Monthly Archives: January 2012

The Curse of the Migraine

I started getting migraines when I was about 14 years old. The first time, my father came in my room to find me writhing on the floor. It is my understanding that I howled. My father squeezed my head, vise-like, between his magical hands.

He got me to relax, so I could sleep off the pain.

But my migraines continued, relentlessly, for decades — until they stopped.

Animation of an MRI brain scan, starting at th...

Image via Wikipediauntil they stopped.

After I had Tech Support, my migraines disappeared completely.

I joked that having a baby was a miracle migraine cure. I could eat bleu cheese again. I could eat chocolate and drink red wine — not that I’ve ever been a big red wine fan, but I could have chocolate – as well as lots of other foods that had been considered verboten for so long.

And then it happened.

The headaches came back.

Once a month like uninvited guests, frequently appearing at 5 am, they came with clunky shoes and suitcases and set up shop with their giant hammers inside my head. Sometimes they wouldn’t leave for two or three days.

Once, Tech Support came home from school to find me on the floor, crying and banging my head against the wood floor.

I’m pretty sure I ruined him for life scared him.

Because he called my husband.

When my husband came home, I begged him to kill me.

I asked him to buy a gun and kill me.

To please buy a rifle and put it in my mouth and pull the trigger.

I said all of this in front of Tech Support.

(Which was probably not good.)

But I couldn’t help myself.

(I never claimed to be strong.)

As my husband stabbed my leg with IMITREX, he told me to make an appointment with my doctor.

I got an MRI.

Everything looked good.

I was incredulous.

How was that possible?

How could my brain hurt that much and be perfectly fine?

So I became really good friends with my neurologist who put me on Topomax, which has been a wonder drug for me.

My migraines stopped almost immediately. I take the lowest possible dose of the medication –15 mg in a “sprinkle capsule” — a dose not infrequently prescribed for children.

The hardest thing about being on Topomax is that is kills my appetite.

And it is really hard to go grocery shopping when nothing looks appealing.

So our refrigerator is nearly always empty.

It is difficult to cook meals – something I used to love to do. I remember fussing over chicken enchiladas with tomatoes and cilantro, a little yellow rice. Spooning spinach salad with onions and pomegranate seeds, taking care about plating them on my rainbow-color Fiesta Ware plates.

Tech Support took Health class last year where he learned how important it is to eat three healthy meals a day.

Now he worries about my lack of calories like a Jewish grandmother.

“Taste this,” he implores pushing a forkful of something at my face. “You have to eat, Mom!”

Sometimes I try a bite.

But sometimes I don’t eat anything.

Not a single morsel. All day.

It’s very hard to eat when you feel full.

I know a lot of people who suffer from migraines, and everyone has a slightly different variation on a theme. Some people get a visual aura. If they can catch the headache during this phase, they can sometimes abort it. I think of them as the lucky ones. Some people get ocular headaches. No real pain, just weird visual symptoms. Some people see blue dots. Some people see swirls. Some people vomit. Some people don’t. Some people have migraines and are laid out for days.

That is something beyond my comprehension; I cannot imagine living with that kind of pain.

But I know people do.

So I’ll keep taking my Topomax, keep hoping that I won’t be laid up with an axe-to-the-skull-splitting-migraine while simultaneously praying I’m not cultivating a kidney stone the size of my fist that will one day need to be surgically removed.

Because that can be one of the unfortunate side effects of Topomax.

You can get kidney stones.

And it is my understanding that kidney stones suck way worse than migraines.

Have you ever had a migraine? What are your triggers? And what do you do for relief?

Quick! Tell Me What To Do!

I’m working furiously on my fiction manuscript.

I need an unusual name for a babysitter.

Got any suggestions?

Give me a name, and I’ll tell you one interesting fact about this person.

January 2012 Departmental Mash-Up of Awesomeness

Still no snow in Rochester, New York; nevertheless, it’s still pretty cool.

Wanna know what else is cool? The bloggers listed in my January 2012 Mash-Up. They are new. They are now. They are what’s goin’ on.

From the English Department

Julie Gardner gets the Best Blog of the Month Award because she discusses getting laid. It’s not what you think. It’s about grammar, you pervs.

KD Sullivan remembers her beloved teacher in “Dear Mr. Reichhert”

Deb Bryan recalls a teacher who believed in her before she knew to believe in herself in “Lessons from a Tiger Teacher”

Transitioning Mom‘s beautiful piece “Out of the Ashes, Beauty” applies mythology to every day life.

Trish Loye Elliott reminds aspiring writers to “Take Your Writing Seriously.”

From the Philosophy Department

Dances With Chaos wonders: “Do You Need a Degree to be a Good Teacher?”

Kristen Lamb asks “Can Critique Groups Cause More Harm Than Good?”

From the Math Department

The always hot hilarious Tyler Tarver answers the burning question: “When Will I ever Use Math in Real Life?” and takes on “President Obama’s Changes in Education.”

From the Home Economics Department

Frume Sarah gives us her Grandma Selma’s Crummy Chicken recipe. Made it. Loved it.

From the History Department

Gene Lempp weighs in with a Legend of The Stone Giant.

K.B.Owen writes about 19th Century Personal Enhancement Products. Can you say bust cream?

From the Art Department

The Cool Hunter introduced me to water-colorist Cate Parr – Fashion Illustrator. Oooh, pretty.

Love her watercolors!

From the Politial Science Department

In an interview at EduClaytion with ClayMorgan, Piper Bayard explains “How Latinas Can End Jihad.”

From the Science Department

Zach Sparer makes me consider the dismal state of our NASA program in “Rocket Pact.”

From the Technology Department

EllieAnn Soderstrom wrote about Trans Media and iBooks and so did Clay Morgan with his article The Five Year Engagement. It looks like books are really about to change.

From the Physical Education Department

Nina Badzin wonders How to Focus on Fitness Without Making our Kids Crazy.

El Farris discusses “Sandusky’s Effect on Coaches and Teachers.”

From the Music Department

Indie pop princess Ingrid Michaelson announced her upcoming tour. I’d love to see her in Toronto! Here is what Ingrid looks like these days:

Ingrid Michaelson

I heart Ingrid. What do you think? Can I pass for her?

Maybe I look more like Ingrid Michaelson's mother?

FYI: She totally does NOT have lenses in her glasses. So not fair.

From the Health Department

David N. Walker tells us to not to be afraid to ask for the neck protector the next time we find ourselves getting x-rays at the dentist in “Silent Enemy.”

From the Driver’s Education Department

Abby Has Issues swears: “I Can Drive 55.”

From the Teacher’s Lounge

Leanne Shirtliffe explains “Why Teachers Need to Laugh.” It is required reading. So.

From the Awesome-Sauce Department

Tamara Out Loud’s “Pickle Kiss” is innocent. And yet so very naughty. Go and see. You know you want to. IYKWIM.

What awesome stuff has happened to you recently?

Tweet This Twit @rasjacobson

The Way Mrs. Wheeler Rolled: Guest Post by Ricky Anderson

Does it get cuter than that folks?

For a chance to enter to win a bracelet from cutey, click HERE for details!

I’m pretty sure I met Ricky Anderson right about the time I met Tyler Tarver and Knox McCoy. They came strung together like half a six-pack. Here’s what I’ve learned about Ricky since August 2011: Snickers really satisfy him, he works on computers, and he gets precious little sleep because of that little person over there. —>

I also learned that his first grade teacher’s name was Mrs. Wheeler. Which is weird because my first grade teacher’s name was Mrs. Wheeler, so I kind of wonder if he is that Ricky kid who came to my school briefly and then disappeared. Probably not.

Please, please, please read his article “I am a Diva”.

And follow him on Twitter at @Arthur2Sheds. Don’t ask.

He’s a little defensive about that whole lack of integration thing.

• • •

Click here for main schedule!

The Way Mrs. Wheeler Rolled

My first grade teacher’s name was Mrs. Wheeler. I found this especially fitting, seeing as how the old lady must have been ten years older than Methuselah. I was convinced if we were to give Mrs. Wheeler a sudden start, we’d have to ‘wheel her’ out on a gurney.

She was a delightful old relic, though. She was exactly twelve feet tall. She wore old lady’s perfume; the kind that made your nose wrinkle up into a prune.

I loved her.

She was the reason I went to school. The numerous bullies who traded my lunch money for a bloody nose or a black eye hardly bothered me. All my attention was focused on getting to Mrs. Wheeler’s class. It was one of my two main goals in life.

The other, of course, was to please Mrs. Wheeler. Any act that would make her happy was an accomplishment to me, no matter how minuscule. If her pencil tip were dull, I’d gladly whittle her a new one. When she needed the chalkboard erasers beat, I hastily volunteered. My hair may have resembled Ben Matlock’s when I was finished, but I enjoyed every minute of it. It was the first time I can remember finding self-sacrifice enjoyable.

I did these things not only because I loved her, but also because I owed it to her. You see, some bullies were worse than others. There was a whole gang of the really mean ones that got their kicks from my posterior. I accurately nicknamed them ‘The Meanies’. They practiced judo on me every day at recess. I knew the routine well. They would surround me, and I would begin to feel the fear creep over me. The name calling and shoving would commence, and the tears and pocket change would disperse.

One day as this was taking place, yet again, something out of the ordinary happened. I was picking myself out of the dirt when a lone shadow blocked the sun. The proceedings halted like molasses in August. The onlookers scattered as Mrs. Wheeler towered over the malicious would-be thieves. I knew all would be fine when she began scolding them with those scalding words of retribution that still ring in my ears to this day, “Come now, let’s play nicely, girls.”

Do you remember any of your teachers saying or doing something that they probably couldn’t get away with now?

Who Should Escape from Hell with El?

Last week, my friend El Farris of Running From Hell with El ran a little contest in which she asked people to create images of super heroes, willing to fight for a cause.

Today, I was supposed to declare the winner of El’s Strong Enough to Escape From Hell Create Your Own Super Hero Contest.

Except I need your help.

*

Go look at El’s page, then come back here and vote.

If you’d like to, tell me why you think this person is the most deserving of the $20 gift card to Barnes and Noble that I will be providing!

* Yes, I am aware I am missing a question mark in the poll. It is actually there, but apparently I am using up too much space. Darn you, PollDaddy and your narrow margins!

• • •

THE CONTEST IS OVER! ** I think it is obvious that Random Thoughts and Lotsa Coffee has done the job with Super Ma’am! Congratulations! Please send me your contact information so I can mail you your prize!

Grandma’s Charms

My grandma had an awesome chunky, clunky charm bracelet.

It had sixty-five bajillion charms on it, and it clanked whenever she shook her wrist.

She died in 1982, while I was at summer camp.

I don’t know to whom her charm bracelet was willed, but I never saw  — or heard — it again.

Fast forward three years. My senior year of high school, two friends of mine and I fancied ourselves jewelry makers and set up shop stringing rainbow-colored beads onto tiny black fishing lures.

Our plan?

To become famous jewelry makers.

Or maybe to earn just enough money to see the next Grateful Dead Show.

{Or maybe that was just my plan.}

Anyway, after school and on weekends, we bought miniscule black fishing lures and itsy-bitsy multi-colored seed beads and transformed these cheap components into semi-hideous totally fabulous earrings, bracelets and necklaces.

We hawked our wares during periods 5, 6 and 7 lunch and sold everything for under $5.

And then my left thumbnail split in two.

And that was it; we were out of business.

Still, it was good while it lasted.

While our little business was booming, I got to table together with two friends. And as we slumped over flat surfaces sorting beads and determining color schemes, we talked about our lives: the boys we liked, what we thought we might do after college, where we might eventually land.

Our stuff was not fancy, but people seemed to like it. And it was wonderful to see someone delight in wearing something that we had made.

Recently, I saw these really adorable bracelets.

They don’t call ’em cutey for nothin’!

I immediately liked the colorful bead combinations, especially one bracelet with a whimsical heart-drop dangle featuring two people smooching.

I like that bauble a lot.

I like to roll the round smooth beads between my fingers and see if I can guess which one is which just by the way it feels.

Even though this bracelet is nothing like the junk kind my friends and I created in high school — nor is it like the one my grandmother wore — the clinking sounds strangely familiar.

So now I jingle a bit, and — happily — it reminds me of old friends.

And of my grandmother.

Pieces of my life’s history in metal and beads.

Who could have known that this little bracelet would bring me such sweet memories?

Tell me about a favorite piece of symbolic jewelry.

tweet me @rasjacobson

What the Deuce is GRIEVENSTALL?

Cover of

Cover via Amazon

Today we continue with Made-It-Up Mondays where I throw out a 100% made-up word and ask you to:

  • define the word
  • provide its part of speech, and
  • use the word in a sentence that indicates how the word could be used.

Why? Because it’s fun. And because someone gave me the book

For example:

The Yupga word “Mamihlapinatapi” from the Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego refers to a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other will offer something that they both desire but are unwilling to do.

When I can’t find the right word on the word-shelf to fit my mood or predicament, I just make one up.

The last time we did this the word was “fongutter” and I am sad to say, no one was even close. FON was really pronounced PHONE, and this word harks back to the days when Tech Support was still a wee thing who liked to take apart old phones to see how they worked. Now he enjoys taking bigger stuff, so I have to tell him to stop being a “fongutter” and put my shizzle back together.

No worries. We shall plough ahead.

The first person to use the word even remotely close to the way I do shall receive linky-love. And by that, I mean I will announce your identity in the next Made-It-Up Monday post next month and link up to your blog, so folks can head over and check out your stuff.

If you are not a blogger, don’t worry. If you guess the meaning, I will highlight your name in bold and let everyone know how smart you are. If you are looking for a new job, you can put “uncanny ability to define 100% bogus words” on your resumé and direct prospective employers here. I will totally back you up.

Continuing alphabetically, this month’s word is:

GRIEVENSTALL

What the heck is that? Define it. And give me a sentence in which you show me how you would use it.

You know, if it were a real word. 😉

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

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Dear Mr Reichert by KD Sullivan

There she is!

I don’t exactly know through whom or when I met KD Sullivan, but I know I liked her right away. Her blog, Journey to Epiphany is filled with beautiful posts that have inspired me. KD has been a number one supporter to me from the moment I asked for help with this project. She has been waiting a long time for this post to go live.

But KD is nothing if not patient. She is a gentle, true spirit. And I urge you to check out what she has done at her place. One of my most favorite posts is called “Painting Grace Graffiti or How I Almost Quit Blogging.”

You should absolutely follow her on Twitter @kdsullivan. And her new Facebook page is here!

• • •

Dear Mr. Reichert

At the time, Mr. Reichart was under-appreciated. We thought he was just plain weird. He had the worst comb-over I’d ever seen: badly dyed, jet-black hair started two fingers above the top of his ear and swept over his otherwise void-of-hair head. With bulbous eyes, slightly yellowed skin and a thin frame, he looked like a character in an old Peter Lorrey film. He always wore a short-sleeved dress shirt. But the most interesting thing about Mr. Reichart’s appearance was the wad of spittle that moved from his top lip to his bottom lip. I used to take guesses as to which lip the spittle would settle at the end of class.

Despite his geeky appearance, Mr. Reichart was the best English Literature teacher. Ever. I remember very little about high school, and even less about actual class time in high school, but I have three very vivid memories of this wonderful teacher’s class.

The first was when he taught a unit on English poets. He asked a question that I’ve never forgotten. He asked:

“Would you rather have some one tell you that they love you despite your faults, or someone who pretends to be blind to them?”

At the time I thought I’d rather have someone be blind to them, but as wisdom and maturity have taken their toll on a horribly flawed me, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather the first.

Portrait of Chaucer from a manuscript by Thoma...

Image via Wikipedia

Mr. Reichart made us memorize the Prologue to Canterbury Tales by Chaucer in old English! He told us that some day, we would see each other in a bar and repeat it…and if my memory was good enough to recognize or even remember any of the students in his class, I would still be able to quote it. Verbatim. And because I home-schooled my children, I made them memorize it as well.

My last memory of this eccentric man was that he created a holiday. He called it Lacey Day. It doesn’t happen on the same day every year, and in the Chicago area usually comes in early May. It occurs the first day the tree leaves are barely unfolding; when you look toward the sky you will find a tapestry of green lace.

I don’t know if Mr. Reichart is still alive, but I have much to thank him for. He sparked a love in me for English literature. He treated me — and all of his students — as though we were already adults with his talk of love and meeting in bars. He believed we could do hard things. But most importantly, he taught me how to make a holiday out of the common, and find beauty in the every day. So for a couple of days each spring, I look up to the tops of the trees and remember dear Mr. Reichert.

What literature did you have to memorize in school? Can you still do it? Which former teacher of yours would you like to meet in a bar? What drink would you order him or her? What would you have?

Things are Breaking

In the middle of December, I pilfered some of my son’s leftover Halloween candy; I had been craving sweets, and his box of purple NERDS looked strangely enticing. I dumped the entire box in my mouth and proceeded to chomp down on the little pellets, which turned out to be grape-flavored rocks in disguise.

Seriously, those things were friggin’ ridiculous.

I had hoped for sweetness – and initially, they were sweet — but I was utterly unprepared for the unyielding, rock-hardness of those tiny artificially flavored stones.

I felt my teeth crunch against something unnaturally hard, but my sweet tooth was unrelenting.

At some point, it occurred to me that my particular pack of NERDS had come from somebody’s leftover Halloween candy from one maybe two years ago, and I just so happened to be the unlucky recipient of that box.

Nevertheless, I kept chewing until every last bit of tart purple goodness had been devoured.

Later, my husband came home after an unseasonably warm day. The world was clearly confused. There was no snow. The sky was blue and tiny flowers were trying to bloom in my garden.

My husband asked me if I had heard that The Pretty People had separated.

I hadn’t heard.

photo by Jordan Gillespie @flickr.com

I opened my mouth but there were no words.

“What’s wrong with your teeth?” he asked.

I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my teeth, or rather, the now missing parts: the pieces that had been there but that had disappeared at some point along the way without my even noticing it.

I started to weep.

Partly for my broken teeth, but mostly because of The Pretty People.

Early the next day, I made an appointment. I couldn’t wait to see my dentist so he could get his gloved hands all up in there and make things right again; it didn’t seem like it would be too hard.

But it was.

My appointment lasted over an hour during which time I lay back in the chair and listened to the dental assistant go on about another employee whose dog had recently run away, how devastated she was to have had him unexpectedly wander out of her life.

When the dentist finished shaping and bonding, I had two new teeth: nearly as good as the originals – but not exactly the same. I kept looking at them.

“Will they last forever?” I asked my dentist when he finished.

“They’ll be good for a while,” he said, “but once something has broken… well, all fixes are temporary.”

I thought of The Pretty People.

I’ve always assumed every marriage has cracks and weak spots, but that these minor imperfections are things we can excuse in our spouses. Short of infidelity or abuse, I’ve believed most grievances are petty things that we can forgive in each other because we all possess our own heinous fault lines.

I mean, on any given Thursday I want to strangle my husband after I have punched him in the throat and given him a Super-Atomic wedgie.

But Lord knows, my husband is a patient man.

It is January now, and I can’t stop thinking about the impermanence of things.

I can’t stop thinking of friends who are wrestling with health related issues; another friend whose son had to be airlifted from Bolivia to Miami to receive treatment for something doctors have not yet diagnosed. I am thinking about the dental office worker whose puppy ran away. And I am thinking about the Pretty People – their children, their home, their lives.

An eternal optimist, I’m hoping the best for all of them. I’m praying that a Divine Spirit will cure my friend’s tumors, that my friend’s son will miraculously turn around so that his father can stop worrying about diarrhea and measuring urine output. I’m hoping that The Pretty People will rediscover what they once saw in each other after a little time away from their daily routine. I’m hoping that dental assistant’s puppy will find his way home.

Also, I’m hoping that my new teeth will hold.

I know nothing is solid, but I suppose in matters of the heart I prefer the illusion to reality.

Up until that December day, my biggest worry had been getting my sugar fix.

Who knew I had it so sweet?

What has rocked your world lately?

Interested in entering the Create Your Own Super Hero Contest? Details HERE.

Create Your Own Super Hero Contest

This is El's Avatar. She is riding for justice.

El Farris is my writing partner. She kicks my butt and makes sure that I am writing. And then I kick her butt back.

I guess we kinda like to kick each other’s butts.

El and I have 6,347 things in common. We both love motorcycles and horses. We are both wild women and yet we each have a strong sense of justice. We hate bullying and plagiarism. We have both survived things that might make folks look at us with sad eyes or call us victims. We call ourselves survivors.

El’s just hit her 111th post on her blog Running From Hell With El and, to celebrate, I suggested she run a little contest.

El is all about justice and she has a strong moral code. We decided a great idea — nay, the perfect idea — would be for people to create their own Super Hero Avatars and send them to post at her place.

For the purposes of this contest, a superhero is defined as a character dedicated to using his or her strengths to stop those who might use their powers for selfish, destructive or ruthless purposes.

Rules:

1. Pick your cause — funny or serious — and send in a visual representation of your Super Hero to elfarrisburke@gmail.com. You can use any medium: a drawing, a cartoon, a photograph, a collage.

2. Please include with your submission an explanation of what your Super Hero is fighting for (or against, as the case may be).

3. You may submit until January 24, 2012 at 9 PM EST.

4. On January 25, 2012 at 7 am, I will announce the winner of El’s Strong Enough to Escape From Hell Create Your Own Super Hero Contest.

One lucky winner will receive a $20 gift card to Barnes and Noble.

{Knowledge is power, people. We find that knowledge in books.}

This is my Super Hero! And before you get all freaked out thinking, "I can't do that!" I didn't. My kid did it for me. I made a doodle. Which would have been fine. Plus, I'm the judge. I can't win.

When is the last time you created art with something other than words?