We Interrupt Your Life to Bring You...

Random bits from the corners of Shell's mind:

1. In addition to the pulled muscle, I also caught a cold dubbed "The Terminator" by Younger Bro. I still don't have the back of it yet, but it has reduced me to the kind of person who carries around her medicine in a separate plastic bag because it doesn't fit into her purse.

2. While backing out of my parking space at the library today, I saw a pair of white G-string underwear laying on the ground. This is inexplicable to me, and the rest of the way to work I kept wondering how they got there, who they belonged to, and so on and so forth.

3. I was told this weekend that I am "intelligent and cultured." Although I appreciate the compliment, the night before I had sat at my coffee table hunched over a bowl of Ramen watching American Idol. So, sadly, it may not be an accurate statement - on either count.

4. I'm trying to get my momentum back for the novel writing. In November I wrote 50,000 words. Since that time I've turned out another 12,000. Obviously, I am the kind of person who needs a deadline.

5. Sometimes, you do get nice mortgage people on the phone, who speak in clear, understandable English and, even when they aren't able to help you, are proactive in transferring you to someone who can. Thank you, Wells Fargo.

6. Is it okay to not like Al Gore? Because, folks, I am sick to death of him. The headquarters for the Gore/Leiberman campaign was in the building next to where I used worked in Nashville. And the ones running those headquarters were horrible to us. They used to sit on our cars at lunch and smoke cigarettes and sneer when we shooed them off. It just biased me against him. I don't like Hilary either, just to throw that out there. (P.S. Please don't send me nasty comments full of your political opinions - thanks.)

7. Oh, and Valentine's Day this year? Well, remember what I said about how the best ones tend to be unplanned for and unexpected? I was right.

8. Sunday morning the weather felt just like Scotland in the summer. I miss it. So I raise my little cup of hot tea to you, my other home. *sigh*

9. I think this medicine is making me slightly loopy. It's making my novel

very interesting.

Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow

I have a confession to make: The best Valentine’s I’ve ever had were the ones when I wasn’t actually dating someone. I discovered long ago that, for me at least, the Day seemed to be filled with a lot of pressure and expectations that ended up in a big messy heap.

There was the year when my boyfriend and I planned a romantic picnic. It rained, so we moved it indoors. We both had the flu, but we tried to power through and salvage the Day. Alas, it ended in a trip to the drugstore where we both purchased boxes of Theraflu and argued over what flavor of Hall’s cough drops are the best. (For the record, I’m partial to cherry.)

Then there was the Day Of Darkness; when my fiancé and I broke up the day before Valentine’s Day. Trust me, what you don’t want to do on Valentine’s Day is go down your list of wedding people and cancel the dresses, the photographer, the cake, the ring, the church, the flowers, and so on. Oh, and you also get to call all your friends in the wedding party and let them know as well. Let’s just say Doritos and I began an unhealthy relationship that week.

But the best days have been the ones where I actually forgot it was Valentine’s; when unexpected surprises came out of nowhere, and mostly when I’ve been just content with life in general.

So tonight I’ve got a date with a group of second graders in my Wednesday night Bible class. They are precious (if somewhat antsy) little people, who pepper me with all kinds of interesting questions and scenarios. We’ve already discussed why Jesus did not have a cell phone, how the crowd was able to hear him without a microphone, and if you are a child when you die, will you be a child in heaven? Or do you get to be an adult? Finally?

Then there is one little boy who is very concerned about the fact that Jesus wasn’t married. He asks about it every week, like the further we read along in our Bibles he’ll discover there’s a wedding in there or something that we’ve all missed. I’ve explained that Jesus was 30 when he started his ministry, was 33 when he was crucified and rose again, and so he had a lot to squeeze into three short years. He’s still not satisfied.

I’m sure it will come up again tonight.
Happy Valentine’s Day, ya’all!

Public Service Announcement: Yet Another Reason Why You Should Not Ignore Pain

Last Thursday I bent over to grab a towel off the floor and sneezed. This isn’t a terribly unusual occurrence in any person’s life, but this time a horrible, sharp pain shot from my back to my stomach.

Some time around Christmas, I’ve been having this pain in my back. I thought it was probably just a pulled muscle or something, gritted my teeth, and got on with life. In my New Year zeal, I’ve been going to dance classes and the Y with a vengeance, and I wasn’t about to let a little discomfort in my back slow me down.

Until I sneezed. This was a BIG pain, the kind that sort of catches your breath and leaves you mentally writing a will. So I padded down the stairs and consulted Younger Bro who knows a lot about all kinds of things, including healthcare related questions.

I explained the situation. He asked questions regarding kidney function, shortness of breath, and so on. Finally, he asked me where, exactly, it hurt, and checked one side of my back compared to the other side. (This is what we do in my family to test for abnormalities – checking symmetry. For example, if that strange bump I discovered on the right side of the base of my skull also exists on the left side, then it’s probably just my skull.)

Anyway, he gave me a little pat and said, “I think you need to go to Urgent Care.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’ve got something sticking out on one side of you that you doesn’t stick out on the other side.”

That got me worried. So I headed off to Dr. Wei, who asked me basically all the questions Younger Bro did and then gently probed my throbbing back.
“This is probably a pulled muscle. You said you did this at Christmas?”
“I think. I can’t remember anything specific.”
“And you’ve been exercising since then?”
“Um, yes.”
“You’ve probably been re-injuring it. We’re going to treat this as a pulled muscle, but come back in two weeks if it isn’t any better and we’ll shoot some x-rays to make sure it isn’t a cracked rib.”
“Cracked rib?”
“Yes. Basically you treat it the same way; not much you can do.”

He loaded me up on muscle relaxers, Motrin, and these funky Lidocaine patches that take up most of the real estate on my back and go on cold and wet.

The worst part? No exercise for two weeks. And all my lovely New Year momentum is just slipping away.

The best part – endless excuses to not do any cleaning.

You're Flirting with Time, Maybe

Last night I rocked a tiny baby in my arms. She was only 12 hours old and had a darling little white bow affixed to her head. Her mass of dark hair had been fluffed into an inexplicable yet adorable little mohawk a la Maddox Jolie.

I had been cold all day, so the baby pretty much functioned as a portable heater. I wondered, briefly, if this was selfish use of my baby-holding time, but the warmth was so lovely I pushed that thought aside.

I looked down at her sweet little face and, with trepidation, waited to see what my reaction would be. Would I hear it? That tick-tock-ticking of a biological clock everyone warns me about? Would I be awash in urges to have babies, hold babies, and spend countless hours in Gymboree and The Children’s Place? After all, in the past few months I have accompanied friends to countless Motherhood Maternity stores, stocked up on baby gifts at the Carter’s outlet, and even planned a baby shower with carefully selected baby décor that’s not pink (as mandated by the soon-to-be Mom).

So I’ve kind of been expecting it – the worry, the fear, the anxiety that perhaps my small window of child-bearing years is slipping through my hands.

But it hasn’t happened. And I wonder if I should be worried about that. I think kids are great. Some are better than others. I don’t go crazy over them like some of the women I know do. Well, there’s one in my life that’s such a smiler I can’t help but be a little stupid around him, but there are no massive maternal urges to pick these children up and spirit them away to my home.

I know I’ve written about this before, but it’s just a question that bobs up here and there. Should I be worried that I’m not worried? Or am I, once again, trying to judge myself against a standard of what and where I’m supposed to be in life?