End of the run

Emotionally, I'm still on a high. Physically, my body is killing me.

Saturday night was the final performance of Annie and the last nine weeks have been absolutely fantastic. The cast and crew of the show worked so well together. While I've never questioned my decision to move back to Albert Lea, being a part of this production just kept reinforcing it.

I was so flattered by the number of family and friends who came to see me. And the rumor that my apartment currently resembles a florist shop is mostly true. One of the kids asked me why I got so many bouquets of flowers. I wanted to say, "When it's your first time back on stage after a 24-year absence, you'll get flowers, too." But I realized an 11-year-old wouldn't understand that. So, I just kept it simple, "I have great people in my life."

Naturally when you do Annie, half of the cast is made up of kids. Being a non-procreator, it was an adjustment for me. I love kids, but I also find that herds of young'uns tend to be unruly. And, at times, I felt like I was channeling my character more than I normally would when trying to keep order. (As if that was possible) But it was also a chance for me to get to know a great group of kids who have a passion for music and theater. I'm looking forward to watching them grow up. It took me a four weeks to figure out their real names, but I will remember them for a very long time.

During the three dress rehearsals leading up to final dress, I think I called "line," at least one time each. (Calling 'line' at rehearsal means that someone will prompt you with your line) It stressed me out thinking that I might be on stage during a performance and forget a line.

But I didn't. And let me be clear, I didn't forget a line. I did, however, forget a prop. During performance #2, in the very first scene, my character is supposed to pull a flask out and take a swig, at which point, Molly (one of the orphans) looks inquisitively at me. As I reached into my pocket, I realized that I had left the flask off stage. I kept calm while looking into this child's face, who was waiting for me to do my thing. A thousand thoughts crossed my mind and I just decided I would skip it and move on to the next line. The other girls had looks on their faces like, "what the heck??"

Fast forward one week to the same scene. I never forgot the flask again - I gave the girls permission to check me every night - but I got distracted on stage. The front row of seats is very, very close to the stage. And most nights, I would know someone in the front row, but it's never bothered me. Until that night. As I stood on the edge of the stage taking the (pretend) swig from the flask, I was suddenly looking eye-to-eye was my friend Jill and her family. It completely threw me and I started to move to the next line before finishing the first one. I back-tracked and finished it, but not exactly the way that it was supposed to be.

I love theater and musicals in particular, but doing community theater gives its participants an amazing opportunity to create lifelong friendships and to contribute to the community's quality of life.

Inquiring minds want to know

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Since I started teleworking in March, and especially after my move to Albert Lea three rent checks ago, I’ve been asked a lot of questions about telework. Primarily, if I like it and "isn’t it lonely?".

My answer to the former is I love it – I have three days a week when I don’t have to worry about what I’m going to wear, I don’t have to put on make-up or fix my hair (unless there’s a video call). I can work wearing sweats and t-shirt and all of my meetings take place at my desk, so I’m never late.

I do tend to laugh when they ask if it’s lonely. “Well, you live alone. Don’t you feel isolated?” 

Sorry, no, I actually kinda like it. I know people think because I’m outgoing and social and all that that I crave being physically around others. Honestly, not so much. Oh, sure, people are mostly okay, but a few of them can get annoying (and they know who they are).

When I was a little kid, my mom would put me in my playpen alone and I kept myself entertained for hours. The playpen was next to a big picture window and when it was dark outside, the legend goes, I would start to play with the cutest little girl in the window (early onset of narcissism) 

Then there’s my track record as a roommate. While no one has told me directly, I know I suck at it. And you can't ask any of my former roommates because none have kept in touch.

Except my sisters - they have to keep in touch with me. My sister Sue, who was my roommate for the first 12 years of my life, would tell you that I was a bit of a slob and that she refused to make my side of the bed. ('I’m getting back in there later, why make the bed?') My sister Chris was my roomie for a few months in late 2004 and she would just tell you that I was never home.

Isolated? Maybe when I lived in Rochester because I didn’t know as many people to socialize with after spending the day teleworking, but Albert Lea is the exact opposite. (Thank you Circle of Friends!)

Sadly, this week has not been a good telework week. Mostly because I haven’t been able to telework! I’ve had to go into the office FOUR DAYS IN ROW. I’ve been working on a video project and it’s tough to shoot video when you’re not physically there. 

You can’t imagine how exhausting this has been. I’ve had to figure out what to wear each day and I think I’m almost out of outfits. And don't forget having to do my hair and make-up. My cohort who has been on camera has the advantage of getting to wear the same outfit three days in a row for continuity. Lucky duck.

Going home

I'm ready to challenge Thomas Wolfe and prove him wrong. "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood." Just watch me.

Back in March, I wrote a post about the six week telework pilot that allowed me to work from home half time. It's been a great experience and while I haven't yet met with my boss to confirm that we're going to continue this arrangement, she also hasn't given me any sign that this experiment didn't work.

At the end of that blog post, I mentioned that the ability to telework half time would allow me to live anywhere I want. As the month of April started, I received a letter from the landlord that told me that the rent was going up and I had to let them know by May 1st if I was renewing my lease for another year.

Time to make a decision.

Time to stop telling friends that I'm thinking about it and take the step forward. I haven't been thinking about this in a vacuum; I've heard opinions from lots of different people.

I know there are some, possibly related to me, that may think it's slightly nuts of me to do this.  (and they wouldn't use the term 'slightly' to describe how nuts they think I am) I listened to my brother-in-law Paul and his thoughts about making the move. The practicality of winter driving and the fact that my car is nearing the end of the forcibly extended life and that I was going to need something dependable sooner rather than later.

There was  an article in the March 2013 issue of Real Simple magazine entitled "back where I belong" by Rod Dreher, that brought home the decision I had ahead of me.

The author shares the story of how he ended up moving from big town Philadelphia back to his hometown after being away for years. The sad twist to the story is that he only realized the value of small town life when his sister, who had always lived in their hometown, passed away from cancer. He saw, during the months leading up to her death, how the community showered love and compassion on her.

But, it was the conversation with my friend Jessie that helped me get right with myself for this decision and realize it's a no-brainer. Jessie and I don't get to see each other a lot, but when we do, we often act as sounding boards to each other.  We met Sunday night at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis for dinner and a play.

Her one simple question, "what is your circle of friends like in Rochester," showed the reality of my life. Socially, besides my family here, it's very limited. I have friends here, but not 'hanging-out-friends.'

"And," she continued, "it's not like your family is going to stop inviting you to hang out if you move to Albert Lea." I hope not, Sunday dinners at the Knutson's is one of my favorite parts of the week. Being closer to family here in Rochester than I have in the past 20 years has been outstanding. It's the best part of living here.

Then Jessie followed up with, "what is your circle of friends like in Albert Lea?" I smiled, then smirked. When thinking of my Albert Lea friends, the phrase 'circle of friends' is usually capitalized to "Circle of Friends." In the 22+ years since I've been gone, those friendships have remained strong and have even grown.

Way back in 1988, Jessie and I met and became friends in Albert Lea during a community theater production of "Anything Goes."  When I mentioned to her how I knew it wouldn't be long before I was back at the theater and singing at church, she smiled and said, "you're going back to Albert Lea. It's a no-brainer."

"I'm going back to Albert Lea," I said calmly. Then it became, "Oh my God, I'm moving back to Albert Lea."

But I'm not thinking of it as moving to Albert Lea as much I think of it as I'm going home.

Don't bother unpacking that box

My current apartment lease ends this summer and all the signs are pointing to me moving. Where? Don't know yet, but the current landlords have been dropping hints that they might be going in a different direction soon. (I think back in the 1980s it was called "going condo.")

The complex I live in is comprised of five buildings and some of the units are owned by individuals and the rest are rented as apartments. It was built as condos, but the market tanked about the same time and only a few were actually sold. So instead, the unsold units were handed over to a property management company to be rented. 

This past November, I found a notice attached to my door from DJ Properties, the group that owns the building (not quite as dramatically done as Martin Luther, but effective nevertheless). The flyer was an offer to current residents to buy their apartment via contract for deed. It didn't provide much details as to terms or interest rates, but I didn't care because I'm not interested in buying my apartment. Too small, no dining room and not enough storage. 

The rent is near the top end of my budget and I'd like to build up some savings for a down payment, so I can rejoin the wacky world of home ownership. It's a couple of years off, but if I don't save money, it could be much further off (or never).

If the November notice made me a tad bit suspicious, the last two days have sealed the deal. Yesterday, another flyer appeared on the door with news of a photo contest. All you have to do is send in the best picture of your apartment to the property manager and you could win $100. While it's optional, if you do submit photos, the photos MAY be used for marketing purposes. (I guess marketing could mean the same thing as listing.)

Today, another flyer was stuck on the door advising residents that a "representative of the owner will be in town on February 19 and would like to inspect all rental units." And, it bluntly states, please make sure your condo is clean. Seriously? Has my landlord morphed into my mother? 

The whole thing reminds me of medieval times when the landlords terrorized the serfs who worked their lands. Granted, my vision of medieval times have been severely warped by Monty Python and The Life of Brian, but still applies.

All this means that I have another adventure to look forward to and another opportunity to learn how to back-up a trailer. Which is why my lease end date is so generic as I don't want to give advance notice to my relatives that they "get" to help me move again. It'll be a special move - Number 25 since I graduated from high school in 1979. (Special award to my sister Sue, who has participated in at least 1/2 of the moves - Way to go!)  

If I die

Painting of the old hospital

Merry Christmas, y'all!  Not exactly the opening line you would expect with the title of this post, eh? But don't bail on me. Have some patience.

During the three work days following Christmas this year, I am working remotely virtually way-off-campus.

Generally, I spend this time in Albert Lea because my bestest friend is in town from Atlanta. But I'm a bit low on PTO, so I figured I would work during the day and hang with her and her family in the evening.  And to save the planet (and my budget), I asked permission to work from Albert Lea.

As fate would have it, Mayo Clinic Health System in Albert Lea has the Mayo employee wifi, so instead of the endless frustration of trying to work on a VPN connection, I am taking advantage of the hospitality of the MCHS Public Affair staff and working from their offices.

The offices are located in the old Naeve Hospital building, a historically significant site as it is my birthplace. I was a patient here once when I was about 3 or 4, but other than that, I really don't have any memories of this place. The new hospital was built when I was a teen and even that hospital has changed substantially.

I remember hearing that most people die within 100 miles of where they were born. Maybe that's no longer true, but I've been thinking about it as I'm working here today. If I were to die here at the office (which would be a bummer), I would be dying, most likely, within 100 FEET of where I was born.

I know, I know, I'm a geek for thinking of stuff like that, but I gotta be me.

Crushed Fantasy

I have been using anti-aging creams since I was in college. They didn't work. I still aged. Albeit with softer skin, but I still turned 50 ... um ... 52.

Getting older is the best thing because if you're not getting older you're either dead or a vampire, which I guess, technically, is dead, too, but they have better housing options.

If you look closely at my hair, you'll find a few gray ones popping out occasionally. Depends on how long it has been since my last trip to the hair color aisle at Target. I've had brief thoughts of just letting the gray come out and not fussing about it, just to see how gray I would get. Did I mention they were brief?

I'll admit that I smile whenever a high school classmate tells me how I look the same as I did when we were in high school (sans the Farrah hair). When a classmate doesn't recognize me, I usually write it off to their poor memory.

This week, I've had to give up my non-aging fantasy as the one, hard truth of aging was staring me in the face. Specifically, they were "on" my face.

I had to get my first pair of glasses with bifocals. In the spirit of full disclosure, I could have had bifocals for the last ten years, but I found ways to cheat. Regrettably, my ability to cheat finally came to an end as I determined wearing two pairs of glasses at the same time is just plain weird.

The new glasses have the progressive lenses, which isn't just one distance or the other. Different parts of the lens give you long, mid and close-up vision. It just take awhile to figure out where that part of the lens exists.

Until then, I will resemble a bobblehead as I continually adjust the position of my head to find that visionary sweetspot.

Just like starting over

It's time to start over. And it's not New Year's or the first day of school or even the first day of the month. That's the beauty of starting over, you can really start from anywhere, at any time.

I really appreciated the support and the messages that I received from several people regarding last week's post. I always worry when I use my blog as therapy, but it is so much cheaper than paying a professional. (Not that there's anything wrong with that)

Last week was my week to begin again, again. I joined Weight Watchers last Tuesday and discovered that their new Points Plus program is very do-able. I love the fact that most fruits and vegetables are zero points. It's a great way to encourage people to eat more of the food that is good for them.

I also had my first meeting with my Wellness Coach at the Dan Abraham Healthy Living Center (DAHLC). It is a 12-week program that focuses on behavior modification and setting goals. I have a great coach in Jason and I think we'll have a successful partnership.

The Wellness Coaching program is free to DAHLC members who are willing to make the 12-week commitment and are ready to focus on taking care of themselves. The first session was 90 minutes and the remaining 11 are about an hour each. But there is homework (as there needs to be).

We talked about what I saw as my barriers to better health, and I think most people would be surprised to hear about one of them. My first barrier, as I see it, is my cluttered house. I'm sure my family members and close friends could give testimonials to my less than ideal housekeeping skills. Certain family members might even suggest that I'm pushing it to suggest that I have ANY housekeeping skills.

Nevertheless, goal #1 is to set up a weekly schedule of chores (Yep, I said chores - like for a 10-year-old). Three days a week, I will spend 45-60 minutes cleaning and picking up in a specific area (Living Room/Kitchen, Bedroom/Bathroom, Office/SewingRoom/Closet). I determined that the best time for me to do this work is in the morning before work instead of just watching the news. I spent 45 minutes this morning cleaning the living room and kitchen. It's not perfect, but it's a start.

Goal #2 is getting to the DAHLC twice a week to work-out between 30-45 minutes. Yesterday (Sunday), I made it to the DAHLC and spent 20 minutes on the ARC (a type of elliptical) and 15 minutes on an Expresso Bike. The Expresso Bike is a fun interactive stationary bike because you're biking your way through a video game, per se. The video screen in front of you shows "your path" (like biking in the mountains) and the bike adjusts for elevation and speed. I also liked it because you have to steer the bike or you might go off a cliff. I may try the recumbent one in the future because I do not have the tush for biking. My tailbone is very sensitive, just like the rest of me.

So, guess what? You're going to be hearing a lot about my journey over the next 12 weeks and possibly beyond.  Besides the Wellness Coaching, I've also signed up for a four-week class (that starts August 9) called, "Discover the DAHLC." Each week, we'll learn about the different fitness classes being offered at DAHLC. One negative, it starts at 5:45 AM.  Oh well, it's just one day a week for four weeks. I can do that. I'll complain about it and work it for all the sympathy I can get, but I'll do it.

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Hope I haven't worn out the shocks

Ever overhear a conversation between two friends talking about weight and feeling fat and wondering what to do? When it happens, is it tough not to want to go over to them and shake them to their senses? Tell them that they are intelligent women who know all the answers to losing weight and being healthy? Tell them that they just have to get off the couch and go work out? Doesn't it just drive you crazy to hear those conversations??

Doesn't make it worse when you realize that the voice of the person complaining is your own?

I've fallen into a self-loathing, body-hating phase as I've gained so much weight that I've started beating myself up emotionally. I'm not sure why I think that kicking myself in the butt is, in any way, motivating, but I'm still doing it. I need Cher to slap me across the face and tell me to "Snap out of it!" (but then all my gay friends would be jealous that I met Cher and they might slap me...)

The worst times for me are the mornings when I'm trying to figure out what to wear to work. How many different ways can I wear an outfit since my choices are limited by what size I am wearing that day?

So, I'm doing what I've done in the past, I'm jumping on the fitness bandwagon - a bandwagon that I have jumped on and off so much, I'm sure the shocks are worn out. And I haven't crossed Weight Watchers off my list of potential answers. They have all those fab eTools that fulfill my geeky side.

I participated in a 5K yesterday called The Color Run. It's a fun time and "run" is a misnomer. It was more of a brisk walk where you start off wearing white and end up with color all over you and sometimes in places you didn't think it could get. I did it with family - three of my nieces along with my sister and my cousin. Sadly, my training for the 5K consisted on a couple of times on the treadmill - certainly nothing close to the prep I did for my real 5K two years ago.

With my new found commitment, this Thursday I start a 12-week commitment to work with a wellness coach at the Dan Abraham Healthy Living Center (DAHLC). A wellness coach isn't a personal trainer who works out your body, but might be considered a personal trainer for your brain. We will focus on one area of wellness for that 12 weeks - stress or time management, weight management, nutrition, exercise, etc.

Perhaps the wellness coach can help me answer these questions: Since I know what it takes to lose weight, why do I always forget how to do it? Where is that sensible person when I'm driving to the Dairy Queen?

No flowers, please.

I think sending flowers for a funeral is a dumb idea. If you didn't send flowers when they were alive, why are you doing it now?  I can hear the skeptics saying, "But the flowers are for the living."

Really? You are sending something that will wither and die in a few days to someone who has just lost someone. Is that supposed to cheer them up?

I believe in our shallow parts, we think the number of bouquets of flowers that show up at the funeral home represents how important or beloved or connected our loved one was. Maybe we need that physical reminder because our grieving minds cannot hear the word of sympathy and love that are being spoken.

I'm not saying don't send something, but think about sending a plant instead. When my dad passed away 18 years ago (yesterday), several friends sent plants instead of flowers. Each of us kids took one or two home. When you walk through the front door of my sister Sue's house, you'll see a very healthy, 18-year-old spider plant hanging in the entry way. My plant was a peace plant that lasted about five years. (People with ADD are generally not good with plants or candles - tend to forget about them)

It's also important to remember that a $100 funeral bouquet in the big city (Minneapolis/St. Paul) turns into a very large funeral bouquet when ordered from a small town florist (Albert Lea). When my dad passed away in 1994, I was working for Fairview Health System in the Cities and my brother Dennis was working for SciMed (Now Boston Scientific). Both of our employers sent flowers for Dad's funeral in Albert Lea. You couldn't miss them at Bonnerup's (the funeral home), they were huge.

Now that I've convinced you that shouldn't send flowers when I die (I won't send flowers to your funeral if you won't send them to mine...), I just want to leave you with one more instruction. (at least for now, I'm not planning on dying anytime soon, so the list might expand) Please, please, please do not use my 1979 high school graduation picture for the obit. I don't want people to think I died with Farrah hair.

I would have preferred retail therapy

Mayo Clinic opened a new space at Mall of America last week that caused lots of buzz.  It's called "Create Your Mayo Clinic Health Experience" 

Last week, I sort had my own "Mayo Clinic Health Experience," except it involved surgery instead retail therapy.

Alas, I gained a patient's perspective last Monday (8/8) when I had my gallbladder removed laproscopicly laposcropicaly thru little incisions. Perhaps because of my job at Mayo Clinic, I looked at everything differently. And hopefully, I wasn't too annoying for the staff asking them lots of questions.

It was obvious that the surgical team did not receive my list of likes and dislikes and scheduled my surgical call time for 5:45 AM. Did I mention that I am not a morning person? Even worse for my sister who was coming with me since she lives out in Mantorville and had to come and pick me up.

My surgery was at Saint Marys (SMH), which sort of surprised me, and others, since I thought most day surgeries are done out of Methodist or Gonda. Unfortunately, being at SMH would come in handy later.

The admissions lobby actually has que lines for checking in that have your check-in time on the stanchion - 5:30, 5:45, 6:00. Don't know if they change them later in the day. They pointed us over to the waiting area to be called and we hadn't even been there for a minute, when my name was called.

We went up to Joseph 1. (if you don't know SMH, it has various wings named for Saints or Nuns) I think it was a former patient floor instead of a pre-op area. Just felt like an old hospital wing. (Not that that's a bad thing)

I was given a hospital gown and robe to put on. Not bothering to read the directions, I put the gown with the opening in the front not the back. I figured the surgery was on the front part and having it open in the back didn't make sense. The nurse, of course, informed me that I would need to turn it around.

I hopped into the wheelchair and she took me through a maze of hallways to the real pre-operative center. All pre-operative areas I had been in before were private little cubicles. This one reminded me of a large service station. There were spaces for about 20 people to get prepped for surgery (IV, medications, conversations with surgical team, etc.) and each station had a metal cabinet thing, filled with devices, hanging from the ceiling. Seemed a bit Space Odyssey.

The nursing staff checked my vitals - the first of one million checks - and then they taped a small card to my gurney. OF COURSE, I had to see what was written on it. It was a check list of what has to happen before surgery. That way, other staff will know what had and hadn't been done without having to log-in to a computer. Smart.

During the 90 minute prep time, gurneys continued to be parked at the various stations and I began to say thanks for my health. I felt a bit like a lurker, even though I was a patient, too.

Best perk of pre-op area - free heated blankets. 

During the wait time, a gurney was rolled into the spot directly in front of me and one row over. Unlike others, this patient was young and her mom and dad were there with her. The mom was trying her best to remain calm, but you could see she had been crying. I concluded that the young girl was a special needs child and something like a surgery could be a bit confusing. When the surgical nurses came to her gurney, one nurse talked to her in the friendliest tone I'd ever heard - like they were best friends - while the other nurse talked with the parents. I was so impressed with that young nurse. She never talked with the parents - only focusing on the patient. I saw the nurse holding her hands and I felt like they connected.

The surgeon, that I had had my pre-surgical visit with weeks ago, had a last minute trip and wasn't going to be able to do my surgery. I was very impressed when Dr. Jenkins (the surgeon, not his assistant or secretary) called me on the prior Friday to personally explain the situation. He wanted to make sure I was okay with the change. He told me all about the surgeon who was replacing him. Dr. Jenkins' last-minute meeting concerned trauma care for our soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. Like I would argue with that!

My new surgeon was Dr. Rivera. I tried not to let the fact that she was so young I could have babysat her, bother me. She told me where my four incisions would be and that the largest one (5cm) would be in my belly button and "hardly noticeable." She told me that since she's woman too, she understood the need to keep looking good. Sweet, but not really something I was worried about. 

When I was eventually rolled into one of Saint Marys bazillion surgical suites, I was greeted by the anesthesiologist and was introduced to the rest of the team. I remember moving from the gurney to  surgical table and that's about it. The next thing I remember, I was in the recovery room. Really out of it, but got asked the magical question for the first time during this visit, "On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being unbearable pain, how would you rate your pain?"

I hate that question.

What if the worst pain I ever had up to that point was paper cut? I realize what and why they have to ask it, but it's all relative. I could have been a smart-ass and started to have philosophical conversation about it, but I think the drugs stifled that.

They took me back to my day-surgery room at about noon for the transition time before you get to go home. There was my sister waiting for me.

When you have surgery, you don't get to leave until your pain is below 6, you can walk around and you can pee. I only managed the first two.

For the next 6 hours, I drank as much water as I could and nothing. Nada. That's when they called for a visit from urology and to get me a bed for the night. UGH! The tech from urology did an ultrasound of my bladder to see how much I was holding in. She said about 600cc (or was ml?). I guess we have a rain gauge on our bladders. This was not good news. Can you say catheter?

I was moved up to Joseph 2 where Flavio helped get me into bed. (My sister Sue is still hanging in there with me.) All of a sudden there were about four more nurses in my room with looks of astonishment on their faces. I guess they didn't know I was coming to join them and they didn't believe Flavio when he told them I was in the room. Flavio must be a joker or something. 

It was about 6 o'clock and I was hungry - hadn't had any food since the day before. I didn't have any diet restrictions, so they handed me the room service menu.

No, you read that right. The "Room Service" menu. Patients can order their meals at any time between 7 am and 7 pm and choose what they want. I knew I couldn't eat much, but I ordered a sweet potato, 1/2 chicken breast and some orange jello. (I figured I couldn't get that real hospital experience without jello)

I told Sue to go home at about 7. I would not be giving them what they want anytime soon.

Believe it or not, this was my first hospital stay. I was hospitalized when I was 3 or 4, but really have no memory of that.  (I do have a great story about that childhood stay that I'll share in future post) The care was awesome, but we need donors to cover the cost of decent mattresses. Could not get comfortable and I didn't sleep much over night.

I had visitors at 6 a.m. when the rounders stopped by to check me out. They also removed my band-aids over the four incisions. Dr. Rivera kept them all small like she promised.

A member of the surgical team stopped by about 11 a.m. to check on the status of my ability to pee. Sorry. "Just so you know," she explained, "insurance won't cover another night, so if you don't pee, we'll have to send you home and show you how to catheterize yourself."

Thanks for the pep talk!

After that motivating and uplifting conversation, I became very, very determined! About 1 p.m. -SUCCESS! I was so elated that I felt like a two-year old who had conquered potty training. I was finally discharged about 5 and sent home with my Oxy (pain drugs). And home for the next couple of days would be my sister's house (just like being back home). I slept for most of the time I was there.

I'm now seven days post-surgery and I'm a bit disappointed in myself. I had poo-poo'd those who told me that it takes about three to four weeks to feel normal again. The incisions are healing, but they itch like crazy. It's my energy level that I expected to have back up by now.  I had only planned on two weeks off from work.

The message from the office - take the time you need to get healthy. It's hard to admit that you might have been wrong. Especially me.

How to back up a trailer

There are skills, every day skills, that our parents have taught us to make sure that we are self-reliant adults when they finally send us out into the cruel, harsh world.  Some of these skills are universal such as how to change a tire, how to read a map, how to swim, how to sew a button and how to parallel park a car. 

www.nataliedee.com

One skills that I'm glad that my dad taught me was how to drive a standard transmission. It amazes me that more people don't know how to do that. My dad gave me one or two lessons and then handed me the keys to our 1970 Ford Maverick. It wasn't 'four on the floor,' but 'three on the tree.' By the time I had access to the car, my three older sibs had already driven it, so shifting really only required the use of two fingers to change gears.

This past month, I have found that I lack a skill that would be extremely helpful to have. And I've learned that many of my girlfriends also lack this skill. For some reason, I've never been taught how to back up a trailer. Granted, I never needed to know how to back up a trailer until this past month, but that's besides the point.  

This past month has been all about moving. Moving into my new place, moving stuff to storage and moving stuff out of my Saint Paul condo. My brother-in-law Paul has a nice sized trailer and was letting me use it.  And as long as I didn't have to back it up, it wasn't a problem. Except there were going to be times when I would have to back it up. 

The first day of moving into my new place, I had the trailer filled with boxes and stuff to be moved into the new locale. I was on my own that day and I was going to have to back up the trailer eventually.  I made arrangements with my nephew to stop by at a pre-arranged time to back it up.  About 30 minutes prior to his scheduled arrival, I sent him a text telling him that he wasn't needed, I was able to turn the trailer around. 

It's important to notice that I said I turned the trailer around and not that I backed it up. There's an open field next to my new place and instead of having to back it out, I could just turn the trailer around by driving through the field. 

This past Sunday, my sister Sue and I were going to be taking the final trip up to the Saint Paul condo to get move out a few remaining pieces of furniture. We wouldn't need the big trailer, we could use an old van from Paul's business. The night before, Paul asked Sue what we were moving and then reminded her that the van had shelves! We would have to use the trailer. Sue doesn't know how to back up a trailer either.

Big points to my brother-in-law; Sunday morning, he checked the Northern Tool + Equipment website and found a solution. (Kudos to Northern Tool + Equipment for being open by 9 a.m. on Sunday morning) He got a swivel wheel for the hitch and a trailer dolly.  Once we got to our location, we unhooked the empty trailer from the SUV and then hooked the dolly to the trailer and Sue and I (okay, mostly Sue because I was giving directions) were able to turn the trailer around, re-hook it up to the SUV and we no longer needed to have the skills to back-up the trailer. 

I still would like to learn how to do it, there's just no rush right now.  

I would also like to have a standard transmission in my next car. I miss that clutch!

Recycling Convert

I am a late bloomer baby boomer ... okay, not really, it just sounded fun to say.  

Start again ...

I am a baby boomer born on the cusp of Gen X . The recycling movement really came into being during my college years and I remember recycling aluminum cans and later newspapers. 

I'll be honest, I've never been a good recycler, mostly because recycling bins always took up too much space in my traditionally small apartment/condo. I would recycle cans and newspapers since it never seemed a hassle to organize and recycle them. 

The condo complex where I lived in Saint Paul made it pretty easy to recycle with several labeled bins alongside our garages, but I was still only doing the cans and newspapers until my niece Kelly lived me for a summer. Kelly is a Gen Y kid and recycling to her is an expectation and just a part of keeping a home. She got my recycling going that summer, but the habit didn't stick. 

In my defense, I do use those reusable shopping bags. I just always forget to bring them in when I go to the store. 

In the last 10 months, while living with my sister and her family, I caught the recycling bug because Dodge County, where they live, makes recycling as easy as falling off a log. You don't have to separate your recyclables; they let you mix them together! (thus less space) One of the cabinets in their kitchen island is set up to hold two recycling bins, so you just have to dump things in there. Eazy peezy. 

So, now I've moved into my new digs in swanky NW Rochester. It's a newer building and is managed by a reputable company here in Rochester (Paramark). So, I was more than a bit surprised when I inquired where the recycling area is, only to be told that there isn't one. I was so stunned that I asked the question a second time because I was SURE that the manager had just misunderstood my question.

I'm not sure what was more unexpected - that there isn't any recycling at an apartment complex or that I was disappointed in the fact that there isn't any recycling at my new home. 

For the last two weeks, a good part of my living room had been taken over by a growing stack of flattened cardboard boxes that I had planned to put in the complex's recycling area. I had also started putting my cans, newspapers and plastic bottles into bags for recycling. Here I was all ready to be responsible and I got shot down.

With a new, and highly unusual, determination, I used the Google to look up "recycling in Olmsted County Minnesota." I found a recycling center on the other side of town where you can bring your recycling, they just can't be mixed together.  Okay, I can live with that. 

So last night, I loaded up my car with that stack of cardboard and the bags of newspapers and cans, ready for my first of many trips to the recycling center.  This morning, before going to work, I drove across town and went through the recycling drive-thru, with its several, clearly-marked bins for the various materials. I unloaded my stuff and drove on to work feeling highly satisfied and a bit smug.

I've also started thinking about how I can set up sorting bins in my new place ... When did I become a tree hugger? 

Maybe I am a late-bloomer, baby boomer after all.

The 800-pound squirrel in the room

www.nataliedee.com

I'm in the midst of an adventure that I less-than-lovingly call The Never-Ending Move.  This past weekend, I was finally able to move into my new apartment in NW Rochester.  It has not been an easy move and it has certainly not been a very well organized move.

Since I started my job in Rochester and put my Saint Paul condo on the market last fall, my worldly goods have been scattered to various locations.  In this case, various locations means three locations - a storage unit in Albert Lea, my sister's place in Mantorville and the Saint Paul condo.

I wish I could say that there was a thoughtful and organized plan behind it all, but there wasn't.  I took whatever I thought I couldn't live without to my sister's; put whatever seemed to be clutter at the condo in storage and left the rest in Saint Paul.

Now it's time to bring everything back together and I can honestly tell you, I'm a mess. The condo is a mess and I have no idea where anything is right now.

Two weeks ago, I packed up a few things from the Saint Paul condo (enough to fill the PT Cruiser) and then last weekend, we grabbed several boxes and pieces of furniture from the storage unit and put them into a trailer. I spent many hours last week, organizing my belongings at my sisters and prepared for the move.

Saturday morning, I unloaded the trailer into my garage and started moving things into the new place.  Since I was on my own on Saturday, I would carry up a couple of boxes and then unpack them before I go back down for another load.

Sunday was designated for moving the furniture and belongings from my sister's place. Due to unfortunate circumstances, my sister Sue and my nephew Riley had to help me move. Riley and his baseball team were supposed to be playing in the state tournament, but didn't make the final cut, so instead Sue and Riley got to help me move. (I swear I did not pray for that to happen, but I was thankful for the help)

In about 90 minutes, we got all the boxes into the apartment and got the bed set up. After that I sent Sue and Riley on their way (to Flapdoddles).

That's when the 800 pound squirrel broke into my house.

There must have been 50 boxes scattered between the kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom and office (oh, and the closets). Logically, you would take a box, unpack it, put things away and move on to the next box.

Logically isn't an adverb used for most people with ADD, at least not in the face of mountains of boxes. Here's an example of how my "unpacking" went yesterday.

Unpacking a box with clothing, I decide to sort them into two piles: stuff I can wear and stuff I wish I could still wear (wink, wink).
     'Oh, I should put these into another tub to put back into storage...'

I realize there is empty tub in the bedroom and wander in there to get it. I spot a box with stuff for the bathroom and stop to pick it up and take it into the bathroom, where I unpack it.

Then I go back into the bedroom where I found the box and start to sort the socks before I put them into the dresser. As I'm doing that, I notice that I haven't found the pillows for my bed yet and go back out into the living room to find the pillows, only to notice that I never got the tub for the "non-fitting" clothes. 

At this rate, I might be unpacked by Labor Day.

A Voice

Last week, I watched a TED video that featured Roger Ebert, the legendary Chicago movie critic, with the title, "Remaking My Voice." Ebert lost his ability to talk when cancer (and the surgeries for cancer) destroyed his jaw. Ebert talks on the video through a Mac PowerBook that simulates a human voice. He also had his wife and two friends read his story because he finds the artificial voice annoying and figured we would, too. 

The beauty of TED talks is that they are never longer than 20 minutes. I'll give you warning here, you will get choked up toward the end. 

His story made me wonder if I could deal with not being able to talk. I think most people, at one point or another in their lives, wonder how they would deal with being deaf or blind. I don't think most of us have ever thought about what it would be like to lose your voice. 

Because I've always been comfortable with the written word than the spoken word, I think I would find a way to deal. I would have to depend on other people more than I do now - I wouldn't be able go through the drive-through by myself or answer a phone call. I'm sure I would use social media even more than I do right now. 

Then a few days later, I received news that my uncle had cancer and would be losing his voice box. Roger Ebert's story took on a whole different perspective to me. He will be having surgery April 25th at Mayo Clinic and although he barely talk now, he'll be able to say final words to those he loves most. I'm hoping that he can use some of the new technologies to augment his communications, but I'm hoping even more that this surgery will get all the cancer. 

Keeping my fingers crossed and saying my prayers.

Getting A New Driver's License Can Be Traumatic

 

 

I'm alive and I'm back to blogging. I haven't been sick, just crazy-busy. And frustrated with a computer not working right. It took the highly technical knowledge of the Geek Squad to get my home desktop fixed. The inside of the CPU was so dusty, that the system was over-heating and shutting down to protect itself.

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The State of Minnesota sent me an early birthday card two months ago, informing me that my driver's license would be expiring on my birthday. Normally, that wouldn't be a big deal. Normally is not a word that I would use to describe anything in my life these days.

When you go in to renew your driver's license, you have to provide them with your current address. Since I'm not actively residing in my St. Paul condo and having all my mail forwarded, I couldn't use the St. Paul address. But I really didn't want to use my sister's address since this is a temporary situation. So I kept putting it off. Not that I had any expectation that within a month I would be living somewhere else, but it was the "I-don't-want-to-think-about-it" way of dealing with decision making.

I had a short "Harry Potter" moment when I thought about listing my address as "bedroom in the basement, 16 Privet Lane, Mantorville."

Finally my birthday arrived and my license would be expired the next day. My niece, Casey, had told me how to find the license place in historical downtown Mantorville. So did I go and do it that day? Nope. I blew it off.

I figured I would do it later that week over lunch; since I work downtown Rochester, I could just walk over to the Government Center. So did I do that? Nope. Too busy and/or too lazy.

It was going on a week overdue and I was feeling the additional pressure that my license tags would also be expiring at the end of March.

I was saved by serendipity (not to be confused with dippity-do). As it happened, I had to go to Albert Lea (my hometown) to do videotape an interview for work. Since I had free time prior to the interview and I knew WHERE to go in Albert Lea (having renewed my license there many times), I would do during that trip.

Only they tore down the newer part of the old courthouse and built a newer newer section. So I had to wander around the building to find the license renewal division. Luckily, the county register is the same person as when I got my original driver's license, so I knew who to write the check out to. Yee Haw. 

So now I have my new drivers license with the appropriate lie about my weight and my Mantorville address. I'll get a new one as soon as I land in a more permanent place. I'm sure I won't be living in the bedroom in the basement forever. Although I might stick around for part of the summer to enjoy the pool in the back yard...It's a dip I will do. :)

A Look Back at 2010

Since I seemed to have started the year with a small pity party about how the year ended (yesterday's post), I don't want to negate the fact that 2010 rocked. 

If someone would have told me in January 2010 where I would be and what I would be doing in January 2011, I would have been very surprised.  Shocked.  Disbelieving. 

2010 was an awesome year!

I don't ignore the fact that 2010 was the year of my 50th birthday. I didn't just celebrate my birthday on one day. Oh no, March 2010 was the launch of Elizabeth 5.0!

This isn't my normal birthday apparrel, but the lovely birthday outfit that Hazelden Development requires of its staff to don on their birthday.  Although I wasn't working in Development at the time, I did have a meeting there that day.  My chin is up because the glasses won't stay on otherwise. 

I received so many bouquets of flowers on my birthday, that co-workers wondered if someone died. 

I celebrated the night of my birthday with my extended family (also known as the Burnsville-Minnesota Valley Figure Skating Club Board of Directors) at Axel's in Eagan.

The Saturday after my birthday was the surprise party that my friends (high school and the Circle of Friends gang) and my family threw for me in Albert Lea. My bestest friend Mary even flew up from Atlanta for the occasion.

That's high school friend Trish Stanley (a friend since junior high) and Circle of Friends buddy Paula Treiber (who, along with her hubby Carl, drove from Sioux Falls for the party) in the picture above. The party was held at Casa Dorman - the best party location in town! (Kudos to Mary Jo Dorman and Jill Peterson for keeping me occupied the day of the party - wine is always a good distraction!)

In May, I traveled with my sister and her family to Drake University for my niece's graduation from pharmacy school.  (People say she looks like me, but I think she's far prettier!)

Included on the trip to Drake was my great-nephew Drake (I kid you not!) 

And isn't he just the cutest little guy?  

On Father's Day, my inner jock, the one that has been fighting to get out for the last 49 years, ran a 5K race - my first! On some days I was training because I wanted to lose weight and on other days I was training because I wanted to prove that I could do it, even at age 50. 

The new home for the Minnesota Twins opened this spring and I was lucky enough to have a sister with the right connections and an extra ticket. And not just any ticket - a VIP ticket.  It was a fun experience to see the stadium perks that I'll never experience again.  Were the seats good? Fourth row behind home plate! 

No telephoto lens was used on the photo above.  After the game, since it was the Friday before July 4th, we got fireworks! 

We celebrated Drake's 1st birthday later that month. My niece Anne (Drake's mom) gave Drake his own cake to play around with. I took lots and lot of pictures of him that day - (Don't you love digital cameras?) 

I love making quilts and friends dare me to enter them in contests or county fairs. So in August, I did!  Strictly on a whim, I entered a quilt that I made for my bestest friend Mary. I told her that I didn't care what I got, just as long as it was on display for people to see.  I ended up getting a Champion ribbon (purple), but instead of hanging up, it was folded up in a display case.  On a bright note, all Champion level quiltmakers are entered into a drawing for a $100 gift certificate to the Calico Hutch in Hayward, Minnesota (if you haven't been there - it is one of the best quilt shops I've ever been in!) Guess what? I won!! 

Isn't this quilt too pretty to be folded up? 

2010 was also the year that I officially became a blogger.  And because of the blog, I have met some amazing people and learned so much from them! A group of bloggers, organized by Missy from "The Marketing Mama," got together in January and volunteered together at "Feed My Starving Children," an organization that puts together food packets for people around the world who are in need of nutrition. We learned alot from that.  

Then Molly from "The Snyder Five" blog involved many of the Minnesota Bloggers (yes, we've organized!) in a great rummage sale event to raise awareness and money for Hunger in America. It was a cold and rainy day, but we had customers and raised some money. 

Then my life totally changed in August when I accepted a position with Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. The fall was a blur of packing, painting, cleaning and moving. 

It was a pretty full year, wasn't it?

What's next?