Tomorrow Is Another Day...

Disney World: Let the Memories Begin!

It's hard to believe I've already been home from Disney World for over a week--longer than we were even there!  It was such a splendiferous vacation, and I wish I could keep going back and living it all over again on a constant, exhausting loop.

My parents and I drove into Kissimmee the night before we were planning to start in the parks, and stayed off Disney property.  Between my mounting excitement and my dad's snoring, I got about 2 hours of sleep which really wasn't enough to prepare me for the emotional highs and lows of the next day. Dramatic moment #1 of the day:

Just before we walked out of our hotel on Monday, we got a hysterical call from my sister who had just woken up, 7 minutes before her flight was supposed to take off.  I managed to get her to calm down enough to just throw on some clothes, grab her bags and told her to skip the subways and take a cab to the airport and get there as soon as possible.  Between the driving efforts of a cabbie named Angel (can't make this stuff up) and the fact that flights never take off less than 2 hours later than scheduled anymore, she actually managed to make it onto her airplane with plenty of time to spare.Dramatic moment #2 of the day:

Super plug for Shades of Green, as this is the second time I've stayed there and been incrediblyimpressed with its cleanliness, ease of checking in and out, and service.  If you or someone you know and love has a military or DOD id card and is heading to Disney World, seriously consider Shades of Green as an option.  It's right across the street from the Polynesian, so you're even ten minutes away from the monorail.  It's great.  So that wasn't the drama.  The drama came from the beautiful super-swanky Beach Club Hotel that my parents had reserved months ago.

 
  
Life at Concierge Level

We headed over there to check in and then head to the parks, unfortunately we ran into a teensy hold-up of MANY HOURS because they had overbooked the hotel and were trying the shuttle people off to Saratoga Springs, a timeshare resort in Bum Fu--oh wait, family blog--B.F.E.  My dad understandably raised some concerns with the handling of this situation, I politely suggested the Polynesian as an alternative, my mom had an emotional breakdown, and we ended up checking them into the concierge level of the Polynesian later that afternoon.  It was a fantastic resort, and I'm not sure I can go back to hotels with all of the little people after my short taste of concierge level treatment.  Food.  Food and drinks at all hours of the day.  I love concierge level.
Happily, all was well by mid-afternoon, and we made our way to Animal Kingdom, bound and determined to HAVE FUN DAMMIT.  And we did have a really lovely time.  Sadly the Brittster didn't make it to Orlando in time for our first culinary outing of the trip, the delicious Yak and Yeti, where we encountered sinfully delicious pork pot stickers and no kidding, the best Kobe beef burger my mouth has ever had the pleasure of inhaling.
And with much joy and celebration, Brittany DID make it in time for the first happy hour of the trip (did I mention how much I love concierge level?), and we then made our way over to Magic Kingdom for the Electric Light Parade, and what I feel is the most important tip of any Disney adventure--riding all of the Fantasyland rides after the adorable, overwrought kiddies have gone to bed.  We blew through The Carousel of Progress and Space Mountain in Tomorrowland as well as Peter Pan and It's a Small World in the blink of an eye, and with nary a stroller to achilles collision.

All that and we were only one day into our MAAAAAAAAGICAL ADVENTURE!!

Nine

"Each month I watch for blood, fearfully, for when it comes it means failure.  I have failed once again to fulfill the expectations of others, which have become my own.

"I used to think of my body as an instrument, of pleasure, or a means of transportation, or an implement for the accomplishment of my will.  I could use it to run, push buttons of one sort or another, make things happen.  There were limits, but my body was nevertheless lithe, single, solid, one with me.

"Now the flesh arranges itself differently.  I'm a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping.  Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black.  Pinpoints of light swell, sparkle, burst and shrivel within it, countless as stars.  Every month there is a moon, gigantic, round, heavy, an omen.  It transits, pauses, continues on and passes out of sight, and I see despair coming towards me like famine.  To feel that empty, again, again.  I listen to my heart, wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time."

The Handmaids Tale
Margaret Atwood

The Results Show

Hm.

What to talk about?

It's so awkward to return to blogging after ages away from the blank Typepad Compose page.

...

I guess I could talk about how Colby is gone yet again on another trip.

Or about how my dog, Jack, has a stomach bug that has resulted in a shocking amount of vomit and crap all over my house.

Or that it was over NINETY DEGREES in Charleston yesterday.  And I went for a run.  And it was terrible.

Or how we finally got around to watching Toy Story 3 last night, and it was JUST as amazing as everyone said it was.  And I cried JUST as much as everyone assured me I would.  Buckets.  Buckets of tears.

Or how I had an absolutely splendiferous time in Disney World with my sister and my parents, and all I can think about is going back in 2013 when they open up the Beast's castle, the Little Mermaid ride, and the Dumbo circus tents in a major Fantasyland expansion.

Or about how awesome ebooks are until you forget to charge them.  And then I hate them.  Batteries.  The sole reason robots will never take over the world.

Or maybe I can just fill in some plot holes on the blog, and talk about that other stuff some other time.

Remember when we had a deep, meaningful discussion about whether I should keep my hair brown, or go blonde again?  Well, the internet pretty overwhelmingly agreed that I should keep the brown hair.  And so, I went blonde.  I know!!  Why do I even ask your opinion if I'm not even going to LISTEN!?  Such a brat.  But, I couldn't help it, my inner Barbie refused to be repressed any longer.  And now I know that when next I feel the strong desire to just buy a box of $8 hair dye and be done with it, the brown hair is clearly a winner in your books.

As for the great dress debate, I was able to have my cake and eat it too.  Lynn found a size 2 of the Tuillieres dress at her local Anthro, and kindly purchased it and sent it my way.  It still will require some alterations, but it's waiting patiently in my closet for when that day arrives.  As for the Disney dress, I decided to go with the Verdant Slip Dress, also from Anthro, and could not have been happier.  It's even more beautiful in person, and looked smashing with my glittery platform pumps that I gleefully dropped thirty bucks on at Target the day before I left for Florida.

Pictures, or it didn't happen.
We're such a well coordinated set.  Much more Disney to come next week.  Much, much more to come.

Run Fast For Your Children, All Your Sisters and Your Brothers

Ugh.  Running.

Yesterday, I got a text from my sister, who has been working her way through C25K, asking me if she would ever like running.  She was worried because she looks forward to running and loves how she feels after, but she hates how she feels while she's running.

I had to take a beat to think about how to respond.  I mean, I don't want to be the one to discourage a burgeoning runner, and one who is much more naturally suited to running than I am.  Surely it is possible that some day she will wake up, and suddenly realize that she wants to run across the country a la Forrest Gump.  But I?  I hate running.  I hate running before, during and after.  There is no part of running that I enjoy.

So why on earth do I keep returning to it year after year?  Sure, it is a great cardio workout and one of the best ways to keep my thunder thighs under some semblance of control.  But I could also just go for a long walk and probably reap the same benefits.  So honestly, I don't have an answer.  Maybe I just like the torture?  That I do see slight improvements from run to run and I have become addicted to the need to run faster, run longer.

After I ran the 10K at the beginning of April, I took a couple of weeks off from running.  There was absolutely no cell in my body that had any desire or urge to get back out there and pound the pavement. So, when I finally tied on my running shoes, it was rough going.  There were about 20 other reasons my first few runs out sucked, namely the change from 60 degrees to 80 degrees and a million percent humidity.

But I pushed through, and I've been focusing a little more on getting faster than endurance.  I still want to be able to run 3 or 4 miles, but eventually I'd like to be able to do it at a 10 minute mile pace than a 12.  Over the past few weeks, I've gotten my mile down to between 11:00 and 11:30 depending on how long I'm running.  But last night, I decided I'd go all out for my first mile and shocked myself by running it at 9:30.  I haven't seen those numbers on my watch since college--and even then it was a one off when I was at field training and running ALL THE TIME.

Of course, after that first mile, I took it down to my normal 11-11:30 pace for the next three, but wow, I felt so great about myself for what I've accomplished with my running this year.  I'll surely never be winning any races or entering the Olympic trials, but every time I improve I feel like I've won.  And I guess that's why I keep running.  Not because it feels good physically, or because I enjoy it in any way, but because when it comes right down to it, I love the feeling of overcoming something that has always seemed so impossible.

It's Like Thunder, Lightning

We haven't gotten much rain over the past couple of months, but last night and early this morning the skies over Charleston set out to make up for the deficit.  Colby is living on base this week, so I spent the evening with him, then drove home around midnight, happy to see that the streets were wet and we'd obviously gotten at least an inch or so of rain.

I got home, fed my starving dogs, then fell asleep within minutes.  Just a few hours later, I was awakened by a lightning strike that lit up my whole bedroom and a loud crack of thunder.  I rolled over in bed, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two big brown eyes in a terrified face belonging to a certain yellow puppy dog who lives in my house and is NOT allowed upstairs.  With her short hair, the tags on her collar generally give her away when she is nearby, but her fear of thunderstorms seems to give her the ability to slink up a flight of stairs and right up to my sleeping face without making a peep.

I knew I couldn't let her stay upstairs, but I felt awful about sending her back down knowing that she was scared out of her wits, so I hauled myself out of bed, and planted myself downstairs, collecting Jack who was bouncing off the walls with a lightning and thunder induced mania.  We settled ourselves on the floor, Ellie in my lap and Jack laying next to me and intermittently making a barking and bounding circuit of the room.

I've always liked the nice rumbly thunderstorms that the South is so adept at producing, but this storm was a whole other animal.  The house was shaking with each crack of thunder, and my living room felt like a discotheque with the lightning providing the strobe light effect.  But then, without any warning there was a crack of thunder that I swear split the sky in half, and I was immediately thrust back in time, the memory of the cruise ship mishap sweeping over me.  I felt like the room was listing back and forth, and the thunder that continued to rumble sounded exactly like the waves crashing against the side of the ship and up over our porthole.

It probably only lasted for a few seconds, but my heart was pounding, and I just hung onto Ellie and kept whispering "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay".  It was seriously one of the weirdest feelings I have ever had.  I knew I was sitting on the floor in my house in South Carolina, but my brain felt exactly like it was back in the middle of a massive Mediterranean storm.

After about an hour, the worst of the storm passed, and I made sure the dogs were relaxed and in their beds before I headed back upstairs and back to sleep.  This morning the skies are still grey and I'm sure the grass is very happy.  I was able to sleep just fine, but had to have a grim little laugh this morning.  Of course, only I would go on a romantic Mediterranean cruise and come back with a case of post-traumatic stress disorder.  Angela, this is your life.

I Curse You Jeggings!

Oh dear.  A dreadful thing happened this weekend.

First, a bit of background.  Last summer, Lands End Canvas was selling a delightful pair of shorts with cheery white sailboats on a field of orange or navy blue.  Being that I'm a fun-loving gal, I decided to live on the wild side and go with the orange shorts.  Sadly, when they arrived, they were a size too large and had already sold out in the size smaller.  Loving the orange, but knowing I probably wouldn't get around to having them altered any time soon, I went ahead and ordered a blue pair in the smaller size, and happily wore them the rest of the summer.

Then winter came, and with its cooler temperatures, my torrid love affair with jeggings began.  I always swore that leggings and jeans were the most heinous combination imaginable.  But then I discovered a style at Old Navy that came complete with a button and zip fly, and a fabric bordering much more closely on denim territory than 1980s workout video spandex.  And so, I bought a pair in every color, and spent the wintry months ensconced in their stretchy embrace.

The season passed, and suddenly with little to no warning, the lowcountry was thrust unceremoniously into the grips of a steamy summer.  The heat is a welcome respite to this Southern girl, but with those balmy 80-90 degree days, I had to bid a heartwrenching farewell to my much beloved jegging and boot uniform of the winter.

This past weekend brought with it the perfect opportunity to break out my dapper little blue sailboat-bedecked shorts, as we were off to a Greek Fest, and I felt that my small salute to their national colors and boating influenced culture would be much appreciated.  So I dug through my drawer, slipped the shorts up above my knees, squeezed them past my thighs, and then... that's when it happened.  My very own Battle of One Very Specific Bulge.  Still, I persevered, and managed to shoehorn myself into the shorts and fasten the button.

I looked in the mirror, heady with the victory over winter and spring's many culinary delights, and was horrified not to find a slim 20-something winking back at me from that pane of torments, but instead my head and torso atop two sailboat encased sausages.

"But HOW can this BE!!!!" I cried, as I gnashed my teeth, rended my garments, and clawed at the button to release myself from this nautical prison.  Had I not worn the very same jeggings all the season long?  How could physics so fail me that I could go from feeling like a svelte Anthropologie model ready for a day of cultural experiences, to a mockery of a Cathy comic?  And that's when I realized how jeggings have taken their power and wielded it in the most dastardly of manners.  Using their 99% spandex 1% cotton composition to lure one into a false sense of body image security, then leaving us to our own devices once the less forgiving fabrics of our wardrobe come back to haunt us in the midst of the most skin-baring season of the year.

And so, I furiously jammed my little blue sailboats back into the drawer, and with great mortification, retrieved the orange pair from the bottom of the alterations bag, where they had patiently waited all year for me to come crawling back, greeting me with the distinct whiff of smug triumph as they slid easily over my own personal Ardennes.

I managed to drown my sorrows in a delicious gyro swimming in feta and tzaziki as well as a decadent baklava sundae, but today I'm turning over a new leaf... again.  I've retrieved my discarded Dukan diet book from it's hiding place where I cast it off while riding the high of a successful first week and careened into a week of dinners out and Goldfish crackers.  I'm determined to fit back into those damned shorts if it's the last thing I do--before returning to the seductive lure of the jeggings come Fall. Until then, I always did think orange might just be my color.

One of the Good Ones

It is so easy to take our loved ones for granted.  In particular, the ones that live side by side with us every day.  Husbands.  Mothers.  Fathers.  Children.  They're always there--dropping dirty clothes on the floor by the hamper.  Leaving dirty dishes in the sink.  You see them with bed head, unbrushed teeth, pajama pants suitable for a flood.  You lose your temper over silly things, pick fights when you're feeling emotional, turn a cold shoulder in the face of an apology.  They see you when you're sick, vulnerable, imperfect.

And then the dirty laundry is washed, folded and put away, and the floors around the hamper are bare.  The dirty dishes piled up in the sink are all your own.  You brush your hair, put on a pretty dress, and go out, then come home to pajamas and an empty house.  You lose your temper, and there's no one there but yourself.  No one else to listen, to bear the brunt of your emotions when it's impossible to keep them inside.

Those are the times you realize how lucky you are.  How rare it is to find a person who will love you despite the dirty laundry.  Despite the stupid arguments, the neediness when you're sick, the flannel pajamas, the rumpled hair.  Or maybe because of the arguments, the neediness, the pajamas, and the hair.  That being there through all of those moments is so much more important than being there when the clothes are perfect, the evening fun or romantic, the conversation scintillating.  How important it is to have someone who knows when you need to be left alone, and when you need to be held.Or knows when you just need to hear, I hope you're feeling better.  I'll be home to take care of you tomorrow.  I love you.

Shingles: Not Just For Roofing

Something about this time of year, brings out the crazy afflictions to torment my body with glee.  Last year it was the scabies/bed bug/poisonous hydrangea assault, this year it's an even more exciting failure on the part of my immune system.

A little over a week ago, I developed an insanely itchy spot on my back, right around the area where my sports bra sits.  My first thought was, oh no, not the hydrangeas again...  But there was no visible rash, so that didn't seem right.  The next suspect was my new deep conditioner which contains macadamia nut oil.  When I was a child I had a horrible hivey reaction to macadamia nuts and couldn't eat them for years.  But then I thought I'd grown out of it, and have eaten numerous macadamia nuts since then--most of them covered in copious amounts of chocolate.

Even though it seemed like a stretch, I cut the conditioner out of my life for a couple of days.  And then the rash appeared.  Next thought--could it be my laundry detergent?  But that's stupid--I haven't changed my detergent in months, and this is just another in a long line of "free and clear" detergents that I have to buy because of my sensitive princess skin.

So, by Saturday night, when a second rash had broken out just above the original rash, I was stumped.  It was then that I turned to Dr. Google.  I typed in my symptoms, raised red bumps, itchy, slightly painful to the touch.  There were a number of potential causes, but the one that stuck out to me most and turned up the most returns?  Shingles.

The first person I remember having shingles, was my grandmother.  I remember my parents saying that it was kind of like chickenpox, and it generally crops up mainly in older people.  Then, when my mom was going through chemo and radiation for breast cancer, her immune system was depressed, and she got a very severe case that actually included her eye, which still has some slight nerve damage five years later.  I've also had a couple of younger friends get shingles, for causes unknown to them, racking it up to "maybe stress?".

So, I posted a message on facebook: "I just Google diagnosed myself with shingles. Quick, someone tell me I'm insane and that's totally not it!"  Initially people tended to follow my instructions and told me it was probably nothing.  Then, when I posted my symptoms, the tide turned and by later that night and Sunday morning most people were telling me "hie thee to the doctor before this gets exponentially worse!"

Initially, I resisted since the base clinic was closed and the last thing I wanted was to spend all day in the emergency room. But by then the pain had become more intense, and painful swollen lymph nodes had risen just behind my armpit on my back.  Fortunately, a friend told me that there was a nurse referral line I could call, and after I spent a few minutes talking to the nurse, she agreed it was probably shingles and got me a referral to a walk-in clinic just down the road.

About an hour later, I had my diagnosis confirmed, and was at the pharmacy, waiting to pick up my antiviral and the pill for the nerve pain.  I've been taking the medicine for a couple of days now, and the rash has gotten a bit worse and definitely more painful since Sunday, but I'm hoping I've reached the turning point and it will start getting better now.  I'm pretty sure I have a fairly low-grade case, but saying that, I can't imagine a severe case.

Because the rash is on my back, it's uncomfortable to sit back against chairs--even fluffy pillows--or lie on my back.  And even when I'm not putting pressure on it, the feeling alternates between intense itchiness and stabbing pain--like someone is standing behind me, pricking me with multiple needles at once, over and over again.  And wearing a bra is tantamount to strapping myself into the Iron Maiden.  I'm also utterly exhausted--I think a combination of the virus and the pain medicine.  Afternoon naps are a necessity, and I'm still able to sleep like a baby through the night (as long as I don't roll over onto my back).

So, anyway, that's been my excitement for the week.  That and talking to Colby and knowing that he's a-okay and will be home soon.  Now I'm going to make my diseased body a cup of tea, enjoy some quality time with Regis and Kelly, and likely fall asleep about 30 minutes after I take my drugs.  I'll also be checking the mail for my doctoral degree in Internet Diagnosing.  I'm becoming a real pro at that.

Osama: This Military Wife's Perspective

You can't go to a news site, a social media site, turn on the television or look at a newspaper without seeing the words:

Osama Bin Laden is dead.

Last night, Twitter exploded with the news long before President Obama came onto our televisions to share his eloquent words with us about the closing of this chapter.  Facebook followed not long after Twitter.  It was an eye-opening experience, one that laid political prejudices bare, ripped scabs off of old wounds.  A combination of frenetic joy and rejoicing, and a sickening sense of fear and foreboding for what still lies ahead.

*****

A discussion of Bin Laden's death can't be held without a discussion of 9/11.  I was a sophomore in college.  I had slept through my first class and raced to my Biology lecture so that I wouldn't be late for my nine-thirty class.  I ran into a friend outside the door, her face white, eyes large.  "There's been an attack, I don't know what's going on, military bases have gone to THREATCON Delta."  She was prior enlisted and we were both enrolled in Air Force ROTC together.  We went to class and sat through the lecture on pins and needles.

As soon as class was over, I raced to the student Union, the words buzzing around me the whole way.  I didn't go back to my room, even though it was closer.  Somehow, I knew that at that moment, I couldn't be alone.  This was before I had a cell phone.  Email was something I checked maybe once a day.  I felt scared and alone--I needed to surround myself with people, even if they were strangers.  Once in the Union, I made my way to the theater, where they had the screen set to CNN.  As I walked in, they were reshowing it.  A plane, hurtling into the side of the building.  A tower folding in on itself.  Papers flying out of windows... no, people.  After that, all I remember is sinking into the nearest chair, sobbing in the darkness, surrounded by the sound of grief and fear.

*****

Ten years later, the mastermind behind these attacks is dead.  It is strange that I do not find myself jumping up and down with joy.  I have a sense of relief that this small chapter has closed.  This mass murderer met his end, and he will no longer be able to shape minds and lead men.  But there are others.  There are so many others.  It is frightening to think about how many other extremists are still out there, and what their potential reactions to this news will be.

Our troops are still there.  This news does not mean that today they are packing their bags and booking their plane ride home.  I am so proud of what we have managed to accomplish as a nation and as someone who is still connected to the military by numerous threads.  But I cannot help but wonder what this means for our men and women who serve.  I question what our way forward is.  I worry about retaliation.  I worry about what this means for relations with Pakistan.  I fear that rather than shortening our time in this war, it has only tangled us up in it further.

And as proud as I am of our country, I was disgusted by many of the things I saw come across my computer screen last night.  I try to remind myself how emotional last night was for many people.  That with the advent of social media, many people publish words without much forethought or introspection into what they are saying.  What their words mean.  

Ten years ago, news like this brought us together, united us as a nation as we waited to hear what our President would say.  Last night, I felt that the fractures in our country only became more apparent as people made "jokes" about "Osama/Obama all the same!" referred to our "deadbeat President" who was "taking all the credit for Osama's death".  Excitement about the war being over, now that Osama is dead, it has all been worth it.

I wish I could feel that way.  Thousands of people died on 9/11.  Since then over 1,000 US troops have died in Afghanistan, close to 9,000 Afghan civilians, another 1,000 in coalition troops, journalists and contractors.  More than 4,000 US troops killed in Iraq, 864,000 Iraqi civilians, and close to 1,500 coalition troops, journalists and contractors.  At the most conservative counts, not including Iraqi and Afghan soldiers, close to a million people have lost their lives in this endless war. [Numbers as of August 2010, source]

Now Osama Bin Laden is dead.  To me, his death cannot make such a staggering number of deaths worth it.  I feel that had he lived or died, these people gave their lives in service and the gratitude that we give them as a nation, might in some way make it worth it.  But is death ever worth it?  And worth what?  Where do you draw the line in justifying deaths.

This is becoming more political than I intended.  I worry for my husband who is overseas, thank God, not in Afghanistan right now.  I want to hear his voice, just to know that he is still out there somewhere.  I worry for the future of our nation and for our troops.  I give my most fervent support and gratitude to the men and women who are responsible for the demise of one of the world's most reviled men.  As someone on Twitter said, "our Hitler".

"We will be relentless in defense of our citizens and our friends and allies. We will be true to the values that make us who we are. And on nights like this one, we can say to those families who have lost loved ones to al Qaeda’s terror: Justice has been done." President Obama, May 1 2011

"The fight against terror goes on, but tonight America has sent an unmistakable message:  No matter how long it takes, justice will be done." Former President George W. Bush, written statement, May 1 2011