Oh No, Not Again...

I got blood drawn last Sunday in Morehead. Of course, my mom and Aunt Dorothy accompanied me. Lord knows, I needed the support. Literally, like an extra set of arms to catch me before I hit the floor. Ugh, I hate needles.

I slid in the plastic maroon chair at St. Claire, my mom and Aunt Dorothy a few feet away, and twirled my hair into tiny knots to distract myself. This was my third time since December to have blood work done. Shouldn’t I be used to it? A little tougher? Slightly braver? The perspiration that beaded on my forehead suggested otherwise. I just thanked God that I didn’t recognize the lab technician… in a small town the likelihood that we would have been high school classmates or second cousins was dangerously high.

The lab technician swabbed my arm with an alcohol pad while I wished I had some alcohol in my system. One brewski would have hardly affected the results, my liver is young. She inserted the needle. I tried to breathe, imagine a happy place, and be a big girl. I just couldn’t.

Seconds after she finished, I saw spots. My stomach churned. I got light headed. My knees turned weak.

We walked out into the hallway and then it hit me. I slowly sank down and sprawled out like a limp starfish on the first floor in the main entrance of our town’s only hospital. My mom, a nurse there, held my hand and encouragingly whispered… “When you can stand, let’s make a run for it.”

Perspectives: Part I

I leaned against the wall at the therapy gym where I work in the evenings, and joined the other therapists in conversation. We chatted about Spring Break plans when one therapist mentioned that he will travel to Louisiana to rebuild homes destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Interested, I asked him to continue.

He had visited New Orleans in 2005 after the hurricane and witnessed the destruction Katrina wreaked on not only the city, but its people. I thought about the great perspective he will get from visiting then and now.

“I’m really looking forward to it. I mean, most people have been living in trailers for three years,” he cried incredulously. “Three years!”

The other therapists nodded in agreement, shaking their heads.

“Can you imagine living in a trailer for three years?” he asked, totally stressing the word ‘imagine’.

I stood dumbfounded and highly amused. City folk.

“Actually, yes, I can. I’m from Kentucky. Trailers… they’re pretty common.”

Roger looked at me, slightly shocked.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Oops.”

It ain’t all skyscrapers and high rises, baby.

Urban Breeze

On Thursday evening, Ben and I celebrated the warm weather with dessert... fruit smoothies. Ben geared up for a mission and grabbed his apron, blender, and cleaver. He moved around the kitchen with a certain, um, finesse, and threw random fruits from the fridge in the blender.

Meanwhile, I relaxed on the couch with my feet propped up on the stepstool and daydreamed of myself with a great tan as Ben sweated above the blender and furiously googled smoothie ingredient ratios, determined to make his first two smoothies a success.

Upon completion of his edible masterpiece, Ben served two strawberry and banana smoothies in frosted pint glasses. We sipped and savored our drinks as the fresh (my standards have changed) city air cleansed our apartment. With our hands wrapped around two neon orange koozies, we decided that summer can’t come soon enough.

Bedtime

I was unemployed for three months and semi-unemployed for four months. During those seven months, I didn’t have a bedtime. I flitted around the apartment with the lights on and radio cranked up to the highest volume. I coaxed Ben into 8pm movies, 9pm infomercials, and 10pm television shows. I flipped through magazines under the bedside lamp until midnight and annoyed Ben as I hid under the covers and text messaged friends, played Tetris. When asked what the beeping noises were, I always responded with, “Beeping noises? What beeping noises? I don’t hear anything.” Ben complained that my erratic night schedule made it difficult for him to fall sleep and even more difficult for him to wake up in the morning for work. Pfff, I thought.

But, oh, how the times have changed since getting a job at two schools and a sensory gym. I follow a strict nighttime routine. Clock work. Pajamas on and teeth brushed by 9:30pm, comfortably nestled in bed by 9:45pm, and lights turned off by 10pm. I settled into this routine while Ben was away on business in London. He left a night owl and returned to a sergeant of bedtime boot camp.

Last night, at 10pm, the TV still blared in the background. I rolled over and gently, kindly reminded Ben that it was time for bed. He acted surprised and timidly asked if he could continue to watch his show. I shook my head. I can’t bring home the bacon without a little shuteye.

Ben sighed, defeated. He turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the nightstand.

Times have changed. I’m a working woman now.

Spring Is Here

This photo makes me smile. I took it one evening at a flower stand just a short walk from our apartment. Enjoy.