Posts
For those that may still come by here from time to time - I have finally decided to move the entirety of this blog over to Tumblr. I am hoping the transition will inspire me to be a little more interactive with my blogging!
Come find me at: The Fabled Fox
See you there!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Ode to a Kidney Stone
I had been feeling weird throughout Friday, and decided to go to bed early because of it. However, little did I know as I sank into sleep, that in a few short hours (3:30 a.m. to be exact) I would be awakened by a monumental pain not unlike a power drill being held to my innards.
I have never thrown up because of pain, but someone let loose the hounds that night. There was no decorum left as I writhed on the bathroom floor wondering what sort of devilry had sunk it’s claws into me. It was so much worse than that time when I fell on the center bar of my brother’s 10-speed bike. And it was WAY worse than the time my uncle mowed over my legs on an old fashioned runner-sled. Even worse than the time I flew off my bike and skidded 15 feet down the gravel road on my face. Yes, until now…those had been the pinnacle moments of pain. But no more. Now I had The Stone to contend with, though I didn’t know it yet. There on the floor in the bathroom I merely thought I was dying by being pulled through a razor-lined knothole backwards.
This, of course, had to happen during the first major snowstorm of the year! So my darling hubby rushed me (i.e. drove at a moderately safe speed, which was slower than if I had a snap craving for rhubarb and decided to mosey to the store on a sunny day) in the wee hours of the morning, trying to keep calm while his wife was a shrieking banshee of agony and weeping in the passenger seat. I tried my best to sink into a meditative state. I rolled the window down part way to hear the slushing sound of snow and ice, but my mind was a blur. Instead of a calming sussuration of thoughts, it was screaming “ICESNOWPAINOWICESNOWSLUSHOWOWOWOWWWWICESNOWDRIVEFASSSSSSSTEROWWWWWWWWW”. So tranquil.
I, of course, then had to endure the “Checking In” procedure at the emergency desk. Sure. Hand me a bunch of papers to sign when my body has literally formed a figure-8 from the wretched muscle tensing and desperate futile quest for relief. I could barely uncurl my fingers from the Fists of Agony in order to sign my name…which I am pretty sure came out as “AimeeOUCHOUCHOUCH”. I managed to choke on a laugh when she handed me the urine sample cup. But of course, I had to be a good cowboy and buck up for the cause. So I did, with much sobbing, yelping, and wishing sweet unconciousness would visit me…with a bottle of whiskey and a hammer.
Fortunately, once I got on a gurney the Angel of Mercy arrived in pale blue Crocs. She propped my arm up, thwapped a vein, and had the IV in like she’d just broke the record at the county cow roping contest. Considering I hate needles and going to the doctor, the fact that I had my arm out there like a willing heroin junkie should tell you something. GIVE ME THE BIG GAUGE NEEDLE!! Pump that sweet sunshine IN, NOWWWW!!!!!
I remember hearing something about narcotics and lightheadedness, but ohhhhhhhhh sweet jam, it was bliss. In the blink of an eye, a woosh of tingly, numbing delight flew through my circulatory system and banished the pain away like that old lady in the Clapper commercials. I melted like butter onto the gurney, and proclaimed undying love for Nurse Wonderful. She smiled, and smooshwalked her Crocs out of the room while I giggled and hubby rubbed my feet. After two solid hours of the most excruciating, frightening, unrelenting pain I could ever imagine… to have it suddenly and swiftly lifted from me was life altering. I could practically see into the future. Everything was golden and good, and I wanted to run around and give everyone in the ER hugs and cupcakes. Of course, exactly 25 minutes later it wore off and I was ready to dropkick fluffy bunnies if that’s what it took to score more drugs. (Public Service Announcement: No fluffy bunnies were harmed in the making of this post, or in the banishing of my kidney stone! I love them, and cuddle them, and wish them all rapturous lives in fields of fresh clover.)
So that is how Aimee was introduced to her first ever CT scan. First ever IV! First ever official hospital gown. Egad. Those are hideous drapes of mortification and humiliation aren’t they? AND – the BEST moment ever – the hospital is undergoing construction on a new wing. That means the CT Scanner was outside in the cold and snow, in a glorified medical trailer park. So my aching, drug-dizzy self was pushed in a wheelchair, hospital gown flapping in ALL the wrong places, out into the snowstorm, down a bumpy parking lot driveway, onto a lift where the whole parking lot could get a glimpse of the fabulousness of my 3:00 a.m. hairdo (which looked quite like I was breakdancing on my head, on a burlap carpet). HELLO, WORLD! BUY MY ART! WEE!
Ultimately, after many refills on the IV, and reassurances by the doctors that I did NOT want to have this stone removed physically by them…. I was sent to continue this whole lovely process in the privacy of my own home. Which I did. And hence, the shockingly tiny ‘Gomer’ was born into the world, promptly greeted by my tongue sticking out at it. Rudely. And deservedly. TAKE THAT, ugly jabby thingy. Your reign of terror is OVER! Clap off!
I have never thrown up because of pain, but someone let loose the hounds that night. There was no decorum left as I writhed on the bathroom floor wondering what sort of devilry had sunk it’s claws into me. It was so much worse than that time when I fell on the center bar of my brother’s 10-speed bike. And it was WAY worse than the time my uncle mowed over my legs on an old fashioned runner-sled. Even worse than the time I flew off my bike and skidded 15 feet down the gravel road on my face. Yes, until now…those had been the pinnacle moments of pain. But no more. Now I had The Stone to contend with, though I didn’t know it yet. There on the floor in the bathroom I merely thought I was dying by being pulled through a razor-lined knothole backwards.
This, of course, had to happen during the first major snowstorm of the year! So my darling hubby rushed me (i.e. drove at a moderately safe speed, which was slower than if I had a snap craving for rhubarb and decided to mosey to the store on a sunny day) in the wee hours of the morning, trying to keep calm while his wife was a shrieking banshee of agony and weeping in the passenger seat. I tried my best to sink into a meditative state. I rolled the window down part way to hear the slushing sound of snow and ice, but my mind was a blur. Instead of a calming sussuration of thoughts, it was screaming “ICESNOWPAINOWICESNOWSLUSHOWOWOWOWWWWICESNOWDRIVEFASSSSSSSTEROWWWWWWWWW”. So tranquil.
I, of course, then had to endure the “Checking In” procedure at the emergency desk. Sure. Hand me a bunch of papers to sign when my body has literally formed a figure-8 from the wretched muscle tensing and desperate futile quest for relief. I could barely uncurl my fingers from the Fists of Agony in order to sign my name…which I am pretty sure came out as “AimeeOUCHOUCHOUCH”. I managed to choke on a laugh when she handed me the urine sample cup. But of course, I had to be a good cowboy and buck up for the cause. So I did, with much sobbing, yelping, and wishing sweet unconciousness would visit me…with a bottle of whiskey and a hammer.
Fortunately, once I got on a gurney the Angel of Mercy arrived in pale blue Crocs. She propped my arm up, thwapped a vein, and had the IV in like she’d just broke the record at the county cow roping contest. Considering I hate needles and going to the doctor, the fact that I had my arm out there like a willing heroin junkie should tell you something. GIVE ME THE BIG GAUGE NEEDLE!! Pump that sweet sunshine IN, NOWWWW!!!!!
I remember hearing something about narcotics and lightheadedness, but ohhhhhhhhh sweet jam, it was bliss. In the blink of an eye, a woosh of tingly, numbing delight flew through my circulatory system and banished the pain away like that old lady in the Clapper commercials. I melted like butter onto the gurney, and proclaimed undying love for Nurse Wonderful. She smiled, and smooshwalked her Crocs out of the room while I giggled and hubby rubbed my feet. After two solid hours of the most excruciating, frightening, unrelenting pain I could ever imagine… to have it suddenly and swiftly lifted from me was life altering. I could practically see into the future. Everything was golden and good, and I wanted to run around and give everyone in the ER hugs and cupcakes. Of course, exactly 25 minutes later it wore off and I was ready to dropkick fluffy bunnies if that’s what it took to score more drugs. (Public Service Announcement: No fluffy bunnies were harmed in the making of this post, or in the banishing of my kidney stone! I love them, and cuddle them, and wish them all rapturous lives in fields of fresh clover.)
So that is how Aimee was introduced to her first ever CT scan. First ever IV! First ever official hospital gown. Egad. Those are hideous drapes of mortification and humiliation aren’t they? AND – the BEST moment ever – the hospital is undergoing construction on a new wing. That means the CT Scanner was outside in the cold and snow, in a glorified medical trailer park. So my aching, drug-dizzy self was pushed in a wheelchair, hospital gown flapping in ALL the wrong places, out into the snowstorm, down a bumpy parking lot driveway, onto a lift where the whole parking lot could get a glimpse of the fabulousness of my 3:00 a.m. hairdo (which looked quite like I was breakdancing on my head, on a burlap carpet). HELLO, WORLD! BUY MY ART! WEE!
Ultimately, after many refills on the IV, and reassurances by the doctors that I did NOT want to have this stone removed physically by them…. I was sent to continue this whole lovely process in the privacy of my own home. Which I did. And hence, the shockingly tiny ‘Gomer’ was born into the world, promptly greeted by my tongue sticking out at it. Rudely. And deservedly. TAKE THAT, ugly jabby thingy. Your reign of terror is OVER! Clap off!
Friday, October 10, 2008
There's no place like home...
A Rally Cry for Artists!
During that bleak time in U.S. history known as The Great Depression, there was something called The Works Progress Administration, or the New Deal. In short, the government created an opportunity for artists, writers and musicians to put their collective muses to work in bolstering up the minds and hearts of people who had little inspiration left in their lives, while at the same time creating an opportunity for artists to put a little money back into their ragged pockets.
At the heart of the WPA was a need to capture the moment on film, in writing, on canvas, and in melody. They were to take what was happening, and document it in a way that served both as a historic record and a celebration to the determination and grit that kept people alive and the tiny coals of hope aglow.
Even beyond the government sponsored program, artists of all kinds heard the call of need and desperation. People needed escape. They wanted something that could transport them in that dark hour, to a place where their mind's could take flight, their hearts could mend, and they could forget the growling in their stomachs and the tears that stained their children's cheeks.
It was during this time, in 1939, that The Wizard of Oz came to the silver screen. With it's opening of a black and white life for Dorothy in the dustbowl of Kansas to the sudden sensory tsunami of color as she was whisked away to Oz, it was an epic journey that would make people's hearts burst open with possibility if only they would believe in it.
The message behind all of this is a poignant one. In a time when Big Business grinds to a halt and the hands of hard working individuals wring in worry and despair, it is a rallying cry for artists everywhere. The gift of muse and creativity that comes to us freely can be the glimpse of color through sepia tinted glasses, and the melody that lifts tear stained eyes. It can be the crazy cartoon that still makes children laugh despite the worn threads of their clothes and the worries that are beyond their years.
Art knows no limits. It does not need Wall Street to buy and sell it's heart. It does not need oil barons to back it's worth. It is oblivious to the deception of mortgage companies, credit card telemarketers, and gas titans. It exists, because it is the very essence of the world we live in. It is the rose that continues to bloom in drought. It is the blazing sunset that paints the sky over a closed factory. It is the dance of mist and sparkle of frost over homes in foreclosure. It is the diamond sky and pearl moon above a war torn city. Art exists, because our world exists. Our universe exists. We exist. And to those of us whose lifeblood runs in rainbows through our veins and our every breath is a technicolor sigh, it is our turn to be the infusion of hope in these anemic times. We don't have to wait for a government to set up a program. We don't have to wait to see our neighbor in tears. We know what to do. It is in our very nature to be empathetic to the shift in global consciousness. Now is the time to grab our paint brushes, our pens, our trumpets and blast away the tornado twisting at our back door with a rush of color, light, and song.
The tornado is not here to take us to Oz. We are here to bring Oz to the tornado, banishing it away with a click of our ruby red shoes, singing and dancing all the way home.
~Aimee
During that bleak time in U.S. history known as The Great Depression, there was something called The Works Progress Administration, or the New Deal. In short, the government created an opportunity for artists, writers and musicians to put their collective muses to work in bolstering up the minds and hearts of people who had little inspiration left in their lives, while at the same time creating an opportunity for artists to put a little money back into their ragged pockets.
At the heart of the WPA was a need to capture the moment on film, in writing, on canvas, and in melody. They were to take what was happening, and document it in a way that served both as a historic record and a celebration to the determination and grit that kept people alive and the tiny coals of hope aglow.
Even beyond the government sponsored program, artists of all kinds heard the call of need and desperation. People needed escape. They wanted something that could transport them in that dark hour, to a place where their mind's could take flight, their hearts could mend, and they could forget the growling in their stomachs and the tears that stained their children's cheeks.
It was during this time, in 1939, that The Wizard of Oz came to the silver screen. With it's opening of a black and white life for Dorothy in the dustbowl of Kansas to the sudden sensory tsunami of color as she was whisked away to Oz, it was an epic journey that would make people's hearts burst open with possibility if only they would believe in it.
The message behind all of this is a poignant one. In a time when Big Business grinds to a halt and the hands of hard working individuals wring in worry and despair, it is a rallying cry for artists everywhere. The gift of muse and creativity that comes to us freely can be the glimpse of color through sepia tinted glasses, and the melody that lifts tear stained eyes. It can be the crazy cartoon that still makes children laugh despite the worn threads of their clothes and the worries that are beyond their years.
Art knows no limits. It does not need Wall Street to buy and sell it's heart. It does not need oil barons to back it's worth. It is oblivious to the deception of mortgage companies, credit card telemarketers, and gas titans. It exists, because it is the very essence of the world we live in. It is the rose that continues to bloom in drought. It is the blazing sunset that paints the sky over a closed factory. It is the dance of mist and sparkle of frost over homes in foreclosure. It is the diamond sky and pearl moon above a war torn city. Art exists, because our world exists. Our universe exists. We exist. And to those of us whose lifeblood runs in rainbows through our veins and our every breath is a technicolor sigh, it is our turn to be the infusion of hope in these anemic times. We don't have to wait for a government to set up a program. We don't have to wait to see our neighbor in tears. We know what to do. It is in our very nature to be empathetic to the shift in global consciousness. Now is the time to grab our paint brushes, our pens, our trumpets and blast away the tornado twisting at our back door with a rush of color, light, and song.
The tornado is not here to take us to Oz. We are here to bring Oz to the tornado, banishing it away with a click of our ruby red shoes, singing and dancing all the way home.
~Aimee
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Mooncow
Why did the cow jump over the moon?
Why did she end her fun so soon?
She could have aimed for a much better place,
right on the Man in the Moon's bright face
For don't you think, if given the chance
a cow on the face of the moon would dance
with all four hooves stomping the ground
sending rainbows of moondust and starlight around?
And don't you think she'd want to see
if the moon was really made of cheese?
For if it was true, it would have to be
from the grandest cow in eternity!
A gigantic, celestial bovine Queen
making vats of skymilk so pristine
That many a song would praise it's glory
and authors would include it in all their stories.
But no, instead, the cow...she just jumped
right over the moon, and back down with a thump
in a field in a place far away from the moon
where cows are just cows, and sunrise is soon
and the farmer will come to fetch milk for the day
in a simple, absolute, ordinary way
not noticing the glimmer and glint of proof
of stardust shimmering on his cow's hoof
And the cow, for now, will just have to wait
To head back to the moon and investigate
Whether Mooncow is there, making moonmilk sublime
for that magnificent, luminous cheesewheel divine
in a field full of comets and shooting stars
where she chews on Venus and nibbles on Mars
And maybe then Earthcow will stay
and dance out her days in the great Milky Way.
Aimee - Sept. 24, '08 (Morning writing exercise)
Why did she end her fun so soon?
She could have aimed for a much better place,
right on the Man in the Moon's bright face
For don't you think, if given the chance
a cow on the face of the moon would dance
with all four hooves stomping the ground
sending rainbows of moondust and starlight around?
And don't you think she'd want to see
if the moon was really made of cheese?
For if it was true, it would have to be
from the grandest cow in eternity!
A gigantic, celestial bovine Queen
making vats of skymilk so pristine
That many a song would praise it's glory
and authors would include it in all their stories.
But no, instead, the cow...she just jumped
right over the moon, and back down with a thump
in a field in a place far away from the moon
where cows are just cows, and sunrise is soon
and the farmer will come to fetch milk for the day
in a simple, absolute, ordinary way
not noticing the glimmer and glint of proof
of stardust shimmering on his cow's hoof
And the cow, for now, will just have to wait
To head back to the moon and investigate
Whether Mooncow is there, making moonmilk sublime
for that magnificent, luminous cheesewheel divine
in a field full of comets and shooting stars
where she chews on Venus and nibbles on Mars
And maybe then Earthcow will stay
and dance out her days in the great Milky Way.
Aimee - Sept. 24, '08 (Morning writing exercise)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Happy Dance Freeflow
Sassy, frassy, happy dance. Magic springing forth in heel-toe, heel-toe. Quickstep across the boardwalk, springkick to the air, landing in sand with one fell swoop. Pause, tiny grains flicked from freckled arm... then moving once again. One-two-three-four, foxtrot over shoreline, deftly circling sanddollars and polished pebbles. Sparkling smile flashed at chubby cheeked children digging moats around makeshift sandcastles, frayed seagull feathers standing in for regal flags. And the dance continues, toward the tidepool... where barnacle speckled crabs scuttle sideways to avoid shuffling feet. Shoes kicked off with ease, toes sink in, water droplets flying as footwork meets water. Sunsparks glance on the water, drawn to happy feet highstepping to a tune of their own across mirrored pools soon shattered with glee.
Smooth sand churns beneath the thump of dancing soles. Swish-STOMP-swish-swish-STOMP! Elderly couple pauses a few strides away, trapped in the spectacle of it all. Buttoned down in matching sweatsuits, wrinkled faces shift with amused confusion at the dervish skiffing along the shoreline. Dancer spots oglers, and leaps to the air - highKICK! - before falling into zootsuit prance, fingers snapping, body swaying to thumping inner drums. Couple moves on, husband craning neck before tugged onward to the promise of clinking teaspoons and T.S. Elliot.
Patrons at seaside diner peer out floor to ceiling windows, spoons hovering above breadbowls of clam chowder. Laughter ripples. Fingers point. Check that one out! Pinwheel color prancing in seafoam. Music trickles in to collective consciousness. Young man taps out rhythm with fork to waterglass. Waiter's fingers drum over menus on the front desk. Telephone rings, front door cowbells chime, cellphones erupt, baby shrieks, seagulls squak on rooftop. And the dancer boogieoogieoogies, throwing in a two-step cowboy stomp for good measure. Redneck from Alabama yeehaws with approval. Quiets down when onion rings arrive.
And then in the roar of wildoceanwhitewatertumblewaves...cartwheels, pirouettes, jiveboogie sashay times eleven. Fancyshmancy Rockette finale in the breakwater, highkicks galore, droplets flashing sunlight like paparazzi bulbs on opening night. Arms thrown wide, ready for the closeup, jazzhands matched with a Broadway smile. They love me, they REALLY love me.
Two people applaud unheard in the restaurant. Kids jump up and squeel with joy as they mimic the dancer, on top of their fifteenth massacred castle. Dogs race by, chasing a green blur of tennis ball.
Shoes scooped up from the sand, a little Charlie Chaplin shuffle as dancer heads back towards town... following the trail of happydancetracks in sand.
Smooth sand churns beneath the thump of dancing soles. Swish-STOMP-swish-swish-STOMP! Elderly couple pauses a few strides away, trapped in the spectacle of it all. Buttoned down in matching sweatsuits, wrinkled faces shift with amused confusion at the dervish skiffing along the shoreline. Dancer spots oglers, and leaps to the air - highKICK! - before falling into zootsuit prance, fingers snapping, body swaying to thumping inner drums. Couple moves on, husband craning neck before tugged onward to the promise of clinking teaspoons and T.S. Elliot.
Patrons at seaside diner peer out floor to ceiling windows, spoons hovering above breadbowls of clam chowder. Laughter ripples. Fingers point. Check that one out! Pinwheel color prancing in seafoam. Music trickles in to collective consciousness. Young man taps out rhythm with fork to waterglass. Waiter's fingers drum over menus on the front desk. Telephone rings, front door cowbells chime, cellphones erupt, baby shrieks, seagulls squak on rooftop. And the dancer boogieoogieoogies, throwing in a two-step cowboy stomp for good measure. Redneck from Alabama yeehaws with approval. Quiets down when onion rings arrive.
And then in the roar of wildoceanwhitewatertumblewaves...cartwheels, pirouettes, jiveboogie sashay times eleven. Fancyshmancy Rockette finale in the breakwater, highkicks galore, droplets flashing sunlight like paparazzi bulbs on opening night. Arms thrown wide, ready for the closeup, jazzhands matched with a Broadway smile. They love me, they REALLY love me.
Two people applaud unheard in the restaurant. Kids jump up and squeel with joy as they mimic the dancer, on top of their fifteenth massacred castle. Dogs race by, chasing a green blur of tennis ball.
Shoes scooped up from the sand, a little Charlie Chaplin shuffle as dancer heads back towards town... following the trail of happydancetracks in sand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)