The Landfill is Lovely This Time of Year

Considering the last post called my mental health into question, I probably shouldn't admit that I occasionally drive past the Sedgewick County landfill for fun. Well, it's not really for fun. It's because I'm homesick.

No, I didn't live near a dump as a child, and while I did watch Fraggle Rock, Margery The Trash Heap was not my favorite character. (Red Fraggle played a much more important role in my formative years.)

It's just that I really miss mountains. And hills and trees. And basically any topography that doesn't involve an endless wheat field interspersed with rows of identical beige houses that look just like mine. 

That's what makes this massive mound of trash so familiar. It's the closest thing to a hill that I've seen in nearly three months. So when I have an errand on the east side of town, I jump on Kansas Highway 96, and it takes me right through the middle of the landfill. And for a few brief moments, I pretend I'm not looking at a big pile of garbage.

Isn't it pretty?

See, when you take a girl who's lived her entire life nestled safely between mountain ridges and plop her smack in the middle of pancake-flat Kansas, she tends to feel a bit agoraphobic. Exposed, really.

But the exposure goes further than just the lay of the land. Since moving here, I've felt kind like I'm on display. Like I'm a foreign object that stands out obnoxiously from this barren landscape. A weasel in the corn, so to speak.  

- I sound different yelling at Ellie as she sprints across the Target parking lot.

- I don't know where anything is, and it's apparent in my driving. I give a lot of apologetic waves.

- I don't wear K-State or KU or Chiefs gear on the weekends.

- And I don't end conversations with "Yep," or "You bet." At least not yet anyway.

In truth, no one here pays any more attention to me and my crazy kids than people at home did. (Except of course when Ellie lets herself into the private conference room at a doctor's office, climbs onto the table and jumps around maniacally. True story and a great example of excellent parenting).

But living in an entirely new place really makes you feel like you're being examined by everyone you meet. Or at least to perceive it to be the case.

And while the feeling of being the new kid in town has lessened in the months since we moved, Kansas will never be home. My home will always be 1,000 miles to the east, in a pretty little mountain valley where people talk just like me.

Much, much prettier.

Musings on Modern Healthcare, My Mental Health and Footwear

For anyone who's not aware, our daughter Harper was born with spina bifida, a birth defect that causes lower limb paralysis, hydrocephalus, incontinence and a bunch of other fun medical issues. So getting her care transferred from Tennessee to Kansas has been something of a challenge.

Even though she doesn't see as many specialists and therapists as she did when she was younger, the process of finding doctors, explaining her situation, convincing them I know what I'm talking about and getting the records transferred has been monumentally frustrating. Add in Ellie's severe speech delay and those related therapies, and you've got the makings for one crazy momma.

This picture really has no relevance to the post, but some folks have asked
why we have green and purple pumpkins on the front porch.

Managing the kids' myriad healthcare needs has made me much more of a nutjob than usual - embarrassingly so actually. I've broken down crying in the middle of the YMCA while trying to get Harper's urology records transferred - a process I wrongly assumed would be relatively easy - and had conversations like this one, which occurred on Nov. 11:

Caller: "Hi, Harper's new braces are in. Can we schedule an appointment for the first week of December? Our technicians are taking vacation during the week of Thanksgiving and that's the soonest we can get her in."

Me: "No, that's really too long to wait. Harper desperately needs these new braces, and your staff's vacation schedules should not preclude her ability to walk. You have other locations in town. Could a technician at another office see her sooner?"

Caller: "I'm sorry, I don't have access to their schedules."

Me, using an ever increasing East Tennessee redneck accent: "Then I suggest you get on the phone and FIND SOMEONE WHO CAN SEE HER NEXT WEEK!"

Not my shining moment by far. But I've discovered when dealing with some - certainly not all - members of the medical community, the only way you can make yourself heard is by being loud and aggressive. It's not that these folks are mean; they're just apathetic. They deal with dozens of moms and dads just like me every day, and my kid is no more important to them than the next one. I'm just one more crazy mom for them to manage.

A little bit of empathy, a smidge of critical thinking and maybe a tad of flexibility. That's all I ask of the gatekeepers who allow us access to the girls' doctors and specialists. But after living in two states, I don't hold out much hope of ever experiencing that across the board.

However, my tirade with the orthotics office did get Harper her new braces yesterday. So after getting fitted, we headed out for our customary "new braces = everyone gets new shoes" shopping trip. We found a pair of Sketchers that fit. They're pink. She's thrilled. Ellie got light-up Disney princess shoes. She showed them off to everyone we passed in the store and flat-out refused to let the clerk remove the security tag. It was something of a scene, but then it always is with Ellie.

Before we left the store, kind of on a whim, I helped Harper try on a pair of knee-high, fur-lined gray boots. From previous experience, I had no hope that they would actually fit. But THEY DID! And she could actually WALK IN THEM!

Now I know most mothers don't cry like hormone-crazed lunatics when they find a pair of boots that fit their 5-year-old. But I sure did. Right there in the middle of Gordman's Department Store.

You see, for five years, Harper has only worn shoes specially designed to fit over orthotics, occasionally a pair of Crocs or the few styles of sneakers that I can cram her braces into. When I see the other little girls walking into school wearing their cute little boots and sandals, I worry that Harper longs to wear them, too. (She's never said anything along those lines, so I'm sure it's merely projection on my part.)

Even so, I'm thrilled that we found boots she can wear. Harper is no where near as happy as me. In fact, she's upset that they're not pink. (I've promised to attach a pink ribbon.) But one day, she'll understand the importance of shoes in a woman's life, and I'll look back on this day and smile.

Beef, Airplanes and Others Things You Probably Didn't Know About Wichita

Apparently my failure to post a update recently has ruffled some of my fans' feathers. Sorry about that - I've been spending my time actually writing for money and conducting "research" for an update I hope to post next week.

In the meantime, here's a look at some fascinating things I've discovered about our new city.

Flying the Friendly Skies

When you land at Mid-Continent Airport in Wichita and walk into the terminal, you'll swear you've gone back in time. From the geometric designs in the carpet to the pink neon adorning the airport's bar, everything about the terminal screams 1983.  Even the musak playing overhead is a constant barage of the same four saxophone-laden light jazz songs. It's truly horrific.

Apparently this is a big enough problem to warrant
not one, but three signs in baggage claim.

The fact that Wichita's airport needs a major facelift is surprising since the city's modern existence is beholden to the aviation industry. For whatever reason, back in the day, a whole slew of aviation companies chose Wichita as their home base. All the big names have huge manufacturing facilities here - Airbus, Beechcraft, Cessna, Lear, Boeing and a bunch of other aviation-related companies.  Add in McConnell Air Force Base down south, and you can hear planes flying around any time of the day or night.

Here's a fun fact: Since the Wright Brothers' first flight in 1903, about 75 percent of all general avaiation aircraft have been built in Wichita.  That's a heck of a lot of planes. And up until recently, Air Force One was serviced at the Boeing facility here in Wichita. Pretty cool.

Bob is Awesome

I have schizophrenic taste in music, and fortunately Bob does, too. "Bob" is the character who picks the music for 97.1 FM. The station's tag line is "Bob plays everything," and indeed he does.

Want some Stone Temple Pilots followed by the Go-Gos and Gotye? Bob will play it. How bout Outkast, Phil Collins and Guns and Roses played in the same set? How bout yeah! Haven't heard "Funky Cold Medina" in about two decades? Don't worry - Bob will play it for you and follow it up with Nirvana and Lady Antebellum.

This is the playlist of a crazy person, and I dig it.

Meat and Its Byproducts

Want to know why Wichita is even here? Cattle. The city was a railhead where cowboys drove herds to be shipped to market. Beef was so important to early Wichita, the city earned the nickname "Cowtown."

Fast forward 150 years and the beef seems to have disappeared from Wichita. (I'm forcibly restraining myself from including a terrible Where's the beef?" pun here. You can thank me later.)

Anyway, you would think the city's heritage would warrant a couple of really good steakhouses or at least some regional pride in locally produced meat products, but I've yet to find much that harkens back to the city's beef-filled glory days. If you want a steak, it's Texas Roadhouse or the Wal-Mart meat department for you. I really hope I missing something.

On a meat-related sidenote, our sausage drought continues. I've tried everything, including Nolan Ryan's Hot & Spicy Beef Sausage and Earl Campbell's Hot Links. Bad jokes about former pro athletes' anatomies notwithstanding, their sausage is sub-par at best. To help tide us over until I locate something better, my inlaws are bringing some tasty Louisiana sausage when they visit at Thanksgiving. God bless those crazy Cajuns and their delicious meats.

Don't quit your day jobs, guys.