Archive for August, 2009

What’s in a name?

August 28, 2009

Today is my last summer Friday off. Officially, it is the last day I will have in a long time, where I don’t have a million places to be at the same time that any and all government official offices are open. 

It’s probably the shittiest way I can think of to spend my last weekday of summer off. 

I have researched, and researched, and gathered, and researched some more. I think I have all the documents needed. I think I have all the addresses and office hours and everything in between found. I think I know what book I will bring to pass the time. 

I just don’t know how I feel yet about changing my name. 

I assume by saying “I do” that means I am ready. There is a lot that goes along with a name, though. I can think of about a million people who refer to me purely by my last name. And I like that. I also can think of about a million more people who refer to me by my combined first and last name as one. I like that, too. Many refer to be by my first name, which is fine, but there is something about my last name. I just really like it. 

I  plan on doing the whole obnoxious keep you current last name as your middle name kind of a thing, but that makes things complicated too. No hyphen, though. That is just asking for trouble. 

As I sit here, on my couch, in my pajama, staring at my Frankestein hand, I just keep wondering: Am I ready to do this? Am I ready to add something legally official to who I am that changes how everyone has ever known me for the past 27 years? Am I ready to accept that my cool eastern european name will be joined by a short, simple, lovely name, that may or may not (depending who you ask) make you feel like I should either own a sausage farm or be a movie star?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I honestly don’t know. This has nothing to do with my relationship, it is more me dealing with feeling like me. 

As I sit on the couch, in my pajamas, staring at my Frankenstein hand, I realize that each moment that passes results in less time to get this done. 

And I am not sure if I am okay with it or not.

meh.

August 26, 2009

 

health.howstuffworks.com/ amnesia-and-head-tra..

health.howstuffworks.com/ amnesia-and-head-tra..

For some reason, as I was on my way home from work today, I found myself descending into a rather foul mood. Why this is, I have no idea, but that is the mystery of the brain, I would guess.

Luckily, I have a plethora of creatures in my home to make me smile. 

For one, I have two cats who have been fighting over a fantastic new bed that they have discovered. Now, don’t get it twisted, Man-Friend and I have purchased a ton of super rad, soft, cozy, cute beds for these felines. Those were looked at upon arrival, and then the cats proceeded to look down their noses at said cushy beds, as they strolled past haughtily. 

No, no, the newest furniture piece is not cushy, nor is it a real home accessory. It is the top of a box. 

This box top has been filled with cat since the moment it fell of the box of comics it covered. I don’t know what it is, but these cats get crazy with the cardboard. Flea definitely has the upper hand, as he is approximately 10lbs heavier than D, so he is usually there. It is more entertaining anyway, as he literally lays there, resting his head on the corner, wile the rest of his fleshy fur settle under him and expands into the corners of it. This feline fills the whole box. 

09-13-06_1804For the record, this is not Flea in his current condition, nor in his current favorite box. That is a box from the days of old, when he was younger and smaller, in the home we created together, just the two of us. 

Now, as I type, a heavier, crankier Flea is watching me, from said box top, as if he knows I am typing about him. At the same time, I have Ollie, who has been getting adjusted to hanging on the couch with Man-Friend and I. Ollie is allowed in his crate, on a leash outside, and in his play pen fence thing in the living room. The only time he can play and move around more is when we let him kick it on the couch with us. We have been slowly introducing him to it, preferably when he is sleepy, so that he does not run back and forth from one arm rest to the other. Also, Sleepy Ollie=Snuggly Ollie.  

Ollie has gotten a bit more comfortable with chilling on the couch. His legs have also gotten strangely long. The pups got gams!

ollie on couchNot only is he finding more comfort in chilling on the couch, he also enjoys hiding behind pillows and messing up each and every cushion in his own special way.

Without a doubt, his favorite couch activity is cleaning it… with his tongue. Okay, maybe he isn’t cleaning it, maybe he is making out with the couch. Either way, it makes me smile. 

Which is nice on a rainy evening at home, when I am feeling down in the dumps for no apparent reason. 

Figuring out why one is feeling like shit is never easy. It is the most frustrating when there is no reason. 

Reasons I should officially *NOT* be a sad sack:

1) I have a rad Man-Friend who married me. I can’t even be down that I am not an honest woman. I am. It’s true!

2) My pets love me, no matter what. They are cute and have spectacular personality. They will love me even when I think no one else does.

3) I have a day job that I am passionate about. Like, I don’t always feel the need to run out the door at 4:59 PM. I actually sometimes want to stay to finish stuff, so I can work on cool new things that will help people the next day. 

4) Although I am currently a gimp, when I am doing hair, my clients are 95% people I would be friends with, that is, if I was not working all the time. 

So what is it? Perhaps I will never know. Perhaps, I will wake up in the morning in a bright and/or bushy tailed stupor. Hell, I might even close the computer after typing this and come to the realization that writing the damn blog about feeling crappy is actually the culprit. 

Only time will tell. All I know is that I will feel better eventually. And knowing that is all that matters.

bubbles

*DS

Tough Cookies.

August 25, 2009

Ollie is seriously growing. He officially “graduated” from getting his puppy intro shots and checkups tonight. He is even vaccinated against rabies! 

That’s right- no brain inflaming zoonotic diseases in this family! (By the way, did you know that September 28th is World Rabies Day?)

As we talked with the Vet, who is FANTASTIC, we discussed the officially “altering” of young Ollie. He is coming up on 4 months old, and usually altering is done at 6 months. For some reason, I just really really really want to get it done. Like, yesterday. 

 

Maybe I am on a surgery kick, but from what I hear, life is way easier with an altered puppy. My rad doctor is all about doing it at 6 months, but can’t we just do it now? I wonder if my dear Ollie would give me nearly as many kisses if he knew how badly I wanted to get his balls removed.  Like I said, it may  just be that I am all about surgery these days.

Speaking of slicing skin, tendons, and tunnels, I got my smelly, nasty cast off yesterday! Shit, yea! I am a new woman. For reals. I am a new woman with a Frankenstein wrist. 

 

 www.istockphoto.com/ stock-illustration-378386...

http://www.istockphoto.com/ stock-illustration-378386...

Not only have I been able to get my stitches out, this morning I was able to take a shower using two, count ’em, TWO hands. 

While chatting with my surgeon during the stitch removal, he made a comment that officially made me feel tough. Sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, I really love when I receive verification that a) I did the right thing (have surgery) and even more so B) I AM NOT A SALLY. 

 

The surgeon told me that in his 40-ish years as a surgeon, my wrist was the worst he had seen with this condition. Crazy, right? He officially told me that my wrist was a mess. Awesome. 

Unfortunately, I have a new wrist cast thingy. It is one of those awful ones that are velcro that you could buy at any drugstore. I know for sure that when I see people wearing these, I think to myself “pull it together! why are you wearing that nonsense that probably does not do anything?” Also, depending on the person, my mood, or the situation, I also have been known to assume the person is a hypochondriac who wants attention.

I am now that person that everyone judges. 

 

 momitforward.com/ tag/time-management

momitforward.com/ tag/time-management

Watching stitches get taken out of your skin is a strange situation. It is more satisfying than lacing shoelaces in a new pair of shoes that you have wanted since you got the 17 lb., fall issue of Vogue, but also strangely makes your whole entire body shudder in nauseous discomfort while watching strings get pulled through your skin in a cheap hotel sewing kit kind of fashion. But in the end, I am relieved to have painful use of my hand, sort of.  While every time I move my hand I feel like a rubber band is being stretched to the utmost, painful, extreme, I am pumped because I know the worst is over. And now, I have a hand that looks like this:

IMG00317

As far as I am concerned, scars are cool. I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t care how messed up it sounds, everyone knows they kind of think scars are cool. They tell a story. No matter what anyone says, when an event in your life leaves a natural permanent mark on your skin, it is significant, and you will always remember it. 

*DS

paws.

August 21, 2009

IMG00310

This is currently what my right paw looks like. 

A few weeks ago, I decided that having a paralyzed right (dominant) hand every time I awoke from slumber was unacceptable. This was the final straw, following the realization of my lack of right hand plate carrying abilities. Being able to carry a plate in one hand is important. Waking up with a paralyzed claw as an extremity wins when it comes to reasons to go to the doctor. 

After a handful (no pun intended) of questions, nerve tests, and uncomfortable movement, my fantastic hand man informed me that my tendons want my hand to be paralyzed. RAD. Long story short, tendons were too inflamed to move anywhere else in my hand successfully. Due to my lack of finding myself worthy enough to take care of extreme pains in my body (or, in reference to my part time gig- specifically  “The money maker”), I had to go under the knife. 

butcher knife

So last week I was sliced and diced, and am in the healing process as I type. Which I am *technically* not supposed to do. At least not as much as I need to in my everyday life. 

The surgery went well, although there were a few little complications. My favorite is definitely that the surgeon had to go out to the waiting room and tell Man-Friend that I have a genetic deformity. 

“Ha!! Take the Sucker! I am genetically incorrect! And you have already been locked down in matrimony!”

 

It is honestly not as cool as it sounds… It is really just a tendon issue. I have tendons that not only are too big for the space provided in my hand,they were fraying from inflammation, AND they were battling it out inside my wrist to stop my hand from moving. Basically, the situation was a battle of the Super Tendons. Comic book story line, anyone?

Anyway- things are healing nicely, that is, as long as I don’t overdo it at work, like I did today. I have a swollen knuckle that is currently trying to spill out of the top of my cast. This awesome decision of mine to work too hard has led me to a lovely evening of pain pills and blogging. Which, I am most definitely not complaining about. 

In the category of THE BEST NEWS OF ALL TIME!!! Man-Friend finally broke down and said yes to my constant pleas to get a dog. 

This is Ollie:

Ollie

He is only 8 weeks old here, so clearly, he looks like a stuffed animal. He is pretty much the best little canine creature a person could ask for.

Here, you can see his Batman ears:

IMG00286

Pardon the fuzzy phone picture.

He wakes Man-Friend and I up at least once a night to pee, and for a solid week had the craziest excrement ever, and we both are absolutely in love with him. He drives us bonkers with frustration, sleep-deprivation, and wonderful kisses. Neither of us can seem to get enough of the puppy kisses. 

Dog tongues are so much softer than cat tongues! 

Our home, our tiny, itsy bitsy one bedroom condo that is filled to the brim with crap, should now be considered a zoo. 

So… the dream has come true.bostonterrierpinup 

And for the record, his paws? Waaaaaay cuter than mine. 

 

My Little Monster

My Little Monster

*DS


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