A few notes:

1) There will be changes.  I do like this theme, but it is a) generic b) not purple.  I spent a good portion of a day trying to make it purple.  I suck at design.
2) I wanted to get all my links up, but I am a slacker.  If you wish to be linked, let me know.  Ditto if you have a preference to be called something other than what I linked you by. 
3) Archives?  Huh?  What was that?  I’m torn on this.  While I always tried to write with the idea that anyone and everyone might read, this will probably be a less anonymous site and I’m debating whether I really want every stupid word I ever wrote over here.  I have plenty of other stupid words still be to written.

I’d like to take this opportunity to ask for input/requests/suggestions. 
 
Anything you’d like to see here?  Anything you’d like to read about here?  Would you absolutely die if I didn’t import my archives?  Something I should implement differently?  At the very least erase the generic content of the “About” page?
 
(While comments now require an email address, only I see them.  As you notice with TG’s first comment.  You know he would have a fit if you guys could track him down.  Not that this site is hosted by the company he’s used for his own sites for years or anything…) 

The weekend was a great success. My parents wanted to take a walk Friday morning, which gave me time to hit the gym per my new routine. Every bit counts when you know you’re going to be chowing down all weekend.

Thursday evening I had suggested to both of them to peruse my iTunes and pick songs for the shuffle. Dad chose a few, clearly not interested at first but he came back in with more and more suggestions when he saw how much fun Mom was having.

Not only did this mean a little bit for everyone on the drive up, but they got the added bonus of knowing they raised me right when they can find Wilson Pickett and Fats Waller in among my Dixie Chicks and Nickel Back.

(Although Dad? Chose the Texas Tornados “Guacamole”. Which…I cannot explain why I own the Texas Tornados because the story is too boring. But I had never heard it until somewhere south of Ocala on Friday. With my father singing along. I’m not sure I can be a produce section with him ever again.)

We got into Gainesville around lunchtime. Although we first stopped for lunch (at the Oaks mall! Did you see us?) inside Gainesville because Mom and Dad are a little scared of being dragged to the cafeteria. I love the cafeteria food and my father once attempted to disown me when I asked him to give me tips to recreate a chicken stew-thing we ate there. But, food quality aside, the real issue is that it’s just such a damn TO-DO to go to the cafeteria. So Ruby Tuesday’s it was.

The afternoon passed quickly, catching up and getting my parents checked into their room. The retirement community has two guest apartments that can be rented by residents and it really comes in handy. (I stayed with the Grandparents.)

We had dinner at one of my favorite restaurants: The Stonewood Grill. And I had my two favorite dishes: herb encrusted grouper (I am not usually a seafood person, but this is awesome) and the chocolate bread pudding. It was heaven. Both the bruschetta and my salad came with balsamic vinegar dressing, and the grouper had a balsamic vinegar reduction sauce. I heartly approve of any meal where you can get balsamic vinegar in multiple courses.

I also tried a Pinot Gris. A little delicate, but better to me than a chardonnay.

Saturday we made it to the Santa Fe Community College Teaching Zoo for a tour and it didn’t start to rain until our last 100 feet. (I will answer for you the question asked of me from my family – I have no desire to be a zookeeper. I could do that at the sanctuary for the rest of my life and keep my high paying, amazing benefits giving, job. I wish to get into research that will help protect and understand animals in the wild.)

The zoo was interesting. I was impressed with their bald eagles. The South American porcupines wouldn’t come out though. I love me some porcupines.

Since it became so rainy and cold, I was half-hoping my grandfather would find the curry too much for him and I could snag it for lunch. No dice. I’ve been instructed to bring any extra curry in my possession to him directly.

Spent the afternoon reading and napping, then drinking mimosas while trying to ease kitchen tensions as Dad cooked in a strange environment. I know their layout and tend to get on Dad’s nerves a tad less. He is the kind of person that just needs to be left alone to work his magic.

But magic was worked and another yummy meal was consumed. This time with a shiraz and I’m sorry to disappoint wine-type people, but I find anything too dark to see through just too bitter and it gives me a headache. I’d love to be proven wrong, but haven’t yet so far.

Nothing too exciting for the evening’s endeavors. Mom and Dad once again skipped out early (it is rare they make it past 9:30 on any night) and Grandpa and Grandma and I watched some BBC and Olympics. I thought I would be jonesing for more entertainment, but just being around four other people non-stop tired me out.

Sunday morning was kind of annoying in that it was just hurry-up-and-wait until it was time to hit the road. I was very out-of-sorts. Perhaps it is because sometime Friday evening we had exhausted my interest and understanding of the Supreme Court, yet continued to discuss it throughout the weekend. (I am going to admit something to you that no one else in the world knows: when I am with my family? I often think I’m the dumbest person in the group. That is both cool and unnerving.)

Then we could not find a decent place to stop for lunch until it was way too late for me. I was shaking a bit in the restaurant and really biting my lip to ask everyone to just shut up until I’d had a meal and fifteen minutes to digest.

(Also – my family seems to exist solely on alcohol and dairy. It hit me more than once over the weekend that I was getting dehydrated. My usual intake of 100-160oz was probably reduced to 10.)

But luckily I perked up after eating. TPA has instituted a new “first hour free” in the short-term parking. It was a pleasant surprise on Thursday and Sunday it was nice to come inside with them and not be rushed with goodbyes.

I still got home earlier than I thought, got the grocery shopping done, and found surprisingly less damage to the house than I expected. The cats were happy to be fed. And later, after two meals, they were also happy to see me.

Time it took for my mother to gravitate towards art: -2 minutes. (As soon as I saw the manatee installation at TPA I knew she’d have to stop. Sure enough, it was the first thing she mentioned.)

Time it took for my father to speak Latin: 2 hours. (Getting slow in his old age?)

I was nervous about taking them to Ajanti. My mother has some specific dietary restrictions and my father is consistently disappointed with any food someone calls spicy.

His eyes watered. And not only did she love her tandoori chicken but she ate her weight in naan as well.

I had a chicken curry which was tasty but a little too spicy for me. As I debated taking it home my father basically called me wuss. It’s in the freezer now, but if I remember I’m bringing it with me tomorrow. The love of spice runs in the family and Grandpa would enjoy it.

They are staying in my bedroom tonight (cat allergies – the upstairs den does not have a door) and are already tucked in, so I have lugged the laptop up here and plan to curl up with some Angel season 5 before calling it a night myself.

Good night.

For reasons she could no longer remember, she owned an ex-boyfriend’s little brother’s jean jacket.

Jean jackets weren’t really her thing, but most outerwear in general failed her. Or she failed it.

She had owned the jacket for ten years now and supposed that was three times longer than the little brother ever did.

For reasons she could no longer remember, a Barney the dinosaur plastic kazoo resided in the left breast pocket. She was pretty sure it came from the ex-boyfriend. He was the purple-plastic kazoo type.

One afternoon while walking from work to the auto-repair shop, she remembered the kazoo and went digging for it, awkwardly shifting purse and lunch pail and not slowing her march. Finding it would give her some comfort. What she needed comfort from, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Instead of the kazoo, she found a note that read:

-Sears
-Vickie’s
-Fabric Shop
-Pottery
-Email & labs
-Albies
-Goodwill

She knew the general time frame it was written. There was only one time in her life labs and pottery were noteworthy on the same page. But why Goodwill? What would she have done in a fabric shop? She could no longer remember.

The note made her more uncomfortable. Lost in a way the kazoo would have made her found.

She put it back in her pocket and continued on.

Originally, I hadn’t been thinking about returning to the sanctuary. That ship, I thought, had sailed. But as I put the pieces in place for my big change, I realized it would be prudent for me to have an internship this summer. Something to prove to graduate schools I’m serious and committed to the idea of making a lot less money and getting much more dirty while doing it.

It is also imperative that I take Biology I this summer. I have a good idea of the undergraduate classes I will need to prepare for graduate school, and it’s about a full year’s worth. Whether USF will offer up everything my little heart desires in the next year is a chance I’m taking, but at least I will have tried. However, in order to take most of these classes, Biology I & II are pre-requisites. While I might be able to get away with Biology II as a co-requisite, Biology I is going to have to be tackled on it’s own and gotten out of the way.

That meant an internship in the Tampa Bay area. That severely limited my options, which weren’t that great anyway as most programs are geared for people already seeking degrees.

Funnily enough, it was when I realized I should ask the sanctuary for a letter of recommendation that the idea of just returning came to me. So simple!

The sanctuary has an official internship program, but I didn’t want to take a spot away from anyone and I wanted a little more control over my schedule. So, when I went back around Thanksgiving, I broached the idea of my returning for an intensive internship-like period of time over the summer.

Now, I understood this was not the greatest offer in the book. It takes a lot to train volunteers. It will take me a week or so at least to get back in the game – if I’m out there every day. Volunteer retention and stability is very important in such a difficult environment. If they said it wasn’t worth it, I’d get it. At least I would have tried.

Of the few people I mentioned this to, one committee member took interest and wanted to know the details of what I was thinking. So after Christmas I emailed her with an outline of my plan (still vague as USF will not put out the summer schedule until APRIL when classes start in MAY – although the Biology department has assured me a session of Biology I is always taught).

I made it clear that while I didn’t want to stop volunteering again, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep it up in the fall. I would be starting classes (hopefully) full-time and also need to look for a part-time job.

She replied back why didn’t I just come back as a lowest-level volunteer (which would mean least-hours required monthly) and see if I could make it a permanent return?

Again, so simple! But it never occurred to me, as I was so “internship-type situation” focused. And just because I have small monthly quota of hours, doesn’t mean I can’t put in more over the summer. I can certainly come up with some specific project to complete during that time if I feel a huge need to prove something to graduate schools.

It also gives me freedom with my schedule. And is a good step to ensuring I don’t fall back into all of my old responsibilities and get burnt out again. (Although I doubt I would let this happen. One reason I didn’t go back sooner is because I felt I hadn’t learned enough about the limits and possibilities of my mind and body. I’d spent too long on autopilot, in part because of my marriage, doing what needed doing regardless of whether I could/should actually do it. I’m fairly confident that I know them now.)

I’ve thought about how being a low-level (LL) volunteer will feel. Overall, I don’t think it will be too weird for me. No matter what level you are, everyone picks up shit. Literally. And I know this will sound strange, but that’s one of my favorite tasks – cleaning habitats means your out there on the sanctuary grounds, walking around, near the animals, knowing that whatever else you do that day, you’ve given them a clean home.

As an LL, I won’t be able to clean the habitats of the larger cats, but since both my babies died I won’t feel any huge loss there. I don’t remember if I ever spoken about it, but I’ve been “Mom” to two bobcats longer than either the tiger or the lioness were around.

I also think the volunteers who knew me from before will respect my knowledge. That’s just how the place works. Age, social standing, and for the most part even education mean nothing. It’s all about how many hours you’ve put in. I’ve taken orders from someone ten years my senior and ten years my junior, as well as given them to cute guys I’d like to get with and people old enough to be my parents.

The only two downsides are that LL volunteers don’t feed and they don’t conduct tours.

Feeding, while sometimes difficult and stressful, is always looked at as a reward. Getting to watch carnivores chow down is amazing. And I will miss being out there in the evening, when feeding occurs. All LL volunteers are pretty much off-property by the afternoon. As someone who once lived out there and would get to be completely alone Sunday evenings with the lioness, I cherished the quiet and the satisfaction of knowing the day was done and the animals were safe.

The tours are something many other volunteers wouldn’t believe I’d miss. I can get burned out on people quickly, and I’m very protective of the animals, which can make for a stressful tour when guests think it’s so cute and funny when an abused leopard is hissing and charging the fence. The guide usually isn’t supposed to bitch-slap the patrons.

But especially with being away for so long, I’ve come to realize how much I love talking about the animals, and what people need to know so they can go home and make decisions that ensure more abuse and neglect doesn’t happen.

I used to be praised by guests for my tours quite a bit. And it surprised me, until I realized the same passion that made me mad when guests didn’t respect the privacy of the animals also made me a wonderful guide. People liked my tours because they could tell these animals were loved, that I believed in the sanctuary’s mission and in doing whatever it took to stop the exploitation of captive exotics.

I’ve thought about perhaps advancing to be a ML volunteer. That is a seductive and dangerous proposition. I’m going back with a bigger picture in mind; to eventually leave again when I find a graduate program. I can’t get sidetracked with the instant gratification of putting in a hard day’s work at the sanctuary, especially if it compromises the time and energy I put into school.

But we’ll see. First I just need to get back there. I had planned to be back in May. But returning as an LL means so small of a time commitment, I could go back any time after February (too much planned already) and fulfill my hours on just one weekend morning a week. Part of me wants to be back before my birthday.

Perhaps because I view birthdays and September (never really got out of the school mindset) the way many view the New Year. A time for reflection and change. It would be nice to have one part of my plan in place by then.

As a side note, after writing this, I realized another issue with discussing/treating PMS is the fact that it’s something that only occurs for a few days a month. I started feeling better and wondered what the hell I was making a big deal about. (I think the fact that my stomach feels better (get your miracle lemon bars here!) – which was completely unrelated – is putting a positive spin on everything.)

Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe women must simply tolerate a certain amount of discomfort. I refuse to believe that for now, but I concede it’s possible.

Anyway….

It’s entirely possible yesterday’s post was PMS-induced.

I have several drafts trying to explain my personal hell with this subject. It’s a difficult topic, once you get past making stereotypical cutesy references of being irrational and craving sweet, salty carbohydrates.

Bleeding gums aren’t cutesy. Neither are having your eyeballs swell and change shape so that you can’t wear contacts, insomnia, headaches, or breast pain. Oh my fuck the breast pain.

And you know what’s sick? In some ways I feel lucky to have all these physical PMS symptoms. I think people are more sympathetic and understanding to the overall condition whereas if my only symptoms were crying over the fact that I believe Frisco hates me and eating a batch lemon squares, no one would be soothing my back and saying, “Aw babe.” Instead I fear it would be bemused irritation and wondering why I don’t just suck it up.

Why is it that all of these symptoms are valid, all of them are a direct response to a change in my hormones, yet I feel the ones stereotyped do not deserve the same medical concern and treatment as the others? This is perhaps the biggest issue I have felt at a disadvantage over by being a woman in my life. I think we need more awareness and that’s one of the reasons I’m writing about it.

I’d never had huge PMS issues until a few years ago. I started the pill when I was sixteen and was off-and-on for most of my adult life. One month I didn’t get to the pharmacy in time and my ex-husband and I both noted a change for the better in my temperament. Since we weren’t having sex that frequently and planned a vasectomy, we decided I’d stay off.

I tried to go back on when the new boy and I started dating. It was a disaster. After two scripts in two and half months, I quit.

As I tend to think of myself as a moody individual anyway, I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve had the emotional issues with PMS. I didn’t take notice until last May when the physical symptoms got worse.

The breast pain is what couched me back in October. And finally sent me to the doctor. There are other physical aspects regarding my cycle (duration, consistency) that were also to the point I wanted an opinion on what was going on.

PMS often gets worse as women get older. Isn’t that wonderful?

The emotional side of it had also gotten worse. But I hadn’t really told anyone. Instead of just being sad or moody, I was having panic attacks. I would get frustrated and scared and I could tell it was irrational when (if) I vented to someone else and saw their reaction, but until then I was completely oblivious.

I had put off seeing anyone because I knew what the first treatment would be. Going back on the pill. I had to get desperate enough to consider this option and go through the hell it had been last time.

Luckily, the doctor listened to me. For once, I had actually written down each and every symptom and also the issues I had with each of the BC scripts from the previous summer.

She considered putting me on Seasonale, or prescribing that I skip placebos. Not having the change in hormones is really the only way to completely mitigate the effects. But since I’d been off for so long and had issues previously, we started with just putting me on Yasmin.

She also prescribed an SSRI. I knew that was coming too and had promised myself I would try whatever she felt was best. In the week that I took it, I failed to climax four times. While my partner and I have great chemistry and this failure would be strange enough with him, twice it was with myself and I damn well know what to do and do not have performance anxiety over it.

I stopped taking it. My doctor knows this. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like, if instead of just being a moody individual something is really unbalanced and my quality of life would improve with drugs. But I’ve never felt that my life has been compromised enough by my emotional state for this to be an option.

Also, the Yasmin seems to help. Which is what I thought in the beginning. If it was going to help regulate all the other symptoms, why not this one? Is it because even doctors treat emotional symptoms separate from the physical? Is it that our medical institutions need to shift their views on PMS and other women issues?

The Yasmin only helps. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe emotional symptoms do necessitate separate care.

But the Yasmin also only helps with all the other stuff too.

The breast pain, my biggest issue, is almost completely gone. Twinges here and there. I also take primrose oil the week of my placebo pills.

The physical aspects of my cycle are also more consistent. Although I still cannot predict to the day when I could to the hour when I was younger.

My gums are less severe. The emotions more range between weepy and frustration, which I recognize versus getting really out of control. No panic attacks.

But I’ve pretty much given up wearing contacts for about a week a month. And the headaches seem worse. As do the sleep habits and the night sweats. Although it’s possible they were this bad previously and the breast pain just masked it.

So while I’m debating going back to my doctor, I have a favor to ask the ladies. Do you have anything you swear by? Is there an over-the-counter medication that helps with your headaches/pains? Is there a tea you use to help sleep?

I hope this has been somewhat educational for men. Not that my situation is what all women go through, but perhaps it allows for at least some awareness and compassion. There are only two men in my real life that I’ve shared this with and they have been incredibly supportive considering this is all foreign to them.

Today has been…not good.

Not that yesterday was any prize.

It’s just one of those weeks where I’m trying really hard to be productive and the world has other plans for me.

Exercise after work? How about a headache instead? And by the way, don’t you enjoy a little surprise with the way items decide to leave your body?

“You were told you’d get a call back yesterday? Hmm…there is no indication of anything in your chart…did you know you’re supposed to be here for an appointment right now? You canceled it when you called yesterday? Hmm…”

“Why yes, we will only pay for the vaccinations and not any blood work that proves whether you need them. You don’t like superfluous shots and the over-drugging of America? Why not?”

“Click here to apply online as a new student.” Click. “Student ID please.” Bang head on table.

My best friend T has been in a pissy mood for a few days, and he got increasingly MORE pissy on the phone with me. Which is fine and all, that’s what best friends are for, but it is a rare occasion when he isn’t better or same after a good phone call. It was sad and irritating.

1099s went out last Friday. It is the last piece of information standing between me and a nice refund. It doesn’t help that I wasn’t aware they waited until the last fuck of a minute to send them and I had been searching my mailbox for two weeks in vain. But I was so sure after all the crap I dealt with, SURELY it would be in my hands today and my evening would be redemption with a calculator. (I love doing taxes. Shut up.)

My mail today consisted of the February issue of Autoway Toyota Magazine (the fuck?) and a postcard from work reminding me to plan a healthy financial future. Is that ironic? Or just EVER FUCKING ANNOYING?

And then I’m baking lemon squares. And I’m mad at myself about that. Because if I am not exercising I should not be eating. Yet I know myself and realize if I do not take evasive baking action I will end up trolling the QuickieMart for much worse food items.

I believe a cat is going to throw up now. I may join him.

Update – There has been no throwing up so far. By anyone! And I am no longer mad re: lemon squares as they seem to be the only food my body is accepting with grace. Yay for homemade treats. (Although? Bite me headache. Have a lemon square and some shut-the-fuck-up.)