch some old horror movies on tv. 

Well, it wasn’t even actual horror movies, it was some kind of documentary about horror movies, but in a few short minutes, I had WAY more information than any 7-year-old should have about an impending Attack of the Blob.  I also had a sudden and deep-seated fear of Body Snatchers.

I became a little obsessed with the backs of peoples’ necks, because that is where the Body Snatchers leave their mark.  I was particularly concerned with the necks of grownups, because frankly, they were awfully confusing to begin with and who knew if they had been bodysnatched, or if they were just being grumpy?

These new fears also manifested themselves in an elaborate bedtime routine.  It began with a running leap from the doorway onto my bed, lest I touch down too close to the bed itself, thus exposing my tender flesh to any Blobs lurking underneath.  I’m sure every kid is familiar with this manoeuver, although my bed was just a touch too far from the door.  This resulted in any number of spectacular wipeouts, where I would slip and tumble to the floor, next to the bed, my wide eyes glimpsing the abyss for a split second before I scrambled upwards in a panic.

Once safely on the bed, I had a little routine with my duvet that guaranteed me safety while I slumbered.

It probably goes without saying that I always had to pee.

This is why I’m not allowed to tell jokes. I always forget important plot points.

A funny thing happened on the way to Nashville.  That I totally forgot to tell you about.

When I flew into Minneapolis and lined up to go through Customs, I somehow managed to pick the lineup with the most humorless looking agent available.  That’s just how my life works out.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” he droned.

“I’m going to a blogging conference.”

He raised an eyebrow a millimetre.  “A logging conference?” he said skeptically.  “You don’t look like a lumberjack.”

“Um…thanks?  No, a blogging conference?” I mimed typing.

Blank look.

“You know, on the internet?” I was really hoping this wasn’t going to turn into a cavity search.  And that he knew what the internet was.

“Do you…have a blog?” he inquired, peering at me carefully, like blogging might be contagious.

“Um…yes.  Actually, I have two,” I admitted. 

He looked at me with concern for a moment, and then stamped my papers and waved me through, clearly not prepared to deal with crazy people.

From now on?  If anybody asks, I am going to WRITING conferences.

I have no idea which part of this is the id but I think I know where the super ego is

Dear Body,

Okay, I realize I haven't ALWAYS treated you this well. It's only been in the last 6 or 7 years that I've laid off the binge drinking, eaten proper food, and attempted to exercise on a regular basis. But it's not like I was loading you up with toxic waste before. Just...less food from the "organic farmer's market" group, and more from the "as appears on the pub menu" division.

So, I can forgive the sinusitis, and the gimpy back, and the ridiculously huge varicose vein. And I have been VERY PATIENT with this whole "peri-menopause/lack of hormones" thing.

But now, you have to add high cholesterol onto that? I'M THIRTY-SIX YEARS OLD, not sixty-three. I realize that it has to do with the estrogen that you're not producing, but still. I bet you thought it was funny when the doctor told me I should be "eating my vegetables" and "trying to exercise" and "avoiding fried foods", huh?

Well, fuck you, Body. This is as healthy as we're gonna get. And if you and your stupid high cholesterol end up giving us a heart attack? Who loses, huh, Body? WHO?

Lovingly,
The Management

PS - Thanks for making the gimpy back act up right before I'm supposed to get on a plane. Seriously, fuck you.

In which I reveal what a total froot loop I really am

I made a cryptic reference to my latest naturopath visit last week, and said it was 'hopeful' (or perhaps 'positive' - I don't remember and I'm too lazy to go back and look). But I didn't really get into it because I wanted to see how it all shook out.

Well, it all shook out, so I guess I can fill you in now. Another post about my dysfunctional uterus! Aren't you excited?

Anyway. This naturopath - who isn't actually a naturopath but a 'Doctor of Natural Medicine', which means that she has essentially the same education but is perhaps less of a flake - is actually the step-mother-in-law of my friend Elle. Which means that Elle isn't related to her at all, but she does have to deal with her on a regular basis. Elle gave her this recommendation:

"I have never hated someone more in my life...that I would trust with my life."

Strong words. I don't think I particularly liked her either. She extremely abrupt and had this way of making me feel like I'd gotten the answer to her question WRONG. Um - it's not a test, lady, you're asking me about my eating habits. But she obviously knew her shit, and she was clearly not in it to bilk me out of my money. (Her parting words? "I'm not interested in seeing you again." I think I got helped and then dumped, all within a few hours.)

As a sidenote-that-will-soon-become-relevant, she had an MD traipsing around after her last week. An MD who is interested in alternative therapies. I know, right? I saw a unicorn shortly thereafter.

The upshot of the first (and last, apparently, since she's not interested in seeing me again) session was that she doesn't believe that I'm in menopause. I don't either, but it's sometimes hard to convince myself of that when I haven't had a period since DECEMBER. She felt that 15-odd years of oral contraceptives (oh, shut up, they were all very meaningful sexual relationships) quickly followed by a somewhat problematic pregnancy and delivery had left my body a little traumatized.

I don't know why. They only induced me SEVEN TIMES.

(As another aside, I just went back and re-read my epic birth story that I posted on my other blog. I'm...not actually sure I want to do this again, now.)

Anyway, add to that my work stress and sleep deprivation (sure, my kid slept through the night...once), and my body is just depleted. Of everything, especially hormones. Apparently you have to nourish your body in order for it to manufacture it's own hormones. Who knew?

She gave me some melatonin and a recipe for a warm-milk-and-nutmeg concoction to help me sleep (I couldn't seem to convince her that my toddler is trying to make me commit suicide by waking up 3 times a night at the age of almost-three). And she recommended that I begin hormone replacement therapy with bio-identicals.

What are bio-identicals, you say? Well, they're manufactured hormones. But unlike conventional synthetic hormones, they're exactly the same makeup as your own hormones. Hence the name. They have such questionable advocates as Suzanne Somers and Oprah, and there is only one doctor in this entire province who will prescribe them. He is a 4-1/2 hour drive away.

(As yet another aside, after some research I've discovered that bio-identicals are unpopular with mainstream docs because they're unpopular with drug companies. Drug companies can't patent something that has the identical makeup to someone's own hormones, you see. Therefore they can't charge the exorbitant prices they charge for name brand drugs, so they don't promote them. IT'S A FUCKING CONSPIRACY.)

(Aaaaannnnd, just like that, I've tipped my hand. I'm an eco-weirdo conspiracy theorist. My mother is so proud.)

While I am not a fan of some doctor pumping me full of synthetic hormones, I felt like this particular approach might actually work for me. But a Doctor of Natural Medicine doesn't have a place in the 'chain of command' in our health system - and how does one explain to their GP that they want a referral to THIS doctor, because they don't trust conventional medicine? This is where the lurking MD comes in - she was there for the diagnosis and totally gets it. Coincidentally, she is taking new patients. So I saw her this week, and she ordered about 9 different blood tests, and made the referral to the OBGYN.

I see him in August, shortly after returning from BlogHer. I will have to leave at 6 in the morning.

I'll keep you posted as to whether I fall asleep at the wheel or not.