boundaries · pelvic floor pain · physical therapy · unwelcome proselytizing

Pelvic Floor Salvation

It’s been a long time since I’ve suffered with that pelvic pain I can’t completely get out of my mind. That was such a horrible time in my life. Sometimes even now, if something gets me really upset, I’ll feel slight irritation down there and know I have to address what’s bothering me to make it go away. I’m on top of it now. I know exactly what it is, why it is and what it takes to make it better.


But also, to this day, there are things that happened to me while I was going through all of that shit that still bother me.


I feel like sharing one that I think of more than I wish I did. It really bothers me. That’s why I still think about it from time to time. I also think of how I could have handled it differently when it happened. It makes me wish I could go back in time (minus the pain, of course). Or I wish I could go today and tell the person responsible how it made me feel.


I’ll get to the point.


When I was in horrific pain, I was so scared. I was genuinely terrified every day. All I wanted were the answers to what was happening to me and why it was happening to me and how I could make it go away.


When I finally found a good new gynecologist and she finally really listened to me about what was going on, she got me in with a physical therapist right away who specialized in pelvic floor pain. I was so relieved. I felt like I was finally going to get some real help.


The therapist was nice at first. I had such high hopes she was going to heal me. I had no idea how the exercises she taught me would end my pain. I did know that massaging the muscles down there might make it stop. I was ready to do anything and everything just to feel normal again. I was SO SCARED. As in–shaking all day and all night. Panic pretty much all the time. I could not get myself under control.


One time at one of my earlier appointments, my therapist asked me when she realized how panicked I was if I was a Christian.


My heart sank.


Great, I thought. Here we go.


I’m not and I told her so. I am pretty sure she had probably never had anyone admit that to her before. Lucky me…the crusade to not only help alleviate my physical pain also became an attempt to save me from eternal damnation.


From there, she asked if she could pray for me. I was so uncomfortable with that request, but I was so desperate for her help. I said okay. I figured if I gave in, I could keep the peace and we could work together toward my healing. The ride home from therapy that day, I called my husband and told him about it. My pelvis was on fire.


For the rest of the time I went to therapy, she would frequently talk to me about God and Jesus and church and all that. I really liked her as a person and I believed she was doing her best to help me feel better. But I really hated when she pushed her religion on me. She invited me to her church for Christmas. She texted me Bible passages. She talked about angels while she was doing her therapy on me.


As time went on and I didn’t get better, I realized this person had no idea how to really help me grasp what was happening to my muscles or why or how to stop it. In fact, she suggested crazy shit like my pelvis was still in “birthing mode” (how? I gave birth decades ago) and that my 25-year-old episiotomy scar was pulling on other muscles. She suggested I never exercise any more than doing the therapy moves she gave me as homework, to sit on a special cushion all of the time (really? for the rest of my life?), she had me sitting on that cushion while driving my car with a towel rolled up in the small of my back (again–really?!) and she also told me not to have sex with my husband till she thought I was well enough to.


I figured out despite all of this stuff she was telling me that the real key to my getting better was probably doing all the stuff she told me not to do. I also figured out that I needed to address personal shit that bothered me so much I clenched my pelvic floor.


Who knew you could clench your pelvic floor!? I had no idea I was even doing that.




One night, while I was in my room doing the therapy homework, she texted me a song she loved that she said made her think of me.


It was a song called Come to the Table.


It’s a song about being a sinner with shame. Come to the table. Hang with the savior and his bunch of human screw ups who need redemption.


I listened to it and I got so pissed. I knew she was trying to be nice, but I had reached the end of my patience with the proselytizing. You know, that lady had no idea why I’m not a Christian. She never asked me about that. She wasn’t interested in hearing about the long path I traveled to get to where I am spiritually. All she cared about was that I wasn’t like her.

Do you know how irritating that is?

Physically, I wasn’t feeling better either. In fact, this overstepping of hers and my ignoring my own boundaries made me feel WORSE.


Though she was way out of line, looking back on it now, her actions helped me link my pain to not expressing my true feelings.


So there was that. I guess she did help heal me in a roundabout way.


By this time, my confidence in her was quickly disappearing.


Not long after that, I decided Bill and I would give it a go in the bedroom just because I had been so sad for so long and I missed my husband and our old life. I thought one night–fuck that lady’s advice. And you know what happened? Everything worked and everything was just fine.


That was the beginning of the end of my depending on that lady for help.


I remember when I informed her we successfully had sex. The look on her face was priceless. She acted happy, giving me a high-five. But I could tell she was irritated I disregarded her advice.


I was still dealing with pain the best I could. My pain had interestingly shifted to my tailbone (not fun, believe me). I told her I was going to start seeing a chiropractor in addition to coming to her. She didn’t like that either. She said she would rather I didn’t because if I got better, we wouldn’t know if it was because of her or the chiropractor. I was like–I don’t give a shit who gets me better, as long as I get better!


It was right then that she and I stopped working together.


It was a weird ending. Someone who was previously so concerned for me no longer wanted to help me if I wasn’t going to obey her.


Even though I was scared to be without her “help”, I thought–Fuck this.


Amazingly, from then on, life took a turn for the better.


It was when I took back my power (in so many ways!), found a different therapist who didn’t pray for me but instead told me that my body was not jacked up (I told her it was)–she told me I was just going through a hard time and I could heal myself, that I got BETTER.

I discovered expressing my true feelings is IMPORTANT. I discovered having and keeping boundaries is IMPORTANT.


The cherry on top of this story is that my old therapist reached out to me again weeks after we parted ways (I knew she would). She had new crazy-ass ideas how she could help me. Maybe it was my bladder that was messed up?


I wrote back and told her I was recovering nicely and no thank you to anymore of her help.


Ha. I hope she had to wonder why God would let her down when she tried to save me.


All this rehash to say:


I wish I could go back in time and say NO when she first asked if she could pray for me or that I could go see her TODAY and tell her that her actions were really inappropriate. But you know she wouldn’t believe it. And really, what would I stand to gain from doing that anyway?


Besides personal satisfaction.


Happily, I can report that my pelvis no longer painfully blows up at the thought of her or the time I wasted with her. My pelvis never really blows up over anything anymore, really.


And that’s thanks to no contribution from her or God.


It’s all me, baby.

canine epilepsy · dog · losing loved ones

Our Penny Lane

Our dog, Penny Lane, passed away on April 1st.

She was only 3 years old.  She was such a smart and pretty girl.

And we loved her so much.

Penny was very much her dad’s dog. They shared a special bond since she was just a pup. Her favorite part of any day was when he would get home from work.

Her epilepsy was uncontrollable. The “worst case of canine epilepsy” our vets had ever seen. She was on every medication we could give her. There was nothing else we could do. At the end, she could not stop seizing. She could not fall asleep without waking with another seizure. She was literally exhausted.

And she was sad.

That we could not tolerate.

There’s not much else left to say about a dog that was loved so very much and fought for and still lost at way too early an age.

Our house is ridiculously quiet now without her and we are very sad.

She is the last dog we’ll ever have. Epilepsy has scarred us, but

Nothing will erase the wonderful memories we have of when she was having her good days

and just being

Our Penny Lane.

First picture ever taken:
January 2016

Last picture taken:
March 2019

Me n my girlfriend  💕

Easter · Easter Bunny · romance · tiny story

Don Juan Easter Bun

The Easter Bunny squeezed through the narrow aisles that now plagued his home. He could hear 2 girls fighting on Jerry Springer on his tv across the room but couldn’t see them because of about a million colorful plastic eggs piled high on the floor and furniture.

Bunny felt sad. He knew those chicks were probably ripping each other’s wigs off. And he was missing it.

He smooshed himself between a mile high pile of boxed Peeps and his kitchen counter. Reaching into a cabinet, he pulled out a can of Spam and cracked it open. Then he pulled his Lucky Strikes and a lighter out of the pocket of his ratty blue terry cloth robe.

The smell of chocolate bunnies and jellybeans in his home overwhelmed him, so as he chomped away at the block of meat and sucked deeply on a cig, he made sure to enjoy the hammy smoke scent sensation as it temporarily hung in the cramped air around him.

Every Spring, Bunny experienced stress to the Nth degree. Sometimes he wished he had never gone into the family business and taken over for his dad. But the old man needed a replacement, none of Easter’s siblings wanted the job, and God knows he spent his entire life just trying to get an ounce of his father’s approval.

So now, once a year, he had the hell of candy prep and one night world-wide delivery to contend with.

He was tamping his cigarette out on the counter next to hundreds of cartons of malted milk ball eggs when he heard his overnight guest attempting to come down his stairs.

“Easter?” she called out. “Where are you?”

“In the kitchen, babe,” he replied.

He heard all kinds of rustling around and muttering of swear words as his lady love walked the crazy candy maze.

Finally she popped into view.

Mrs Claus was pulling her sweater close around her shoulders, her weird little elasticized hat and eyeglasses askew. She straightened the glasses and looked at Bunny.

“There you are!” she exclaimed. “How much candy do you have in this place anyway?”

“You should be used to this kind of thing,” Bun said. “There’s a lot of good little kids out there, I guess…the little bastards.” He lit another cigarette.

Bunny and Mrs Claus looked at each other. In the background they could hear the people on tv cheering “Jer-ry! Jer-ry! Jer-ry!”

They smiled at each other.

“Would you like some Spam?” he asked. She shook her head.


She shook her head again.

“Candy?” He held his arm out like one of those models on The Price is Right.

She laughed out loud.

Bunny cocked his head and smiled. She sure was pretty for an old broad. He liked when she laughed like that. He made a mental note to bump the chocolate rabbit in her Easter basket up a couple of ounces. He didn’t care if her old man noticed. He hoped he did.

“I gotta go,” she told him.

“Hey, I thought you might like to stay and help me assemble a couple million baskets of candy today,” Bunny suggested.

Mrs Claus looked at him like he was insane.

“Like I don’t get enough of that kind of crap at home!”

Bunny walked to her and pulled her into a hug.

“I was just kidding,” he whispered before he kissed her one more time.

Even though he kinda wasn’t.

The two of them wedged their ways to the front door. Before she left, he handed her one of those plastic toys that have a suction cup on the bottom that you stick on the floor and press down so it pops up into the air after a second or two. The character on top of it was in the shape of a bunny.

She took it and smiled at him then walked to her snappy red Mazda Miata parked out front.

And Bunny shut his door, turned on his big bunny heel, and promptly tripped over a bushel of Cadbury eggs in his hallway trying to make his way back to the kitchen to finish his Spam.

grabbing happiness when you can · KISS · Prozac · regular life

Typical Life Shit and the Hottest Band in the World

Hi hi. Happy Saturday and all that happy horse shit, dear reader friends.

I’m coming off a two week stint where our dog experienced breakthrough seizures and medication-induced pancreatitis so unpleasant we thought about putting her down AND we helped our daughter move into her new apartment.

Our dog Penny has stabilized once again and is back to being her playful crazy pig-like self (what a relief!!)  and our daughter is all situated and happy as a clam in her adorable new home (sweet!)

So even though the past few weeks have been stressful beyond measure, I decided to add to the fun and finally go off my antidepressant.

Why not? Let’s just go for broke and see what happens is what I figured.

I started taking antidepressants in 2017 when I had pelvic floor dysfunction and I truly believed I would never be well again. I tried all kinds of the drugs and enjoyed the weird side effects of each and finally I landed on Prozac which I was able to tolerate. The medicine helped, I am not going to lie. When I bumped up to the 20 mg a day, I found myself no longer bothered by much life threw at me. It was a complete change for someone who had been previously bothered by lots. I never knew I was so…emotional?

Is that a bad thing, really?

Apparently it can be, I guess. Anyway, Prozac leveled me out for months. It also robbed me of feeling any emotion–happy, sad, angry, you name it. It was all gone.

I didn’t like that part. In general, I enjoy the ability to feel things–especially happiness or excitement.

You know what else about taking Prozac sucks for me? I gained weight. Like, 30-lbs-in-one-year weight. This, for an always healthy normal weight person like myself, was depressing in itself. I was the heaviest I’ve ever been in my whole life a few weeks ago at my doctor check up to renew the prescription for my antidepressant. I told my doctor about my concerns and we lowered my dose to 10 mg a day.

That lasted a few weeks. I felt my emotions kinda coming back.

Last Tuesday, I thought–fuck this. I called my doc and asked how to stop it altogether. Which I did starting right after I called. She said it was perfectly all right to just stop taking it and that I might feel a little edgy but it would be okay.

I kid you not–I’ve lost 6 pounds in the span of 2 weeks (I started working out again too, so there’s that) and my gut is finally going away. My husband told me last night–I can tell a difference.

I can too. And it is one big ass relief!

As for my brain, I can feel it shifting, if that makes any sense. It’s odd, but also kind of interesting. I’m tired too. And hot a lot of the time. But I am not concerned about these things in the least. I know it will all pass and I’ll get through it.

You know why?

Because I beat fucking scary pelvic floor pain and if I can do that, I can do ANYTHING.

Not a whole lot scares me anymore. And it’s not due to the consumption of pills. So here I go again on my own. (Whitesnake. Not the hottest band in the world, but still good)

Pill free.

I’ll let you know how this turns out.

Here’s my other news story I want to share with you today.

Tonight my husband and are going to see “The hottest band in the world”–KISS. And I am basically living for it!

I first fell in love with KISS when I was a little 10-year-old girl at the shopping mall with my mom and sister waiting in line to go see a movie. Probably something like Benji (ever see those movies? They will fuck up your mind. Jesus, the tears I shed over that little dog!)

As I waited in line, I eyeballed the record store across the mall and in the doorway I spied a new record album cover that had a picture on it that beckoned me. I asked mom if I could go look at it and she let me.

This is the pic:



I was like–WHO in the hell is this!? I was simultaneously horrified and enthralled. I was kinda scared of this guy, but I also wanted to know more. And I was definitely down for listening to the tunes!

I got that record–KISS Alive II–not long after and what an experience it was for a kid like me. Up until then, I had been listening to pop music and storybook records. Alice in Wonderland. Wizard of Oz. Osmond Brothers. Bay City Rollers. I was a huge Monkees fan. (Davy was my very first big ol crush).

KISS was not like any of that stuff. They were the first rock and roll band I really liked.

They were fucking cool.

I felt grown up picking them to listen to.

I remember my older sister accusing me of not really liking them. Like hell I didn’t!

I also remember my dad buying me a magazine with KISS pics in it when he went to get a Pittsburgh Press paper for himself at a local bookstore. The cover had Gene sticking his tongue inside a daffodil flower. I was kinda like–ew, gross. Some of the pictures inside the mag were rather risqué as well. I don’t believe Bernie had any idea what he had purchased for me. But I loved it nonetheless.

I had this poster on the door of the room I shared with my little sister. I was slightly disturbed by the blood on Peter Criss’s head. Poor kitty man. And look at Gene. Damn, he was always so scary.


I continued to love KISS all through my high school years. My first boyfriend, who ended up being a total nut-job and abusive (another story I probably won’t tell), was a big fan. We used to listen to them all of the time. I remember when the album “The Elder” came out. A lot of people made fun of it, but I thought it was excellent. You know what song totally still rules to this day?

This one–

Now, besides this evening, I have only seen KISS one other time live. This was during the Lick It Up tour 4000 years ago. I remember being there with my friends from high school. Sure, the guys had taken off all their make up. (WHY? remember that epic moment on MTV?! I do!)

We had so much fun at that show. The moron I dated before and had broken up with was there, a few rows behind us, acting like a damn fool hanging and swinging on the rail. I was like–what the ever-loving fuck, you idiot.

God, I hope I don’t see his face tonight. He still freaks me out to this day.

Over the years I have become a wife–the awesome guy I married has always loved KISS, too. This is a plus in my book, of course. And I became a mom. I’ven been too busy to spend money and time going to see KISS concerts.

As luck would have it, the “End of the Road” tour is in town.

And now that we’re older and a little better off and our kids are all grown up, tonight my husband and I have a date!

My husband–AKA the cutest guitar player I’ve ever known–has never seen KISS live.

That’s gonna change 🙂

I think I’ll even paint my face for the occasion.

My favorite KISS guy has always been Paul Stanley, so guess whose face I’ll try to duplicate. I mean, if I muster up the bravery to actually go through with it.

What kind of 50+ woman paints her face to go see KISS???


me paul

10 year old me would be so proud.

Talk to you guys again soon.

In the meantime don’t forget to

Rock and Roll All Nite and Party Every Day!

xo 🙂

better choices · Jesus · LGBT · little stories · love

A Morning Scroll

Jesus polished off his jelly doughnut and took a swig of Celtic Grog to wash it down.
His taste buds tingling, he couldn’t help sinking back down into the cozy comfort of his king-sized bed.
Deciding that maybe he’d go back to sleep for a smidge, he picked up his phone and clicked the Facebook app to check up on the morning’s posts before he did.
He scrolled through the typical stuff:
Mary, his mom, posting private messages for him on her page because she still had no concept how to use messenger and she probably never would…
Jesus clicked the heart button anyway.
Noah posting pictures of his cats AGAIN…
Jesus clicked the heart button.
Satan’s 50+ pictures of himself shredding on his guitar last weekend at some suburban bar…
Again, Jesus clicked the heart button.
And then, the Methodist church bragging that they had bolstered their bans on same-sex marriage and allowing the LGBT community to become pastors.
Jesus read that one again. Then he read some comments from people praising the decisions.
“Those people are so stupid,” he thought to himself.
He sat up and took another sip of coffee and reached for a Kool and his lighter.
Blowing the first inhalation out and feeling his muscles relax a little, he opened his messenger and tapped his dad’s profile pic.
“I see the Methodists are taking a giant leap towards destroying their church for good,” he typed. “I know it’s all part of your Master Plan for the human race, but damn if it isn’t tough to watch unfold sometimes.”
He hit send.
Taking another drag of his smoke, he kept scrolling to try and cleanse his mind a little.
“Oh god yes,” he thought to himself as he came upon the clip of Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga singing Shallow at the Academy Awards. He, like everybody else not living under a rock, had already watched this 1000 times, but it was so delicious. He loved it. And holy hell, that smoking hot ending when Jack and Ally cuddle on the piano bench and stare into each other’s eyes?
Jesus couldn’t help himself.
He hit the heart button once again.
He knew, just like all good people do, that hitting the heart button as often as you can

is always the better choice.


Brick Tamland · rewiring lamps

She lives!

My husband and I found ourselves at Home Depot today at 6:45 am. Bill armed himself with the materials to rewire our antique mall lamp. We had the stuff home and started the coffee brewing by 7:15.

He had some difficulty running the new wires through the lamp, but he threaded the lamp wire with a long piece of wire and persevered and got ‘er done. Once that was fixed, he finished the rest of the set-up. Turns out there are two sockets and one of them just doesn’t work. No matter, though. New lightbulb installed, shade dusted off, lamp plugged in, switch flipped on and



Look at that thing, will you?

I’m in love, I tell ya. She is absolutely perfect.

I love my husband for doing all these projects for our home. I love him for the guy he is too, of course. But you know what I mean.

I believe weatherman Brick Tamblan from Anchorman sums up my feelings about this particular moment in my life with an eloquent quote from that epic movie.

(You movie aficionados know it’s coming)


Endless Love · redecorating · roller skating · winter

A Cold Winter Morning Hello

Good January morning, my friends. How is everyone doing? Well and happy, I hope 😊

I guess quite a few of us are in for a winter wallop this weekend. My husband and I are supposed to go to our future daughter-in-law’s roller skating birthday party Sunday and I’m really looking forward to it.

I haven’t been on a pair of skates since my daughter and I used to frequent the homeschoolers skating days. That was like 15 years ago. I’ve always loved roller skating. I used to be quite the little roller boogie princess back in the 1970s. I’d put on my blue athletic shoe skates…

THESE! Exactly like I had! Those skates were SO COOL.


and I’d go down to the basement, crank a K-Tel record and go for it in that confined concrete-floored space. I could go forward, backward, with one leg out, and spin around and around and around. I wasn’t an amazing ice skater, but buddy, I could roller skate.

I hope I still can–the skating forward part (never mind the rest!)–without busting my ass. Falling down after age 50 is not very amusing and I try to not do it. Anyway, I hope the ice and snow don’t screw the party up for us. I love winter–I really do, but like everyone else who lives where it sometimes snows, there are days I still want to get out there and go do stuff.

I even have plans to wear my sequined beret as I glide around the rink. I think I’ll mostly be getting down to tunes from my kids’ younger days (aka the 1990s), but in my heart, I’ll be back and doing my thing circa winter 1978.

I’m cranking the tunes in my room as I type this and I feel ancient and like a kid at the same time.

Interesting combination.

Keep your fingers crossed we make it out to celebrate, okay? I’ll post pics of the magic and merriment come next Monday 🙂

Let’s say the weather goes ahead and fucks everything up and we’re stuck at home. Over the past couple of weeks my husband and I have been updating our house a little. Mostly the kitchen. A previously gray wall is now a pink color called “Rose Hue” and the light fixtures that were original to the house have been replaced with crystal chandeliers.

I now have not one, not two, but count ’em–three chandeliers in my kitchen. And no, it’s not a necessarily big kitchen, but you guys, I am telling you–it totally works.

Something you need to know about me: I love me some crystal chandeliers. And various other light fixtures as you’re about to find out.

So we’re changing the vibe in the house from “post-childrearing chaos downshift to neutral minimalism” to the “hippies live here” theme I’ve dreamed of ever since I was a young girl and I drooled over the home in the movie Endless Love starring Brooke Shields.

I found this little article about the house when I Googled it.

1.7 million dollars. No wonder I like it.

I told our kids the other night about my Endless Love/Brooke Shields house inspiration and my husband goes:

Honey, they don’t know Brooke Shields.

I asked them if they did. They were like–well, kinda?

Oh god, I am such an old woman. I automatically assume everyone knows the trivia of my youngers days. But hey, Brooke is older than I am (just a little) and she and I are still kicking ass, right?

They don’t know Brooke Shields. That is kinda sad, isn’t it?

Jade Butterfield. So damn pretty. Just like her house.


Anyway. Whatever.

A few days ago I was poking around our favorite antique mall and I came across a lamp exactly like one I have been dreaming of for awhile and in search of for not a horrible price. BOOM. There is was, right in front of me! I didn’t purchase it because I wasn’t sure Bill would like it, and I wasn’t sure if I should spend the money on it. I left it at the shop and it instantly bothered me knowing damn well that most times if you see something at the antiquery that you want, you better snatch it up or someone else will before you eventually go back to get it.

I told Bill yesterday I was going to go buy it. I had to. My brain wouldn’t let it go because I knew that lamp would be perfect for the rest of our days in our family room. I went to the mall, picked up the lamp and that caught the attention of another shopper who admired it with me. That’s when I noticed the cord and plug. What ripped up messes they are.

Long story short, my husband and I went back to the mall to purchase it last night. That beauty wouldn’t have lasted through this weekend. I know this for a fact.

All this to say, this weekend Bill will be learning how to rewire a lamp.

Here she is, standing in the very spot I found her. I snapped her pic hoping she would be ours.


Keep your fingers crossed she gets up and running. You better believe I’ll post pictures of that come Monday too!

I’m off for now. Got a call from my daughter and we’re off to lunch together. That’ll be a nice way to kick off the weekend.

I’ll leave you with this picture I took this morning of the front door to our home. I made the wreath with little lights and, what else, blue crystals from a necklace I repurposed. The wreath symbolizes the stark beauty of winter and the glittering promise of the return of the light come February 2nd this year, otherwise known as the pagan festival of Imbolc.

Pretty, huh.

Crystals and lights and colors and coziness and contendedness and the hope that there shall be some roller discoing.

Sounds like a good time, doesn’t it?

Happy Weekend, folks! ❤


healing · necklace

loves me to the moon and back

Last year, on yet another one of those days when I didn’t want to get up and function but also really wanted to get up and function, I forced myself to get up and GO. My husband wanted to take me out anywhere, just to get out of the house. I decided–fuck it, I’m going.

We ended up heading into downtown Columbus to look for a snake ring.

I had recently had a dream where a 3 headed snake was snapping at people, trying to keep them away from me. Appropriate dream for the time. Part of my healing from pelvic pain resulted in taking myself off the “I’ll do anything to help you” list for literally anyone who ever asked. Hell, I was so programmed to be a people pleaser that I frequently invented ways to go out of my way to make everyone else’s lives brighter.

Anyway, the snake came to symbolize to me a way of remembering to say “BACK THE HELL UP FROM ME”.

So, Bill and I looked for a snake in a few vintage shops. Saw a couple of things, and didn’t really care for any of them.

(More on my snake soon…his story doesn’t end there)

As we poked around an antique shop, my husband called me over to look inside a case and pointed out a silver crescent moon pendant necklace to me. He asked me if I liked it. I said I did and it was pretty, but it wasn’t what I was looking for. So we moved on.

About one second later, Bill turned and went back to the case. He said:

This looks like something you would wear. I’m going to get it for you.

He had the dude working the counter take it out and hold it for us and that necklace turned out to be the only thing we bought that day. I had to go home after we finished perusing that shop–my body was starting to hurt.

Still, there are three victories in this story:

1. I got out of the house for a change of scenery.

2. The moon necklace Bill bought me that day is pretty much my favorite piece of jewelry. I never, ever take it off. I get bunches of compliments on it.


3. My husband is a sweetheart. He loves me to the moon and back.

The feeling is mutual.


feeling good · growing older · yoga · Yoga with Adriene

Not dead yet…just different :)

Hi there. Happy New Year. 🙂 

2019. Wow. Jesus, that’s weird.

I have sucked at writing this blog and I have sucked at reading other people’s blogs. You know how every year at the beginning of a new year, everyone makes resolutions to do better? Well, I’d really like to write more on here and get acquainted with other bloggers. I find, along with everyone else I guess, that I waste too much time on Facebook. And for what, really. Yeah, it’s fun sometimes, but often I wonder what it would be like not to be connected to everyone all of the damn time. On a minute to minute basis, know what I mean?

I find myself thinking I should spend more time writing here, in my own little corner of the internets, instead of spending time on Facebook talking about the same old crap.

So today I thought I’d come here to tell you about something weird yet wonderful that I experienced this morning.

A few months ago, I found a You Tube channel I really like. It’s called

Adriene is a lovely yoga teacher–funny, real, and not a drill sergeant. She encourages movement in ways that feel good. Now there is a concept I can really get on board with.

Whenever I take my time to roll out my yoga mat to practice with her, I truly understand what she talks about. I totally get what we do. This is a fabulous thing on a few levels. One–I’ve always appreciated yoga, ever since I was a little girl in the 70’s and “Lilias, Yoga & You” would come on PBS after I watched “The Electric Company”. I would do the movements with Lilias, not really knowing what I was doing, but still enjoying it and knowing I was doing something good for myself. Also, I spent years practicing hardcore as a young mom, going to studios and being at the top of my athletic and fitness game. It was all about being “the best”, and doing everything “just so”. 

Then, in 2008, I had my ass handed to me. I ended up throwing in the towel with all self-care after the deaths of my parents.

I won’t go too into all that, but I will say I gave up being active for a long time. Kinda like for the entire duration of my 40’s.

So after last year, when I totally broke down and suffered in a whole lotta pain and I eventually went thru hell to heal, I gained a shit-ton of confidence in myself in the process. Nowadays I’m older, a little more laid back, and I’m no longer the wonder worker-outer I used to be.

And that is OKAY.

I still get around more often than not. I literally cannot tolerate being lazy.

So I discovered Adriene,  and I joined her new 30 Day Yoga challenge called “Dedicate”. It’s cool. You decide to go for it, you roll out your mat, you crank the videos and you go at your pace with this girl who is cool, nice, funny, and wants to help you learn more about yourself through the practice of yoga.

I was going to start yesterday when the program started, but I ended up spending my husband’s last holiday day off having fun with him, so I started Dedicate today.

In my room, which used to be my son’s bedroom, I climbed on my mat. And with Adriene’s guidance, I went at my own pace, listening to her lead, breathing deep, taking time for myself. I couldn’t ignore the fact that sitting on the mat hurt my lower back a little, but I just acknowledged how I felt, realized I feel sad because I am not as young as I used to be. I never had pain when I was young. I’m also no longer as athletic or flexible. But I kept going anyway. I was proud of myself, being able to keep up. A couple of times I took little breaks–preferring to lie on the ground while Adriene was doing some pose. 🙂 But, like I said, I got back up again and kept on going. At one point, I started to cry a little. Not from being in pain, but I experienced an emotional release from realizing that

I’m never going to get any younger. I am who I am. And who I am is a 51 year old woman who has already spent years being young and active and a busy mom who could run circles all over the place every day. And it’s okay that I am no longer her, well…like her, I mean…anymore.

I thought to myself…You know what, though? I’m not dead yet.

I’m just *different*.

Then, as I was bent over letting my tears and everything else go, I started thinking about what a great life I’ve had. I have an awesome husband and kids and house and life. Even though I am no longer some young pain-free chick anymore, I am still vibrant, I have tons of life left in me, and I have lots to offer and look forward to.

Then I thought about when I talk to other people about getting older, often people tell me stuff like–

You’re not old! 50 is the new 40! You’re still young!

Shit like that. 

I know they’re trying to be positive and nice, but that kind of stuff kinda bothers me.

I don’t want to “okay” growing old by making it something it’s not. Growing old is real and, in a lot of ways, it’s actually cool. So don’t candy-coat or cover up my aging process, but respect it. I think a lot of people are not okay with that. I get it. Aging can be scary, it’s true.

Maybe I shouldn’t try to commiserate with others about aging, huh. Probably not. Most people are trying like crazy to avoid it. I just want to make peace with it and maybe even embrace it. 

So I thought, you know–yoga might be a good practice to take up yet again to help me do just that.

I found that I had a good time on my yoga mat this morning, so much so that I shall return to that mat again tomorrow.

Even though I cried today, it was a good cry. I felt totally thankful and alive.

It’s such good stuff. And I deserve good stuff.

We all do.

If you’ve never checked Adriene out and you like yoga, get your butt to her channel soon.

I promise—you will not be sorry.

I’ll finish this post by saying thank you so much for reading, and–

<hands to heart>




pain · pelvic floor dysfunction · recovery · thankful · Thanksgiving · TMS

thoughtful & thankful

I’m getting a slow start to my day today. I love Thursdays because they’re my laziest day of the week. We had our first wintry mix precipitation fall early this morning and we lost power for a bit. I’ve been puttering around, reading my book by flashlight. I also put together a grocery list since today is grocery day. Got a hold of my son and found out he is joining us for dinner the night before Thanksgiving, so that’s a nice little surprise.

Power came back on after a few calm and quiet hours.

You know, normal every-day life stuff. Nothing crazy.

But you know what I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this week?

How sick I was this time last year.

Truth is I was a mess. This was before I knew…or before I could 100% verify…what was causing my pain that I was living with every single day.

As I walked our dog yesterday, I recalled the awful nagging pain in my pelvis. It was always there, sometimes horrible, sometimes not, sometimes it would go away for a short time. I’d wake up most days feeling okay, but scared, because I knew the pain would eventually come and it always did. If anything remotely stressful happened, my pain flared. It was, at times, excruciating.

I got through last Thanksgiving (and most of late last year) thanks to anxiety and pain medications. I was walking through a labyrinth of hell, wondering why this had happened to me, and trying to find quality caring doctors who believed what I was telling them or had any sympathy for me at all.

I felt lost and like hardly anyone cared about me.

And I hurt basically all of the time.

It was the most frightening time of my life.

I didn’t know if I’d ever feel right again and I wondered if I would make it through okay.

That’s a scary-ass thing to have to ponder, in case you didn’t know.

I was able to put on a brave face and get through the holidays with my family, even though they all knew I was ill and I wasn’t able to do everything I wanted. They were very sweet and understanding. But it all made me incredibly sad.

I remember.

I don’t think I will ever forget.

My illness has been one of my life’s biggest and most important teachers.

I’d like to say I am thankful for my pain, but truly, I wish I would have never had to go through all of that just to learn the lessons I did. Perhaps a more pain-free way to learn would have been nice. But, really, I guess a real kick in the ass is one way to get to figuring shit out, you know?

Speaking of my ass, I’m so thankful I can sit here on it, pain-free, and write this blog post.

I’m thankful I can get up, go out the door and walk my dog all over the place and not feel the nagging burning pressure pain with every step.

I’m thankful I can grocery shop and manage to stand in line waiting for my turn to check out without feeling like my bottom is going to fall out onto the floor, basically wanting to choke the other shoppers and cashiers for living normal lives while I’m dying just trying to buy freaking food.

I’m thankful I can stay up past 6:00 pm with my husband and watch tv and eat dinner with him instead of being in bed for an hour already, sad, unable to get up and enjoy his excellent company.

I’m glad I’m able to be among the general population and even if someone pisses me off, my pelvis won’t spasm and bring me to my knees.

I’m thankful I no longer have to take pain medication just so I can feel normal for a little while.

I’m thankful that I no longer need anxiety medication and that I naturally don’t shake from fear all day long anymore.

I’m thankful for those who remained my people when I was not my normal happy-go-lucky self. I know I was hard to listen to then, but they stuck around.

I’m thankful for my kids–human and fur–who waited and were sweet to me while I fought to come back.

I’m thankful for my friend who took care of me mentally and spiritually and physically. Great massage therapist, great listener, great sharer of guacamole.

I’m thankful for my husband who saw the very worst of me last year but never left me alone and helped me every single second of every single day til I was back. And still. And apparently, after all of that, he always will.

And lastly, I’m thankful for my persistence and my bravery and my intuition and

my self-orchestrated recovery.

Next Thursday, I’ll sit for a spell on a restaurant chair and eat Thanksgiving dinner with people I love and there will be no pain.

Just happiness. And lots of food.

Last year, fear had a hold on me. This year, I know how to wrestle the fear and keep it pinned to the ground.