Over the past couple of weekends, I took voice lessons. Two lessons, in all, which is plural, and thus technically fulfills my goal to take voice lessonS. So–that was fun.
I have always loved singing. I’ve been in three musicals (with a very very very short solo in one of them), and auditioned for quite a few more. As a kid, I got tremendously car sick whenever we’d drive anywhere (a malady made worse by the twisty mountain roads we had to traverse to get out of our 300-person town) and to help battle that, I’d sing. I probably know next to a billion songs, or I did before childbirth started turning my brain to Swiss cheese (I know this is a lot of parentheticals, but I swear, having a baby makes you stupider, and I really want the world to know it). I used to sing in the shower and on the toilet until I went away to college and lived in a dorm where I didn’t want everyone to hear my bathroom singing. Partly because toilet singing makes you a dork, and partly because despite the good acoustics bathrooms have to offer (Weird Al recorded his first track in a bathroom with his drummer beating on a suitcase)(damn parentheticals)(okay I’ll stop), I have never considered myself a particularly good singer. So I thought I’d study up. Continue reading “30 for 30: Take Voice Lessons”→
I have never been into mysteries. My parents read us quite a few Hardy Boys books when we were little, but I mainly enjoyed those because my parents were reading them to me. Even as a kid, I often thought there’s a lot of silliness that goes into mystery writing, and not the good kind–this is silliness that doesn’t seem to know it’s silliness. Put on a feathered hat and dance around: great. Put a pair of boys with flashlights in an old mill while they wonder what the heck this place is for three pages: [eyeroll].
That’s sort of how I felt about the TV series Midsomer Murders when it was introduced to me a year or two ago. I came in on the SILLIEST episode: a group of bell ringers were being killed off one by one because–can you guess?–some other bell ringer wanted to win a bell ringing competition. Totally solid motive, right? For mass murder? I hated it immediately. But we were at my parents’ house and they wanted to watch it. And then the next night they wanted to watch another one, which was a little bit better but which lulled me to sleep (partially the TV show, partially I was pregnant).
Sam and I visited the hospital last week so he could have a cortisol test. The doctors are very interested in his cortisol levels because, if you recall, he has an ectopic posterior pituitary gland, and the pituitary produces both cortisol and growth hormone, two very important chemicals in the human body. He’s been diagnosed with a growth hormone deficiency, and now we inject him with HGH every evening (he’s a trooper–he really doesn’t mind his shots), but since his blood glucose hasn’t really improved the way the doctors expect it would, they decided to go looking for other hormonal culprits.
His cortisol levels are fine. His thyroid is fine. They’re even starting to reevaluate the diagnosis of growth hormone deficiency, which means we’ll probably have to go through another grueling hormone test, plus meetings with a metabolic specialist and whatever tests he needs to conduct. Continue reading “Sugarbaby: An Update”→