When You Look Into an Abyss, That Abyss Goes Cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs

Previously on A&A's Adventures in ARTistry: The ghoulish gobliney go-go-gonadotropins upped their ante and asserted their achey angry emotional second puberty upon an unwitting sock monkey and her zombie camel compatriot. A zonk lay in store and bodies laying in wait for fairy Batmen and Winco whirlwinds. Blood pooled at the prick of a somnolent needle, but barely rivaled the terror of the stomach-stabbers. Cleaning women driven mad with power and powder ran amok through the DITK's home. And turbulent tears were shed for the torments of the Trix Rabbit over a bath in La Nausee, but to no avail. Trix ne'er were for any but the kids our trusty couple never could sire. 

Coming up: A stagger back through time in a groggy haze brings our heroine to the brink of the often feared relaxation, with an accent. Will Adella's tryst with Swedish wreak havoc on her deepest most blessed of tissue? Will her massage assassin strike back against the perfidy of his patrons? Kumbayas collect and haunt the hollows of a hobbled head. Will emergencies and ailments provide ironic succour from the spiritual snap? More blood spilled on a Monday morning. Will dragons be yet slain in Chthonia? A follow up marathon reveals results for Mr. (W)right and his myriad medical mysteries. But are the results anything beyond a wash of weirdess and wacky wonders? Will answers pending all these years finally emerge from the ether? Will muffles muffle? And what on earth will Adella possibly feed this bilious boys cavilling tummy? 

Pull out your (FOD)MAPs, toss your Nietzsche and gobble that (gluten free?) cookie crunch. The answers lay beneath...   

Time Keeps Marchin' On... Except at 2:00 a.m., which it liked well enough to sample twice

Adios Daylight Savings. Or hello. I forget most of the time whether it's coming or going. As far as I know, "daylight savings" is a code for "time is going to change on you all of a sudden as some sundry Saturday passes the baton to Sunday." Seems so far to only stagger and stutter within the matter of an hour, but I suspect that some day we'll gambol straight into Sunday two-weeks-ahead. Only a matter of time. Har har. 

I would typically take this wee little soap-text-box to complain about the pointlessness of the shifts. The utter anomie created weighed against the purported benefits. The lost evening light on one side and the lost morning light on the other. But it was so well appreciated, that extra hour. I am still quite bedgraggled from whichever million sources or blurg or other. My ability to sleep is well enhanced and rarin' for a grand display at almost any hour. 

 I've taken this arbitrary little study in time travel  as an excuse to go to bed at "the normal daylight savings summer time" and wake at "the new normal standard time" hour all weekend. Allowing a luscious extra hour that I can attribute to "adjustment." Perhaps I'll continue this trend through the rest of the week... 

Yesterday was quite the lavish exercise in self-care. A rarity in Adellaland, and one interrupted by a billion little kitchen to-dos, but nonetheless a net gain for relaxation by hook or crook. 

For the first time in years, I had a massage with somebody other than my massage assassin. Figuring this to be a stressful time, I've increased my massage intervals for a spell. And while Nick knows how to do it oh so right, I thought it would be nice to (1) schedule a few on a day that Nick doesn't work, (2) have a flirtation with the old comfy, slightly wussy, highly relaxing Swedish style. I feel like I'm cheating! On deep tissue!

No, really, it was fascinating to have a Swedish after so long. They certainly do not do the job for my kinks and crumples, but they are very pleasant. And there's a certain style of full body, high-pressure caress that feels as if the masseuse is dragging the blood fully through each and every vein and aorta of my body. And how peculiar to experience a massage in which the masseuse does not advise me to take an aspirin and ice when I likely I feel sore later. 

After my massage, I was pulled away from kitchen devilry by the enticement of a walk in the damp, crystalline November afternoon. Cool, yes, but quite stunning. 

 I pulled myself away from additional whirls through the kitchen with proclamation that I should and shall take a long warm bath. It never seems that appealing, until I'm about fifteen minutes in. But worth the pay off if I can drag myself to that point. 

And finally I forced yet another incursion from my darling mother and her courteous boy-toy for a dinner in the stuffy fire-pit of comfort food. One of our local restaurants, The Colophon, has always been a bit of a trendy place. Once the basement hole in the crypt of our most favorite local bookstore, it's known for that sort of handcrafted hearty foods that mean soup and sandwiches for dinner. I have an undying devotion to their split pea and corn and bean soups, but can't help that notice portion sizes staying lunch-grade while prices get dinner-with-it. A while back, the bookstore moved out. A specialty craft olive oil store moved in. The Colophon remodeled to look simultaneously sleeker and more "homey" in a way that screams Seattle yuppie on Cap Hill. Not a horrible thing, except during the remodel, they decided to stoke up a gigantic fire pit near the entrance doors. Presumably to battle draft and bellow out "cozy" but mostly it just adds a certain relentless incalescence to the dining experience.

Add to this that "water is a valuable resource" by their local and handcrafted ethoi. This seems to mean that you not only have to request water specially (which is reasonable) in order to receive it, but also that it will never be refilled. And though our waiter was quite adorable, he seemed to have a magical blind spot for muddling things like utensils, napkins, and requested refills. Perhaps not the most stellar place to beat off a lingering daze and headache. Perhaps. But then again, the soup was divine and the boyfrianceband somehow managed to survive his ordeal (4 hour race down South) and arrive in time for heavy munching.

Upon returning home, we set to the arduous task of finishing up a Futurama we had started on Thursday, while I set my injection bottles out to "acclimate to room temperature." That takes a while.

And then, of course, a quick jab and several alcohol swabs later... oh sweet bedtime. After Andrew showed me where he rode and analyzed the data of his 4 hour race (apparently he gets tired after two or three hours of riding all out... go figure!)...

And back to a deliciously dilatory morning. We have plans, but my plans about these plans are to shrug at them lazily and see how I feel in the moment. All plans are subject to revision, particularly in the "napping in a pile of drool" direction.

Mo(nkey)vember Madness Neenerneenernano rye-berries month maunders forth (e.g. #toevember )

Another day, another morning commenced at a local blood lab. I'm getting to be quite the regular there. Pretty soon, they'll all start chanting "Norm "when I wander in. Today, I arrived about five minutes later than usual. I'm not sure if this is the cause of my significantly longer wait (longer than zero, which in this case meant about twenty minutes). It may also be a difference between Monday morning and Thursday morning. Regardless, it was slightly less of a breeze than some of my previous experiences. And, while I got the same delightful phlebotomist, my little arm apse is aching and smarting a bit for the pricking today. Can't be perfect every time. 

I'm beyond curious what today's estradiol levels are. Because my have I been feeling something this weekend. Something I'd equate with roiled up estrogens marauding through my system and making me all moody, fuzzy headed, and head-spun to turgid twitterpation. Also, and this is gross, I may or may not be feeling the old ovaries themselves getting a bit big for their britches and an eensy bit... er... hyper. Mostly twinges, but a little alien sense of presence when I twist or move my torso. Or maybe it's the vapors! Lord knows.

Regardless, like a pockmarked tween, Imma goin through changes, baby. And I'm curious if those will be reflected in this next blood test result. And if so, am I back to fighting the dragon in chthonia or off to the fair Duchy of Kirkland for another tryst with a not-so-magic wand? 

Stay tuned, Miss Adella's brain... and make absolutely certain to be utterly distracted all through that feel good kumbaya Collaborative Law retreat you've conjured up this afternoon. 

That's right. Today is the day to get all ooey gooey warm and chocolate coated caramel with my collaborative comrades. For a good four friggin' hours.THE COLLABORATIVE PROFESSIONALS RETREAT!!!!

The premise of this little get together is that several of our more starry eyed compatriots went to a big conference in Vancouver last weekend. And boy oh boy was it purportedly life changingly amazing, if you believe the fifty missives malingering in my inbox from our more ponderously prolix of members (yes, there's somebody who blathers on beyond even my taste for the finger-tip tangos). I suspect the entire four hours will be him jumping up and down with tears in his eyes waxing rhapsodic regarding his magical summer camp experiences. 

 I'm frankly not sure there's room in that group hug for my swollen gonads and estrogen-ensnared befuddlement. I'm really not sure. Especially given the mood swings. 

Oh the mood swings.  Maybe I just am this way. It's possible. Maybe I shouldn't blame the universal scapegoat "hormones". Maybe I do suddenly turn to an unplaceable rage between a cozy second in bed with my husband and an otherwise pleasant breakfast... over... um... I don't know, but screw it all!!! That cabinet was looking at me funny!"

And don't me started on the occasional crying jag. They're infrequent, but pop up at surprising and inscrutable intervals. Totally happy and glad and mellow to hear great news of friends' pregnancies (though sad that my situation might even for a minute make any friend feel nervous or awkward to tell me in the first place), that the first person who ever asked me if I wanted children and made me realize "well, wow, maybe I do" and then nudged me alone that path again years later is now somewhere far away on the magical parenting odyssey I may or may not ever find, mother-in-law's mad marriage plans, and husband's vehicular and bicycle escapes. But something about the sheets just makes me profoundly sad for a few minutes. Maybe it was the bathroom towels being crooked and slightly off-color. I forget.  

And then suddenly I'm flashing back to my early twenties, sobbing while my hand is held in ways that defy humanity by somebody I'm losing. And I'm remembering how some time before that I'd dreamt of a child we'd somehow innocently conceived and how real just the dream was and the weight it had on my whole body even just imagining, the personhood of a fantasy. How easily my body could have accomplished then what may be closed off to me forever now. And I'm grieving the losses of everything that can't be and what might still not be and ... oh for fuck's sake the dish towels are crooked and one is the wrong shade of cream! Why???

Regardless, I may either start sobbing over the beauty of a collaborative tale of love and redemption or I might just shove all the sandwiches into somebody else's face because I don't like the way their hair is waving at me. It could go all sorts of ways. And really, I have no great excuse. I'm administering a droplet of these injectables versus the full syringes that several thousand IVF patients pump into their bodies. But there we go. I'm a sensitive gal, I guess. Considering I've been virtually menopausal for 1/3 of my fertile life, I guess I am going through puberty all over again this last year. And this is a big amp up hereabouts. 

Hyper, hyper sensitive this morning. And that fan is mocking me!! Ok, maybe not. Actually I'm fairly sanguine at the second. Can't say what comes next.

But that's not for another few hours. I suppose this is the time to glare at the work I have to do and tell it that it's being a stupid doodoo head by not having the associated documentation and analysis required to make anything useful of it. Hisssss hisss. 

Now I'm just enjoying being a cranky monkey. OOOO OOOOO OOOOO OOOO (that's my monkey noise!)

Happy Monday! Wheeeeee! It's gonna be an interesting week. 

Twiddle-Toed Tuesday in Migraineville Remodeling Raspberries and the Looming Headache

Yesterday's blood results came back with a big old "double your dose of FSH and give us more blood later" I was a tad concerned about doubling my go-go-gonadotropins, considering how flattened I'd felt all weekend. Also, given how I shot away a large portion of the first bottle and will likely shoot through the rest of it by the time of my next choose-your-own-adventure blood draw. 

As it turns out, so far, I actually feel a tad on the mend. Perhaps I was casting calumny and dispersions in the wrong direction. Maybe I merely had some hormonal effects blended well together with a garden variety flu. Yes, I got my shots, I promise, but there are still little buggers out there. Or perhaps I'm just starting to adjust to having more estrogen in my system again, and it takes a while to react to a different dose. Or maybe the incredibly restful process of "staying holed up at work slogging through emergencies instead of kumbayaing with my yippee-kayeee collaborative law buddies" was just what the reproductive endocrinologist ordered. I don't feel 100%, but I'm not throwing Nietszche at Cookie Crunch cereal boxes or crying over doilies. So, that's promising. 

In an uncanny spat of timing, the construction men next door have decided to move in and make up that deficit of "argh" with some early morning BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. It sounds like I'm working next to an asthmatic ogre with sleep apnea. Ear plugs are appropriately burrowed against my ear drums. But it's still a mite vexing! I need some additional protective head gear, and a better surround sound. I know Dvorak's strumming about in the background somewhere, but mostly I get wisps of strings between knocks, rattles and BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Kind of a "modern" arrangement of a Romantic classic I suppose. 

Today, Mr. (W)right is attempting to accomplish every last strand of business and follow-up in Bellingham all at once. Or spaced out by an hour apiece. Medical follow up in the morning. Automobile repair in the mid-morning. More medical follow up in the afternoon. Should anything go wrong with the automobile angle, I expect to be the knight in shining kia. He may disparage my little baby, but it comes through in a pinch... most of the time anyways. 

While waiting for my superhero cue, I suppose I should continue my scrambling and egging on towards completion of "the big emergency" that' still ongoing. It's a recondite little number involving dueling mediation and court calamities between several convoluted arguments of experts and appraisers. I'm so very good at that nonsense. Really. No, no I'm not. Numbers - as my dosing strategies may indicate - are not my forte. I'll be side-stepping those as much as possible.

 Serenity now, baby. Yes, the movie. Please. I'd like to go home and watch a Firefly marathon, actually. 

But hip hip hooray, it's Tuesday! Or - to drag out an old chestnut - #toesday   in #toevember  HASH ALL THE TAGS!!

All Over the FODMAP with the Muffled Maniacs of Michelin Captious Culinary Camels Day and the Wild Wednesday WhoopeeWhirl

I do believe we are making our initial ascent up the hump itself. The apex of this paltry work week nonsense beckons with sultry song and promises of a careening crash-landing into weekend world! Happy hump day all!

And date night to me. Yesterday was Mr. (W)right's marathon medical and mechanical follow up day. He was in town all day! But pinging twixt appointments like a pinball in the bonus bumpers, so I didn't exactly see much of him beyond the post-appointment reports. Basically my man is medically weird not otherwise specified. No test can quantify him! Or - if it does - it's mostly a wash of highs and lows that hopefully average out to "meh, probably ok." I guess that's good news, because it means no impending liver stabbing (we'll stick with stabbing my stomach for now, thanks). It's a touch disconcerting, I think, for the ongoing and enormous medical shoulder shrug when it comes to any curiosities that might arise from his uniqueness. 

But good news is he's done with his little medical merry-go-round for a while. No parasites, no super duper weird blood work, no blood cells where they shouldn't be, and his microscopic swimmers may be morphologically unique, but they're plucky little guys and they brought their friends. So back to me and solely me frequenting the labs and centers of our noble Northwest. For now, anyways. 

Of course, he did have some unanswered questions about suspected food sensitivities and digestive discontent. These may merit some fairly elaborate food experiments in the future (he decided the Holidays are not the time to start anything, so we're putting anything dire off until 2015). I inadvertently got this whole FODMAP idea into his head when I reposted a New Yorker article about gluten. FODMAP sensitivity is a little more complicated but much more scientifically sound. Because there are components in wheat products that are high FODMAP, it may well be that a GF diet doesn't hurt those with these sensitivities. But FODMAP itself is much more extensive, cutting out legumes, anything with fructose (including several fruits), onions, cabbage, and garlics... a few other things... and everything (read: everything for sale) made with some of those items. One goes off all that for a spell and then gradually works things back in to find individual variances and tolerances. 

Of course, actually, my bizarre taste for odd grains and foods does help this. Andrew's dinners - once I started weeding out the beans, legumes, and onions - have been pretty well in compliance with a low FODMAP diet. But, bread is really convenient. And high fructose corn syrup/wheat products are in a a lot of things that Andrew really enjoys eating.

So, it will be a bit of clinal research-and-experimentation to see what that morning heaping of toast might turn into. I'm thinking crepe/pancake type things. I make my pudla with chickpea flour, but have definitely used buckwheat and oat flour  before. There's always oatmeal and hot cereals as well.

And lunch... well, actually I've long since weaned him from his two huge PB&J sandwiches down to one sandwich. In this last year, actually, he went from having eight pieces of bread a day to five... so that could be a general trace of trajectory there.  Most nuts are ok (phew given the bulk of his replacement calories are in a self-mixed trail mix), but the candy I like to stash in his lunch box would be out. As would the apple. But not the veggies!

Of course who knows whether those are his particular sensitivities. When he was remarking that his symptoms seemed quite inconsistent and uncorrelated with any particular meal, I did mention that my system will become universally grumpy in phases when I'm either experiencing stress or recovering from a lot of exercise. To my sense, they both release stress hormones in the body (I mean, endorphin-producing exercise in a humans usually is a sign to the physiological part of these beasts that their lives are in danger and they'd best dump and run). 

And those stress responses result in all kinds of weird oddities. He actually - begrudgingly - admitted that his "symptoms" did start at the onset of a period in which he began cycling in a serious training manner and during which stress has been a larger constant in his life. Then fell into a paroxysm of terror at the sheer idea of "cutting back" for a brief spell. 

I don't see any month long experiments in which he stops training, and spends his idle time meditating, doing the odd brisk walk, and channelling his inner yogi. But I still wonder if it wouldn't be as effective as any dietary changes. Possibly in concert. And it wouldn't hurt some of our other mutual "health" interests from what I can tell. 

But then again, Adella needs an excuse or an inspiration for some creative kitchen-thinking even (or especially) in her time of intentionally attempting to chill the frig out and slow the smeg down. 

Speaking of which, if Andrew's really does need to switch over his dietary habits, I have got a freezer full of couscous, whole wheat, bulgar, farro, pasta, and rye crackers (not to mention a few cupboard shelves of leftover Halloween candy, and a fridge full of apples) to eat on my own. That should help my other latent goal of actually gaining weight... win win!

Of course, I needn't even say that immediately upon returning from his various appointments, the bike-and-chain went out for a long arduous ride and returned with half the forest to deposit in our trusty tub. He was appropriately dazed for the rest of the evening. And lest we list that as his sole affirmative accomplishment for the day, he also got his muffler fixed. He now, has a tail pipe. Which is probably a good thing. 

Today both he and I are back to work. I suspect Mr. (W)right is somewhat relieved all in all. I'm not sure I can say I'm relieved, but maybe a little. The construction chaos has abated today. No ear piercing whirls or drills. Just my trusty treadmill, two fans (the heat in here is unbearable), and some balmy Bach. Oh and a crapton of shiznet to accomplish that still somewhat relies on information I've yet to receive. Let the anxious waiting game commence!