Crow~ It's What's for Dinner

I feel a ramble coming on.
Yesterday I was the object of a virtual girl-gang fight, and it was absolutely surreal. Not only did I not see it coming, I didn't think it was warranted at all. But in the end, I caved. I didn't want to. I still don't want to. But I did it for Christians and for the sake of doing the right thing. In spite of the fact that I think the instigator of the mess was completely in the wrong. Way to take one for the Lord, eh? Well, let me tell ya. The fact that I am still not happy about eating it should show just how much of a hypocrite I feel like.
Sometimes doing the right thing TOTALLY SUCKS!!!
I told Shawn, after I ended it, that it is almost like the fight I'm in for my health. I don't want to eat the salad. I want the cake. But the cake is only for immediate satisfaction. So I put on my big girl panties and eat the salad. All the while, grumbling under my breath that the cake would have been much yummier. I didn't do the right thing because I wanted to, I did it because I HAD to. So what if I don't want to? The result is the same. I am fed and have the results of a good decision under my belt.
SNORT-literally!
Meanwhile, I feel battered emotionally by someone I have kept contact with over the years, solely in the hopes that she will be drawn to the things of the Lord. I know I'm not a perfect example of Christianity. HELLO? I'm more than a hundred pounds overweight! Somewhere I have idols that are quite obvious.
I wanted so badly to lash out with the pain and defensiveness that I felt. In fact, I still feel it. I spent the whole night at work feverishly praying for forgiveness and the right attitude. I'm still not there. I have moments of forgiveness and peace, but then I fall back into defense mode and wanna go kick her tail. What? I'm human, and she attacked me publicly! But, for her sake, and for the sake of her friends, who were right on board for the Diane-and-all-Christians-out-there bashing session, I apologized for offending her and removed the offensive material.
Maybe tomorrow I will stop being mad about it.

When good cleaners go bad

My mom flips houses. You know, buys foreclosed rejects, fixes them up and
POOF
sells them for a profit. So whenever she has a house that needs fixing, I usually jump in and help out. It gives me a little extra income and helps her get finished more quickly.
Win-win.
So yesterday, when I was there painting cabinet door faces, I realized a few of them were pretty dirty. The kitchen and bathroom sinks are currently disconnected, and the only water source is the outside hose. I had Hailey bring me a wet rag and the bottle of pine-sol. Pouring a bit of pine-sol on the rag as needed, I scrubbed the doors, then painted them. It wasn't until about an hour later that I realized something was wrong. I turned to look at Hailey and the room swam. Determined to finish, I quickly swiped paint on the remaining drawer faces and stood to clean up. I could barely walk! I didn't even TRY to clean my paint brush. Signing out, the list was blurry. I got in my car, thinking that if I could just get home, I could go to bed. Nothing doing. I was violently nauseated. I drove about three blocks before I pulled over and called for back-up. After being rescued by family, and resting the remainder of the evening, I looked online for some answers. Apparently, there are people who sniff pine-sol ON PURPOSE! Sheesh! But dizziness is a common side effect of breathing the fumes. I guess painting and cleaning in a closed room was a bad idea.

The Tangled Web I DIDN'T Weave

This whole situation has become a stupid, confusing mess.
You know that moment when you realize that a small decision could have made things SO much easier, but you made the decision you made, and you can't go back?
Well, this morning I was given the opportunity to go back. I couldn't take it, because I would be lying, if I did.
I got the call from my senior manager, who wanted to let me know that dancing at work means a warning letter. (read-being written up.) Then she asked me if I was sure I hurt myself dancing. I understand that she was trying to be gracious. I get that she was trying to give me an "out." But I apologized for any inconvenience, since the fact that I hurt my foot dancing a little step means that workman's comp will be denying my claim, and now they have to go to the trouble to discipline me. Oh, gosh! Shame on me for having a moment of jubilation and not being willing to lie about it.
Meanwhile, I have been ordered to see a doctor approved by workman's comp, who happens to be out-of-network from my health insurance. The workman's-comp-approved doctor has ordered me to physical therapy, which means if I get the denial from WC while going to PT, I will have to discontinue PT, go see my PCP and get her to re-order it, which will take time, all while I am out of work.
O G! (oh, gee!)
But what am I doing now?
Sitting by the phone, waiting for the WC case worker to call me and tell me what to do.
I think I'll get out my rubber exercise band and do my OWN PT!
Now, who will I charge for it?

The Impatient Patient

Wah! I am a whiney baby when I'm hurt. I don't like being in pain. I have no idea how my sister copes, having real issues with pain. My own issues are so temporary, compared with hers.
But, there you have it. I am a big, whiney baby.
The good news is that I am surrounded by people who are extremely merciful.

I ended up not getting to go to the orthopedic specialist. Turns out when you hurt yourself at work, it's considered an on-the-job injury. (even if you weren't doing your job when it happened)
Dancing isn't exactly in my job description.
I figured that since I got hurt doing something non-work-related, that it would be wrong to file for workman's compensation. Instead, I got in big, fat trouble for not reporting the injury immediately.
Well, I would be in much more trouble if I didn't have a very understanding manager. (a VUM, if you will) Apparently, it is against company policy to not report an injury. In fact, it's such a no-no that I learned I would be given a warning letter, which would stay in my file for a year, meaning I can't bid on any other jobs for that time. But my VUM appealed to the OSHA director with my reasoning, and it seems that they may decide to give me grace, since I thought I was doing the right thing.
Meanwhile, I was given a list of approved doctors to visit, and saw one of them the next day. She concurred with Dr. Wilcox's diagnosis of a torn plantar fascia, but decided to just give it time to heal. I have to go back in a week and let her re-check. I still have to stay off it; I'm not allowed to drive; I have to ice it for 15 minutes every hour and take the medicine Dr. Wilcox had already prescribed.
But I have to say, I really want to chuck the crutches and just WALK to the bathroom when I need to potty. I am tired of watching TV. I would really love to just read a book, but I can't go to the library. The anti-inflammatory drug I am taking knocks me flat, and gives me a headache.
But I am home. I have seen my kids a lot. I have held my doggies. I have slept during the night. I have had really great friends bring me dinner. I am being well taken care of. I have no reason to complain.

Raining and pouring, etc.

Several weeks ago, I fell and hyperflexed my knee. It has been a miserable recovery, but I am almost there. Unfortunately, due to some frivolity on my part, I cannot walk, yet again, because I tore the plantar fascia on the bottom of my right foot.

The ER doctor has referred me to an orthopedist and I'll be checking in with him early next week. We shall see. I have no idea how long I'll be out of work, but I am under orders to not bear weight on it, prompting me to hobble around on some very fashionable crutches.

Clean-up on aisle "Whine"

After a few weeks of back-breaking, sweat-inducing work, I have come to the conclusion...
I'm crazy.
We already knew it, but now it is confirmed.
I thought going to work at night would be a cinch, because I'm a night owl.
Turns out that staying up on facebook and watching the tube until 3 am doesn't exactly condition you for throwing boxes of all sizes and weights for hours on end during the night.
And don't even get me started about the whole heat issue.
There's something to be said for good old fashioned air conditioning.
I said that last night, and Shawn about snorted tea out his nose.
Meanwhile, I had a mini breakdown a couple of nights ago. Years of sleeping for 9-10 hours per night has softened me. No comments.
Now I have to try to function on about 6-7. It ain't working. Meltdowns are inevitable under these circumstances.
I don't eat much, because, when do I eat? I wake up around 2:30. Too late for lunch, and I'm not hungry yet. So I have dinner with the family. Then a snack of cheese and fruit or a lunchable around 2:30 am.
That's it.
So it would be obvious that the weight should just melt right off, wouldn't you think?
Well, you'd be WRONG!
I guess my body is in starvation mode, preserving every drop of precious (note the sarcasm) fat, so I can function during the night.
Whatever.
Meanwhile, back to the breakdown at hand...
I don't know when to do laundry, because I'm basically a walking zombie. I get up, but my brain is not engaging. The laundry is piled up, including the clean laundry, which needs to be folded. The toilet needs scrubbing, I think I could sweep up the hair on my bathroom floor and knit a wig for the dog. (who I accidentally shaved a stripe into the side of... don't ask)
I don't do much around the house anymore. The kids do most of it. It's not fair to them, and they do a kid-level job of it. But I have to be thankful for what I can get these days.
I miss my kids, I miss my bff, who I only have time to text now, I miss my husband, and I miss my dogs.
The end.

Who needs Jillian?

I'm serious when I say that FedEx kicks tail.

My tail.

And my feet, arms, hands, back...

*whine, whine, whine....*

You get the idea.

Let the beatings commense.