Someone will find this blog, perhaps through a keyword search, or by reference. They’ll read this entry and say “so what? Big deal!” However, someone who KNOWS me will read this entry and say, “Blond Girl?!? No Way!” Way! I planted a window box and a planter box full of geraniums, vinca vine, petunias and impatiens. Not only that, but I dug around in the soil, pulled weeds and (here’s the no way part), didn’t freak out when a centipede (or was it a millipede? It was gross anyway) went crawling out across my little shovel. I figured “oh, he’ll just aerate the soil” and kept planting. This was just one more thing to help get the house ready to go on the market.
Our home is actually quite cute; it was built in 1924 and it is a 1½ story with some wonderful features like a white sunroom, a transom window in the living room and a bright, sunny kitchen. It has a three-car garage (which satisfies Champs’ testosterone needs nicely. All the other husbands in the neighborhood have garage envy) out back and an old tree out front, so it’s pretty charming. We’re leaving it behind, though. The other night, Tiglet was saying how excited she is to move to another state by GranJay and GranDee (Champs’ Step-mom and Mom). She said she would be sad about the house, though, because when we moved out, our house and all our stuff would be blown up. Imagine the time we had explaining that the house was safe; it would not be blown up. Another family would move into this house and all our stuff would come with us. “Even Robert (her stuffed horse)?”, “even Drew (her doodle-bear)?”, “even Spunky (her stuffed dog)?” With each “yes, even that” she grew more and more excited. Now she is really ready to go, safe in the assurance that her “friends” and all her treasures will go with her.
I wish I could have the confidence of a 5-year old. Instead, I get the benefit of years of experience in worrying to help me along. I know it doesn’t sound like faith to admit to worrying. Actually, I don’t worry as much as I question. I constantly question. I question myself about what I want, what to do next, how to do it. I question professionals and websites for knowledge. I question God continually about “what’s next?” and “how do I do this, Lord?” In the end, we will move, we will find jobs and we will pay the bills, but it is difficult. The funny thing is answering everyone else’s questions when I am so full of my own. The favorite one that people ask of me is “do you have jobs lined up?” Well, no. It’s a little hard to say to an employer in another state “please hire me. I don’t know when we’ll be there. Once we put the house on the market, sell it, pack everything up and close on the sale, then we’ll be there.” Not exactly conducive to a job hunt, is it? Oh well, Monster.com is our friend. Also, friends and family in the other state are already looking for opportunities in our fields. I am hoping to find something in the communication or compliance realm, since that’s where my expertise lies.
I am on pins and needles tonight. Why? Because tomorrow morning I get the answer to a very important question. Here’s the background (the ultimate really long story as short as I can make it): In October 2004 I had an open gastric bypass. I’ve lost 111 pounds since then and I’m doing pretty good. However, the surgeon who did my GB (I’ll call him “Dr. PJ” for Dr. Patronizing Jerk) allowed me to have an untreated peritonitis infection 10 days after surgery. Due to that infection, my insides are covered in scar tissue. I’ve had two incisional hernia operations so far, and I have a HUGE hernia right now. It used to be 3 smaller hernias, but they’ve opened up into one. I look pregnant. Each time I go through another round of hernias and surgery, I feel like I’ve got aliens inside of me. I’ve started calling them “the alien children”. Just call me Ripley. I’ve been fighting with my insurance company for 6 months now to do the hernia repair along with a panniculectomy (which is a reconstructive tummy tuck type of surgery). I keep explaining why I qualify, and they keep saying that, because I don’t have a rash, it is cosmetic. Well, tomorrow the insurance company appeals committee is meeting to make a final decision. I’ve written so many letters and Champs has written a letter (the hubby’s perspective) and my surgeon (the competent one, NOT Dr. PJ) has written over and over. Hopefully they will listen to reason and approve the surgery. So, I’ve been praying. My friends have been praying. My church has been praying. And tomorrow morning I find out. As Champs says, “there’s not much you can do about it now, you’ve done all you can.” OK, I need to stop talking about this subject. I’ll get the verdict tomorrow and that’s that. I’ve been doing a lot of ranting here, and not enough revelations.
Gotta end on a happy note, so here goes: Grandma B’s been experiencing some swelling in her feet lately and got new support hose today. They’re sooooo tight, she needs to use a contraption to help her get them on. Well, she does Sweet Girl’s daycare, so they are together a lot. Sometimes this rubs off on Sweet Girl. For example, tonight she was playing doctor with us and listening to our heartbeats (she just went to the doctor with Grandma B) and then, to join in my conversation with Grandma B, she said, “speaking of which” (yes, that blew us away). Finally, when we prayed before bed, Sweet Girl prayed “And please keep Grandma’s feet from blowing up like a darn balloon!!”