Sick Day

I'm sick.

Again.

I have a cold right now. I had a cold a few weeks ago at Little Sister's wedding (more on that later). I had a cold over New Year's, over Christmas/Hanukkah, and over Halloween.

The awkward placement of these colds means that I keep getting colds when I have work off and then calling in sick on the day I'm supposed to be back in. It look bad. It looks like I'm extending my time off, but I'm honest-to-goodness sick. I took yesterday off, but I went in today even though I was dying because I had a deadline that day but also to prove that I really took the day off for a legitimate illness and not because I wanted a four-day Memorial Day weekend.

It's not like I even have good sick days. I usually sleep a lot and read a bunch of stupid stuff on the Internet. Mom usually brings me some lunch when I'm sick, and that's nice, but other than that I lie around in a feverish haze and contemplate my mortality.

But I digress. When I went back to work, I was still pretty sick. My supervisor advised me to leave a little early. Probably because I was sniffling so hard my brains were about to drop out of my nose. Or because I looked like a hot mess but without the hot part.

Hope Memorial Day week was better for everyone else.

My Life, the Shakespearean Comedy

I've been researching Verona for a personal writing project. Actually, I've been to Verona. It's cute but very touristy. They picked an old house with a balcony, seemingly at random, and dubbed it "Juliet's House" (or rather "la Casa di Giulietta"). I say "seemingly at random" because there's no way Romeo could have climbed that balcony. It's super high up and above the main entrance of the house. Even if he had dared to climb the ivy-covered wall several feet away and leap, someone would have seen him, I tell you.

That doesn't matter to the 10,000 tourists who come to the house and stand on Juliet's balcony (and yes, I was one of them). But I'm just pointing it out.

Moving on. While doing my research, I came upon a website with a quiz: "Is Your Life a Shakespearean Comedy or a Tragedy?"

I took the quiz. Here are my results: "Congrats! Your life is a happy ending just waiting to happen. You will likely get married to a noble Duke alongside four of your closest friends. Now, there’s a chance you’ll have to undergo some trials and tribulations to get to this point—like, say, a shipwreck, or a pirate attack, or some domineering woodland fairies who chuckle at the folly of humans—but all in all, you’ll survive these whimsical capers and be better for it. You’ll end up with the love of your life, as will every other decent human being in your social circle."

Good news for me and every other decent human being in my social circle! Huzzah!

Update on Naomi

Well, Miss Naomi is doing better than her predecessors by far.

First of all, although we've had some crazy rains, they haven't been as crazy as usual (although we did have some snow, which is why I don't have a picture up—some of her blooms died that day and haven't yet been shed). Second of all, Naomi just seems to be hardier than my previous plants. Extreme rains and heat don't seem to affect her as much.

In all honesty, I'd just like to believe that I've gotten better at taking care of pansy plants. That's probably not the case. Still, you know what they say: third time's the charm.

Brisket and Offensive Carrots

Guess who's running short on time again today? *raises hand*

I have this Disney cookbook that was originally published in the 70s. Being from the 70s, it features Disney characters that are somewhat obscure nowadays, like Brer Rabbit.

In case you didn't know, Brer Rabbit is from Splash Mountain, but before that he was from Song of the South, a movie that almost everybody finds offensive for a variety of contradictory reasons. I have a second Disney cookbook that was published in the 2000s, and Brer Rabbit is nowhere to be found because the character is very controversial if not as offensive as his movie. In spite of this, I decided to try his carrot recipe. My grandmother had a copy of this cookbook in her home when I was young, and I would read the recipes over and over again. This recipe always sounded especially good, considering that it was made from vegetables and all.

To go with my offensive carrots, I decided to make a nice brisket. I've never actually cooked a brisket before, so I followed the package instructions to the letter. I put it in to boil for three and a half hours; however, it was still alarmingly pink inside.

Housekeeping tip: If you are making a corned beef brisket, it is supposed to be pink inside, and if you panic and put it in your Crockpot to cook overnight, you will not only look silly, you will overcook the brisket somewhat and it will not taste as good.

The carrots, however, were excellent.

What Are the Brothers Doing?

Little Brother sent me a screenshot of a text exchange that he had with our mother.

In Which I Do Not Keep the Doctor Away

Doctors are expensive, so in the Obnoxious family, we try to avoid them. There are only a few reasons why I would go to a doctor:

1. If I have scheduled a checkup
2. If I need a prescription or some other treatment otherwise unattainable without a doctor's help
3. If I have an unknown ailment
4. If it's an emergency
5. If I'm dying*

*You might think that dying is an emergency, but that really depends. If I started dying at an awkward pool party that I found dreadful, that would be an emergency. If I started dying while reading an excellent book, then it could certainly wait until after I'd finished the chapter.

This year, I was struck with a case of #3. For about two months, I was dizzy and got a migraine or an aura almost every day.

I've had migraines on and off for a few years. Sometimes, I get several close together within a short period of time and then don't have any for months. Getting migraines a few days in a row was unpleasant, but not alarming. Well, not alarming aside from the usual numbness in my face and hands and the loss of motor and cognitive control, that is. I chalked it up to a bad few days and thought nothing of it. But the bad few days didn't go away. They turned into a bad few weeks, and then gradually what was once a bad day became the norm.

I did what I could. I tried to go to bed earlier and sleep longer. I consumed more peanut butter, red meat, and spinach to ward off anemia. Nothing worked.

Eventually, the doctor was called. Well, technically she was a physician's assistant, not a doctor. Either way, I sought medical help.

The physician's assistant checked my weight, my blood pressure, and my heart rate. She listened to my lungs and tested my reflexes. She told me that I seemed super healthy, but she took blood. The blood would be sent to the labs. The labs would look for anemia, thyroid problems, and cholesterol issues. To be clear, the physician's assistant didn't believe my problems were related to cholesterol. I'd just never had my cholesterol tested, and it seemed needful.

I went home. And I waited. And a few days later, I got a call.

They had my labs back. And, the lady on the phone said, they had "some information" for me.

Some information?

What did that mean?

I had slight anemia before. That didn't worry me.

I had thyroid problems when I was a baby, thyroid problems that miraculously disappeared with the prayer and faith of family and friends. That worried me a little.

I had a family history of high cholesterol on my dad's side. That worried me a lot. High cholesterol is manageable, but you have to really watch your diet. One of the few things I look forward to every day is eating a delicious meal. Most delicious meals are not good for people with high cholesterol. Having high cholesterol would ruin the simple pleasure of eating.

I called the office. They put me on hold. After several minutes, they told me that the physician's assistant couldn't talk to me right then.

I started to panic a little. Why couldn't the lab person just give me my results? Was something wrong? So wrong that only the physician's assistant could tell me about it?

It was the middle of the work day. I was at my desk. I tried to work, but I couldn't concentrate. My thoughts were racing at a frenzied pace. What if-? What if-?What if-?

Also, an assistant was walking past my desk with boxes of gourmet cookies for other people's meetings.

I started to pray.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Heavenly Father, I just want everything to be okay. Please let everything be okay.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Also, I wish someone would give me one of those cookies.

A few hours later, I called...again. I was placed on hold...again. This time, however, the physician's assistant actually came to the phone.

PHYSICIAN'S ASSISTANT: Everything looks completely normal!

I hung up, completely relieved. Everything looked completely normal!

I still didn't know what was causing my migraines. But at least I wouldn't have to watch what I ate every day.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Thank you, Heavenly Father.

A coworker came up to my desk, carrying the gourmet cookies.

COWORKER: Would you like a cookie?

If You're Interested in Stitch Fix...

I am extremely surprised by how popular my Stitch Fix blog posts are.

Apart from Blogger's stats indicating that those posts draw far more views than most, I have several times been approached by friends and acquaintances in real life. They tell me excitedly that they're going to sign up for Stitch Fix, or they tell me wistfully that want to try Stitch Fix but can't afford it, and so they get their Fixes vicariously through me.

If you're one of my readers who think Stitch Fix is neat, then you might like some other things I'm trying out:

1. theSkimm
Apparently, I am reliant on Shutterbug's impeccable taste. Shutterbug recommended Stitch Fix to me, and this week she introduced me to theSkimm through a Facebook post.

theSkimm is a free service that sends you an email every weekday. The email contains a synopsis of the current events headlining the news that morning. For someone like me, who dislikes reading about the strife in the world but who feels wholly uninformed if she doesn't, it's a great way to get a handle on the news without having to dig through or wallow in it. You also probably remember that I prefer neutral journalism when possible. So far, it seems to me that theSkimm's political slant isn't terribly overt. They don't make many definitive statements; instead, they seem to be fond of asking questions like, "Do potatoes cause cancer?" Then, instead of actually answering the question, they drop a piece of evidence that could be taken with either regard or disregard. Such as: "One thing's for sure—scientists are pushing for potatoes to undergo more thorough radiation testing!"

In some circumstances, not giving a straight answer is cowardly. In this case, though, it is kind of refreshing. I realize theSkimm is trying to keep a broad appeal for subscription purposes, but just the same I appreciate not being blatantly told how to think...for once.

Also, each email takes me only about five minutes to read. However, there are some sponsored ad blurbs towards the end of the email, which are annoying.

If you're interested in giving theSkimm a try, the link I provided earlier is my referral link. Yes, I get something from referring theSkimm. What? I honestly don't know. That might be the only thing I find objectionable so far: theSkimm provided me with a referral link but is very unclear about what I get when others sign up. In other words I'm promoting theSkimm not only because I like the service but because I'm also curious about what will happen if I do get referrals.

2. Favorite Eats
This is a service where you pay a small subscription fee each month in return for restaurant gift cards. Essentially, after you subtract the subscription fee from the gift card amount, you're actually getting several dollars' worth of free food. You then use the restaurant gift card and leave a restaurant review on social media.

When I first saw the service description, I thought it was a probably a scam. Then I realized what's probably actually happening: a bunch of restaurants hired Favorite Eats to promote them. Favorite Eats is taking a chunk of that money to essentially hire everyday food enthusiasts to do that promoting for them. Those enthusiasts will be able to reach people who know and trust them and will be able to hit audiences normal campaigns wouldn't.

Pretty smart! I for one would like to be a part of what seems to be a fun experiment. Here's the big catch—the referral link up above is actually for a waitlist. The actual service hasn't launched yet, and apparently it will only accept a certain number of applicants. I'm sharing the waitlist because when people sign up from my referral link, it bumps me higher in the waitlist and makes it more likely I'll actually get a spot to try the service. Remember, since it's just a waitlist, you don't have to be 100% sure you actually want to try the service before signing up. You may not get high enough on the waitlist to get a chance to try it anyway.

Art Imitating Life

I haven't read much Georgette Heyer since last summer.

I quickly exhausted most of the Seamstress's selection of these novels. There are still some I want to read, but apparently my taste runs to the obscure, because they seem to be less common than some of the others.

For my birthday, the Seamstress gave me a copy of Frederica.

THE SEAMSTRESS: Frederica has younger brothers!

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I do like younger brothers.

Turns out Frederica is a sensible girl in her mid-twenties...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh, I relate.

...who devotes a significant amount of time to the care of her four younger siblings...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yes, quite relatable.

...and has a brooding brother...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Don't we all!

...matching the age and physical description of Little Brother...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Wait...

...and a very enthusiastic, charming, mechanically-minded brother...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Wait...

...matching the age and physical description of Baby Brother.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Good heavens.

If Frederica's physical description were more similar to my own, I would declare right now that we are probably actually the same person. As it is, I see why the Seamstress chose this particular book for me. Also, I hope my future husband is okay with having my younger siblings at our place regularly. I couldn't do without them.

My Migraine

I've been planning to write this post...with this title...for literally three years.

WELL HERE I AM.

During my first year of college, I started getting dizzy on occasion. I would become disoriented, and I'd see rainbow splotches on my vision. The splotches were beautiful, but also scary, because human vision isn't supposed to rainbow splotch.

But nothing ever came of it. It would last for an hour or so, and then it would go away. No big deal.

You might remember that throughout most of college, I worked in fast food. Just typing those words makes me recall the smells of French fry grease and bleach water; the weight of the long, perky ponytail dangling down my back; the way I would sob into the soapy water with which I was deck-scrubbing the dining room floor at one a.m. when I still had to finish a paper before going to bed. (Actually, I don't remember now if I actually physically sobbed. Probably not, since the assistant manager was right there. But I was sobbing imaginary tears, I promise.)

We got free kid-sized drinks every day at work. I almost always got water. One day, though, I filled my little cup with Dr. Pepper, because I had a headache.

It started off small, that headache. Instead of going away, it got worse. Then it slowly wrapped around my head and bore down into my brain.

My mom often has migraines. I suspected that this was one.

I felt terrible. My head hurt so bad, and I was a little nauseated. Then I started getting dizzy. You'd think that might be a big cause for concern, but I figured I just needed to make it to the end of my shift, and then I could go home and rest.

I tell you, I almost made it. I had less than an hour left. A man walked up to my register and ordered a chicken basket. I started punching things on the register and suddenly realized that I could barely talk, barely stand, and that I had no idea how to get this man's chicken basket rung up. I smiled at him and told him I needed to step away for a moment. I walked into the back office and declared that someone needed to help the man at the counter because I was going to pass out.

I didn't pass out, but that wasn't much comfort to me. My face was numb. I could barely talk, barely remember words. La Petite, who worked with me at the time, said she thought I was having a stroke.

BOSS: You need to eat something.

I found enough words to tell her that I didn't have any money. I was probably exaggerating, but not much. The price of food at my place of employment was far too much considering how much money I allotted myself to spend each paycheck.(That amount was 20%, though I would cap my funds at lower amounts on the rare occasions I made a paycheck that was, say, $150-plus. During the school year my two-week paycheck was often around $60, meaning I had $12 to spend on entertainment for the next two weeks. I know that sounds terribly tightfisted, and it was, but I managed to fund my own trip to Europe that way so don't sneer.)

My boss bought me a chicken sandwich and watched me eat it, which was a struggle. Then she made me call my mom, which was also a struggle. I went home, took a nap, threw up, ate a bunch of ice cream, and watched Fraggle Rock with the Fearless One.

And that, my friends, is how I found out that I am one of the rare humans who get basilar migraines, which is a fancy name for migraines that come with a whole slew of debilitating symptoms.

Yay.

During my last year of college, I left the fast food business and accepted a job tutoring kids in a tourist-trap city half an hour from College City and an hour from Hometown. To reach my workplace, I had to drive through a twisty, snowstorm-ridden canyon, sometimes in the dark.

One day, I was scheduled to go to work right after my afternoon class. During my morning class, I came down with one of my lovely basilar migraines.

I happened to bring my journal to school that day. Here's what I wrote: Geez. I'm having a crazy dizzy spell. I get these sometimes, and it's scarey because I have to drive to wWork cCity in two and a healf hours. Hopefelly it will clear up fore before I han head out.

Migraines are not conducive to flawless spelling.

By that point, I had learned ways to help mitigate the symptoms. I took headache medicine, drank a lot of fluids, and ate a copious amount of food. The dizziness abated enough for me to drive safely. However, my head pounded like someone was knocking on the inside, trying to get out.

When I arrived at the picturesque, expensive building where my workplace was situated, I was informed that my first appointment had been canceled (that would happen sometimes, but I still got paid). I knew what I had to do! I stuffed Quits inside my already-bulging backpack and headed towards the picturesque, expensive Italian restaurant next door.

Like the town, the restaurant was a tourist trap. It was such a tourist trap that the prices were posted on a glass-encased parchment-y piece of paper displayed outside, like in European vacation spots and at Disneyland, but the restaurant was still relatively nice. It was the kind of place you would bring a business client whom you were hoping to mildly impress.

Mind you, I didn't make a habit of dressing nice for school. Even if I had, I was exhausted, I hadn't been home in about ten hours, and I felt terrible. I must have looked a sight. Yet I lugged my fat backpack into the relatively nice, picturesque, expensive restaurant where a few people were meeting with business clients they hoped to mildly impress, and I asked to be seated.

The waiter obliged. He treated me most civilly, though he could easily have chosen to disdain me. I sat heavily at the highly polished table and unceremoniously dumped my backpack on the seat opposite. Then I proceeded to spend almost all the money I was earning from my canceled tutored session on a Dr. Pepper and an order of focaccia.

I was expecting a small plate of focaccia. Instead I received an entire focaccia pizza. Eight pieces. Plus my frosty, delicious Dr. Pepper.

In the two hours before my next tutoring session, I ate all eight slices of focaccia and drank all the Dr. Pepper. I do not normally do such things. I couldn't do it now. I wouldn't advise trying it at home. But I stuck my head in one of the Chronicle of Prydain books and, using a slow and measured pace, I worked my way through the entire focaccia pizza and the entire soda.

That, my friends, is the kind of aplomb with which I handle my basilar migraines.

Rollercoaster

This post doesn't have anything to do with the Phineas and Ferb episode "Rollercoaster." Although now that I've said that, I'm having deep regrets about my choice of subject matter for the evening. Why do I blog about anything else when I could blog about Phineas and Ferb?! I need to sort out my priorities.

I don't have the hardest life, but I don't have the easiest life either. My life is sort of like that episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender when the fortune teller tells Sokka, "Your future is full of struggle and anguish, most of it self-inflicted." Many of my problems are self-inflicted. It comes of being the type of person my generation commonly refers to as Gryffindors. Gryffindors do things they're afraid of. They do things they know might not turn out well. If anything, they do them because they're afraid of them and know they might not turn out well. If they were more passive, if they tried a little less and cared a little less, Gryffindors' lives would be so much easier.

I know someone who, when I'm wrestling with one ongoing problem or another, advises me to give up. This person says that it's easier to be happy when you don't try or hope for anything because then you never have to be disappointed.

While I understand the logic behind the thought, it's not something I agree with. Life is for being sad just as much as it's for being happy. I don't necessarily like being down, but I do like the sensation of having gone down and then back up again. Like on a rollercoaster (now you understand the post title). On a rollercoaster, you often go down before going back up. And if you embrace the bumps instead of bracing against the bumps, things may go better for you.

In closing, here's another Avatar: The Last Airbender quote.

"I know sometimes it hurts more to hope and it hurts more to care, but you have to promise me that you won't stop caring."

-Katara
Oh, and since I brought it up...

ACTUAL FOOTAGE OF PHINEAS AND FERB ON A ROLLERCOASTER!