A Medicine to Cure Chronic Bitch

Today, to celebrate my new diagnosis, Sky King and I drove two-and-a-half hours to sit in a stuffy hotel banquet room to listen to doctors speak to us about treatments for Lyme disease.

Do we know how to party, or what? 

Let me fully explain this, so you totally understand the measure of awesomeness our day included.

I am a football fan.  49ers by birthright.  But if I can't watch them, I will root for any Bay Area team, being a 5th generation Bay Area-ite. (Bay Aryan sounded too Nazi-ish) Which works out great, because I married a Raider fan.  Yes, it's a mixed marriage, but somehow we make it work. Now that poor, poor Al Davis, currently up for Sainthood, is gone, things may get a bit better in our home from mid-August to late January.  And the draft in April. (By the way, how can 4 million people constantly wish for the demise of one man, then the very split second he is gone, elevate him to heights even the Pope hasn't seen? Is it guilt? C'mon, Raider Nation, you know what I'm talking about. :::shakes head, moves on:::)

And like many mixed marriages, we do our best to support the other one in their respective love and adoration and/or utter contempt, depending on which side of the Bay you root. We even have clothing to root for the other person's team in case we get an opportunity to go to a game. (Lord knows you can't wear anything but Silver and Black to Oakland, for fear of death.)

This year, we got to go to the Steelers/49ers game, so of course Sky King had to get a jersey in red and white. Luckily Sports Authority had a buy one/get one deal, so he got a shiny new jersey and I got a toasty hoodie to go over my #85.

When this speaking engagement came up, we had a big decision to make:  Stay home in the warm comfort of our sectional, dining on pork by-products and processed cheesefood, or schlep over two hours (that's if there's no traffic) to sit mere minutes from the stadium we want to be in.  All to listen to science-y people talk science-y talk about a disease we wish we knew nothing about. The obvious choice was to go to the speaking engagement.  (PS, thank you, Sky King-I OWE you...)Which was complete with a $50 hotel bar lunch and several trips to the bathroom, which was suspiciously close to the TVs in the hotel.  Beers even magically appeared in Sky King's paw for each of these trips to the bathroom (which totaled 5-I think he may need a urologist...).

True love, I tell ya.

All this, so that our visit with my new doc tomorrow will make more sense. Tomorrow, we will be making some firm plans about my treatment.  Tomorrow, we will find out which co-infections I have.  Tomorrow, we will get a full picture of my health situation.   Today was reserved for learning.

We listened to the doctors, and we learned quite a bit.  For instance, I may have passed my Lyme to my children, and husband.  Because I was running out of shit to feel guilty about. Thank you, spirochetes.

We learned that treatment is measured in years.  5 being the starting point.

We learned that some of the meds that kill these little fuckers are also used to kill cancer, and malaria.  So, I am really covering all my bases. The reason treatments take so long is that the co-infections (other infections that come with Lyme, because ticks are notoriously germ-ridden whores) sometimes pierce and infiltrate the red blood cells.  And red blood cells are hard for meds to penetrate, and they are constantly regenerating, so you have to completely toxify the system to cover all the current red blood cells and to help get rid of the germs in the cells that are forming.  I'm speaking completely non-scientifically, and more than likely totally inaccurately, but trust me-this shit is serious. Those little microscopic organisms are some bad-ass mofos.

We learned that many of my problems can be linked to Lyme, and may therefore be gone when I finish treatment: fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, Raynaud's, depression, joint pain, muscle pain, bad circulation, night sweats, bad sleep pattern, poor memory, muscle tremors, brain fog, forgetfulness, and generalized bitchiness.

Yes, I might become less of a bitch.  No, really.  REALLY! I know, right? How amazing that would be!  (Right now, many of the men that read my blog are trying to figure out how to secretly test their wives...do I know you, or what?)

Ya see, it seems that Lyme symptoms flare about every 4 weeks or so.  Which is the length of a woman's menstrual cycle.  And, hormones make symptoms worse.  So, in addition to being regular old bitchy what with the bleeding and the trips to the bathroom and the bloating and the cramping, Lyme makes it worse (Sky King was probably saying in his head, "I didn't need to spend 5 hours in a car in the middle of the playoffs for a doctor to tell me THAT").

So, it seems that a quick 5-year coarse of malaria drugs given intravenously can cure my bitchiness. Small price to pay to get me to a place where I:

• Don't scream out the window at people that cut me off
• Don't pull muscles reaching over Sky King to use the horn he obviously cannot find
• Don't have to resist the urge to stab a bitch in the eye who says to me, as I cruise through the lobby wearing my bright red jersey, "Oh! Who's playing today?" Holy fucknuggets
• Don't want to confront stupid people with their stupidity-not necessarily to help them learn better, but to prove to the world, them included, how utterly stupid they really are

I could go on.  Sky King could probably write a book.

And, since you asked: The 49ers played against the Giants.  And a shitty little man named Williams, soon to be formerly of the San Francisco 49ers, has now entered the witness protection program for his single-handed destruction of our deserved spot in Superbowl 46.

And once I'm cured? It may be hard to recognize me, what with the bitchitis all cleared up.

So here's a tip.  I'll be the one with the husband with a huge smile, and I will be walking perfectly normal, over-scheduling myself for shit I should've said NO to. And I will look uh-MAZE-ing, because I will have lost 50 pounds from the vomiting the medications bring on.

While I sit here complaining about the treatment that will most likely alleviate many of my awful symptoms, I know this blog will be read by people that have things that can't be cured.  I have friends with depression, friends with Cancer, friends with Lupus, friends with MS.  Lots of friends with lots of invisible illnesses. The irony is not lost on me. We each have our own battles, our own struggles.  Just because I have Lyme Disease does not diminish you being out of Pike's Place K-cups.  It's all relative, and we all get our time to dwell, to have pity-parties, to mourn the loss of the life we loved.

Unless you know nothing about football. Then, you can rot in hell.

Coping Through the Holiday Season

Let's face it: the holiday season began your first trip to stock up on wine for Thanksgiving.  Then, you had to go back, because you stocked up, but the ran out.  After the third trip, you hid all the wine in the bathroom, under the sink, where hopefully you would forget about it. Or is that just me?

How does one plan to cope through all the hustle and bustle of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New year, as well as the festivities, traditions and obligations that come with it?  Most people muddle their way through, some people grab some clean clothes and show up where they are told (read: husbands), and still others plan, plan, plan, and buy, buy, buy and cook, cook, cook, and shop, shop, shop til they are absolutely exhausted.  Then, they slap a fake smile on their face, swab on enough eye makeup to give the illusion of being awake, and trudge through each and every obligation doing their best to disappoint no one (except themselves), falling down in sheer exhaustion come January 2nd.  Some of these people even take their families down with them.  I used to be one of these people.

This year however, I am not one of these people.  Why? Because the stress of it all might literally kill me (OK, not quite that dramatic, but I WILL be laid up in bed for a very long time if I'm not careful).  Oh, and Sky King has discovered his foot, and he has repeatedly put it down. I am literally not allowed to do my normal laundry list of obligations. Yes, I will get away with more than my 3 activities a week, but not without a few stealth moves.

For instance, I did some holiday baking. Well, I won't go that far, because 2 of the batters are still sitting in my fridge, awaiting chocolate enrobing. Which might happen tomorrow, or the day after.  I hope I get to it, because I made vegan sweetened condensed milk for one of the recipes. It would suck for all that cooking, burning and starting over to go to waste.  But, I did make some bomb-ass Congo Bars. And they were gluten-free and dairy-free. I will post pics soon.  How did I finagle it? Well, I used the "I have to have something I can eat when we go to holiday functions" ploy.  That's how I justified the cooking.  It worked, but I may not be able to use it much more, before he's on to me.
I did my shopping, but much of it was done online.  It took a lot of the fun out of buying shiny new happy items that I must must MUST have.  But I got the stuff done, and most of it is wrapped, albeit in some gift bags. And no bows. hell, y'all are lucky you won't be getting some crap thrown into a bunch of newspaper tied with string with your name in Sharpie on the outside.  But that's mostly because we don't get the paper, and I bought wrapping paper at Costco 12 years ago back when it was Price Club, and I got plenty.

I showed up to a dinner and ornament exchange, but not without a price.  Just getting out the door on time with all the things we needed to bring was a massive chore. Then, I had the audacity to insist that my children not show up looking like members of a refugee camp. This caused major heartache, and I had to compromise on clean pants for Monkey Boy, and a mismatched but clean outfit for Princess.  then, I was instructed to take a pain pill, which meant that I would be pain-free, but also meaningful-conversation-free when visiting with relatives I hadn't seen in a while. This worked for the most part, and hopefully I didn't say anything too offensive (which was pretty damned difficult because it was one of those parties where everyone brings an ornament, and you get to pick one, but people can steal.  I wanted the one my Aunt had.  But she is battling cancer. When I went to take it, Sky King stared at me, mouth agape, and said, "You're going to take an ornament from HER?!?!?!?!". I responded with, "Shit.  Great.  She gets to play the 'Cancer Card'.  Fuck" Then I ended up with a miniature Peet's mug and I prefer Starbucks. Honestly, it's like Sky King doesn't even KNOW me.)

As of today, I have:

•  A Girl Scout Council Christmas Party
• A Girl Scout Troop Christmas Party
• A Support Group Party
• 3 other dinners with various family and friends
• Christmas dinner at my house with up to 30 people
• New Year's Eve Party
• An overnight trip to SF for a 49er football game (Monday Night!  Wooot!!!)

At half these things it is probably expected that I remain sober-ish save for Christmas Day, and of course the 49er game, where we will absolutely annihilate the Steelers (and the friends we are going with will become bitter enemies, which is why I am offering to drive).  So, no meds for pain for the stress that I will be encountering because doing anything out of the ordinary these days causes me stress.  Harrumph.
Oh, and what's on my "Gee, I hope I get a chance to..." list?
Let's see....

• Drive around looking at Christmas Lights
• Visit the gym to address the aforementioned treat consumption
•  Snuggle next to a fire with my sweetie, sipping spiked hot cocoa
• Go see all the beautiful decorations in San Francisco
• Take the kids to see a holiday movie

How do you cope with the additional stress of the season?

Why I Let My Son Play Football

In each parent's journey there will come a time when you will have to sit and think about something you believe to be monumental. You will think and think and think and come to some sort of conclusion you have the huevos to stand behind-right or wrong.  And, with the dedication of a mama bear protecting a cub, you will fight to the death for this opinion.  For me (being a pushy bitch) this happens, oh, I'd say daily.  Whether I am faced with "Family Life Education" materials that wrongly leave out birth control, or the parallel parking skills of the idiots near my work, I CONSTANTLY have to chose my battles. Even, or especially, in my own marriage, where honestly things would go much smoother if everyone did things my way. (Not only would everything be done right, it would be done ON TIME.)

Being the fair-minded person that I am, I have to concede a fight once in a while. Especially when it comes to getting my face beat in (like when I want to scream parenting tips at people at sporting events) or when I want to let Sky King think that he has a fair say in our life together.  This happens every once in a great great great (did I say great?) while.  These are things he has gotten to pick:

• Princess' name (and, I had thoughtfully narrowed it down to 3 for him, so he didn't have to read through all 50,000 in the baby-name book)
• Our last vacation-he chose a cruise, which turned out to be super fab and the kids still can't stop talking about it
• What TV shows we watch on a fairly regular basis-ESPN, Monday Night Football, Storm Chasers, Storage Wars, and anything with Kate Beckinsale.

See what a wonderful wife I am?

Well, this past summer, we explained to Monkey Boy that it was imperative that he exercise more than his thumbs, and so he had to think about what sport he wanted to do.  SK hoped/prayed/possibly bribed for football.  I hoped/prayed/possibly threatened for anything else. because football is so violent and dangerous.  (I can HEAR all the moms nodding. I really can.)

I was---what is that word? Opposite of right?  Ring?  Rang? Rung?  Something like that, although I think it starts with a W.  SK confronted me with an ear-to-ear grin and a laptop full of statistics. And when the internets say it, it's true.  Football was NOT #1.  It was #3, ranked after Basketball and Bicycling.  And only slightly ahead of both Soccer and Baseball.  What a blow.  With the wind only slightly out of my sail, I finally agreed, with the condition that, "One concussion, and we're done. DONE."  I think SK's response was either, "Absolutely", or an eye roll.  I can't quite recall.

So, Monkey Boy begins practice.  He gets out there all padded up with 6 men yelling at him.  And they are not yelling, "Get your ass in the car, we are LATE."  so you can imagine he's a bit confused. Plus, his only exposure to violence and aggression has been watching me shop for shoes during the Nordy's half-yearly, and whatever he sees on the PS3.  He's a peaceful Montessori kid, for crying out loud.  The ONLY kid from his school among 80+ other boys.
The first week is rough-he's fast but totally not getting football as a sport-he's never even watched a game.  He's having a hard time with blocking (hitting) and getting blocked (getting hit).  Pretty much 90% of football is totally against everything he has learned thus far in life.  And the coaches don't get it.  It pains me to watch him, and it takes every ounce of strength not to run out and demand they are nicer to my sweet boy. But I don't.  Something deep down says that this might actually be good for him. And I see that Sky King is ready to horse-collar me if I try.
By the end of the second week we are headed to Jamboree which is a giant scrimmage against other teams in the league. It's a day-long event, and we are all geared up. Things are going great. Then, MB gets hit hard.  His knee gets hurt, and he goes to the side. He's down on the sidelines with our conditioning coach working out his injury.  They work for about 10 minutes (in which my head explodes once for each minute my boy is on the ground) and then Coach gets him up and walks him up and down the sidelines. I see the Coach tell the Head Coach, "He's fine, put him back in".  MB goes in, then right back out, with a pronounced limp. 
Still, I'm waiting on the sidelines.  Snapping at SK to "SHUT UP, I'M WATCHING HIM-IF YOU DON'T GO CHECK ON HIM I WILL." to make sure this knee injury doesn't travel up to his brain and kill him dead right there-which could totally happen-check Wikipedia.  But after a while, his walk is fine.  I mean, totally fine, milk-mom-later-for-sympathy-to-no-avail fine.  The game ends, and MB proceeds to cut off his nose to spite his face (a family tradition) by coming to me to sulk, instead of to the cooler full of drinks and snacks. We talk for a bit, and he is pissed.  I finally figure out he is pissed because he was expecting the sympathy of a mommy, not the harsh "Walk it off and suck it up" from a coach. 

Is there room for both?  Are both valid?

YES.  A kid needs to know that he will be loved unconditionally, that it's okay to be yourself and need to lean on someone you trust, someone that loves you. Someone to just pat you on the back and say, "It's all going to be okay".  We ALL need that.

Sometimes, though, we need tough love.  Someone to say, "Yeah, that sucks.  Pull up your big girl panties, and walk it off."  This can be done with love too.  Monkey Boy does not know this yet.

A pep talk from me (actually, a pep mini-talk-he's only good for about 5 sentences before I lose him, so I act fast), and we are headed home to wallow.

The next week, he wants to quit.  he's in for another shocker. he has forgetten our "No quitting" agreement from sign-up day.

Football ain't cheap.  We are in this about $400 plus several weeks' worth of time. And, his sister joined cheer after coming to a practice. So really, $800 plus almost every weekday night and Saturday day for all eternity. Priceless.  I say, "Sure. You can quit Oct. 22nd."  "Why then?"  "That's your last game. We told you when this began, you start, you finish. Your team depends on you. You don't have to like it, but you won't let the team down."  Cue angst. Cue sulking.

That did not go how he planned. Most things come fairly easy for him, and this was a struggle he did not want to have. He goes back to practice, pissing and moaning all the way.  Games begin, with some turn-around, but progress is slow.

Let's fast-forward, shall we?

Now, we are near the end of the season.  He has seen (sorry, I REALLY love bullet points...):

• Bad sportsmanship from the other teams
• Dirty plays
• Bad ref calls
• Skilled teammates benched for unsportsmanlike conduct

 He has told me that he can't let his team down, that all the players-good or bad-still need to be part of the team and not tell others that they suck, and that he loves football.

We are now post-season.  They won their last game, which extends them into playoffs.  They are all pumped, psyched, jazzed. Ready to win our next game. 

He's confident.  He's fast.  He's good.  Not great, but good. he puts his heart and soul into every play, every block, every catch.  He's elated when he makes a good play, devastated when he flubs. He has become a teammate. A closer step towards becoming a man. He loves the men that yell at him to suck it up. Why? Because those same man slap him on the back or the helmet when he has a great catch.  Those same men slam down on his shoulders and gruffly yell, "See!!! I knew you could do that."  And inside that helmet, he gives a strong nod. 

Which, in guyspeak, is an ear-to-ear grin.

An Open Letter to the Oakland Raiders

Dear Raiders de la Oakland:

I KNOW it is tough to be you-you are the outcasts of the NFL, you are the constant butt of jokes about never being able to fill the stands because the box office won't take food stamps, and you have one of the bat-shit-craziest owners ever to throw his arthritic weight around.

However, I love a man that sadly loves you.  You see, I'm a forty-niners fan.  I know, I know.  How did we ever think a mixed marriage would work?

We try, for the kids' sakes. And January to August, we walk through mostly marital bliss (unless you draft a linebacker with a great arm, or a kicker that is the fastest runner out of training camp).
But during September, October, November and part of December, you make my Sundays and many Mondays a living hell. You see, Sky King will watch.  He will get his gear on, load up on too much coffee, maybe put some yummy greasy food in the oven for a fab Sunday Night grub-fest.  He will sit like a bright-eyed child on Christmas morning, waiting for the enormous loot from Santa despite his mother running out on the family and his alcoholic father losing his part-time gig scraping road kill into a barrel.  And then, like clockwork, he will find that there is NO SANTA.

He then goes through the 4 stages of grief (no true Raider fan can ever truly get to the 5th stage, acceptance, so it might as well not even exist.)

It could be any number of things:
Bad calls by the refs (we all know the refs HATE the Raiders)
Bad plays-interception after interception
Accurate calls by the refs-how many times can one guy get called off sides before he just gives up and walks off the field?

Or the usual.  A great start, followed by some excellent runs, which gives my man hope.  Hope that sounds a lot like reindeer on the roof.  Only to have the team crumble when it matters. It's quite similar to seeing Santa's decapitated head roll down the chimney and land in a viscous pool at our feet. But, like most innocent children, he will NOT go psycho and murder scores of postal workers, or keep bodies in his freezer. Instead, he will forget it ever happened, and be right back in the squishy spot on the couch the very next week, as if the previous week's debacle didn't happen.  And so on, and so on.

So, here is what I need.  Decide at the beginning of the season what the plan is.  Win, lose, it really doesn't matter.  It's the (excuse my french here) total mind-fuck that kills him. It causes him to mope around most of the day. But not only that. he will watch Sports Center to recap. As if his misbehavior caused the loss.  He takes it personally, and he is too good of a man to have to tolerate much more. He deserves better from his NFL team.

Pick a plan, stick with it, respond accordingly. 
And maybe, just maybe, do something about the creepy guys in the Black Hole.

Too much to ask?  Yeah, okay, I concede.  But that first part? Do that.

Thanks!

Kisses,
Aimee

Are You Ready For Some Football?

These 2 hour football practices are KILLING ME.

So glad I'm not the one practicing.