Aids.

 
I have an appointment with an ENT doctor on Tuesday. My ears have been ringing nonstop since I got sick at Christmas, and I have a feeling my hearing loss has only become more...lost. I do believe that 2010 is the year I get aids. Hearing aids.

The reason I've put this off as long as I have is that I'm afraid they'll tell me that my hearing loss has gotten worse. It was 40% in both ears 5 years ago--what if it's 50% now? Or 60%? If the loss is progressive and constant, then that's some scary math: it's not a lot of years till 100%. So if you don't go to the doctor, then you don't know it's gotten worse for sure, though you suspect it, of course, and life goes on. And you don't hear anything in meetings, or when people come to whisper something to you in your cube at work, or when someone's got her head turned and she's talking to you but you can't hear it.

But how will I wear my iPod when I'm on my walk? And how on earth will we afford the aids in the first place. I have a lot of questions.

Boring.

I'm pretty sure this will be my last blog post. I've had a blog on and off for almost 7 years, and I just don't feel like doing it anymore. I'm all outta stories. Too bad I couldn't have figured this out 2 weeks ago, when I started this blog. Live and learn.

Here's a picture of George:

The chair.

When Chris moved in last year, there was very little in his apartment that he brought with him. I had a fully (and cutely) furnished place, so there wasn't a need to bring much. There were the books, of course.

This is how our bedroom looks now, and this is just a sampling; the rest of our books 

are in the office and downstairs, tucked in every conceivable cranny.

And the chair. The one piece of furniture he was really attached to, the one that he bought at a vintage store because it spoke to him.

Spoke of '60s-era orange/saffron/brown colors, apparently. I was dubious.

Until I sat down in it. Mama mia, that is one comfortable chair. Like sitting in a cloud.

So we tried to make it blend in (because it's not going anywhere--we nearly got annulled over trying to get this thing up the stairs and through the tightest doorway ever, so this thing stays). Painted the walls blue. Tossed the orange pillows I got from former employees in Pakistan. A little hand-me-down foot stool. Make the chair look like it's there on purpose.

I've never been totally sold on how "intentional" it looks, other than when I see Chris retreat to it to read in the mornings, or on a Saturday afternoon. Then I know it belongs here. It's part of our house.

I miss cheese.

In my new life, there is very little room for cheese. For bread, either, but the one that gets me is cheese. (Or I should say, that one that got me into this mess is cheese.) Cheesy goodness is in everything, which means: not for me.

We're meeting some friends for brunch this morning the typically Austin, run-by-hippies (yet-there-are-no-egg-white-options-for-omelets on the menu*) Magnolia Cafe, so I checked the restaurant's menu ahead of time to see what I could have. I find that if I have a plan going in, I am more likely to follow it instead of saying, "I'll have the buttermilk pancakes, extra butter." On the menu I find lots of omelet options, but no egg-white substitution (perhaps you just have to ask?). And all of them contain jack or cheddar cheese. Breakfast taco? Cheese and regular eggs. Pancakes? One million points, plus you have to have syrup or something to put on them. So.

This ignites the age-old argument within: what is cheese worth? Is it worth standing on the scale tomorrow and seeing no change? Because tomorrow-me is always pissed at the choices yesterday-me made. Is it worth the temporary taste? Yes and no. Will it make me sad to have to order, instead, off the a la cart menu: English muffin, fruit, black beans. Yes and no. Will I be glad I did that later? Yes and yes.

This is what the rest of my life will look like. I guess I'm late to the party because I'm pretty sure this is what everyone's life is supposed to look like. Make good choices. Be healthy. It's not a secret formula. Unfortunately, this just dawned on me at age 33. Fortunately, every day counts. As do the 52.5 lbs I no longer schlep around.

Suck it, cheese.

*Update: yes, there are egg-white options. Saved!

Rainy day

All day at work, I wished I were doing this:

You know, wrapped up in my JLo's (velor pants, which I for some reason always associate with JLo), snuggled under a blanket, watching the rain. If only I could work from home sometimes! (Except I don't have enough stick-it-to-ness to stay on task without every shiny thing distracting me, or me deciding that now is exactly the right time to vacuum the back of the refrigerator.) If only I could call in "sick" without feeling super guilty, thus ruining my day off!

Instead I sit in my little gray cube, hunched over reams of paper, and am assaulted with exclamation-mark-laden notes like this, from here:

 

  

Do these notes ever work? The ones in my office usually have LOTS more exclamation points and lots more run-on sentences. They are often accompanied by emails sent with high urgency. To which I would like to respond someday: Dear secretary, A high urgency email is one that warns employees about a gunman loose in the building or a tornado headed straight for us. It is not one that tells people not to put stir-sticks in the sink. 

Instead I plan to secretly rip down the one over the sink. Someday. Maybe.