"My Blood Alone Remains"

I started out this morning by doing one of my favorite things - having my blood drawn. For some reason this procedure fascinates me; watching the little tubes filling up with my life force (I was actually really disappointed when they only filled up two tubes). I just think it's really interesting to witness the amazing processes that keep our bodies running. Or I'm just sort of sick and morbid. Either way.


So you may assume that I probably donate blood all the time. But, that is not the case. Let me tell you why.

It all began last summer in California. I had just turned 30, and was dealing with that trauma, when Brian and I accompanied the youth group to the Mennonite Youth Convention in San Jose. And the Mennonites, in an attempt to be good global citizens, supported a blood drive at the convention. Perfect. Brian and I and a number of really wimpy youths signed up. (Seriously, all the youth fainted or turned pale or cried.) I greatly anticipated it all week.


We arrive to give blood, Brian challenges me to a race to see who can give blood faster. (He won by using a secret hand pumping technique that I did not know we were allowed to employ.) I get set up in my chair and the lovely man who is taking my blood begins making small talk. We chat pleasantly for a few moments when he asks, "so are you a senior this year, or did you just graduate?" I sat stunned, trying to process what he had just asked. I then replied in a voice barely able to squeak out sound, "Sir, I am 30 YEARS OLD!" He finds it hard to believe and, needless to say, I become a little giddy with this boost to my morale.

The rest of my blood-letting went off without a hitch and I ate my cookies, drank my juice, and received my sticker and free T-shirt. It was a great success. And for the rest of the week I made sure no one forgot that I could pass for an 18 year-old. (Little did I know it would be the last time I would taste those delicious cookies or happily apply a sticker to my shirt telling the world to be nice to me because I gave blood.)


A few weeks later in the mail Brian receives a packet from the American Red Cross thanking him for donating blood and letting him know what his blood type is. The packet is filled with magnets and stickers and all kinds of cool stuff thanking him for saving "up to three lives." I sort of wonder where my packet is. I figure it must have gotten delayed in the mail.



A week later I receive an official looking envelope from the American Red Cross with a red stamp on the front that says, "OFFICIAL DONOR HEALTH INFORMATION." I open it up with shaky fingers. Turns out that the man who thought I was 18 gave me "the hep." Okay not really but I still sort of blame him. My blood had tested positive for hepatitis C. When they re-tested my blood it did not. They were clear in the letter that the first test had been a false positive and that I had nothing to worry about. I did not, in fact, have hepatitis. HOWEVER, because of that false positive, I HAVE BEEN BANNED FROM EVER DONATING BLOOD AGAIN! Can you imagine? I, who love nothing more than watching my blood fill up a plastic bag, can no longer save up to three lives! I, who do not get squeamish or faint but, in fact, immensely enjoy the whole process, now has to silently ignore pleas from the Red Cross to save lives by donating blood. I want to save up to three lives at a time. All the time.

The letter from the Red Cross said that I could donate blood for my own use if I ever need it. Where is the joy in that? Woo-hoo. So, I'm currently on the search for an alternate blood bank, one that won't know my past history of exotic travels and strange men who think I'm young, one that might still accept this tainted blood.

I Quit, I Give Up

If you read my post on Friday, you are aware that it was a rough day. It continued to get worse (with one bright spot that I'm still trying to figure out how to write about here). But the whole week was a real downer, a bonafide bummer of a week.

To continue the horrible Friday. Before going to the grocery store, Brian and I stopped at the post office (to mail letters) and the pharmacy (to pick up my new stupid fluoride toothpaste prescription). We get to the pharmacy and we cannot find the script for the stupid toothpaste. Harsh looks and sighs were exchanged and Brian claimed he never saw the blue piece of paper that was clearly on the top of the stack that I handed him to be in charge of. (To be fair to Brian, it was a huge stack, including bank deposits, car payments, library books, mail, and a prescription script.) Turns out we threw the script in the post office box with the outgoing mail. (The post office called me which I find embarrassing because they now know all about my bad teeth.)

Then we head to the grocery store and they have rearranged the whole goodness-saken' store! The bread is on the opposite side of the store, I can't find the soy sauce, and our shopping cart veers to the left. And clearly the person who is in charge of this overhaul does not enjoy food or anything to do with eating because the store makes no sense whatsoever. It was the wrong day to do that crap to me. Poor Brian worked so hard to get my spirits up. And he was wonderful.

On Saturday, while getting ready to head to my knitting class, I turned on my Coffee House Blend of music to soothe me a little and this song came on. And when it reached the refrain I stood quietly and thought "EXACTLY." It spoke to how emotionally drained I felt, and how tired I can get of trying to get eveything in life right.

I couldn't find a great clip of this song...the video is from the end of a Cold Case Episode and the song is "Circle" by Edie Brickell. (And I know the song is technically about a circle of friends - but I still thought it fit my attitude fairly well.)


But this week I have vowed to turn things around. I have renewed my resolve to remain positive. (As long as the dentist doesn't call me about scheduling an appointment for my molar's coronation.)

Ways to Waste a Friday Afternoon

Here is our preferred method of wasting a perfectly good Friday afternoon:

Turn on Sirius Radio Coffee House Blend (with the intention of cleaning your house), fall down on the bed, call your adorable dog up to entertain you, and then let said dog have his way with you for about an hour.

Oh, and spend about 25 minutes trying to get a decent self-portrait of your happy little family.

Cold Weather Tradition

There is one thing that the onset of cold weather means in our house. Pull out the afghans, put on fleecy pajamas, get cozy, and prepare yourself for an epic marathon of:



We started our marathon last Sunday afternoon and finished it up on Tuesday night. We have the extended versions so that means a good solid 11 hours of movie watching excitement.


It makes settling into winter a little more bearable for me knowing I have well loved traditions to look forward to.


(I just wish Brian wouldn't think Liv Tyler is so "flippin' hot." Gives me a complex everytime she comes on the screen.)

Lisa and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I woke up with upsetting news still running through my mind, I didn't have any creamer for my coffee and I didn't even have any milk in the house so my coffee tasted gross, the library book I'm half way through couldn't be renewed because someone had requested it, the perma-cloud had settled over Indiana, I had a dentist appointment at noon, and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

To start with, I discovered last week that my tires are bald and will need to be replaced soon, or at least before winter. Goodbye $300 dollars.

Then I discovered that I forgot to record a check (to a charity no less) into my checking account which resulted in TWO non-sufficient fund fees to the tune of $62. I'm normally really careful about these things so I'm FURIOUS at myself.

And to top it all off, I had a dentist appointment at noon. And honestly, going to the dentist is the most miserable thing I do twice a year. And it's not because of any pain that might occur there. They can pick at my teeth, polish them with gross grainy polish, and make my gums bleed all day long. Doesn't really bother me. What bothers me is the cotton-pickin' guilt trip they send me on every time I'm there!

"How much pop do you drink?"

"Do you drink coffee? Is it with sweetener? Is there sugar in your creamer or artificial sweeteners? Why don't you read the label?"

"Do you floss? How often?"

"Are you using the fluoride that we prescribed to you? Are you using it regularly?"

LEAVE ME ALONE! I come in twice a year consistently and responsibly. NO, I don't floss everyday or use your stupid prescription fluoride EVERY night before I go to bed, and I can't function without my coffee and creamer in the morning, and I have a Mt. Dew every now and again FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME? Evidently they would like me to lie a lot and make promises I do not intend to keep because that is exactly what happens every time I go to the dentist. They make me squirmy and I start sweating bullets under their intense inquisition and threats until the lies come flowing out of my mouth. These people should work in the police department coercing innocent citizens into confessing crimes they did not commit because these dental professionals are good.

I may not be the poster child for the dental care community but I'm sure I'm not the worst patient they have either. By far. I try. I really do.

So to get back at me for trying to be a good dental citizen but not measuring up to their lofty standards, they declared that I have two cavities and a tooth that will explode if it does not receive a crown. (Alright, the tooth won't explode but a piece might break off.) And I innocently ask the price of a crown at the front desk...and it is a royal price of $1,148.00. That crown better come adorned with rubies and diamonds. Do you know what kind of good could be done in this world with $1,148.00!?!?!? And that's not even covering the two stupid cavities I need to have filled.

And now Brian wants to go grocery shopping. (We haven't actually been grocery shopping in...well a long time.) So we'll get to drop an ungodly amount of money on food now. And shopping with Brian can be like shopping with a seven year old where I'll have to endure him trying to sneak peanut M&M's into the cart and listen to him whine about how he needs Pop Tarts. And I'll have to gently and constantly remind him that Her Majesty the Molar needs a crown and that the serfs will have to go without their cake for awhile.

I am so ready to move to a commune now and live off the land, toothless and happy, and free of money woes.

Days of the Dead

It's a Tuesday. Blah. It's been cold. Brian and I both had a crummy day. I've been holding on to a bunch of Hacienda gift cards from a youth group fundraiser we had in May. I decided we should have a random Tuesday evening date at Hacienda. It was great. We both had a lot to vent so over dinner we just talked it out...and it was delightful.

But it gets so much better.

Turns out we're there during the "Days of the Dead" week at Hacienda so they have special events going all week. First of all there was a fun cover band playing. That's always a good time. (So, thank you Trick Monkey for the great music.)

But then the manager comes around trying to drum up participants in a "fun" game - bobbing for skulls. He shows us all the free stuff we can win. And I love free stuff. I mean, I really love it. Have you ever been to a convention or exhibit of any kind where you can walk around the vendor booths and collect free pens and pads of sticky notes? It feels like Christmas to me. I always walk away feeling like a million bucks with my free plastic bag full of free plastic junk.

I digress.

I take a look at that bucket of goodies and I want it. Bad. I look at Brian and say, "You've got a huge mouth. You can totally win this." So I push and prod and hum the music from the Rocky movies. I tell him he has the eye of the tiger. I can feel the victory now. I make him enter the contest. (Dan and Felicia, I wish you were there to help me with this.) He's reluctant but I don't care. It is a little lame and embarrassing to enter a contest dunking for skulls at a Hacienda on a Tuesday evening. I see his point. But I smell victory none the less.

He goes to the bucket. And he is good. Just like I knew he would be. 14 in one minute, 5 seconds. A couple of other jokers enter the contest. One is quite intoxicated. Brian ends up tying with a guy who got 14 in 1 minute, 35 seconds. It goes to the tie breaker round.

One minute of guts and glory dunking. I've got a good feeling. After the coin toss the other guy goes first. (Always the best position to be in so you know what you have to beat.) He gets 10.

Controversy erupts. Turns out two of the skulls had not been placed back in the bucket after a female contestant spit them on the floor. (Also, this was not the most hygienic of games. But when one wants to win, one does what one must.) The skulls are discovered before Brian makes his attempt, and they are placed back in the bucket. The other guy claims he would have gotten more if the two wayward skulls had been in the bucket. I insist that two be taken out because I do not want Joe whining and crying that Brian's victory isn't fair when he kicks this guy's booty. Two skulls are removed.

The timer begins. And I wish you could have seen it. Brian was a mean-skull-diving-machine. Systematically grabbing those skulls and throwing them in the bin on the floor. It was a thing of beauty. He pulls out 13 in no time, clinching his victory. He even sacrifices by diving deep and getting completely wet.

My heart swells with pride. He is made to stand on a chair and a sombrero is placed on his head as he is declared the victor and is handed his bucket of booty. (All while the manager is yelling, "yeah, he's bringing it home for Momma!!!" which I find somewhat strange and disconcerting but, whatever.)

Never mind that the bucket of booty is full of promotional items from beer companies. It's our free booty. And in the bucket is $25 of Hacienda money. Not only that, but they took down Brian's name, number, and address so that he can be invited back next year to defend his title. We'll be ready.

Sweet, sweet victory. All on a random Tuesday evening in Warsaw, IN.

Why Reggie is the Best Dog Ever

On Saturday morning, while sleeping in, I heard a sound familiar to dog owners everywhere. You know, that steady, gagging, sound the dog makes before throwing up. And then I heard the grand finale of puke landing on the carpet. As I contemplated getting up and seeing what havoc was wreaked, I began to hear the sounds of a dog...eating.

Is it wrong that I whispered, "good dog" and rolled over and went back to sleep?

When I got up there was not a sign of vomit to be found. Reggie had cleaned up after himself. This is why he is officially the best dog ever.