Between the groups and friends and that one person who was reading year-old wired.com articles, my birth control has, to date, been viewed by 2,288 people, over a period of 3 years. (Ha. Period.)
2,288 people. 3 years.
The Internet is a vagina-centric time machine.
Update: I just realized that by blogging about it I’ve completed the Internet circle. Yay.
Today is x-ray/walking day. The feeling of bones and muscles settling back into weight-bearing and gravity is weird and satisfying. Bodies are strange organisms.
The past month I’ve pretty much been cooking, knitting, enjoying the occasional outing, and looking forward to a very fun fall and winter. This period was actually very helpful in getting me to shop and plan meals better. Oh, adulthood.
Thanks to all my friends who were so helpful. Seriously. You people did my laundry, took out my trash, got my mail, took me shopping, and took me to the bar. You’re, like, all my mom. Except for that last one.
I’m feeling really good, and have a small army of friends who are arranging furniture and cleaning up small rain-caused floods and making sure I’m fed and and making sure I’m taking my painkillers and generally verifying that I don’t injure myself in embarrassing ways in my own home.
I get the sutures out in 2 weeks, and then I have 4 more weeks on crutches. Since there are now holes in my bones that need to fill in. I don’t understand how there aren’t nanobots or Cylon goo to do this, but there you are.
This weekend, my friends Carrie and Joshua came to visit from Massachusetts. They drove, the brave, patient souls, and we had a whirlwind weekend of long walks, eating, and pleasantly just existing.
When I visited them for New Year’s, I was treated to beautiful homemade meals of sushi and fresh pasta, as well as a lovely exploratory walk of their town, two holiday parties and an outdoor hot tub with a neighboring wood fire. My goal was to attempt to meet this level of visit excellence. However, I—we, really—were immediately hit with a very serious problem. We had way too much food. We also planned to go biking, visit the Arboretum, visit the gems of Ypsilanti, and find the street Carrie had lived on during a very brief stay in Ann Arbor years ago. In approximately 48 hours.
In preparation for a fast-paced weekend, I had procured salad greens, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, catfish filets, potatoes, and pasta. They brought tomatoes, herbs, and bread from the CSA. They also wanted to take me out for dinner to celebrate my new job. I also wanted to take them to my usual haunts.
We spent the entire weekend eating.
Shortly after their arrival, we headed downtown for dinner and beer at Old Town. We ate ribs, a Knight’s burger, and a reuben with pitchers of Oberon and Two Hearted. We were joined over time by friends who’d planned to join us and those who were collected along the way, maxing out around a dozen. Diagrams of how people knew each other were drawn by hands in the air. Stories were told. Design theory was hashed out. Drinks were drunk. We drifted home, full of meat and hops and goodwill toward men.
After sleeping in on Saturday, and changing the tires on my bike to the lovely road tires they’d brought me, we brunched at Northside Grill, consuming two-egg breakfasts and pancakes. We headed to the farmer’s market, intent on browsing only and full of plans to tour downtown and campus. However, we were faced with raspberries and cherries. We bought them. We continued downtown to drop by The Brickyard and had a small picnic of fruit and almonds. Another friend, just returned from the meat capital of America, called to let me know he had thick cut, vacuum-sealed bacon for my visitors. We met him upstairs, received the bacon, and wandered southward toward campus. All that walking required a snack of tomato bruschetta and ABC’s Brasserie Blonde at Dominick’s.
This is where we descended into madness.
Still wanting to take me out to dinner, my guests suggested that we go to eve in Kerrytown. I reminded them that they were leaving on Sunday afternoon, so our only chance at a fish and potato dinner would be that very night. They made the obvious point that we would just have to have two dinners. Reservations for a late dinner at eve were made, and after an attempt to triangulate Carrie’s old neighborhood, we began the march home to fix dinner number one.
We drank cranberry juice and Vernor’s and made insalata caprese, garlic mashed potatoes, and milk-soaked, flour-dredged fried catfish. We all remained prone for approximately an hour, with Carrie and I elevating our various bad joints made worse by walking nearly all the way to the Zen Buddhist Temple on Packard and back, then rose and dressed for dinner number two, which consisted of really delicious cocktails, appetizers (curry mussels, chicken dumplings, and scallops), and desserts (with wine, of course). Creme fraishe was the order of the evening.
On Sunday, sure we would never eat again, we rose and began to plan the bike ride, which got increasingly short as we discussed it, despite our clear need for exercise. Then, an IM from my usual weekend brunch companion sent us rolling toward the Roadhouse for oysters, grits, eggs, huevos rancheros, and pastries. Afterwards we slowly prepared ourselves for exertion and rode the paved path around Argo Pond, stopping occasionally in search of wormwood. Successful, we returned to my apartment, packed their car, I sent them off only 2 hours behind schedule. I was left with the beginnings of bathtub absinthe, leftover potatoes and fish, several tomatoes, and a surprise bottle of 10-year Laphroaig.
These people are probably the best house guests ever.
Sorry for the quiet lately. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind since spring has truly arrived. Saw a friend off to France, finished up some work, caught up with some other friends I hadn’t seen in a while, attended a Grey Gardens-themed clothing swap, and modeled some hats.
At present I am recovering from some nasty withdrawal from Zoloft.
I was put on a very low dose for various reasons when I was 19, and I have been on it ever since (I’m now 27). Zoloft is one of those anti-depressants that supposedly doesn’t do anything unless you really need it, since it works with existing brain chemistry, specifically serotonin re-uptake. I have never been re-evaluated by a psychiatrist or psychologist for whether it’s necessary still, nor for general therapy purposes. I’ve basically stayed on it out of habit and the what-if factor.
So, since I have a been in a “good place” for a while now, I decided to go off it. I followed the recommended tapering-off procedure, which has you drop your dose by 25mg for a specific interval until you’re down to 0. Since I was only on 50mg (I’ve known people on four times that), this ended fairly quickly. I felt fine. This was expected, as Zoloft is supposed to have a 50% half life.
Then, about a week later, I got hit by a truly absurd array of withdrawal symptoms. Flu symptoms, dizziness, extreme nausea, fatigue, diarrhea, insanely vivid and realistic dreams. Of course, this was the same week that swine flu was all over the news. OH NOES TEH SWINE. Several days later I am much better, but I’m still in a fatigue/nausea/lack of appetite cycle that I can only seem to cut through with cold drinks, produce, and very very small amounts of peanut butter and other protein.
For an anti-depressant that is supposed to be on the less-mess-with-your-body end of the spectrum, and which is available extremely cheaply as a generic, and for which I was prescribed such a small dose, the after effects are pretty absurd. Part of me is very angry at my then-doctor, and the university psychologist, for putting me on this thing in the first place. Yes, there was a time and a place. I had a hard time adjusting to college, socially and emotionally, and it was probably good to be on some sort of stabilizer then. But, they both told me that I might have to be on it for the rest of my life, and I believed them because, well, they were doctors.
And no, I am not a medical professional. And yes, maybe I should have tapered even longer. But from what I’ve read online (and yes, I hate reading medical advice and symptoms online as much as anyone) people that have quit cold turkey and people who taper off the drug can have the exact same experiences, i.e., the symptoms I had and more (I’m glad I missed out on the “electric shocks” symptom. Jesus). And I don’t want to be one of those DON’T DO ANTI-DEPRESSANTS crusaders. I can only speak for myself. I honestly thought briefly about going back on (I have almost a month’s supply left, and another refill) to make the symptoms stop, but decided that wouldn’t do any better for me in the long run.
So, on a Sunday afternoon, after sleeping for about 12 hours, I am drinking iced coffee with soy milk and sipping a smoothie crammed full with antioxidants, trying to get my body as flushed out as possible. I am doing laundry, and some crocheting, and some work-related things, and I’m feeling pretty good. So there’s that.
Any well-wishes I receive will be directly applied to the hope that my car only needs a new battery and not an expensive piece of machinery or electronics.
I also splurged a bit and got myself a refurbed previous-gen ipod. So now I’ll be one of the cool kids.
A post at Celcias.com, a site and project about global warming, sustainability, and related issues, provides this answer for us.
Long story short, almost 75% of farm subsidies for 1995-2005 were for meat and dairy production, and less than 1% were for vegetables and fruits. Throw in a shitty economy, and you get people who can afford to feed their families at McDonald’s but can’t afford to buy fresh, vitamin-rich produce at the grocery store. Tada!
After I arrived (a few minutes late) to my appointment at the orthopedic clinic at the hospital this morning, I found out I was supposed to get x-rays, got x-rays, then waited for about an hour to be called back to an exam room, where I was told that I had only needed to keep the appointment if I was having problems with the ankle. This would have been good to know beforehand, but the resident made me flex it and do some different resistance things and then let me loose without having to wait for the surgeon.
I was pissed, so instead of waiting for the bus, I walked home.
Good news, everyone. I am now allowed to walk normally, sans Go-Bot boot even. And by “normally” I mean I’m a bit stiff and hobbly and am using one crutch if I want to get up any speed, but it’s something isn’t it?
I got copies of all three x-rays from today and hope to scan them if I can find a big scanner. Until then, here’s a snapshot.
Original pre-move comment from headwrong:
You now have the ability to kick holes clean through your enemies.
I know the first page of my Flickr photostream is pretty ugly today, but I had to get the ankle pictures out of my system. If you are squeamish, think of fuzzy bunnies and don’t click. But if you dig this shit, clicky clicky clicky.
Hi. This blog is by Devon Persing. She mostly writes about work (information science and publishing), food, and crafts. You can write to her, if you'd like. You can also follow her on twitter or check out things she saves on delicious.
