March 31, 2005
So to say that 2005 has been action-packed and full of adventure would be ummmm…the understatement of the day.
Let’s see…in no particular order….(man I love ellipses)…my cat died and then came back to life, I had my own brush with death (OK, perhaps that’s a bit melodramatic, but that’s how it felt inside my head), found a new job, and quit my old one.
The whole dead cat thing put me through the wringer.
Then my whole brush with death thing on the heels of my cat happened at the very same time things were heating up with the whole new job thing and put that whole thing into serious potential jeopardy. As we all know now, that turned out just fine in the end and the drama–though dire at the time, was at least short-lived.
Well, then the whole new job thing. I’m so excited, scared, excited, thrilled, and validated I can hardly stand to be near myself. But that had a major potential wrinkle as well. You see, my new employer requires a drug test. And…well…I smoke pot.
Not a lot and not all the time, but I’ve pretty much been smoking pot since I was about 15 years old.
You see, growing up, my dad was in the music business. He smoked pot. His wife smoked pot. My sister and I smoked pot. Never all together, but we all did it. In fact, we were allowed to smoke pot. But we were not allowed to smoke pot and drive. (How’s that for parental controls!) So, my sister and I would bong-out every single night in the bathroom that adjoined our bedrooms.
And because my parents were stoners too, there was always a supply of delectable munchies readily available.
So I need to take a drug test for this new job. And as I said, while I don’t smoke pot all the time, and frankly these days less than ever, I did indulge a mere five days before I got my written offer letter which included the info on the drug test.
So there I was, one foot on cloud nine about the new gig, and the other one mired in fear over passing the drug test.
I’ll report now that the old man was completely and totally unsympathetic to my plight. But what do you expect from someone who has been sober for like a gazillion years?
So I called GraceDavis. Ha! I will now share Grace’s words of wisdom:
“I’m wondering if you have time to see your family practitioner and ask if s/he could prescribe medical marijuana for you? Then if (IF) you test positive you can whip out your card or proof of prescription and say hey, this is legal. And they may say, “Missy, this script is dated March 28…and you can say it’s a refill and you can’t produce the original, or if you’re afraid they’ll call your doc directly you could cop to self medication and the script validates your use.”
She then goes on to add:
“Here’s a link for the indications for medical marijuana:
From this site – “cancer, anorexia, AIDS, chronic pain, spasticity, glaucoma, arthritis, migraine, or any other illness for which marijuana provides relief”
We can thankfully scratch off the first three, number 5 and hopefully 6 and 7. We’re loving the last clause and I’ll betcha you can work chronic pain. And you’re smart, and all the smart people have migraines.
If you go this route, hopefully you have a hip doc, like ours. If you were here, I’d send you to my guy who would willingly do this.
Otherwise, you poor monkey, you’re hyper hydrating and pissing it all away. We hope.”
Well, alas my GP is not the type that would write me a prescription of this ilk, so instead I stressed. And scoured the net. I now know more about peeing in a cup than I ever wanted to.
And I bought one of those at-home do-it-yourself drug tests that parents who suspect their kids are “using” can use to test them.
I tested myself last night and came up clean. Ha! I still have a week and a half before I go to get tested so it’s all good there.
Then there’s the whole quitting my job thing.
Let me start by saying this is the most fabulous thing I’ve ever done…and I’ve done a lot of fabulous things in my day.
But I’ve been one big ball of tears the entire week. While I will not miss my boss for one single nano-second, I will miss most of my fellow co-workers.
Because of the nature of my job, I am one of perhaps five people in the company who knows absolutely every single one of the 250 employees. I meet each new person on their first day and provide them their access card and all kinds of info about the office/building/area.
Over the course of the last week I have spent time talking with almost every single one of them. There have been cards, gifts, flowers, lunches, drinks parties, and long, heart-felt chats. I’ve cried or otherwise welled up more in the last week than I thought was possible.
To the last one, each has thanked me, congratulated me, and been altogether encouraging and positive about the huge step I’m about to undertake.
And though none of them knows about or reads my site, I will say here and now, thank you to all of them. The thing is, when you work in the same place for 14 years, as I did, you get to know people. You see them grow and mature. Watch them meet their mates and marry them. You’re pregnant together. You share their joys and losses. And they share yours.
Plus, I met my husband while working at this office, so if for no other reason, it gives me a lot to be thankful for. And there are a lot of other reasons.
So I will not miss the job, but I will miss these people. Miss the easy camaraderie. They will not be lost to me, but will not be an every day there when I walk through the office.
But I look forward to sharing that with new and different people.
So that’s what’s going on here.
And because I’m one big ball of emotional goo right now I’ll just take a moment to thank each and every one of you who stops by here, whether you’re a regular, brand new, or just stop in from time to time.
I write here for me. But I look forward to sharing it with ustedes.
March 27, 2005
I made much flap several months ago about how unhappy I was at my job. I went on and on for several days. Then not another word was said. You might have wondered why. Or not.
Truth be told, I had a horrible feeling that the asshat boss had finally gotten a clue and decided to Google me and as I wanted to quit–not get fired, I decided to lay low on these pages.
But things have been moving along and percolating at a steady clip here and it was with surprisingly mixed emotions that I QUIT MY JOB ON FRIDAY.
I start a new position as a Project Manager with a full service interior design and furniture company effective April 18.
So, yes, at 8:30 Friday morning I officially resigned, giving my two weeks notice.
And because quitting my job wasn’t fabulous enough in and of itself, I already had vacation time scheduled for the first week of April, so I will only have to work one week of my two week notice!
March 25, 2005
I followed a link from the always fabulous Manolo to this. Snarkywood may very well be my offical new most favorite place on the entire www.
March 20, 2005
It seems there are two kinds of people in the world: those who will return things and those that will not. OK, maybe there are three, the third being the kind that will return things sometimes, but only the most obviously simple things one can return.
I am a person who will return things. All kinds of things.
I recently bought an ever so cute pair of brown suede pumps at Ann Taylor. They were the perfect shoe. I was so excited with the find of the shoes, I had to immediately purchase an entire new outfit to go with them. I was ready for supreme cuteness at work the next day: new outfit, and faboo new shoes.
And I was fabulous. Until about 2:30 in the afternoon, when the shoes were hurting so badly I was alternately wincing and cursing with each and every step I had to take. The signs had, of course, started earlier in the day, but I pressed on. Until 2:30 when I was two steps past miserable. So miserable in fact, that I put on the emergency black pumps I keep at my desk and wore them for the rest of the afternoon. With the supremely cute outfit put together around the brown suede shoes. The Manolo will tell you, I had to have been one miserable puppy with some majorly barking dogs to have committed that fashion faux pas.
At about 5:15 I tried the shoes again. Oh.My.God. It was horrible. I wanted to die.
So I picked up the phone and called Ann Taylor. I explained that I had purchased the shoes the day before…the seemingly perfect shoes. I explained that these shoes could be used to torture prisoners of war, were it not against the Geneva Convention. The lovely saleswoman told me to bring them back (what I was angling for with the phone call in the first place). I reminded her that I had worn these instruments of pain for most of the day. No problem she assured me.
I then immediately went online to Zappos, found a more than suitable replacement, and we heard angel music. Laaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
I returned the shoes the very next day. For full credit to my charge card.
Well, just last Saturday, a similar thing happened to a friend of mine. She bought a divinely adorable pair of black wedge sandals with a lovely Roman ankle strap at the Stephane Kilian store in Beverly Hills.
She wore the shoes for a couple of hours on Saturday, but alas, they were so painful that she had to go home and change her shoes.
My friend was beside herself. The shoes were expensive and she could not wear them. What was she to do?
She shared her dilemma with me on Monday morning. I told her to return them. She knew of my situation with the shoes from Ann Taylor. But she said this was different. She bought the shoes from a little boutique. They would never take them back.
I assured her they would.
“No, no, no” she said.
I offered to phone the shop, explain the situation and confirm that the shoes could be returned.
“No, no, no” she said.
She decided to take the shoes to the shoemaker next door and see if he could do something with the soles. From the soles you could (obviously) tell that the shoes had been worn, but just barely. She was going to see if the shoemaker could do something to spiff them up and then she’d think about returning them.
I assured her this was not necessary but she did anyway.
I’ll just point out now that you cannot make a silk purse of out a sow’s ear and the shoes were not really improved by the dear cobbler.
After two days of fretting, she finally agreed to let me call the store.
Well….we all know where this is going. Yes. I spoke with the manager. Of course the shoes could be returned. Please bring them back at your earliest convenience.
Turns out, they had sold her the wrong sized shoes. Stepane Kilian shoes are sized in French. The box had said 8 1/2 for the size. The shoes, however, said 9–the size my friend wears.
It seems that somehow, she’d been sold a very expensive pair of cute shoes in the wrong size. Because that 9 was, in fact a 6 (French size)–and 8 1/2 (American size).
They did not have any more of the cute sandals in her size, but she got a different pair of equally cute shoes. This time in her size.
And then she heard angel music.
March 12, 2005
The resident princess turned nine yesterday. And as is only fitting, festivities ensued.
Birthday party agenda:
1. Pick up Zoe and friends from school.
2. Run around the house and backyard screaming like little girls.
3. Wait for arrival of other friend from other school.
4. Arrival of the fourth Musketeer.
5. Attend the 4:50 showing of Robots.
6. Eat copious amounts of crap at the movies.
7. Come home and run around the house screaming like little girls some more.
8. Make pizzas.
9. Run around the house some more screaming like little girls.
10. Have birthday cake.
11. Yes, you guessed it–more running and screaming.
12. Beauty treatments for all.
13. Relaxation time.
14. More running and screaming but slower and softer because the sugar is leaving their systems.
15. Put Charlies Angel Full Throttle on continuous loop on the DVD player for all night viewing.
16. Wake up and scream for breakfast.
17. Laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh, and oh yeah, run around and scream.
18. Mother takes her 15th dose of Advil in a 12 hour period and father pokes his head around the corner to see if it’s safe to come out yet.
19. Send the girls home.
20. Call in the HazMat team to clean up the wreckage.
So yeah, pretty much your typical 9 year old birthday party sleepover.
March 10, 2005
A HUGE thank you to each and every one of you for your kind thoughts and the international good mojo.
I think the thing that surprised me the most about today was how nervous I got, all over again. My doctor was very encouraging on Monday and by Monday night I had regrouped and felt good about my impending diagnosis and prognosis.
But about 8:00 last night I started spinning out again. Not as bad as Sunday, but my nerves were getting to me. But I pretty much hit my full psycho stride at about 1:30 this afternoon.
The fact that I’m having to go through all of this with a raging case of PMS really doesn’t help matters any. So the combination of nerves and the anticipation of having my breast thoroughly squished against a cold metal plate when it’s already pre-menstrually tender (and yeah, I know….TMI) sent me into a bit of a tailspin.
So I had a diagnostic mammogram and an ultrasound this afternoon.
When you fill out the initial paperwork it says that you will get a written report within four weeks. I do not have four weeks to wait so when I brought my paperwork up to the desk I asked if there was any way I could call in for my results sooner than the four weeks indicated on the paperwork. The woman at the desk assured me that the radiologist would read my results immediately and speak with me this afternoon.
They did the mammogram first. It was more uncomfortable than I thought it would be. The thing is, while it’s never the most pleasant experience, it’s never really that bad. But today it was particulary sucky (see above re: premenstrual tenderness and the squished factor, and add to that a big does of anxiety).
The mammographer was very encouraging. When she went to put a little sticker on the spot where the lump is she said, “it moves.” Yes, it does. This is a good thing. Cancer does not move. Cysts do.
Three squishes later she sent me down the hall to the ultrasound room.
The tech squirted me with ice cold ultrasound gel and put the ultrasound wand on my breast. She moved the wand around. She took still photos. She marked and measured. Then she nodded her head and said softly, “cysts”, and I think I breathed for the first time since I’d arrived at the office.
I was told I could get dressed and that the radiologist would see me in a moment. She confirmed what the ultrasonographer said. I apparently have fibrocystic breasts.
So I’m gonna live. Hopefully a nice, long time.
March 7, 2005
At about 8:30 yesterday morning, I found a lump in my right breast.
So, to say that yesterday was a difficult day would be one of the understatements of the year. Chuck and I alternately searched the web and found out as much as we possibly could.
And then we spent the childfree (Zoe was at Disneyland) afternoon at the movies–Man of The House and Be Cool, if you must know.
But it was a stressful day. I would be OK for a while and then I would go to places you never really want to go. The best of these places was me bald. And it went downhill from there.
Yes, I obsessed.
And I cried.
And my husband and I talked.
And he was supportive.
And I cried and worried some more.
Chuck kept telling me to call someone and talk. But I didn’t want to. Talking about it gave it a voice. I could talk about it with him, but it stopped there.
And at 8:00 this morning I called my OB/GYN. They would fit me in at 1:00 this afternoon. Chuck promised he would go with me.
I went to work. I kept busy. And I left at 12:15.
The one hour we had to wait in the waiting room was, by far, the longest in a very long 24 hours. We finally went into the room. The doctor — who delivered Zoe almost exactly 9 years ago today — came in. He was calm.
Me…not so much.
We talked. He asked me all the questions my research told me he should ask. He felt. My husband watched another man grope my breast today.
He said it feels like a cyst. (And these types of cysts run in my family.)
OK, I didn’t cry right that minute but wanted to.
It feels different from cancer apparently. He’s felt both. He referred me for a mammogram, and told me I should have done as soon as possible.
So I’m having a mammogram on Thursday afternoon. I am pleased to report that my last mammogram is less than a year old, so there will be a good comparison.
I haven’t been given a clean bill of health yet, but I hope, and more importantly today really believe I will, on Thursday afternoon.