I'd Tell You To Go To Hell, But I Work There And I Don't Want To See You Everyday

So, needless to say if you've drawn any conclusion from the title of this post, I am back to work. Dr. Hottie McGropesalot did not want to give me clearance, but since my short-term disability would not pay (long story I am sure I'll gripe about later) I had no choice but to hoof it back to The Lab.

Since last we spoke (or since last I typed and you read, technically) I got rid of my PICC line and IV pump- THANK YOU SWEET BABY J!- and I'm pretty much recovered from the infection which was classified as MSSA Staph (fun to google if you are bored!).

The only hitch (ha, you will laugh at the pun in a minute... wait for it) is that my leg wont bend at the knee any more than say 10 degrees. So I limp.

Really, really limp.

Think this guy minus the cane and vicoden habit, but pretty much the same highly sociable patient/health care provider rapport (I'm usually kidding about that last part).

--The Milk Maid says meet the new boss (same as the old boss).

I Ain't No Beetle, But I Wanna Hold Your Hand

I'm feeling a little vulnerable. I might even be clingy. I'm definitely without inspiration to write on my blog.

The meds I'm taking are making me feel very normal. Too normal. So normal that I'm just all blahblahwhocares.

The voices that would inspire me to write are gone for the most part. No more verbal jousting with Jim Morrison. I would do a link to the post were I explained my conversations with Jim, but damn that's a lot of effort.

The absence of creativity has been colored in with a couple new emotions that are most likely in the hue of red: Anger and Agitation.

Mimi Therapist-Pants has upped my dose and cut my dose trying to regulate me somewhere between whacked out and comatose to the point that I am really thinking of finding a new therapist who will just leave me the hell alone pretty much and let me be me minus the huge mood swings that caused me to lock myself in the bathroom and cry for hours for no particular reason (which is all I wanted fixed in the first place!).

So, here I sit contemplating the future of Milk-Induced Coma and The Milk Maid. I don't have a lot to write about even if I was in the state of mind to string words into semi-coherent sentences. I'm hating my header and bi-lines.

The Milk Maid fears she may have clabbored.

And Then She Asked Me How It Made Me Feel

Yep, the psychiatrist asked me the question I dreaded the most. And I humored her by answering, but only after telling her I did not like that question and informing her I would comply just once by answering her.

I started doubting the ability of Mimi Therapist-Pants and her 10+ years of doctoral degree education when she said, "I think you might be OCD". Come on people, anyone out there who has read more than 2 pages of my blog could tell you that.

I was also not surprised (because I am the Queen of Dr. Google) that she diagnosed me as Bi-Polar. Again, even if you are a casual reader of this blog, you have probably noticed the highest-highs followed by the lowest of lows and then a bounce back. Rarely (if ever) is there just a nice and normal (normal-schmormal) day where everything flows along without the ebb and flow of 20-foot waves of life crashing me.

Just as I was thinking I could have self-diagnosed myself and ordered meds from Canada or something, little Ms. Mimi Therapist-Pants floored me by asking, "In the 12 or 13 years you have been on anti-depressants have you ever felt relief from these symptoms?"

I blinked. I cocked my head to one side and then another. I really thought about the question at hand. Has anything I tried over the past decade plus truly relieved my symptoms?

No.

Taking everything in to my head, processing it and rolling around my new found diagnoses like a piece of hard candy you want to savor the flavor of as long as possible, I came to the conclusion that I don't think I have ever been truly just "depressed". After reading this handy little wiki-article it all made so much sense. It's the reason why I could be happy as a clam one second and lock myself in the bathroom for 2 hours and cry the very next breath- for no reason at all. It's the reason I'm singing and dancing one minute and can't bear to speak the next. It's the reason I start writing a story with true passion and then can't even imagine having to open the saved file a day later.

Perhaps I have turned a page. Perhaps I have started a whole new chapter. I might just be writing a whole new book on how my life got turned around.

However this all pans out, you know there will be adventure and chaos attached.

--The Milk Maid says her therapist didn't even have a couch!

Friday Mish-Mash, The Return

It's been too damn long since I Mish-Mashed people!

My Pal B called me as I was doing the Flight Of The Bumble Bee Clean Up Dance around my house. Needless to say, if I don't have the time for blogging I sure as hell don't have the time to clean house. Anyways, Faith's friend Baileigh* came to spend the night. Seeing as how my children tend to keep their own agenda like the tiny rock stars they think they are, when the idea of Faith going to Baileigh's house to spend the night came up (you know, while I was slammed at work, my dad was watching the girls at the local inflatable bouncy play place, and in general there was a screw loose somewhere in the cosmos) it sounded like a fine idea to me.

*Baileigh is a better name than Courtennay, but still get's minus 2 points for too many letters and minus 5 points for looking just plain weird. Sorry if this is your kid's name- remember my mind is simple and so are my kids names. I know what MY name is- shut it. At least my name isn't "Siren H00ker"- long story, true story, maybe next blog I'll elaborate.

Lo and behold (isn't that always a phrase used to precursor something completely shitty happening?) there was a hitch. Baileigh's mom was going to come to My House to pick up the girls.

My House people. The house that hasn't been cleaned properly (well except for the Seasoned Salt incident) in... well, longer than I'm willing to admit. I plead the Fifth (and I considered drinking one too).

So, as I was throwing clothes and junk in closets cleaning the phone rings and it's B. Chaos echoed through the background as Faith, Baileigh, and Ava (and later on Zeus and Chip) all collaborated to ensure the decibel level in The Casa De Leche was hovering somewhere around the range the Concord would have made (or to be more realistic, at least as loud as Jef used to snore). In this conversation B suggested a glass of wine.

My only question was how to get the children to drink it and not complain about the taste.

--The Milk Maid says a bird in the hand will only dook on you.

Saturday Dookerific Ramblings

Some days it amazes me how great I feel, but most days are like today. Nothing to work towards. No direction. No momentum. No give a shit.

I don't like being bitter. I don't like the cynicism. I don't like who I am or how I feel about it all.

But nonetheless I'm pretty much stuck with me.

I've tried not to keep it all so bottled up or hold it in or fuel the fire of a grudge, but I can't let any of it go as of late.

I love Jef being home, but some days I wonder if he still sees the girl he married.

I enjoy the freedom to gain an education, but I wonder if all my hard work, sleepless nights, and effort will amount to any kind of decent pay check or feeling of self worth.

I love my friends, but I wonder how easy it is for them to "take their ball and go home" in my life- so to speak.

I love the fact that I have decent people reading skills, but I dread the paranoia that brings my way when I'm feeling low.

I love my blog, but I wonder some days if anyone out there loves what I do here.

Don't worry, loyal readers (if there are any). You can't shut me up. I'll be here babbling on and on until someone pulls the plug.

--The Milk Maid listens to the sound of silence.

anyone for Mac memory ?

Mother's Day Special

Dory asked the following questions (for us all to answer if anyone else would like to jump on the wagon) about Mothers and Mother's Day.

This is probably the most difficult post I've written. My mother and I have always had a rocky relationship at best. Despite all of our hard times together, I'm going to make an honest attempt at paying tribute to my mom.

What is unique... special... important... about your relationship with your mother?
*I find it unique that after 29 years of being her daughter, my mother still does not get my warped sense of humor. Let's face it, I reek of sarcasm 99% of the time. I can quip out a response to her and like clockwork the look I get it reminiscent of a puzzled pup. Even when I tell her that I am joking or being sarcastic it still doesn't sink all the way in. It's amazing that someone so strait laced was blessed with a daughter like me (the smart ass).

When I was a little girl, I really wish my mother had....
Not tried to buy my love with material possessions. It's a common theme among my parents to lavish those they love with gifts, and as much as I loved getting a stuffed animal or a book at the mall when I was a kid, I'd have taken a picnic under a tree or an afternoon of giggling any day of the week.

When I was a little girl, my mother never...
Let me have a hamster. Or keep snakes in my room. Or let me have a sword. She never believed I saw ghosts in my room or that a lion slept in my closet. Did I mention she never let me have a hamster?

When I was a little girl, my mother always...
Had a nervous breakdown when I got near anything dirty. I would be scrubbed thoroughly twice a day or more. I would patiently reply, as her head spun around and around, that "it would wash". She never believed me. She still doesn't.

The one thing I need to say to my mother is...
Even though we'd had our differences, I still love my mom. My parents had a daughter who died two weeks after bring born, then waited for 5 more years before I was available for adoption. I have seen the pain of others who want a child so badly, and I know that I was a wanted child- even if my birth mother couldn't keep me. My mom always resented me a little- I was the apple of my father's eye, I wasn't the perfect blond haired prissy girl she'd always wanted, and ultimately I wasn't "hers". I was a tom boy, I was (and still am) independent and set in my ways. When it all comes down to it though, there is nothing I wouldn't do for my mom.

At my grandmother's funeral (which was 4 days after my grandfather's funeral- when it rains it pours huh?) my cousins J&J were picking on my mom. They'd gotten to arguing over who would take what plant. The smaller J of J&J started to get mouthy with my mom. In the chapel of a church. My mom was almost in tears when I walked over... I told J (who is all of 5'1) to back off. She smarted back, "What are YOU going to do about it?".

I am 5'8 in my bare feet. I was wearing 3 inch heels that day. That was way back in my softball playing days, aka The Brick Shit House Years.

I hovered over J, bent down to meet her eye to eye, and growled:

"I'm half your age and twice your size. You leave my mother alone or I'll kick your ass!"

It all boils down to me being the only one who can pick on my mom ya know...

--The Milk Maid says I'm way more than twice J's size now. And I can still kick her ass!


lighting

School, Part 2

I'm back in school!

I have Human Anatomy and Physiology as well as Introduction to Venipuncture this quarter. I'm excited about both classes, but more so about the venipuncture class. First of all my teacher talks and acts like the comedian Maria Bamford. Seriously, just like that- complete with multiple voices and mannerisms, etc! She also uses a lot of drug references in her lectures. She lets ALL the students use her as their 1st live "blood poke". She says, and raised her sleeves to prove it, that her arms look like that of a heroin addict. She's been teaching for 13 years, so either (A) she's really that insane to let 15-20 newbie students a quarter stick her in the arm and draw blood, or (B) she's got the perfect cover.

The second reason I am SO freakin' stoked to be in this class is that it is 70% labs. We start by drawing blood from fake arms with real veins and red-dyed water and then move to the teacher for our first live kill, then we go on to use the other students as guinea pigs. That last part is the best, except for the fact that I have to be a guinea pig for a LOT of not so bright looking students.

Inadvertently (let's get that part clear strait away, ok)... inadvertently, I have made a friend in my A&P and Intro to V class. Her name (on this blog anyway) is Kate. She wants to be a cardiologist, but considering she just got her GED at age 22, she thought she would try a little technical college first. Now, let me say this before any undie-bunching occurs: I am very proud of this girl for getting her GED and pursuing her education. She has a wonderful personality and is very kind, compassionate, and would make a wonderful doctor.

But- isn't their always a but?- she is not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. This is her 3rd go around at A&P. At least she's endearing...

Anyways, I usually park in the lot that is furthest away from the building. I enjoy the walk, the beautiful tree with twisted branches that I park in front of every day, the smell of the paint booth at the school's body shop. Kate has started waiting for me in the parking lot to walk to class with me. Now, I am a creature of habit and routine- namely I have to pee-tinkle and wash my hands in the same bathroom every morning and do my little OCD shit in peace, thank you very much. Ok, so little Kate wants a buddy to walk to class with. That's cool. Kate also sits by me in both classes. And now she's wanting to walk me to my car after class. Um, Kate, honey, sweetie... I don't need an escort. If you are looking for love you are looking in all the wrong places. It's kinda creepy kid. Seriously.

--The Milk Maid says stalkers are fun until you can't get rid of them!

Just Another Friday Mish-Mash

For as long as I can remember children have always seemed to come out of the blue to talk to me. I could be shopping or reading a book at the park or even in the middle of a store that caters to adults in the mall (like Teavana- yum!) and some small person with big eyes and lots to chat about will find me. I don't know if I just have a friendly face or perhaps it is because I look motherly or what it is that attracts these children to me. It could very well be that I have a disproportionately large head and the kids think I'm some cartoon character come to life. Whatever the reason is, I can promise you that where ever I go, they will find me.

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A prime example is today at a local fast food joint we shall call Chick-Fil-$. I take Ava to the playground and not 45 seconds later here comes a tiny little girl with painted finger and toe nails, glossy green sandals, a fantastically white outfit that is embroidered with red flowers, and a 4 pound red bow clipped into her hair at such an angle I thought surely it must be a struggle for her to walk without listing to one side.

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The first thought that ran through my mind as Over-Coiffed Tiny Girl made her entrance to the play area was Oh shit... I'm going to have to talk to this kid.

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I'll be honest here- I have no desire to spend an hour making small talk with a pint-sized peewee. I have learned from vast experience that I just don't have that much in common with a 3 year old (sans the occasional temper tantrum). I'm anti-social with adults on the best days, and with strange children well- you can imagine how this all went down right?....

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Over-Coiffed Tiny Girl (bursting into the room): Hi!!! My name is Anna Kate Gracie*, but you can call me Anna Kate.

Me (in my signature monotone style): Why not Gracie?

OCTG: Oh because my mother and grandmother's names are Gracie and it would be very hard to know WHO we were talking to.

Me: So I guess it is good you have lots of other first names then.

OCTG: We saw "Horton And A Who" today. It was really funny because they had this flower and they played with it and Horton And a Who was an elephant!!

Me (sipping tea, eyeballing the kid warily): Neeto.

OCTG (relentless): My mom is really smart. She took me to her work one day and let me draw a picture for her. My mom is really smart.

Me (starting to get antsy): Where is your mom?

OCTG: She's right outside (yelling) MOM MOM MOM HEY HEY HEY MOM! There's my mom. She's smart. And that is her friend Miss Olga, she smells pretty.

Me: (fakes a smile, wishing for Ava to climb down from the top of the slide area and save me!) Ohhh.

OCTG: Your kid is small. How old is she? Can she talk? Why does she scream so loud? Can you make her stop screaming? She's really loud. What is her name? What is her middle name? What is her third name?

Me: You mean last name?

OCTG (looking at me like I am the most stupid person on earth): Nooooo- her THIRD name!

Me: Oh look at the time! Bye!

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*I swear I couldn't make that up if I tried

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--The Milk Maid says my ears, my ears- someone save my ears!