Friday, May 3, 2013
Monday, February 20, 2012
More Home on the Range...
So, it has been a little over a month since we have moved. Our wallets are empty and our spirits are high. Somehow, we have managed to procure 13 goats for our flock. 1 LaMancha named Jazzy who is due to kid out anyday now. 2 Nubians: Cinnamon and SweetPea. 2 Alpines; Twilight and Maisy, 1 Cashmere; Harry Christmas. 1 Boer; Tank. 6 Nigerian Dwarf; Columbine, Squeaks, Cassie, Herbie, Avalanche and Willoughby. My Sweetie has been dutifully slaving away at building fences to keep everybody in. When I say slaving, I mean slaving. It has been snowing, freezing, windy bitterness out there. His hands are cracked and calloused. His lips are chapped and his cheeks are windburned. I didn't get roses or a card for Valentine's day. But, I do have a man that is willing to withstand all of that to make me a fence. It is really easy to go buy some plastic crap and slap a name on it. It is a whole other thing to get your ass kicked by the elements and make something to support someone else's hobby. So, I am not the least bit upset that I didn't get any traditional crap. I know he wasn't out there building and freezing because he wanted to, he was out there suffering because he loves me.
Then there's Annen. Now this kid has no excuse to not cough up some Valentiney splendor for his mama. I helped him pick out cards and sign them. I told him how to spell every word in his love letter to his girlfriend. I helped him make special cards for his former preschool teachers, his dad, his grandparents and for Eagan. Mama got nothing...he didn't even mention the idea of me getting a malformed and over glued construction paper heart. He's 5, so I let it slide. I take him to preschool story time at the library on Tuesday mornings. This Tuesday happened to be V-day. They read some stories, make a craft and have a snack. It is super fun when I am not having to chase Eagan. The craft on V-day was nothing other than making 'A Very Special Valentine For A Very Special Person!' I was all full of fantasy thinking to myself, 'Awww Yeah...Mama's going to get an awesome Valentine.' Here is what really happened: Annen got a cupcake, Eagan freaked out until he got a sucker, I got a late fine, and John Wayne got the Very Special Valentine...
Then there's Annen. Now this kid has no excuse to not cough up some Valentiney splendor for his mama. I helped him pick out cards and sign them. I told him how to spell every word in his love letter to his girlfriend. I helped him make special cards for his former preschool teachers, his dad, his grandparents and for Eagan. Mama got nothing...he didn't even mention the idea of me getting a malformed and over glued construction paper heart. He's 5, so I let it slide. I take him to preschool story time at the library on Tuesday mornings. This Tuesday happened to be V-day. They read some stories, make a craft and have a snack. It is super fun when I am not having to chase Eagan. The craft on V-day was nothing other than making 'A Very Special Valentine For A Very Special Person!' I was all full of fantasy thinking to myself, 'Awww Yeah...Mama's going to get an awesome Valentine.' Here is what really happened: Annen got a cupcake, Eagan freaked out until he got a sucker, I got a late fine, and John Wayne got the Very Special Valentine...
Saturday, February 18, 2012
On Moving and Goats: OMG!!
Well, it happened. The honey and I have been toying with the idea of getting a little farm for about 5 years now. We would drive all over the eastern part of Colorado Springs out to Black Forest, Falcon, Peyton Pines, Elbert County, Ellicott and Calhan. We toodled down to the southern part of Colorado Springs all the way to Penrose, Westcliffe, Rockvale, Canon City and Florence. I don't really like it out east. It's wicked windy and flat. There also isn't much surface water available. Properties are pretty reasonably priced out there so we continued to check them out. I loved the southern areas though. Right along the Arkansas River. The elevation is a bit lower, there is a lot of readily available water, it is nearly 10 degrees warmer there all of the time, there is a river, mountains, trees and beauty all around and properties are pretty reasonably priced. We kept looking at places and even put our house on the market at one time hoping to sell it to get into a little farm. That didn't end up happening, so we just kept on keepin' on. Meanwhile, we continued to fix up our little city home and make it a super comfy urban farm. We still kept on looking at homes with acreage, dreaming and hoping. There was one articular property, at the end of a long lane. The first time we looked at it, it was listed for $325k or maybe a little more. In any event, it was more than we could comfortably afford. We kept looking and that house just kept popping up and the price kept going down. Until finally, the blessed thing reached $105k and we decided to go for it, I said offer them 110k and have them pay the closing costs. There were already offers in on the place, offers of cash but they were a little lower than ours. Turns out it was going to be a short sale too, so golly, we had no idea how long that'd take, or if it would even be possible. Then to get approved for the loan we had to make sure that there would be functional utilities in the place. I guess I forgot to mention why the place was down so much in price. Well, after they realized they weren't able to pay for the place, someone went and took out anything of value. Interior doors, bathtubs, the entire kitchen, carpet, the well pump, the meter on the propane tank. It was pretty gutted. SO, we stuck our necks out and spent 1000 bucks to get the well operational. Another $400 getting electricity to the place, $150 on plumbing parts because the pipes busted in the crawlspace, another $150 to fix a leaky skylight, $200 to fix some drywall, another $1000 on cabinets for the kitchen, $300 bucks on propane stuff and probably another $100 on other little stuff, like a banister for a staircase, thermostat, caulk for around light switches and plywood to cover the hole where there used to be a bath tub.. And that was before we were ever given approval for the loan. Yikes! Well, we got it! They approved us. We scrambled to get our house in the Springs either sold or rented, we ended up renting it out, and hopefully it will stay that way. And we packed up our stuff and we moved.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Gettin' Older: The Abreviated Pictoral Review
This was the beginning of it all. A me...a hubby...2 chihuahuas...a baby bunny....a super cool couch.
Then there came the fatness.....oh sure...it's all smiles on the beach....when there is the fleeting small hope of a baby Beluga beaching it's self that could make me appear svelte and sun-kissed, and I kept grinning at the many passers by who kept trying to not stare, while all the while tossing side-long glances that begged to know if I was merely tub-o-licious with too much self esteem, or knocked up with no sense... I was also basking in the brilliant glow of what I can only describe as 'feeling home'. I was with my Mommy on this beach.
Then it's all sepia-toned-super-chubbi-nakee-ness masquerading as art...
Then there is nakee baby....
Screaming, angry, nakee, baby.
Tiny, skinny, nakee baby.
Fully clothed, oblivious baby...
Yes, you will do my bidding and wear what I make you baby... Then.....All of a sudden..... BAM!!!!
Let me introduce you to: Why don't you fit in the sink-not-really-a baby?
Yup-too-big-for-the-sink-kinda-sorta-baby...
And for now..... here's: What in the purple monkey butt are you doin' in my sink, boy?Depression can hurt, Cymbalta is Hell.
I had been taking Cymbalta for 7 months. For depression. I was initially diagnosed with depression during my third month of pregnancy, which was 2.5 years ago. I was prescribed Wellbutrin, and was great throughout my pregnancy and for a long time there after. I went back to work when my child was 3 months old. I worked a shift job, ie; 12 hours a day, 3 days one week, 4 days the next. I was going to college on my days off, participating in a sport requiring 2 weekly practices of 3 hours each with an additional 3hour practice on a weekend, I was trying to start up my own non-profit corporation...oh and certainly not the least of it, being a wife and mother...and pumping breast milk for my wee one the whole time. I was taken off the Wellbutrin because I wasn't all hormonal from being knocked up anymore.
7 months later the 'depression' came back. I had an overwhelming feeling of absolute sorrow. It was like a wet blanket was smothering me with dread. I cried at soup commercials and had no sense of humor. I was advised by my PCP to resume Wellbutrin. I did, but it made my knees hurt, in fact it made all of my joints ache. Even the cartilage on my sternum and in my ribs hurt. This was no good. I am 105lbs, I need to routinely lift 150lbs+ at my job, I need to kick some bitch-ass in roller derby, I have a toddler, I have pets and projects, I got shit to do. My husband/my Mother/ and I thought that I was doing too much and encouraged me to go part time at my job. (This consists of me picking up a shift....uh...whenever...or never...or once every month...at my leisure) I did. I became seriously; a shambles. I was not stressed, not pressured, nothing. I was just a crying, awful, sniveling wreck for no obvious reason. My doc put me on Cymbalta 30mg. for depression. I took the first pill at work and barfed...really, like less than 10 minutes later. I figured that it was a fluke, and that if I wanted to feel better, I had better stick with it. I couldn't sleep for the first week...I had a beer (or 8...I lost count) to 'calm my nerves and mellow out'. I figured that I settled in pretty well after a month or so, but continued to feel like I needed to have a 'drink' to unwind, relax, to feel 'normal'. I was taking the 30mg for 3 months when I started noticing that if I was off by more than 40-ish minutes of taking my daily dose I would have some serious physical side effects. I was exceedingly lethargic, confused, agitated, frustrated and had no short term memory. I made an appointment with my doc. (I wrote it down) After describing my symptoms, and explaining that I still felt 'depressed' and that I had recently acquired a penchant for really, reeaaallly, reeeeeaaaalllly liking to drink a lot..a lot....a lot, she upped my dose to 60mg and gave me a month of free samples. I am no doctor, and in retrospect (it's 20/20 you know) I should have went with my gut and suggested that we try exploring another medication option, or start titrating me down off of Cymbalta or setting up a portable liquor luge for my emotional betterment, anything else for that matter. But, I, like most people, went with the assumption that Dr. Knows Best. I was on the 60mg for 4 months. I just stopped. I didn't, because I felt like I couldn't, do anything that had previously meant anything to me. So, I started drinking...and drinking...and drinking...and drinking. In fact, I didn't feel 'right', if I wasn't drinking. I had no energy, no drive, no nothing. In fact, there is really very little that I remember about the last few months. I kept looking at sites on the internet, reading over the pamphlet provided by Eli Lilly, drinking vodka/beer/wine/malt liquor/whiskey/rum/tequila/more wine/more beer/thought about sippin' some Listerine, sleeping all day, ignoring that gut wrenching ache in my soul that was telling me, no SCREAMING at me that something was wrong. I went to fill my scrip and casually asked/told my pharmacist about the out-of-body-shiver without chills-disorientation-confusion-nausea-mood swing-sotting drunk-no orgasm-where the fuck am I-just let me sleep-I don't care about anything thing-my hands are numb...wait so is my face-bone tired-all consuming...ever growing apathy. She looked at me like I had 50 little green worms with three heads growing out of my face. She asked me, 'Do you want this scrip? I mean...*sigh*...some people are really sensitive to drugs like this, and it sounds like you should NOT be taking it.' I told her that I was all out and that if I didn't take it in the next 10 minutes; I wouldn't be able to drive home. She looked kinda scared (and probably relieved that she wouldn't be on the road with me) and told me to 'just take it slow..' So, a week ago, I took apart a pill and gulped half of the wretched beads inside. I mean, all of the web sites I saw said to wean off really slow, the pharmacist said to wean off slow, my Doc just wanted to increase my dosage, what was a girl to do? Now remember, at 30mg I was brain buzzing if I was off by 40 minutes in my dose. At 60mg, oh f*@#! I was feeling like my skin was crawling off my body, it felt like my brain was shivering in my skull (like practicing Spanish and roooolllling your arrrrs) only that numb fluttering feeling wasn't the tip of my tongue...it was the entire inside of my skull, I was disoriented, confused, couldn't remember anything, my vision was blurry, my heart would flutter like it was a psychotic bird on the verge of certain death;trying to escape from my ribcage, I wanted liquor, I cried,I barfed, where am I?, my hearing was...huh?...what?...hello? Oh yeah, that's right..... all I could hear over the constant dirge of monotone C sharp ringing was the bobsled-on-rocky ice-scrape/swoosh of blood rushing through my vessels and the inconsistent thunder-flutter-thump of my heart. I didn't know what to do. I had these sensations if I was off dosing by less than an hour. I had these feelings if I decreased my dosage. So, logically (in my mind at least...I'm no Mr. Spock) I didn't want to prolong any of this. Certainly not over a period of weeks or for the love of Pete, months. With lowering doses...dumping beads...ugh. Who could live like that??? I decided to stop cold turkey. Oh sure, the masses have advised against it. The pharmacist advised against it, my Dr. advised against it, Eli Lilly advised against it. But, hell. I am going to feel like a bucket of hairy, liquified, banana and cardboard filled monkey shit until this is out of my system. So, why would I keep it in my system? If I feel like crap on it, or with a late or lowered dosage, why would I choose to prolong this mind-fucking pharmalogical magic? I'll be damned if I waste anymore of my life or time on this everything-wrecking bottle o' pills. I have met heroin addicts better off than the sad sacks trying to kick Cymbalta. (google it....or better yet watch the youtube) It's been a week. My face is numb. I'm still shivering in my skull. Where am I? What am I doing? Where is my handle of low price, high proof liquor?!? Oh yeah, I am right here. I have goals, dreams, love, life, ambition, a child who needs his Mommy, a husband who misses his wife, a team that misses a Jammer, a job that misses their low rung corporate lackey, a mother that misses her fantastic daughter, a brother that misses his super awesome Sissy, a few dogs that miss their snuggly puppy mama, some dumb-ass chickens that need their scratch, I have an amazing life that I need to live. So, I am going to slug on through these awful withdrawals and get my life back. If Cymbalta did anything for me, it made me thankful for my life and my feelings....whatever they are. Very few things could be as bad as existing with the tight fist of Cymbalta Doom clutching at my throat, and feeling like I am choking and dying a little more as each day passes.
I have had several blood tests done. The one at the beginning of all of this was highly indicative of Systemic Lupus Erythmatosis. Which has not been investigated further. The most recent one is still highly indicative of SLE, but shows that I currently have an under-active thyroid gland. Oh, the glorious thyroid!! When it fails, it can cause some really dumb-ass things to happen with a body. The most notable first sign is depression. In fact, it often makes it's initial appearance in women that are pregnant because their bodies need to produce more T1,T2,T3,T4, and subsequently more TSH for the growing mommy and to supplement the needs of the baby. A lack of these little bittys can cause premature labor. I was wondering why, for the last 15 weeks of my pregnancy, I was on bed rest and to take a pill every 3 hours to keep my baby inside me. Hmmm. Not to mention the couple of non-consecutive-week-long-hospitalizations I endured. Not the least to speak of would be the absolutely INSANE bills that were incurred. I have really decent insurance, and I feel barfy-ish sick when I think about the cost of being in a hospital.
I am a sucker. I have worked in the medical profession (at a low-ish level)for over 5 years. I have worked along side a great number of these people that are exceedingly caring and adept at their profession. I have grown a deep respect for many doctors and nurses. I think that my incredibly positive experiences had lulled me into a false sense of confidence. At this point, however, I believe that I am my best advocate in the world of practiced medicine. I should not ever take a backseat to my healthcare simply because I don't have a degree in medicine. I have a degree in ME.
From here on out, I will be my own super-healthcare-administrator/advisor. I will research each and every thing before I go popping anymore All-American instant gratification-cure-all-pills. Now...where......did you hide it? Come on...really? Awww heck....where did I put my beer?
7 months later the 'depression' came back. I had an overwhelming feeling of absolute sorrow. It was like a wet blanket was smothering me with dread. I cried at soup commercials and had no sense of humor. I was advised by my PCP to resume Wellbutrin. I did, but it made my knees hurt, in fact it made all of my joints ache. Even the cartilage on my sternum and in my ribs hurt. This was no good. I am 105lbs, I need to routinely lift 150lbs+ at my job, I need to kick some bitch-ass in roller derby, I have a toddler, I have pets and projects, I got shit to do. My husband/my Mother/ and I thought that I was doing too much and encouraged me to go part time at my job. (This consists of me picking up a shift....uh...whenever...or never...or once every month...at my leisure) I did. I became seriously; a shambles. I was not stressed, not pressured, nothing. I was just a crying, awful, sniveling wreck for no obvious reason. My doc put me on Cymbalta 30mg. for depression. I took the first pill at work and barfed...really, like less than 10 minutes later. I figured that it was a fluke, and that if I wanted to feel better, I had better stick with it. I couldn't sleep for the first week...I had a beer (or 8...I lost count) to 'calm my nerves and mellow out'. I figured that I settled in pretty well after a month or so, but continued to feel like I needed to have a 'drink' to unwind, relax, to feel 'normal'. I was taking the 30mg for 3 months when I started noticing that if I was off by more than 40-ish minutes of taking my daily dose I would have some serious physical side effects. I was exceedingly lethargic, confused, agitated, frustrated and had no short term memory. I made an appointment with my doc. (I wrote it down) After describing my symptoms, and explaining that I still felt 'depressed' and that I had recently acquired a penchant for really, reeaaallly, reeeeeaaaalllly liking to drink a lot..a lot....a lot, she upped my dose to 60mg and gave me a month of free samples. I am no doctor, and in retrospect (it's 20/20 you know) I should have went with my gut and suggested that we try exploring another medication option, or start titrating me down off of Cymbalta or setting up a portable liquor luge for my emotional betterment, anything else for that matter. But, I, like most people, went with the assumption that Dr. Knows Best. I was on the 60mg for 4 months. I just stopped. I didn't, because I felt like I couldn't, do anything that had previously meant anything to me. So, I started drinking...and drinking...and drinking...and drinking. In fact, I didn't feel 'right', if I wasn't drinking. I had no energy, no drive, no nothing. In fact, there is really very little that I remember about the last few months. I kept looking at sites on the internet, reading over the pamphlet provided by Eli Lilly, drinking vodka/beer/wine/malt liquor/whiskey/rum/tequila/more wine/more beer/thought about sippin' some Listerine, sleeping all day, ignoring that gut wrenching ache in my soul that was telling me, no SCREAMING at me that something was wrong. I went to fill my scrip and casually asked/told my pharmacist about the out-of-body-shiver without chills-disorientation-confusion-nausea-mood swing-sotting drunk-no orgasm-where the fuck am I-just let me sleep-I don't care about anything thing-my hands are numb...wait so is my face-bone tired-all consuming...ever growing apathy. She looked at me like I had 50 little green worms with three heads growing out of my face. She asked me, 'Do you want this scrip? I mean...*sigh*...some people are really sensitive to drugs like this, and it sounds like you should NOT be taking it.' I told her that I was all out and that if I didn't take it in the next 10 minutes; I wouldn't be able to drive home. She looked kinda scared (and probably relieved that she wouldn't be on the road with me) and told me to 'just take it slow..' So, a week ago, I took apart a pill and gulped half of the wretched beads inside. I mean, all of the web sites I saw said to wean off really slow, the pharmacist said to wean off slow, my Doc just wanted to increase my dosage, what was a girl to do? Now remember, at 30mg I was brain buzzing if I was off by 40 minutes in my dose. At 60mg, oh f*@#! I was feeling like my skin was crawling off my body, it felt like my brain was shivering in my skull (like practicing Spanish and roooolllling your arrrrs) only that numb fluttering feeling wasn't the tip of my tongue...it was the entire inside of my skull, I was disoriented, confused, couldn't remember anything, my vision was blurry, my heart would flutter like it was a psychotic bird on the verge of certain death;trying to escape from my ribcage, I wanted liquor, I cried,I barfed, where am I?, my hearing was...huh?...what?...hello? Oh yeah, that's right..... all I could hear over the constant dirge of monotone C sharp ringing was the bobsled-on-rocky ice-scrape/swoosh of blood rushing through my vessels and the inconsistent thunder-flutter-thump of my heart. I didn't know what to do. I had these sensations if I was off dosing by less than an hour. I had these feelings if I decreased my dosage. So, logically (in my mind at least...I'm no Mr. Spock) I didn't want to prolong any of this. Certainly not over a period of weeks or for the love of Pete, months. With lowering doses...dumping beads...ugh. Who could live like that??? I decided to stop cold turkey. Oh sure, the masses have advised against it. The pharmacist advised against it, my Dr. advised against it, Eli Lilly advised against it. But, hell. I am going to feel like a bucket of hairy, liquified, banana and cardboard filled monkey shit until this is out of my system. So, why would I keep it in my system? If I feel like crap on it, or with a late or lowered dosage, why would I choose to prolong this mind-fucking pharmalogical magic? I'll be damned if I waste anymore of my life or time on this everything-wrecking bottle o' pills. I have met heroin addicts better off than the sad sacks trying to kick Cymbalta. (google it....or better yet watch the youtube) It's been a week. My face is numb. I'm still shivering in my skull. Where am I? What am I doing? Where is my handle of low price, high proof liquor?!? Oh yeah, I am right here. I have goals, dreams, love, life, ambition, a child who needs his Mommy, a husband who misses his wife, a team that misses a Jammer, a job that misses their low rung corporate lackey, a mother that misses her fantastic daughter, a brother that misses his super awesome Sissy, a few dogs that miss their snuggly puppy mama, some dumb-ass chickens that need their scratch, I have an amazing life that I need to live. So, I am going to slug on through these awful withdrawals and get my life back. If Cymbalta did anything for me, it made me thankful for my life and my feelings....whatever they are. Very few things could be as bad as existing with the tight fist of Cymbalta Doom clutching at my throat, and feeling like I am choking and dying a little more as each day passes.
I have had several blood tests done. The one at the beginning of all of this was highly indicative of Systemic Lupus Erythmatosis. Which has not been investigated further. The most recent one is still highly indicative of SLE, but shows that I currently have an under-active thyroid gland. Oh, the glorious thyroid!! When it fails, it can cause some really dumb-ass things to happen with a body. The most notable first sign is depression. In fact, it often makes it's initial appearance in women that are pregnant because their bodies need to produce more T1,T2,T3,T4, and subsequently more TSH for the growing mommy and to supplement the needs of the baby. A lack of these little bittys can cause premature labor. I was wondering why, for the last 15 weeks of my pregnancy, I was on bed rest and to take a pill every 3 hours to keep my baby inside me. Hmmm. Not to mention the couple of non-consecutive-week-long-hospitalizations I endured. Not the least to speak of would be the absolutely INSANE bills that were incurred. I have really decent insurance, and I feel barfy-ish sick when I think about the cost of being in a hospital.
I am a sucker. I have worked in the medical profession (at a low-ish level)for over 5 years. I have worked along side a great number of these people that are exceedingly caring and adept at their profession. I have grown a deep respect for many doctors and nurses. I think that my incredibly positive experiences had lulled me into a false sense of confidence. At this point, however, I believe that I am my best advocate in the world of practiced medicine. I should not ever take a backseat to my healthcare simply because I don't have a degree in medicine. I have a degree in ME.
From here on out, I will be my own super-healthcare-administrator/advisor. I will research each and every thing before I go popping anymore All-American instant gratification-cure-all-pills. Now...where......did you hide it? Come on...really? Awww heck....where did I put my beer?
old guy poem
Uh...I sometimes write poetry...
and my favorite color is Black (until evil scientists invent something darker...)
This is called 'Old Guy' and I was inspired by someone else's dried skin on my pants.
Sleep in sordid stages,
Staring at the moon.
Comfort like missing pages,
my heart an empty room.
Flights of dancing skin flakes,
rise from ancient yellowed sheets.
Smiling like a torn up tract,
of miles of city streets.
Voice like a crackled radio,
tuned to far away.
Hair like frozen cobwebs,
cotton candy gray.
Breath as thick as tree sap,
heaves across this space.
Bones like bands of barbed wire,
stretched beneath the leather of a face.
Red rimmed eyes revealing,
sunken ship-like water graves.
Crosses on the wall pleading,
praying Jesus saves.
Dry mouth stuttering a song,
lost on shriveled earthworm lips.
Claw-like hands, steel trap soul,
relaxing life's long grip.
and my favorite color is Black (until evil scientists invent something darker...)
This is called 'Old Guy' and I was inspired by someone else's dried skin on my pants.
Sleep in sordid stages,
Staring at the moon.
Comfort like missing pages,
my heart an empty room.
Flights of dancing skin flakes,
rise from ancient yellowed sheets.
Smiling like a torn up tract,
of miles of city streets.
Voice like a crackled radio,
tuned to far away.
Hair like frozen cobwebs,
cotton candy gray.
Breath as thick as tree sap,
heaves across this space.
Bones like bands of barbed wire,
stretched beneath the leather of a face.
Red rimmed eyes revealing,
sunken ship-like water graves.
Crosses on the wall pleading,
praying Jesus saves.
Dry mouth stuttering a song,
lost on shriveled earthworm lips.
Claw-like hands, steel trap soul,
relaxing life's long grip.
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