Limbodacious

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Okay, so it's been a while.  And in order to make up for my long absence I will now write a post that will BLOW YOUR MIND.

So, I started school again.  I may or may not have previously mentioned (yeah, I could look back in my posts, but "may or may not" is so much quicker) that I hated college before.  Like, cried-the-whole-4-hour-drive-back-to-my-house-every-weekend hated school.  I'm not sure I can properly convey the level of hatred in print.  My miserable experience at school was definitely the Big Thing in my life before, you know, the Big Thing this blog is usually about. 

Needless to say, I was never very keen on going back.  But here's the thing about college.  People who are offering the good jobs are pretty fucking stuck on it.  I have a pretty good job, but it so happens that I am pretty smart, a lot smarter than my job really demands.  So after a lot of hand wringing and a lot of supportive/forceful/guilt-inducing advice from the main men in my life (dad and husband), I signed up.  The agreement was that I would go for one quarter and see if it was okay.  And if I never wanted to go back after that, they couldn't say anything.

Of course, I knew I could do one quarter.  Let's face it, after you've had shingles you can withstand three months of just about anything.  (Which is not to say I wasn't freaked out - just ask my GI.) 

The first day, it was a little scary.  I have never been to a school with more than 1,000 people, and my school now has, oh, 36,000 or so.  I had never even stepped foot onto a public school campus either.  It was intimidating.  Also I had no fucking clue where I was.  No. clue.  Seriously, what is up with college campuses?  I got there a half hour early and was fifteen minutes late to my first class.  Which had been moved. 

After that I slowly started to learn my way around.  I bought a can of mace and a Vera Bradley backpack.   Ah, the college lifestyle.  But I felt better.  The campus was actually pretty nice, aesthetic- and crime-wise.  Other students didn't look at me like a freak like I was afraid of - turns out a lot of people drop out of college and go back later, who knew?  I even went so far as getting a sweatshirt with the name of the college on it, which of course is a huge commitment. 

On the way home a few weeks ago, I kind of felt like crying again.  But in the first time since, um, I don't know, never - it felt like happy tears.  I finally got some validation that I had just chosen the wrong school the first time around, I had finally gotten over this Big Thing that had been hanging like a cloud over me for so long. 

I am actually happy, a feeling I have not felt for any extended period in years. 

For real.  Yeah, I just said that.  I told you this would blow your mind.

Stress Level Midnight

Things, they are a-happening.

In the next 7 days:  Two wisdom teeth being taken out, 1 dog spayed, and 2 weddings, one of them 3,000 miles away.

In the next 90 days: Three MORE weddings, two more wisdom teeth, gyn/onc visit, huge project rollout at work, dad begins chemo, and I go back to college.

It's enough to make you miss being sick and unemployed.  As I was formulating this poorly-thought-out post in my head, it kept coming back to one thing.  Time.  When I was sick and laid up it seemed like every day was a month long, every night when I went to sleep it was a relief just to have made it through without dying of cancer or boredom.  But now, I can't squeeze a free second out of my days to just relax.  Last week, I actually scheduled myself time to daydream (on my lunch break, such a model of efficiency I am) - which may sound weird but as an only child, daydreaming holds special importance to me. 

And then thinking about my entire blog, almost every post I've written comes back to the theme of time somehow or another and that's just, well, weird.  Isn't it?  I didn't set out to do that.

The long and short of it is I don't even have time to write this post.  Good news, though, for Limbo fans.  I am going on vacation next week to a City where people Sin, so my days will be pretty free to write something worth reading. 

Honeymoon Status: Over

My husband came up to me a few days ago, all serious-like.

"I need to ask you something," he said timidly.

"Shoot." 

"Well... if I ask you, it will change things."

"What things?"  I asked, wondering if this was the moment, which my insecure inner crazy person always knew would come, when he would announce that Ha!  I don't really want to be married to you!

"Okay, here it is."  Dramatic pause.  "What does it mean when it hurts when you go to the bathroom?"

After the initial thought that I kind of wished this was a divorce talk instead, I realized I needed more information.  "I assume when you say, 'go to the bathroom,' you don't mean peeing, yes?"

"Yes."

Unfortunately, I still needed more information.  I explained to him that since this could be a major health concern, I will engage in this conversation, but could he please play along and not look at me while I asked the following questions?  "Okay, does it hurt, like, just on the way out?"

"Yes.  But it bleeds too."

I finally understood what very smart people were always saying about the burden of knowledge.  And then I turned on the Autopilot, repeating word for word the conversation that anyone who has ever seen a GI has had.  "You probably just have hemorrhoids.  A few drops of blood at the end or just on the toilet paper is common.  I know it might seem scary, but it really doesn't take a lot to make the bowl turn red."  Then I veered slightly off the script and added, "Perhaps this has something to do with your fondness for Chipotle."

"So what do I do to fix it?" he asked, conveniently skipping over the oversized-burrito issue.

"I will pick you up some stuff at the drug store.  I can't bear to talk about this anymore."

"Well don't you have something I can use?  It really hurts."

"No.  You can't use my stuff.  You can't share stuff like that."

"Why?  Sometimes when I run out, I use your deodorant and that's no big deal."

"First of all, ew.  And second, deodorant goes on the outside whereas this..." I said, trailing off in the hope that I would never, ever have to finish that sentence.

"No."

"Oh, yes."

"Forget it.  I'll live with the pain."

"All right, talk to me in two days."

Two Days Later

"Can you get that stuff for me?"  he asked me.

"It's in the closet, I got it yesterday.  I marked yours with an 'A'"

"Well, that was a long silence"

Boyfriend said that to me on our second date when we went the entire 20-minute trip from the restaurant to his house without saying a single word.  It seems appropriate now, though, since I haven't posted in, oh, forever or so.  But you will be happy to know that we have finally purchased one (1) computer, (1) bigass monitor, and internet service.  Hopefully with these tools I will be able to merge onto the Information Highway a little more frequently.

So.  It is true that I am now married.  The wedding was wonderful, perfect, and you'll have to take my word on it being beautiful because as much as I would like to post pictures, I would more like to avoid being identified by any Creepy Internet Persons who may be reading this if we ever ended up in a grocery store at the same time.  You may now address me as Mrs. Limbo-Boyfriend because yes, I am one of those lame people who hyphenates their name.  I would be happy to address any specific questions about said wedding, but I will leave it at that for now out of fear of becoming That Girl That Won't Shut Up about Her Wedding. 

Oh, and speaking of things that are wonderful, perfect, and oh-so-beautiful I had the pleasure of meeting our good friend Louise who, hard as it is to believe, is even cooler than my imagination pictured her.  She mentions in a post that nearly made me cry that when you're with someone that has been through the same things you have, you can just kind of feel it in the air.  Which is true.  Consciously or unconsciously, I caught the first bus out of Cancerland in a ridiculously transparent attempt to Move On, but as I stood with Louise it hit me hard that crying after Boyfriend has gone to sleep and listening to Ani DiFranco on my headphones at work are not the same as coping, and I need this. 

In medical news, since the wedding I have been dropping pounds faster than the contestants on The Biggest Loser and now tip the scales at an astonishing 85 pounds.  My weight has not been this low since I was on chemo, and my doctor is understandably nervous.  I have just returned from having about 8 pints of blood taken so she can further delve into Just What the Hell is Going On.  Early wild guesses include some kind of Crohn's thing.  Will update when I know more, and by more, I mean anything.

And yes, yet more news.  I secured a new job at Ginormous Corporation at the end of July.  I won't go into exactly what I do, because it is not universally interesting, but I will tell you that I had to shake the dust off my security clearance, and they are currently building a wall around us so foreign nationals can't see what we're doing.  My office is two stories underground in an eerily silent basement inhabited by bugs, and I work primarily with two men that are so polar opposite that they could easily be mistaken for a sitcom comedy duo.  But things are pretty good so far, I finally am back to using my technical training, and I discovered a delicious thing called Flex Time, which if you don't know, means that as long as it adds up to 40 hours at the end of the week, it doesn't matter how you get there.  Which is the Best Thing Ever for someone like me, who has many appointments and sometimes just HAS to sleep in. 

Well, I truly hate these recap posts, so I had better get to posting more often.  Which is not a binding promise or anything, but I will try.

It has come to my attention that my last three posts have cost me $4.95 each.

There have been complaints about the new color scheme, and to these concerned individuals I would like to say two things:

1.  Thank you for your concern.  We at Limbodacious are constantly working to improve the blog-reading experience for you.

2.  Suck it.

The truth is, I changed the colors in response to a feeling of change within me.  A little softer, a little sadder, a little more cautious.  I have felt for a while now that I am on the verge of... something.  It's a hard feeling to put your finger on, just a vague sense that something good, bad, or otherwise is about to happen.

It became a little clearer at my last appointment with my gyn/onc.  As I checked out, the receptionist asked me, "Would you like a referral to a gynecologist?"

"For what?"  I asked in disbelief.

"You know, your pap smears, routine things that you don't really need your gyn/onc to do."

I must not have concealed my shock very well, because she added, "It's not like we're not dumping you.  Wouldn't you rather go to a regular gynecologist than your cancer doctor every time?"

A regular gynecologist.  I knew what the words meant individually but couldn't really comprehend the concept.  But she was right, I should try to transition into a non-cancer-patient lifestyle as much as I can, because you know, I'm not a cancer patient anymore.

And that's what it is.

I am at a point where I need to re-assimilate myself into a world where I feel misunderstood and awkward.  And really, I don't want to.  It's not that I enjoy going through treatment, believe me, but at least within the four walls of an oncologist's office I felt safe, I was doing something actively to help myself, and most importantly, people understood the gravity of what I was going through.  Now as my scars heal and my hair grows out, my outside does not even reveal a hint of my recent struggles.

When I called the gynecologist they suggested, I mentioned that I had a history of agressive ovarian cancer.  I mentioned this, of course, to give them a picture of what exactly they're dealing with when I come in and, of course, to get a sooner appointment.  It's a strange saying these medical types have, "a history of..." like since it is not currently happening, it's all in the past. 

I guess now the issue is finding out what I have "a present of", which seems like it would be obvious, but instead I find myself clinging to the past looking over a cliff. 

And so now we begin a new color of Limbo for a new stage of Life.

Sieze This (For Lack of a Less Crude Title)

Let me be honest about something.  I watch a lot of television.  The depth and breadth of my knowledge on almost every show since 1983 allowed me to become a three-time TV trivia champion on the local public radio station.  So it isn't surprising, really, that most of my posts here begin with "I saw this thing on TV the other day and..."

Anyway, I saw this thing on TV the other day, and I got a little worked up about it.   A patient, being wheeled out of the hospital said, "I should be dead but I am alive.  From now on every day is a gift."   I started my jaw-dropped, dramatically-slow-I-can't-believe-what-I'm-hearing head turn routine toward Boyfriend, who immediately recognized the maneuver and, knowing that an explosion was imminent, quickly started his the-grass-needs-mowed-the-dogs-need-fed-and-oh-would-you-look-at-the-time routine.

The thought itself is not very original, a person goes through a horrible trauma and comes out on the other side with a renewed appreciation and zest for life.  Seize the day, whatever.  I just don't understand it.  If every day is a gift, for me it appears to be of the hand-knit-poodle-skirts-with-yarn-balls-for-tails variety.  (A little Rae trivia:  That is a gift I really received when I was 16 years old, and I rank it as the second worst gift I ever got.  Number 1 is a can of peanuts I got for Christmas.)  Maybe with all the lasting complications I've had, I'm still too mired in the mess to see past it all and start smelling the roses.  Maybe my late great grandmother was right, and I was born jaded, and jaded I will forever be.   

Either way, you won't find "seizing the day" on my to-do list.  I will not come back better than ever and travel the world, devote my life to service, or date Sheryl Crow.  In fact, I find my to-do list shrinking by the day.  I leave dishes in the sink,  I don't react when my dogs start barking insanely at the neighbors, I rudely cut the Victoria's Secret girl off in mid-spiel when she is telling me about their great new credit card, and I consider it a personal affront that my boss expects me to show up every day (on time no less!) ... all the while repeating my own post-cancer mantra in my head:

I don't have time for this horseshit.

So I guess this is my way of seizing the day.  Armed with the knowledge that I may keel over at any moment, I refuse to sweat the small stuff.  The small stuff being earning a living, dealing with annoying people, and contributing to society in general.  And I will continue to cast off all those responsibilities that keep me from watching season after season of syndicated shows on DVD, so that someday I can rest in peace knowing my tombstone proudly proclaims:

Here lies Rae... loving wife, devoted dog owner, and four-time NPR televison trivia champion.

Love in the Time of Teratoma

Okay, let's just get this out right off the bat.   I am engaged.   And no, I am not going to tell you the whole Proposal Story, although it is a quite good one, involving the Heimlich maneuver and a hilarious analogy to a bank robbery.

After it happened, I went to bed thinking, "Wow, this is so great.   Boyfriend loves me and wants to be with me forever."   Then when I woke up, I realized I get to plan a wedding.   Which means there will be lists and spreadsheets and MAYBE EVEN A BINDER.   What says everlasting love like a categorized, color-coded binder, really?   So to celebrate this joyous occasion, I will compose the first of my many lists.

Things I Will Not Do While I Am Engaged

1. I will not start sentences with, "My boyfriend... I mean my FIANCE! I keep forgetting, I JUST got engaged!"

2. In fact, I will not use the word fiance at all, with the exception of quoting the Seinfeld episode that makes fun of the lady who uses the word fiance too much.

3. I will not pat Boyfriend condescendingly on the head and summarily dismiss his idea. Unless it is really, really dumb.

4. I will not suddenly become BFF with Boyfriend's friend's obnoxiously pregnant wife just to score another bridesmaid.

5. I will not, no matter what my health status is, stop planning this wedding or think even for a second that it won't happen.

6. I will not live like a monk and eat beans out of a can to save enough money for a lavish 400-person wedding.

7. I will not send out Save the Date cards with pictures that make us look like a cosmetic dentistry ad.

8. I will not pretend to be chaste and tell Boyfriend we can't have sex again until the wedding. In fact, I will love him so much that on our wedding night he might just say, "Honey, can we just rent a movie or something?"

9. I will not stop staring at this ring that makes my hand look brand new. EVER.

Jeez, One "Choke the Breath Out of Me" and Everybody Flips Out

Perhaps my last entry wasn't the best lead-off post after a long absence.  I wrote it a few days ago, when I was completely drained and exhausted.  No, there is no Big Thing going on... an infinitesimal climb in my tumor markers and some pathetic kidney performance, but these things are hardly worth mentioning.  However, when combined with sleep deprivation and routine upheaval caused by my new job, well perhaps I overreacted, and I took you all down with me.  I'm sorry for making you feel blindsided, dear Internets.  Please let me assure you:

I am fine.

Seriously.

You can stop sending me "Oh my god what happened??" emails.

Seriously.  (Just kidding, those of you who wrote me made my heart swell to three times its size and I just adore you.)

Truth is, besides some minor setbacks, I am quite good.  It was extremely difficult for me to transition into the working world at first, when I realized that my employer really does expect me to show up on time, every day, and traffic in the city really is as bad as they say.  I had a rough patch getting used to the whole Get Up in the Morning/Stay Awake All Day business, which is when I wrote my last post, but most of those kinks have been ironed out.  I am proud to say that I have a two-week perfect attendance streak going, and my supervisor actually called me a "Star Pupil."  Yay. 

I know that someday it will just be my job, so I am glad to have this forum to document the current happy phase when the historic building is still gorgeous and everyone still asks me how I am liking it so far.  I love this time when everything is fresh and you can mentally catalogue your coworkers as you meet them (The fundamentalist Christians, Women who walk laps around the parking garage during lunch, People who are outraged at every perceived injustice or minor procedural change, People who hate me no matter how nice I am because I happen to be young/white/female/thin/short/smoker/no reason whatsoever, Emasculated single men who have nothing to offer the ladies anymore except their place in the microwave line, and of course, the Chatty Cathies - no office would be complete without them).

And since everyone seems to be so very interested in what happened and what is going on, Rae?, here it is...  What's Happenin': What Rae's Been Doing to Acclimate Herself to Her New Job.

1.  Identify and befriend smokers.  This, of course, is the single most crucial aspect of the new-job process.

2.  Shamelessly flirt with lonely quiet guy who knows how to fix the computers, cocky meathead guy who can beat the vending machine into submission, and the geeky gangly guy who has memorized every word of the benefits package.  Convince all three that I secretly loathe the other two.

3.  Repeatedly tell supervisor that she just has to tell me where she shops, because she is always wearing the cutest outfits and did I mention I love love LOVE your haircut??  And the kicker?  It is totally sincere, I heart her.

4.  Find isolated spot to eat lunch in order not to upset the ladies who eat an apple and a single leaf of lettuce for lunch.  It only took one day of them glaring at 90-pound me scarfing down my fettucine alfredo to learn they needed some space during lunch.

5.  Find every conceivable reason to call the Audiology Department.  Stay on the phone with them longer than needed.  Always offer to do a favor for them, up to and including picking up lunch for them even though they are in a building over a mile away.  Repeat as neccessary until the world-famous audiologist Dr. FancyPants notices me.

6.  Oh yeah, learn how to do my job.

7.  Attempt to smuggle Hank into work in my purse.  When this fails, plaster pictures of dogs on every visible surface.  Look confused when coworkers ask why I don't have any pictures of my boyfriend.

8.  Spend majority of first paycheck on work clothes, since The World's Largest Pleated Skirt and Cardigan Set Collection (twelve years of Catholic school, okay?  I go with what I know) does not fit my post-cancer waifish figure.  Try to remember the last time I bought myself clothes, but can't.

9.  Miss friends in the computer very, very much.

As It Turns Out, You CAN Take the Honky-Tonk Out of the Girl

It hit me today.  I am in remission.  The Universe is balancing out.  Life is good.

I am ashamed to admit that the end of my funk was not precipitated by a spiritual revelation, the wise words of a close friend, or the Heavens opening up and an angelic being shouting "Get over yourself!"  It was because of a shopping trip. 

I was sad, and lonely, and feeling isolated, devoid of purpose or direction.  But then.  Then, there was THE HUGEST BED BATH & BEYOND IN THE WORLD.  It has two floors, people!  When they say & BEYOND, they really mean it.  And I bought a cordless rechargeable sweeper-vac for 40% off, which if you're like me, and I am, is quite the gratifying purchase.

The trip didn't start out well.  The confusion started over what, in fact, constitutes a "mall."  For a small-town girl like me, a mall is a maximum of five stores arranged in a row, all with separate entrances from the outside.  Here in the big, bad city, "malls" masquerade themselves as the type of strip-mall I am accustomed to, with secret passages into the Conglomo-Mall which contains the store that you are actually looking for.  I felt a little ridiculous, passing the same shopping center eight times knowing that the store just had to be in there, not realizing that behind the facade there lies a whole other hidden group of stores.  I was pissed off, and about to give up, and then over the horizon, like a Phoenix from my angst, rose the Hugest Bed Bath & Beyond In the World. 

When I got inside, I quickly forgot my hippocampic frustration, as I was mesmerized by the gleam of high-tech toasters and the lushness of very, very expensive drapes.  Ah, the tears are welling up in my eyes just remembering it.  I wandered around the huge expansiveness for much longer than the errand required, and I felt my soul refreshed.  As I went back to my car, I noticed the rest of the shoppes (the upscale nature of the mall necessitates the superfluous -pe), which I had missed earlier in my frantic search for BB&B.  Beautiful shoes, high-fashion evening wear, quirky cafes, home furnishings fit for Architectural Digest.  I thought to myself, I love this place.

In my short foray into city life, I have learned this simple equation:  Trendiness of neighborhood = (Number of gay men + Number of cute young girls in designer track suits jogging in tandem) x Number of restaurant names Rae cannot pronounce.  This neighborhood scored about 100 million trillion.  I swore off my small-town roots right then and there, because this place rocks.  As I stood calculating the risk of arrest if I never went home and just squatted there in the mall parking lot, and rationalizing that it's a victimless crime, after all, I realized that I already live here.  I. Live. HERE. 

Once I acknowledged that wholly awesome fact, the floodgates opened.  We bought a house, and I love it to bits.  I have a boyfriend who loves me.  I have three, count 'em three, dogs that guarantee hilarity every day.   I live in a great neighborhood that is safe and fun and has shoppes instead of plain old stores.  I have weathered the struggle of my life, risen like an Enormous Bed Bath & Beyond from the ashes, and I can now gleefully rejoice in sweeper-vacs and all the other simple pleasures that I have missed out on for so long. 

Life is pretty fucking great when you look at it like that.

P.S.  Since Louise is such a braggart these days, I will show you this shoppe to make her jealous for a change.  Take that.

The Boys Are Back in Town

I'm sure by the contents of my last post, you assumed I was off frolicking in fields of daisies and reveling in the sheer gloriousness of life.

Surprisingly, that is not the case.  We have moved (On my PERIOD and on the HOTTEST July day ever recorded in our state, and did I mention we don't have central air?  Not that I'm complaining), and internet access was lost in the shuffle.  Cute Young Kinko's Boy is letting me use the computer for 10 minutes free!  Sweet, stupid little Kinko's boy.

Some fun facts: 

If you think my blog is obnoxiously bright orange, you may not want to come to my kitchen.  The color is called "Obstinate Orange," so if there was ever a color made just for me, this is it.

A little Jack Russel/Beagle mix showed up on our porch today.  Apparently, we have some kind of scent that tells dogs, "Home for Lost and Wayward Terriers."  And if you're wondering, WE ARE JUST GOING TO WATCH HER FOR A FEW DAYS, WE ARE NOT KEEPING HER, AND WE SAY THIS TO EACH OTHER AT LEAST ONCE AN HOUR.

All Hail Boyfriend and His Best Friend.  They got everything in two trips (keep in mind a "trip" involves two hours of driving, plus the packing and unpacking), and they insisted that I stay in the house doing fun things so as not to get tired out.  Love them.

And now Kinko's Boy is giving me the evil eye.  I am almost out of time.  Thanks to everyone for your kind comments on my good news.  I love my friends in the computer.