8.25.2007
8.24.2007
On Chiropractic
One of the interesting things about a move is that it gives you a chance to switch doctors... even the ones you liked just fine. At first I thought this was just a big downside of the whole thing, but it's turning out to be a great learning experience.
Back in California, I liked my chiropractor very much. With her spiffy little ultrasound machine, she completely removed all the knots in my back (there were lots!), popped all my vertebrae back where they belong, and applied electrotherapy to stimulate the muscles so they could get some practice getting used to the new alignment of my spine. She warned me that I might experience some soreness afterward, but she did such a great job of preparing my muscles that I didn't feel anything but relief. Blessed, blissful relief. I had no idea life could be this good. Did you know that standing up straight doesn't have to require gargantuan effort, and lots of pain? It was an amazing revelation. Dr. Shaygan wasn't a bit weird or fanatical, she just knew lots about the back, talked about why it's a generally good idea to have a healthy back, and gave me good advice on how to change the way I do things so as to make it easier on my back. It was great.
But then we moved across the country, and by the time we arrived, my back was in pretty bad shape again. So I made an appointment with a local chiropractor.
And this particular chiropractor here in Houston is all about applied kinesiology. Apparently, if a vertebra is pinching a nerve, your arms and legs supposedly to lose their ability to resist pressure when that vertebra is touched. Or something like that. And sure enough, when this chiropractor ran her hand down my spine while pushing down on my leg, my leg bounced down at every stop along the way. Very impressive, indeed.
The only problem was, I had no idea what was really going on. Was she pushing harder? Was I just relaxing a bit, and then exerting more force when I realized my leg went down? Hard to say. I don't doubt that things like that really do happen-- martial artists can make excellent use of such pressure points on the most uncooperative of subjects. But it's a little bit like a ouija board. I don't doubt that it's possible that people have contacted demons through ouija boards, but either the will or the unconscious expectations of either participant is entirely sufficient to explain any and all phenomena. It's just not very reliable.
And in fact, applied kinesiologist believe that chemicals have the same sort of results, and that they can be seen immediately and dramatically just by testing muscle resistance after placing a drop of various chemicals under the tongue. And oh, the results are dramatic... except when the test is double-blind. And then everything becomes very ambiguous and ho-hum. Thus it's pretty clear that the expectations of either the patient or the examiner produce pretty dramatic results in that sort of test, and whatever else may or may not be going on, that's a sufficient explanation for just about any result.
So while I do think there's probably something to the whole pressure point thing, I really don't feel safe basing my treatment on those tests.
But I was assured that I would not at all be safe going to any other chiropractor in the area, because the other ones just went by what the back felt like. But the chiropractors in this office test for pressure points, and if something feels crooked, but my foot doesn't bounce, they'll leave it be. And if something feels straight and my foot does bounce, by gum, they're going to make that thing move.
Believe you me, if she'd told me this before adjusting me, there's no way I would have allowed her to touch me.
The other distinctive of this practice is their emphasis on patient education. Now my old chiropractor emphasized patient education, too. I had to watch an informative video out in the waiting room when I came for my first visit, the Dr. Shaygan showed me lots of models of the spine, gave cogent explanations for everything she did, and took the time to answer all my questions.
Patient education at this practice in Houston is very, very different. In fact, my first visit took around 2 hours, and there wasn't even time for an actual adjustment. Just lectures upon lectures, an absurdly thorough health history (did I ever fall off my bike as a small child?), more lectures, an applied-kinesiological exam, more lectures, an evaluation with the acupuncturist, and then it was time to schedule me for an actual adjustment the next day.
The whole deal with the acupuncturist was rather surreal. She used a sophisticated computerized apparatus to measure my chi, and determine the balance of yin and yang, and handed me a printout charting all my meridians.
When I asked her what exactly the machine was measuring, she just looked at me incredulously. Hadn't I ever heard of "chi?" Well, yes, but I wasn't very clear on the concept, or how on earth a computer program was measuring it.
And apparently she wasn't, either, because I never did get any more explanation than that.
The next day, I hoped that I could just get an adjustment, and go home--my time is precious to me, and as fascinating as all this is, frankly, I'd rather be reading Luther. He's much more level-headed, even-keeled, and whatnot. No such luck. O ut in the waiting room, I was given a laminated informational sheet to study, and when I announced that I was done skimming it over, I was taken into a private room where my case manager administered an oral examination. It was very clear that I was not going to see the chiropractor until I had successfully defined such concepts as health, function, and subluxation to her satisfaction. But once I had successfully rattled off their definitions, then it was time for the interactive lecture. She pulled out a small white-board, and proceeded to draw a simplistic diagram. She drew three circles, each connected to the other. The middle circle she labeled "body," the lower circle represented "function," and I was to tell her what I thought the top circle stood for.
After all the stuff about computerized yin and yang, I had absolutely no idea what philosophical framework she was using, and I really, really, wanted to get through this quickly, so I figured I'd better cover all my bases in one breath.
"Well, you're either referring to the brain or to the soul, one or the other."
"Soul!?" She started, then composed herself and chuckled condescendingly. "Oh, so you're spiritual, are you? Well, I'm spiritual, too, so we'd better leave all that out of this. We probably disagree about most things. But I do believe in a higher power."
And so on and so forth. Finally, she was satisfied that I understood that it is important for the brain to communicate with the body, and that pinched nerves make that much harder, etc. etc. etc. And then it was time to talk about my actual treatment plan, and how it was important for me to come in every day for the first few weeks, and several times a week thereafter for the next five months.
How... nice.
I tried to keep my smile pasted on, but the case manager caught me anyway. It was clear that if I was going to have the audacity to think, I'd better explain myself so she could clear things up. We weren't going anywhere until I was sufficiently brainwashed. I tried every polite means of evasion, but we were at an impasse. This persistent prying into my very soul and thoughts was somehow terrifying. Here was a person who had absolutely no respect for my right to have thoughts which I might freely choose to share or to keep to myself. On the surface level, everything was quite civil, yet she was clearly not going to release me until she had succeeding in molding my very thoughts to her satisfaction. It was all so very, very harmless, and yet so very unscrupulous. This woman who couldn't refer to an individual soul that was not identical with some higher power, also denied in practice any distinction between her soul and mine. Her complete disregard of my desire to keep my thoughts to myself went beyond mere pushiness--it was dehumanizing. I thought about telling her to her face that I felt threatened and manipulated, that my intelligence was being insulted and my time wasted, and I would not stand for it. That if someone would like to show me to the actual chiropractor, I would be out in the waiting room, otherwise I would be leaving, but in any case our little interview was over. I had come to have my back adjusted, not my brain, and certainly not my soul.
But I didn't. Instead, I caved.
"Oh, I'm just trying to piece together what you're saying with what my other chiropractor said, that's all."
And what did my old chiropractor say?
"Well, she had me come in several times a week at first, but then as the adjustments started holding better, we quickly moved to once a week, and by the time I moved, I was doing quite well seeing her every two weeks."
Well, other offices might do things that way, pacify patients by letting them use chiropractic however they like, but this office prides itself on results. I shouldn't give up hope, though, because she's living proof of the healing at the end of the road. She then went on to explain how I would be required to set up a bunch of appointments in advance, and sign a contract stating that I would either keep all appointments or make them up within one week. And that I should pay one month in advance if at all possible. Not because they wanted to be sure of their payment, of course, but because they didn't want me to have finances on my mind.
Of course.
Smile and nod, smile and nod. Must, must, must conceal any semblance of skepticism so I can see the doctor and get out of that place.
I must have been in there 45 minutes before she was satisfied with my brainwashing, but finally it was over, and I went into the room with the actual chiropractor. It was a different woman from the one who had examined me the day before, but she was very nice and respectful.
She felt along my spine for subluxations, testing my muscle resistance, and applying pressure as needed. Snap, crackle, pop, okay, you're all done.
No therapy, no nothing. All she did was yank around my utterly unprepared, tense back.
Well no wonder they insist that it I'd better come back tomorrow, because it won't hold longer than a day. And no wonder they say that I will be very sore afterwards if it does me any good at all.
And sore I am.
But I do hurt a little less than I did before, and at least I can stand up straight again.
And I have a much better idea of what to look for in a chiropractor.
Back in California, I liked my chiropractor very much. With her spiffy little ultrasound machine, she completely removed all the knots in my back (there were lots!), popped all my vertebrae back where they belong, and applied electrotherapy to stimulate the muscles so they could get some practice getting used to the new alignment of my spine. She warned me that I might experience some soreness afterward, but she did such a great job of preparing my muscles that I didn't feel anything but relief. Blessed, blissful relief. I had no idea life could be this good. Did you know that standing up straight doesn't have to require gargantuan effort, and lots of pain? It was an amazing revelation. Dr. Shaygan wasn't a bit weird or fanatical, she just knew lots about the back, talked about why it's a generally good idea to have a healthy back, and gave me good advice on how to change the way I do things so as to make it easier on my back. It was great.
But then we moved across the country, and by the time we arrived, my back was in pretty bad shape again. So I made an appointment with a local chiropractor.
And this particular chiropractor here in Houston is all about applied kinesiology. Apparently, if a vertebra is pinching a nerve, your arms and legs supposedly to lose their ability to resist pressure when that vertebra is touched. Or something like that. And sure enough, when this chiropractor ran her hand down my spine while pushing down on my leg, my leg bounced down at every stop along the way. Very impressive, indeed.
The only problem was, I had no idea what was really going on. Was she pushing harder? Was I just relaxing a bit, and then exerting more force when I realized my leg went down? Hard to say. I don't doubt that things like that really do happen-- martial artists can make excellent use of such pressure points on the most uncooperative of subjects. But it's a little bit like a ouija board. I don't doubt that it's possible that people have contacted demons through ouija boards, but either the will or the unconscious expectations of either participant is entirely sufficient to explain any and all phenomena. It's just not very reliable.
And in fact, applied kinesiologist believe that chemicals have the same sort of results, and that they can be seen immediately and dramatically just by testing muscle resistance after placing a drop of various chemicals under the tongue. And oh, the results are dramatic... except when the test is double-blind. And then everything becomes very ambiguous and ho-hum. Thus it's pretty clear that the expectations of either the patient or the examiner produce pretty dramatic results in that sort of test, and whatever else may or may not be going on, that's a sufficient explanation for just about any result.
So while I do think there's probably something to the whole pressure point thing, I really don't feel safe basing my treatment on those tests.
But I was assured that I would not at all be safe going to any other chiropractor in the area, because the other ones just went by what the back felt like. But the chiropractors in this office test for pressure points, and if something feels crooked, but my foot doesn't bounce, they'll leave it be. And if something feels straight and my foot does bounce, by gum, they're going to make that thing move.
Believe you me, if she'd told me this before adjusting me, there's no way I would have allowed her to touch me.
The other distinctive of this practice is their emphasis on patient education. Now my old chiropractor emphasized patient education, too. I had to watch an informative video out in the waiting room when I came for my first visit, the Dr. Shaygan showed me lots of models of the spine, gave cogent explanations for everything she did, and took the time to answer all my questions.
Patient education at this practice in Houston is very, very different. In fact, my first visit took around 2 hours, and there wasn't even time for an actual adjustment. Just lectures upon lectures, an absurdly thorough health history (did I ever fall off my bike as a small child?), more lectures, an applied-kinesiological exam, more lectures, an evaluation with the acupuncturist, and then it was time to schedule me for an actual adjustment the next day.
The whole deal with the acupuncturist was rather surreal. She used a sophisticated computerized apparatus to measure my chi, and determine the balance of yin and yang, and handed me a printout charting all my meridians.
When I asked her what exactly the machine was measuring, she just looked at me incredulously. Hadn't I ever heard of "chi?" Well, yes, but I wasn't very clear on the concept, or how on earth a computer program was measuring it.
And apparently she wasn't, either, because I never did get any more explanation than that.
The next day, I hoped that I could just get an adjustment, and go home--my time is precious to me, and as fascinating as all this is, frankly, I'd rather be reading Luther. He's much more level-headed, even-keeled, and whatnot. No such luck. O ut in the waiting room, I was given a laminated informational sheet to study, and when I announced that I was done skimming it over, I was taken into a private room where my case manager administered an oral examination. It was very clear that I was not going to see the chiropractor until I had successfully defined such concepts as health, function, and subluxation to her satisfaction. But once I had successfully rattled off their definitions, then it was time for the interactive lecture. She pulled out a small white-board, and proceeded to draw a simplistic diagram. She drew three circles, each connected to the other. The middle circle she labeled "body," the lower circle represented "function," and I was to tell her what I thought the top circle stood for.
After all the stuff about computerized yin and yang, I had absolutely no idea what philosophical framework she was using, and I really, really, wanted to get through this quickly, so I figured I'd better cover all my bases in one breath.
"Well, you're either referring to the brain or to the soul, one or the other."
"Soul!?" She started, then composed herself and chuckled condescendingly. "Oh, so you're spiritual, are you? Well, I'm spiritual, too, so we'd better leave all that out of this. We probably disagree about most things. But I do believe in a higher power."
And so on and so forth. Finally, she was satisfied that I understood that it is important for the brain to communicate with the body, and that pinched nerves make that much harder, etc. etc. etc. And then it was time to talk about my actual treatment plan, and how it was important for me to come in every day for the first few weeks, and several times a week thereafter for the next five months.
How... nice.
I tried to keep my smile pasted on, but the case manager caught me anyway. It was clear that if I was going to have the audacity to think, I'd better explain myself so she could clear things up. We weren't going anywhere until I was sufficiently brainwashed. I tried every polite means of evasion, but we were at an impasse. This persistent prying into my very soul and thoughts was somehow terrifying. Here was a person who had absolutely no respect for my right to have thoughts which I might freely choose to share or to keep to myself. On the surface level, everything was quite civil, yet she was clearly not going to release me until she had succeeding in molding my very thoughts to her satisfaction. It was all so very, very harmless, and yet so very unscrupulous. This woman who couldn't refer to an individual soul that was not identical with some higher power, also denied in practice any distinction between her soul and mine. Her complete disregard of my desire to keep my thoughts to myself went beyond mere pushiness--it was dehumanizing. I thought about telling her to her face that I felt threatened and manipulated, that my intelligence was being insulted and my time wasted, and I would not stand for it. That if someone would like to show me to the actual chiropractor, I would be out in the waiting room, otherwise I would be leaving, but in any case our little interview was over. I had come to have my back adjusted, not my brain, and certainly not my soul.
But I didn't. Instead, I caved.
"Oh, I'm just trying to piece together what you're saying with what my other chiropractor said, that's all."
And what did my old chiropractor say?
"Well, she had me come in several times a week at first, but then as the adjustments started holding better, we quickly moved to once a week, and by the time I moved, I was doing quite well seeing her every two weeks."
Well, other offices might do things that way, pacify patients by letting them use chiropractic however they like, but this office prides itself on results. I shouldn't give up hope, though, because she's living proof of the healing at the end of the road. She then went on to explain how I would be required to set up a bunch of appointments in advance, and sign a contract stating that I would either keep all appointments or make them up within one week. And that I should pay one month in advance if at all possible. Not because they wanted to be sure of their payment, of course, but because they didn't want me to have finances on my mind.
Of course.
Smile and nod, smile and nod. Must, must, must conceal any semblance of skepticism so I can see the doctor and get out of that place.
I must have been in there 45 minutes before she was satisfied with my brainwashing, but finally it was over, and I went into the room with the actual chiropractor. It was a different woman from the one who had examined me the day before, but she was very nice and respectful.
She felt along my spine for subluxations, testing my muscle resistance, and applying pressure as needed. Snap, crackle, pop, okay, you're all done.
No therapy, no nothing. All she did was yank around my utterly unprepared, tense back.
Well no wonder they insist that it I'd better come back tomorrow, because it won't hold longer than a day. And no wonder they say that I will be very sore afterwards if it does me any good at all.
And sore I am.
But I do hurt a little less than I did before, and at least I can stand up straight again.
And I have a much better idea of what to look for in a chiropractor.
8.23.2007
Sounding It Out
"That's right, Nathan, it's a car. And can you tell me what the first sound in 'car' is?"
"Beep-beep."
"Beep-beep."
8.20.2007
Seeing Blinds
I must confess that I don't really care for vertical blinds. Or any sort of blinds, really. Except for the wooden ones, and that's probably only because I've never actually had wooden blinds, so I'm blissfully ignorant of the troubles involved in their upkeep. But I'm well aware of the troubles with aluminum blinds that collect dust and are impossibly difficult to clean, and that are so very easily destroyed with a single encounter with a single toddler---never mind constant interaction with three very rambunctious wuggies. I'm also altogether too aware of the troubles with verticals, how they collapse to the floor with the slightest bump, and get quite tangled if you try to open or close them without remembering the proper order of operations.
As I said, I don't particularly care for vertical blinds, but I'm beginning to see them with new eyes.
The place we're living in right now is a really great house. The location is perfect. It's a great subdivision, and right by Andy's school. At first I was a little disappointed about how deeply we were buried in the neighborhood, but that was before I realized that the subdivision has outlets on two major roads and we're just about halfway between them. So if we want to go to Andy's school, we turn right, if we want to go to Wal-Mart we turn left, and in either case, it's not too far. As for the house itself, I love the floor plan, and it has a terrific back yard. Or at least, the back yard would be wonderful if the fence didn't extend around the utility easement and maybe didn't have quite so many rotting slats. And maybe if their wasn't an attempt to grow a lawn without any sunlight. Maybe the trees need some thinning, or maybe there's some wonderful alternative shade-loving ground cover, but the scraggly bits of grass are a bit silly. All things considered, we absolutely love it... bit there's a sense in which it's something of an eyesore.
And that's the way the whole house is. A wonderful, absolutely perfect... eyesore.
We knew what we were getting into when we the realtor/property manager told us that no, they had no intentions of fixing the peeling vinyl in the kitchen. It's a bit nerve-racking to rent from somebody who considers intact flooring optional, but as you get deeper into your second week of the toddler invasion of your relations' lovely home, you take what you can get.
Even so, when he pointed to the package of brand-new doorknobs on the counter, and said the handyman would be by to change the locks, I had no idea that he meant that we'd have a mismatched lock component installed within the same old grossly misshapen and deeply dented doorknobs.
Filling out the inventory and condition form was a feat of tiny writing, and despite my best efforts, we needed an extra page. Whoever thought that one line would be sufficient to describe the condition of the garage ceiling obviously didn't have this particular house in mind. To be perfectly honest, I was vaguely nervous about turning in the form, because it just felt so rude to be putting all this down in writing. It was embarrassing.
Apparently the management thought so, too. Incredulous, they sent someone over to see if it was true, or if we were stretching the truth.
Yup, it was all true, and absolutely unacceptable. He would let the owners know that some things were going to have to change.
I don't know if they're really going to fix the vinyl. He says they are, but I'm not holding my breath. And is the handyman really going to come back after the rains dry out and fix the fence? Probably, but who knows.
But in the mean time, all the kitchen drawers work now, the crooked window has been replaced with one that doesn't leave a whistling gap, and we have new vertical blinds in the living room. Beautifully crisp, clean, brand new blinds that open AND close, made of smooth, easily wipe-able vinyl, without a single trace of mildew. The room is filled with sparklingly fresh light, and every time I walk in, I take a deep breath and savor the feeling. I love, love, love them.
Life is oh-so-good. I have new blinds.
As I said, I don't particularly care for vertical blinds, but I'm beginning to see them with new eyes.
The place we're living in right now is a really great house. The location is perfect. It's a great subdivision, and right by Andy's school. At first I was a little disappointed about how deeply we were buried in the neighborhood, but that was before I realized that the subdivision has outlets on two major roads and we're just about halfway between them. So if we want to go to Andy's school, we turn right, if we want to go to Wal-Mart we turn left, and in either case, it's not too far. As for the house itself, I love the floor plan, and it has a terrific back yard. Or at least, the back yard would be wonderful if the fence didn't extend around the utility easement and maybe didn't have quite so many rotting slats. And maybe if their wasn't an attempt to grow a lawn without any sunlight. Maybe the trees need some thinning, or maybe there's some wonderful alternative shade-loving ground cover, but the scraggly bits of grass are a bit silly. All things considered, we absolutely love it... bit there's a sense in which it's something of an eyesore.
And that's the way the whole house is. A wonderful, absolutely perfect... eyesore.
We knew what we were getting into when we the realtor/property manager told us that no, they had no intentions of fixing the peeling vinyl in the kitchen. It's a bit nerve-racking to rent from somebody who considers intact flooring optional, but as you get deeper into your second week of the toddler invasion of your relations' lovely home, you take what you can get.
Even so, when he pointed to the package of brand-new doorknobs on the counter, and said the handyman would be by to change the locks, I had no idea that he meant that we'd have a mismatched lock component installed within the same old grossly misshapen and deeply dented doorknobs.
Filling out the inventory and condition form was a feat of tiny writing, and despite my best efforts, we needed an extra page. Whoever thought that one line would be sufficient to describe the condition of the garage ceiling obviously didn't have this particular house in mind. To be perfectly honest, I was vaguely nervous about turning in the form, because it just felt so rude to be putting all this down in writing. It was embarrassing.
Apparently the management thought so, too. Incredulous, they sent someone over to see if it was true, or if we were stretching the truth.
Yup, it was all true, and absolutely unacceptable. He would let the owners know that some things were going to have to change.
I don't know if they're really going to fix the vinyl. He says they are, but I'm not holding my breath. And is the handyman really going to come back after the rains dry out and fix the fence? Probably, but who knows.
But in the mean time, all the kitchen drawers work now, the crooked window has been replaced with one that doesn't leave a whistling gap, and we have new vertical blinds in the living room. Beautifully crisp, clean, brand new blinds that open AND close, made of smooth, easily wipe-able vinyl, without a single trace of mildew. The room is filled with sparklingly fresh light, and every time I walk in, I take a deep breath and savor the feeling. I love, love, love them.
Life is oh-so-good. I have new blinds.
8.17.2007
Jane no like jungle so much. Must stay inside grass hut with air conditioning.
During our house hunt, we looked at an apartment complex in Tomball. It seems that the laws about no more than two to a bedroom don't apply if the youngest resident is under 24 months. As our youngest resident is currently only 23 1/2 months old... well, it's all open to interpretation.
Anyway, this particular apartment had everything. Okay, so it was 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have anything opening up for another three weeks, but oh man, this place had everything. Playground, private balconies, sizable patios... it even had its own private graveyard. No, I'm not joking.
Anyway, we didn't end up getting this apartment, because it was, after all, 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have an opening for three weeks, but among the amenities of this particular apartment complex was a 24-hour excercise room, complete with a dry sauna.
Dry sauna? What in the world is a dry sauna, and what in the world would anyone want with one? Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose?
Then I stepped back outside, and it all made sense. Whatever the merits of dry saunas may be, one thing is certain. A normal sauna would definitely not be much of a selling point around here. The whole Houston area is just one big, steamy sauna.
I like saunas. Really, I do. But everyone knows that the best part about a sauna is the part where you get out and go jump in the pool.
And so it is that my very favorite thing about Texas is air conditioning.
Anyway, this particular apartment had everything. Okay, so it was 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have anything opening up for another three weeks, but oh man, this place had everything. Playground, private balconies, sizable patios... it even had its own private graveyard. No, I'm not joking.
Anyway, we didn't end up getting this apartment, because it was, after all, 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have an opening for three weeks, but among the amenities of this particular apartment complex was a 24-hour excercise room, complete with a dry sauna.
Dry sauna? What in the world is a dry sauna, and what in the world would anyone want with one? Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose?
Then I stepped back outside, and it all made sense. Whatever the merits of dry saunas may be, one thing is certain. A normal sauna would definitely not be much of a selling point around here. The whole Houston area is just one big, steamy sauna.
I like saunas. Really, I do. But everyone knows that the best part about a sauna is the part where you get out and go jump in the pool.
And so it is that my very favorite thing about Texas is air conditioning.
8.15.2007
Home Sweet Home
Well, I hope he and his wife enjoy the play set.
Meanwhile, we're one street over. Dream house, it is not. Same floor plan, but a rather different philosophy of property management. Let's just say that it won't to move when the time comes to buy a place of our own.
However, for the time being, I'm just soaking in the joy of having enough space for all of us.
Andy's parents are arriving for a short visit tonight... and we actually have room for them!
The kids have room to thoroughly wear themselves out.
And that long-running dispute about how to cram all our dishes into the smallest space possible? Utterly irrelevant. Finally, I know what it feels like to have sufficient cupboard space, and you know what? It feels really, really good.
Meanwhile, we're one street over. Dream house, it is not. Same floor plan, but a rather different philosophy of property management. Let's just say that it won't to move when the time comes to buy a place of our own.
However, for the time being, I'm just soaking in the joy of having enough space for all of us.
Andy's parents are arriving for a short visit tonight... and we actually have room for them!
The kids have room to thoroughly wear themselves out.
And that long-running dispute about how to cram all our dishes into the smallest space possible? Utterly irrelevant. Finally, I know what it feels like to have sufficient cupboard space, and you know what? It feels really, really good.
7.30.2007
Cue the Jeopardy Music, Please
We have each submitted our applications to the real estate office. Neither application has priority over the other. Both will be processed, and given to the owner, who will then make the final decision.
The realtor is optimistic about the possibility of getting an answer this morning.
The rational side of me is quite sceptical. We won't know until tomorrow afternoon. That's just the way things work.
But all the rest of me is waiting by the phone, burning up with impatience.
It's 10:39 already... why hasn't he called?
Nevermind the fact that they have to get through to our former landlords, and due to the time difference, they won't even be open for another half hour.
I'm scouring the multiple listings site, trying to convince myself that there are other houses out there. And there really are other houses out there. It's just that they have carpet in the dining rooms, smell like smoke, and have tiny, unattractive backyards.
It's going to be okay. Really.
But it's so hard to take all this as lightly as I want to.
The realtor is optimistic about the possibility of getting an answer this morning.
The rational side of me is quite sceptical. We won't know until tomorrow afternoon. That's just the way things work.
But all the rest of me is waiting by the phone, burning up with impatience.
It's 10:39 already... why hasn't he called?
Nevermind the fact that they have to get through to our former landlords, and due to the time difference, they won't even be open for another half hour.
I'm scouring the multiple listings site, trying to convince myself that there are other houses out there. And there really are other houses out there. It's just that they have carpet in the dining rooms, smell like smoke, and have tiny, unattractive backyards.
It's going to be okay. Really.
But it's so hard to take all this as lightly as I want to.
7.29.2007
Love, War, and Real Estate
The real estate office is closed over the weekend, which makes this whole thing a bit nerve racking. If we have our application tucked through their mail slot by the time they get in there Monday morning, we should be fine... as long as nobody else has an application waiting for them, too.
Andy just got back from his faculty retreat yesterday afternoon, and we went out together to drop off the application. First, though, I wanted to drive him by the house so he could take a look at the neighborhood. Just for the fun of it... it wasn't like there was any sort of decision left to make. Kid proof floors--check. Trees--check. Biking distance from school--check. Gorgeous miniature playground--where did that unfathomable blessing come from? We'll take it!
So we drove by, and saw the neighborhood... and the unique wraparound entryway... and the front yard... and the young couple standing in the front yard talking to a realtor. The man grinned and waved at us.
"It's Tony! Pull over and park!"
And so it was that I got to meet one of the other new teachers at Providence. Andy had been having lots of great dialogue with him all weekend.
We chatted a bit about what a great house it is, great neighborhood, great location, and wow, isn't it funny, this is exactly the house we're putting in an application for! Were we looking at any other houses? Well, not if we get this one!
We left them to their tour, and drove off to find Star Realty.
We looked and we looked, but we can't find them. Learned a whole lot about the Houston area freeway feeder-roads system, but we never did find 19627 I-45 North.
We're getting a little bit desperate here. If the application isn't in before they open on Monday, then we can't quite legitimately pester them all morning about it.
And everybody knows that all's fair in love, war, and real estate.
Andy just got back from his faculty retreat yesterday afternoon, and we went out together to drop off the application. First, though, I wanted to drive him by the house so he could take a look at the neighborhood. Just for the fun of it... it wasn't like there was any sort of decision left to make. Kid proof floors--check. Trees--check. Biking distance from school--check. Gorgeous miniature playground--where did that unfathomable blessing come from? We'll take it!
So we drove by, and saw the neighborhood... and the unique wraparound entryway... and the front yard... and the young couple standing in the front yard talking to a realtor. The man grinned and waved at us.
"It's Tony! Pull over and park!"
And so it was that I got to meet one of the other new teachers at Providence. Andy had been having lots of great dialogue with him all weekend.
We chatted a bit about what a great house it is, great neighborhood, great location, and wow, isn't it funny, this is exactly the house we're putting in an application for! Were we looking at any other houses? Well, not if we get this one!
We left them to their tour, and drove off to find Star Realty.
We looked and we looked, but we can't find them. Learned a whole lot about the Houston area freeway feeder-roads system, but we never did find 19627 I-45 North.
We're getting a little bit desperate here. If the application isn't in before they open on Monday, then we can't quite legitimately pester them all morning about it.
And everybody knows that all's fair in love, war, and real estate.
7.27.2007
Homecoming
It's a strange thing, slowly to come home to a place you've never been.
After far too long on the road, too many motels and truck stops, Nathan told me that he wanted to go home.
Heart breaking for him, I asked where exactly he meant by that.
"I want to go to the new house."
It's a strange, and peculiarly desperate sort of homesickness, not to long so much for a particular place that is home, but simply to long to be home, wherever it is that we are.
Today, out of the blue, my little bug-boy announced to me, "We're almost there."
Indeed we are. We're almost home--and oh, what a home!
We've picked out a place to rent and gathered all the application paperwork. All I need to do is pick up a money order in the morning for the application fee, drop everything off, and wait for approval.
It's gorgeous, and with carpeting in the bedrooms only, it won't be terribly hard to keep it that way. Beautiful, beautiful laminate floors! I could kiss them!
And the back yard! A good sized back yard with four or so mature pines, providing both house and yard a canopy of shade. And a beautiful play set, just the right size for our kidlings, and very attractive.
Things I never would have bothered to wish for, too, like walk-in closets in every bedroom.
Even the things I wouldn't have chosen, like the forcefully floral wallpaper in the kitchen, the walls separating the kitchen from dining room and living room, and the unique overall shape of the house... all these things have distinct advantages, and may very well end up being better than "just what I wanted." After all, the wallpaper actually is very pretty, and since we really do want to get into a place of our own in the near future, it's really better to have a kitchen that is cozy and homelike as is, than one with the potential for all sorts of decorating that probably wouldn't even happen until right before it was time to move. And, well, if you can't see the rest of the house from the kitchen, that does mean that you can't see the kitchen from the rest of the house!
I'm just a little bit excited, in case you couldn't tell.
And in the mean time, we're experiencing the warm southern hospitality of my dad's cousin Lorre, and her husband Paul. They've welcomed us into their home with open arms, and while we haven't met the rest of the family yet, I've been hearing enough to get the idea that there's a lot of family, and that family means a lot. It wasn't even on my radar when we made the decision to move here, but do we have family in the area? Indeed we do.
Family, moreover, that really likes kids, and let me tell you, that is a very big deal.
Speaking of which, I can't count how many times I've been asked if twins run in the family, and it turns out I've answered them wrong every time.
Years ago, Paul and Lorre had pretty much the same sort of family as we do now, twin boys and their little sister.
And I have no idea how I'd forgotten, but off in Ohio, I have a set of second cousins who are fraternal twins. And yes, it's their mother that's my dad's cousin, not their father.... apparently twins do indeed run in the family, and not just all over the house and yard!
It's surprising what a warm and belonging feeling a discovery like that can bring. I didn't think it really mattered, but it does. Always before I thought that I was just special, the odd one out, who just has twins out of the blue. It turns out that I'm actually participating in a peculiar quality of Palmer women. We are the sort of women who bear twins, and somehow that "we" means more to me than I would have guessed.
It means something like home.
After far too long on the road, too many motels and truck stops, Nathan told me that he wanted to go home.
Heart breaking for him, I asked where exactly he meant by that.
"I want to go to the new house."
It's a strange, and peculiarly desperate sort of homesickness, not to long so much for a particular place that is home, but simply to long to be home, wherever it is that we are.
Today, out of the blue, my little bug-boy announced to me, "We're almost there."
Indeed we are. We're almost home--and oh, what a home!
We've picked out a place to rent and gathered all the application paperwork. All I need to do is pick up a money order in the morning for the application fee, drop everything off, and wait for approval.
It's gorgeous, and with carpeting in the bedrooms only, it won't be terribly hard to keep it that way. Beautiful, beautiful laminate floors! I could kiss them!
And the back yard! A good sized back yard with four or so mature pines, providing both house and yard a canopy of shade. And a beautiful play set, just the right size for our kidlings, and very attractive.
Things I never would have bothered to wish for, too, like walk-in closets in every bedroom.
Even the things I wouldn't have chosen, like the forcefully floral wallpaper in the kitchen, the walls separating the kitchen from dining room and living room, and the unique overall shape of the house... all these things have distinct advantages, and may very well end up being better than "just what I wanted." After all, the wallpaper actually is very pretty, and since we really do want to get into a place of our own in the near future, it's really better to have a kitchen that is cozy and homelike as is, than one with the potential for all sorts of decorating that probably wouldn't even happen until right before it was time to move. And, well, if you can't see the rest of the house from the kitchen, that does mean that you can't see the kitchen from the rest of the house!
I'm just a little bit excited, in case you couldn't tell.
And in the mean time, we're experiencing the warm southern hospitality of my dad's cousin Lorre, and her husband Paul. They've welcomed us into their home with open arms, and while we haven't met the rest of the family yet, I've been hearing enough to get the idea that there's a lot of family, and that family means a lot. It wasn't even on my radar when we made the decision to move here, but do we have family in the area? Indeed we do.
Family, moreover, that really likes kids, and let me tell you, that is a very big deal.
Speaking of which, I can't count how many times I've been asked if twins run in the family, and it turns out I've answered them wrong every time.
Years ago, Paul and Lorre had pretty much the same sort of family as we do now, twin boys and their little sister.
And I have no idea how I'd forgotten, but off in Ohio, I have a set of second cousins who are fraternal twins. And yes, it's their mother that's my dad's cousin, not their father.... apparently twins do indeed run in the family, and not just all over the house and yard!
It's surprising what a warm and belonging feeling a discovery like that can bring. I didn't think it really mattered, but it does. Always before I thought that I was just special, the odd one out, who just has twins out of the blue. It turns out that I'm actually participating in a peculiar quality of Palmer women. We are the sort of women who bear twins, and somehow that "we" means more to me than I would have guessed.
It means something like home.
7.25.2007
7.16.2007
Unquenchable
It's hot around here. Not nearly as hot as when the van broke down in the middle of the Palm Desert on our way over from California, but certainly hot enough to make a stove quite superfluous to egg-frying.
Hot enough that I was exceedingly glad that I'd let the Tercel's fuel levels get down to "E" before filling up, because the explosive burst when I opened the tank wouldn't have been much fun had there been more than a drop or two of gasoline inside.
Hot enough that the world looks a bit like a Renoir through the unulating haze.
And hot enough, that as I passed by the fire department, sweltering under the blazing sun, for a moment there I actually considered running in there and asking them to put out the fire.
Hot enough that I was exceedingly glad that I'd let the Tercel's fuel levels get down to "E" before filling up, because the explosive burst when I opened the tank wouldn't have been much fun had there been more than a drop or two of gasoline inside.
Hot enough that the world looks a bit like a Renoir through the unulating haze.
And hot enough, that as I passed by the fire department, sweltering under the blazing sun, for a moment there I actually considered running in there and asking them to put out the fire.
7.04.2007
Mealtime conversations
Over the past week or so, we've started having real, live, honest-to-goodness family mealtime chatter. Not just Mom and Dad trying to talk to each other between incessant interruptions, but whole-family discussions.
And it's so much fun.
This morning, over breakfast, the twins announced that they want a birthday party. With party hats. Yellow party hats. And cake. Isaiah wants a chocolate cake. A black chocolate cake. Nathan does not want the cake to be chocolate, but he does want syrup on it. A white cake with lemon sauce? Yup.
And at this two-cake party, they want to paint a train. With a caboose. And an engine.
And actually, this is sounding like a much better idea for a four-year-old birthday party than I could have come up with. I'm glad there's a little time left before January, though.
They're such fun little people, my boys.
=)
And it's so much fun.
This morning, over breakfast, the twins announced that they want a birthday party. With party hats. Yellow party hats. And cake. Isaiah wants a chocolate cake. A black chocolate cake. Nathan does not want the cake to be chocolate, but he does want syrup on it. A white cake with lemon sauce? Yup.
And at this two-cake party, they want to paint a train. With a caboose. And an engine.
And actually, this is sounding like a much better idea for a four-year-old birthday party than I could have come up with. I'm glad there's a little time left before January, though.
They're such fun little people, my boys.
=)
7.01.2007
Security Measures
You know how sometimes people will install fake security cameras, just so folks will think twice before doing anything they wouldn't want recorded?
Well, the United States Postal Service is far too honest for such things.
Far too honest.
So honest, in fact, that there are a number of signs all over the Cottonwood Post Office, making certain that everyone understands that the security cameras are NOT monitored, only recorded.
Well, the United States Postal Service is far too honest for such things.
Far too honest.
So honest, in fact, that there are a number of signs all over the Cottonwood Post Office, making certain that everyone understands that the security cameras are NOT monitored, only recorded.
6.29.2007
On Emergent Molars: A Conversation with Meepo
"It's cutting me, mommy. It feels like snakes."
"I'm sorry that it hurts, but I'm glad that you can describe it like that. You're very articulate."
"NO! Don't tickle it!"
"I'm sorry that it hurts, but I'm glad that you can describe it like that. You're very articulate."
"NO! Don't tickle it!"
6.26.2007
6.23.2007
Story Problem
If the bathroom sink flows at a rate of 1/2 cup per second, and is left running for 1 hr. 20 min., how much water will be on the floor?
6.21.2007
Neither Here nor There
We're officially gone from California, but we have yet to set foot on Texas soil. In the mean time we're hanging out in my parent's home in Arizona. (Thanks, Mom and Dad!) The limbo is a little strange in some ways (no library cards for residents of nowhere), but for the most part we're having a blast. Mom and Dad aren't here right now, but my sister is, and we're having fun together.
And, oh my goodness, the HOUSE! I'd sort of forgotten what it's like to live in a HOUSE. With a YARD. Suddenly, my life is not consummed with preventing my children from doing developmentally appropriate and important things that just so happen to be very much destructive in the small space. Now if they're being destructive or just plain in the way, it's a simple matter to direct them toward another equally attractive activity--preferably outside in that lovely back yard.
Speaking of the back yard, it's been a matter of contention in the Palmer family for a very long time. You see, my mom, sister and I really really wanted a nice lawn and pretty garden. My dad wanted to cover the whole thing over with gravel. We prevailed, and preserved our precious lawn. Or, at least, the closest thing possible when you live in Arizona, and are gone for well over half the year. Year after year, the ratios of grass to weeds fluctuated, but at least we had something green, and we always prevented Daddy from covering it in gravel.
Until this past year. I'm not quite sure what happened, but somehow an agreement was struck, and Daddy had his way. The back yard is now covered in gravel.
And it's gorgeous. I should have known that Daddy's plan wasn't for a hideous, unbroken expanse of gravel. Daddy may not have lots of time for lawn maintainance, but he does have a superb eye for proportion and good composition, a strong aesthetic sense, and good taste. They now have an attractively ordered desert landscape, with pampas grass and yucca and mesquite and honeysuckle and mint. Most of these are local plants that volunteered--and since they are in their proper environment, they thrive quite nicely with minimal care. It's a lovely, restful place, alive with birdsong, joyous and vibrant and peaceful.
I can't believe we fought him for so long.
And I think that surely there must be a lesson somewhere in there.
And, oh my goodness, the HOUSE! I'd sort of forgotten what it's like to live in a HOUSE. With a YARD. Suddenly, my life is not consummed with preventing my children from doing developmentally appropriate and important things that just so happen to be very much destructive in the small space. Now if they're being destructive or just plain in the way, it's a simple matter to direct them toward another equally attractive activity--preferably outside in that lovely back yard.
Speaking of the back yard, it's been a matter of contention in the Palmer family for a very long time. You see, my mom, sister and I really really wanted a nice lawn and pretty garden. My dad wanted to cover the whole thing over with gravel. We prevailed, and preserved our precious lawn. Or, at least, the closest thing possible when you live in Arizona, and are gone for well over half the year. Year after year, the ratios of grass to weeds fluctuated, but at least we had something green, and we always prevented Daddy from covering it in gravel.
Until this past year. I'm not quite sure what happened, but somehow an agreement was struck, and Daddy had his way. The back yard is now covered in gravel.
And it's gorgeous. I should have known that Daddy's plan wasn't for a hideous, unbroken expanse of gravel. Daddy may not have lots of time for lawn maintainance, but he does have a superb eye for proportion and good composition, a strong aesthetic sense, and good taste. They now have an attractively ordered desert landscape, with pampas grass and yucca and mesquite and honeysuckle and mint. Most of these are local plants that volunteered--and since they are in their proper environment, they thrive quite nicely with minimal care. It's a lovely, restful place, alive with birdsong, joyous and vibrant and peaceful.
I can't believe we fought him for so long.
And I think that surely there must be a lesson somewhere in there.
6.18.2007
We are alive.
I've always thought of myself as a girl of the desert.
Now I realize that it is not the desert I love, it is the oasis. The clear blue stream overflowing with life, the droplets splashing on the hot, windcarved sand.
From the shade of a cottonwood tree, I love to gaze upon the cactus and the redrocks.
But the true desert... the endless expanse is cruel and wicked. Its desire is to bleach my bones and the bones of my children, like the bones of so many coyotes before, creatures made of much sterner stuff than we.
But we are alive.
The desert has not bleached our bones, and we are safe in this familiar and lovely oasis... I'd forgotten just how beautiful the Verde Valley is. It is good to be home.
Now I realize that it is not the desert I love, it is the oasis. The clear blue stream overflowing with life, the droplets splashing on the hot, windcarved sand.
From the shade of a cottonwood tree, I love to gaze upon the cactus and the redrocks.
But the true desert... the endless expanse is cruel and wicked. Its desire is to bleach my bones and the bones of my children, like the bones of so many coyotes before, creatures made of much sterner stuff than we.
But we are alive.
The desert has not bleached our bones, and we are safe in this familiar and lovely oasis... I'd forgotten just how beautiful the Verde Valley is. It is good to be home.
6.11.2007
To whom it may concern:
I have a strong distaste for moving.
But I do like nice people who take my children to the park.
That is all.
But I do like nice people who take my children to the park.
That is all.
6.09.2007
Great opportunity for nursing moms
The International Breast Milk Donation Project is an incredibly good thing on so many different levels.
First off, I'm sure that you know that between AIDS and famine, there are a lot of orphaned babies in Africa. But did you know that those babies are six times more likely to survive if they receive donor breast milk, as opposed to formula? Six times.
So a few years ago, some women started expressing their extra milk, and shipping it to Africa on dry ice. I've actually known about this part of the story for some time, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't all that interested. I mean, that's really wonderful, but how is it even remotely sustainable?
Well, now it's actually sustainable through a unique partnership with a for-profit corporation called Prolacta Bioscience. Prolacta uses donated breast milk to develop medical products that save the lives of preemies here in the US. Their biggest thing is human milk fortifier--that's what they added to my expressed milk before they put it in Nathan and Isaiah's feeding tubes, to add calories and protein so that they could catch up on all that growing that should have happened in utero. The stuff my twins received was based on cow's milk, but now Prolacta has developed a human milk fortifier that is actually made from human milk. Which is much better for these fragile babies. It's also pretty big business. Even the cow based stuff runs $100 per day per infant.
Of course, the one difficulty with all this is that they are completely dependent upon breast milk, and the law does not allow them to pay their donors. And not many women get too excited about pumping so that somebody else can make a fortune off their milk. On its own, this project is about as sustainable as the idea of shipping breast milk to Africa.
Together, though, these two crazy idealistic projects actually work.
Prolacta provides all the equipment, from hospital-grade electric pumps to dry ice, and pays for overnight shipping to their laboratories. 25% of each woman's milk goes to Africa. Prolacta tests and pasteurizes the milk for free, and pays for all shipping costs.
Then Prolacta uses the rest of the donated milk in the highly profitable business of saving babies in the US. Prolacta then pays the Breast Milk Project $1 for every ounce of breast milk that stays in the States. This money goes toward the establishment of local milk banks, mobilizing local women to meet this huge need for breast milk.
So go talk to your doctor about it, and see if this would be the right thing for you!
I sure am, just as soon as I get to Texas!
First off, I'm sure that you know that between AIDS and famine, there are a lot of orphaned babies in Africa. But did you know that those babies are six times more likely to survive if they receive donor breast milk, as opposed to formula? Six times.
So a few years ago, some women started expressing their extra milk, and shipping it to Africa on dry ice. I've actually known about this part of the story for some time, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't all that interested. I mean, that's really wonderful, but how is it even remotely sustainable?
Well, now it's actually sustainable through a unique partnership with a for-profit corporation called Prolacta Bioscience. Prolacta uses donated breast milk to develop medical products that save the lives of preemies here in the US. Their biggest thing is human milk fortifier--that's what they added to my expressed milk before they put it in Nathan and Isaiah's feeding tubes, to add calories and protein so that they could catch up on all that growing that should have happened in utero. The stuff my twins received was based on cow's milk, but now Prolacta has developed a human milk fortifier that is actually made from human milk. Which is much better for these fragile babies. It's also pretty big business. Even the cow based stuff runs $100 per day per infant.
Of course, the one difficulty with all this is that they are completely dependent upon breast milk, and the law does not allow them to pay their donors. And not many women get too excited about pumping so that somebody else can make a fortune off their milk. On its own, this project is about as sustainable as the idea of shipping breast milk to Africa.
Together, though, these two crazy idealistic projects actually work.
Prolacta provides all the equipment, from hospital-grade electric pumps to dry ice, and pays for overnight shipping to their laboratories. 25% of each woman's milk goes to Africa. Prolacta tests and pasteurizes the milk for free, and pays for all shipping costs.
Then Prolacta uses the rest of the donated milk in the highly profitable business of saving babies in the US. Prolacta then pays the Breast Milk Project $1 for every ounce of breast milk that stays in the States. This money goes toward the establishment of local milk banks, mobilizing local women to meet this huge need for breast milk.
So go talk to your doctor about it, and see if this would be the right thing for you!
I sure am, just as soon as I get to Texas!
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