Yep. Without my glasses or contacts I can’t see the numbers on a clock three feet away. I can’t see leaves on a tree. If a bald man other than Himself tried to cop a feel he’d probably get much further than appropriate before I commenced the requisite face-slapping.

So for the most part I don’t go more than a few steps from my bed without my glasses on, and my contact lenses are in as soon as I’m done toweling off.

But there is this brief no-man’s land of blindness – when I’m in the shower.

This creates a problem. Of a sort. It depends on how you look at it, I guess.

I can’t see when the shower is dirty.

And I don’t mean that I’m oblivious to a ring of soap scum. Although I would be.

I mean that things can grow in the shower that are the primordial versions of the next antibiotic resistant super-bug and I will be happily singing Mariah Carey tunes in utter obliviousness.

The fact that our shower is a really depressing mauve tile with dark grout makes the problem worse. If the tile were white, I would bet that at a certain point I would realize that there wasn’t meant to be a pattern before it reached out and grabbed me. But no such luck.

I have a loofah.

I bought the loofah because I was told that I needed to exfoliate before getting my spray tan in order to extend the life of the tan. (This was before Hawaii in the summer.) If this is true, then without the loofahing I would have been back to my pasty, white self before I even got in the car. I think the tan lasted about eleven glorious minutes.

So anyway. There’s a loofah. It’s been hanging innocently in the shower since the end of the summer.

And what I let happen to that poor loofah is just criminal. Wrong in deep, amoral ways.

Imagine, being an innocent piece of…of…sea sponge? Ocean whole grain? Anemone fiber?  What the hell is a loofah made out of? Starfish membrane??

Anyway…you’re an innocent piece of sea roughage and you’re just chilin’ in the personal beauty section at Target with the scrubby mitts and the lavender scented bath beads. And some pale, forty-something redhead snatches you off the shelf and purchases you along with a set of marked down storage bins and a copper throw pillow that matches nothing in the history of everything.

You perform your job one time…one time!…and then you hang on a hook in a shower.

For months.

And then the real horror starts. You see the mold creeping along the caulk. The mildew sneaks in in the night and hides behind the almost-empty-but-never-thrown-away bottle of conditioner that caused horrible waxy buildup.

You hope to be used. To be moved. To be rinsed out with hot water.

But no.

I can’t even tell the rest. It’s too wretched.

But this weekend, when I got chilly enough to want a shower in the middle of the day – with my contact lenses in – I saw it. I saw it all.

And it put Wes Craven to shame.

That poor loofah was a splotched, diseased mess. It was beyond life support. It was well on its way to Zombie-hood. It was only a few days away from needing an exorcism. A beheading. A staking? What is the preferred method for killing undead exfoliating tools? I’m unclear.

When I got out of the shower, I said a small prayer and disposed of the loofah. I commit its stiff body unto the earth in the trash can. Ashes to ashes, banana peel to banana peel and all that.

As for the rest of the shower, well, I know how to take care of that.

Never shower with my bloody contact lenses in again. That’s how.

My first inclination for decorating a living space is Bollywood-meets-Prescilla-Queen-of-the-Desert.

Then I realize that that will induce seizures and I come to my senses.

But when I can work it in – without the need for brain-wave-controlling drugs – it makes me happy.

The rainbow-bubbles on the blog, for instance.

So now it’s story time! Gather round. Sit in a circle. Criss-cross Applesauce!

Two weeks ago Himself needed new running shoes, and I went along because I am a supportive wife that way and also I wanted to go to Macy’s. While Himself was trying on a number of super-performance running shoes with testosterone-infused names, I saw them.

Rainbow shoes.

They were without question, the loudest pair of shoes I had ever seen.

They are – I am quite certain – visible from space.

I also believe that in the event of a nation-wide D-battery shortage, they could be used in place of the glowing popsicles used to direct 747′s on and off of runways.

And I wanted them. I wanted them soooooo much.

I didn’t have any rational reason for wanting them. My current running shoes are fine for at least another season.

And these are gaudy.

They are outrageous.

And I look at all the colors and the sparkles and it makes me happy.

The part of my mind that keeps me from buying an array of fuchsia and tangerine paper lanterns for the living room says, “They will look silly with white running socks.”

The part of my mind that thinks wearing rainbow colored fuzzy hats would solve any number of international conflicts answers, “I don’t have to wear white running socks.”

The part of my mind that doesn’t let me buy purple-mirrored-tile picture frames says, “They’re going to make you look like an albino.”

The part of my mind that has been known to tell that famous drummer to screw off and let me play my goddamned tambourine answers, “That’s what tan-in-a-bottle is for.”

I originally planned for them to be a reward. When I worked my way back up to being able to run a continuous 5k I was going to celebrate with the rainbow shoes. But then while price hunting discovered that at many outlets they were sold out or only available in sizes that could be worn by professional basketball players.

And I couldn’t take the chance.

So I bought them.

And instead of my reward shoes, they will be my motivational shoes.

I will walk, and smile at my feet.

Then I will run, and smile at my feet.

I may then hit a tree, but I’ll go down smiling.

And then I’ll get back up and run some more.

If a loud or tacky or silly or dated or ill-fitting or worn or tatty thing makes you happy, go for it. Go for it with all you have. You deserve a happy-making thing no matter how ridiculous or unconventional. Let it carry you forward, smiling all the way.

And screw the judgy types. If they’re lucky, someday they’ll discover rainbow shoes too.

And then they can happily march into ridiculousness with the rest of us.

If you’re working with someone who had some degree of impairment before you got your greedy little health-care hands on them, your target is their baseline, which may not necessarily be clinically “normal.”

When people ask me how I’m doing and I say, “Almost back to normal,” invariably one of my staff will pipe up and say, “You mean ‘back to baseline.” Suggesting that “normal” is not a viable goal since I was not “normal” to start with.

Ha Ha Ha! we all laugh before I beat them with a commode.

However, the truth of the matter is that I am getting very close to normal.

Ok..ok…baseline.

Geez. You people.

My back is almost fully recovered. I still have some discomfort with long car rides and some positions. (Like getting socks on! GEEZ! You people!)

The headache will probably linger another month or two, but I can mostly knock it out with a heady tylenol-advil cocktail.

The big limiter is still fatigue. I have about 6-7 hours in the gas tank. This pretty much gets me through my work day. And then that is all people. Seriously. Don’t talk to me. Don’t ask me silly questions like which patients you should see. Don’t expect me to preheat an oven or unload a dishwasher.

This is frustrating for someone who is used to just pushing through until everything is done. There is no pushing. Have you seen the commercial with the giant stuffed bunny trying to knock down the building? Yeah – that’s me. Not so much precision, power laser-cutting as much as impotent, dusty “fwump!”-ing that draws crowds of confused spectators.

I’m not exercising yet. I know that despite the improvement I have a choice right now – use my energy for gainful employment or use it for working out and training.

My mortgage company would like to officially register its vote for the “gainful employment” option.

I had semi-committed to doing another sprint tri with Amy, Rachel and Mandy in April. That just ain’t gonna happen. But I am going to put the October Tri on my schedule. I want it right now in a way I haven’t wanted it before. I did a tri two months before the hemorrhage and right now I can’t walk up a hill. That is also hugely frustrating.

So I need to do another one.

Because  that is my baseline.

“Kids,” he said, “We’ve decided to sell you all on the open market and use the money to buy a beach house.”

Or perhaps he said something along the lines of, “It would be a big help to Lori if you would make dinner once a week.”

Which is cool and all, but totally cheats me out of a beach house.

So for the past few weeks the kids have been making dinner. There was a squash soup that was delicious, and stuffed manicotti. And tonight there was katsu chicken.

I wish I had a photo of the lovely meal that awaited me on the table, because it was both attractive and tasty.

But, this is how the meal got there:

I am fairly certain that every pot and pan in the kitchen was called upon to make personal sacrifices for the creation of this meal.

It’s mesmerizing, in a zen-destruction sort of way. Don’t you think?

And here’s a Batman-Violence shot, but without the ka-POW!

I think it’s best if we all just focus on “tasty.”

And keep the Department of Public Health out of it.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled bloggy goodness.

It has been observed, by people who have known me for more than eleven seconds, that I am somewhat obsessive anal psychotic detail-oriented. And obsessive anal psychotic driven. And that I’m not really satisfied with the day if I don’t get roughly fourteen thousand things done.

And that’s if I oversleep.

Things are different in the Land O’ Lori these days. (NOT to be confused with the Land O’ Lakes. Although I do love butter.)

And I am NOT happy with the current status. No sirree bub.

Waking up? Now takes a good two hours. Not that I was ever one of those mutant rise-and-shine-get-your-teeth-kicked-in types, but I could function after 20 minutes and a cup of coffee. Now I have to wake up, get the crane in place, pay the union wages for the crew that has to man the heavy loading equipment that needs to help me move, force down a quantity of tylenol and ibuprofen that probably causes premature balding in rats, and sit for about 45 minutes before I can stumble into a shower where I will promise myself – AGAIN – that I will shave my legs tomorrow.

Laundry has now become a completely discretionary activity. If it’s not crawling or launching its own e-business, I figure I can get away with wearing it.

And don’t get me started on my job. I’m supposed to work a 6.5 hour day, and that presumes a pace that would easily get me a Doritos or GoDaddy NASCAR endorsement. There is no pace now. There is anti-pace. There is no multi-tasking. There is only uni-tasking. (There is also uni-brow, but that’s another story.) My staff is afraid to bring things to me for fear that an arm, a leg, or a portion of my cerebral cortex might fall off.

The shelves in the refrigerator are so sticky that we could trap bears. And given the state of the kitchen, it’s entirely possible that a disoriented panda could be in there and I would seriously have no idea until it complained about the condition of the microwave.

I now measure things in terms of how many minutes I can do them before 1) I am too tired, 2) I am too uncomfortable, or 3) my children decide it’ll just go better if they do it themselves. My kids are teenagers. Is there any greater shame?

I know I’m supposed to be ok with going slow, and cutting back, and relaxing standards. BUT FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T YOU PEOPLE KNOW ME????

*sigh*

Fine. For a while I will be content if I have socks on the INSIDE of my shoes, the take-out food budget stays SLIGHTLY smaller than the national debt, and that I remember that I have two kids and three cats.

I mean two cats and three kids.

Shit.

1. Midwives
2. Obstetricians
3. Breast Feeding
4. Bottle Feeding
5. Giving solids before 6 months
6. Giving solids after 6 months
7. Working outside the home
8. Working inside the home
9. Not working at all
10. Getting divorced
11. Getting married
12. Sending them to preschool
13. Not sending them to preschool
14. Having siblings
15. Being an only child
16. Time-outs
17. Groundings
18. Consequences
19. Absence of consequences
20. Home schooling
21. Public schooling
22. Private schooling
23. Going to all their soccer games
24. Going to some of their soccer games
25. Going to none of their soccer games (note: may substitute “baseball games,” “ballet recitals,” “piano recitals” or “sleepovers.”)
26. Helping them with homework
27. Not helping them with homework
28. Giving them chores
29. Not giving them chores
30. Giving them allowance
31. Not giving them allowance
32. Tying allowance to chores
33. Not tying allowance to chores
34. Keeping them home when they’re sick
35. Sending them to school when they’re sick
36. Being honest about your past
37. Being dishonest about your past
38. Having a past
39. Letting them see you drink
40. Not letting them see you drink
41. Letting them drive
42. Making them walk
43. Teaching them to talk
44. Teaching them to read
45. Letting them stay up all night
46. Making them go to bed early
47. Helping them make choices
48. Letting them decide for themselves
49. Seeing you hold it all in
50. Seeing you let it all out

Remember: The surgeon general has determined that children are the leading cause of parents. So let’s be careful out there.

I think I’ve hit  mine.

After nearly 4 weeks of pain, hospitals, medication, appointments, tests, anxiety and exhaustion, I am now incapable of making it through an irritating telephone call without bursting into tears.

Which, in turn, makes me angry with myself in ways I seldom am because under normal circumstances I am strong, capable, resilient and resourceful. It’s one thing to accept that I’m not great at defending myself against a double chocolate brownie. It’s another thing to accept that I can’t deal with an automated telephone system.

“How can I help you today?”

“Authorization.”

“Did you say ‘claims?’”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get that. Let me get you to the right department. Would you like claims, billing, mailing address or donation of your first born child? Or say ‘none of these.’”

“None of these.”

“You said ‘suck my brains out through a straw.’ Sure. I can help you with that. Do you have a credit card number ready?”

“No.”

“Great. I’ll also need you to cash in your 401k and shave all your pets.”

“Customer service.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not a valid option. Any attempts on your part to speak with an actual human will result in an electric shock being sent your way through the phone. What else can I help you with?”

“Authorization.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get that.”

“AUTHORIZATION!”

“Did you say, ‘abject humiliation?’”

“NO!!”

“Are you sure? Humiliation is our specialty.”

“For fuck’s sake, NO!”

“Let me get you to that department. I’m sorry. There’s no one available to take your call. Please stand naked at your living room window with a can of spray paint and a representative will get back to your shortly. Good-bye.”

So it’s been an hour now. I’m not sure how long I should wait. Not too long, I hope. It’s starting to get nippy.

Enjoy. 

Twas the night before Christmas and all round the blog
The writers were sleepy and full of the nog.
The posts were all sitting on WordPress with care
In hopes that an audience soon would be there.

The smartphones were charging a-plugged in the wall by bed
With visions of dataplans dancing ‘round each husband’s head.
With me in my sleepshirt, Himself in sweat pants
You sure couldn’t say we were dressed for romance.

When out of the speakers there came such a clatter
I sprang to my desk to see what was the matter
Away to the keyboard I flew like a flash
Clicked open my email before it could crash!

When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a ton of replies from the big blogosphere.
With a new wave of page views coming in from Digg
And I knew right away I had hit something big.

More rapid than Twitter the readers they came.
I tabbed through my favorites in search of my name.
Not on P-Dub, The Bloggess, not Dooce or on BlogHer.
Not SITS, Technorati and not Her Bad Mother.

From the pages of Google and my Facebook wall
I could not find the source of this traffic at all.
And then in a twinkling I knew that each click
Must be my Christmas gift, from that old dude St. Nick.

I heard not a word, just saw signs of his work.
He boosted my stats without wisecrack or smirk.
Then clicking the mouse with a touch of my hand
I sent a big thank you out into Blog-land.

I Tweeted to friends, to my tribe gave a whistle
And they flocked to my page with the speed of a missile.
We called out to the wave ‘ere it vanished from sight
“Happy Blogging to all and to all….good night!”

So I’m going to do some re-runs this year.

I recorded this last hear with Himself. And I still like it. So I’m going to share it again.

IPoIA is proud to present: Santa Baby. (Stephen Colbert’s The Word Style.)

This is a known. For as much as I talk about wanting time on a warm beach with nothing but a good book and some 50 SPF sun-block, I’m really only good with that for a couple hours.

I’ve now been out of commission for 11 days.

The first few days are a big ol’ blur. Yay for drugs! (Only when prescribed by a doctor. Not fun drugs. BOO on fun drugs! This has been a public service announcement by the mother of three teenagers.)

But things stopped being blurry like a week ago and now I’m just fidgety and watching December inch by and feeling like I’m operating on the same functional level as nematode for brain power and general capable-ness.

I went into work yesterday. Several people argued with me about this. But I knew that my department really needed to see me. You can’t be a physical therapist, or an occupational therapist, or a speech pathologist and think that your boss who just had the brain hemorrhage is really OK until you see her. (Or him. But in my case “her.” Way her.)

So I went in for only three hours and came home in extreme pain (in my back, not my head, I’m having some weird symptoms in my low back which are confusing my neurologist. I so LOVE being a medical mystery.)

And I woke up this morning with the fuel tank hovering just over the E. I thought about what I would feel like if I went in to work even for a few hours and got…well…scared. I spent yesterday afternoon in pain and useless, and that was starting out feeling OK.

But…I’m angry. And I know I shouldn’t be! Really, I do. It is a miracle that I’m fine and I know I need to be grateful and take it easy and deal with a few weeks of low function. But earlier I had to tell myself, OUT LOUD, to SIT DOWN when I was puttering around the kitchen dealing with several tons of junk mail. (Cause we haven’t paid attention to it for eleven days. Google Earth is going to lose sight of our house if we don’t get on top of this soon.)

I’m restless. And anxious. And edgy and cranky and angsty. Basically, I am all of Snow White’s Dysfunctional Dwarves rolled into one newly-chubby package.

I would so suck as a Real Housewife.

Which, I suppose, is actually a silver lining.