What a Week.

On one hand, it’s been a hell of a week. On the other hand, it’s been a mostly low-key week.


On Monday, I went to the dentist for the first time in over a year.

The last time I was there (January 2022), they couldn’t schedule me for my usual three-to-four-month timeframe, and scheduled me out six months. I was surprised, but figured that there was no point in pushing back if they had no availability.

As the date for my appointment approached, I saw that I had another important thing on my schedule for that day and time that couldn’t be moved, so I called to reschedule. They told me that if I decided to reschedule, I wouldn’t be able to get in until January 2023. I didn’t have much of a choice, apart from finding a new dentist, so I rescheduled out yet another six months. (Keep in mind that I receive regular periodontic maintenance due to past issues with gum disease.)

A few days before my rescheduled appointment, I got a call from the dentist’s office saying that the dentist wasn’t going to be available for my post-cleaning exam that day, so my appointment would need to be rescheduled. That pushed things back yet another two months.

Which brings us to Monday. I went in feeling apprehensive, but looking forward to having clean teeth again. After the preliminaries of updating paperwork, seeing that nearly the entire support staff had turned over within the past year, getting full x-rays, and having a pleasant conversation about Studio Ghibli with the dental assistant, I got my perio charting done and learned that I now need root scaling and planing.

Which they can’t get me in for until June.

You know what? Fuck you. I’m finding a new dentist.


On Tuesday and Wednesday, I was scheduled to attend some meetings at my work’s downtown campus. These meetings involved a consulting company working with users of some new-to-us accounting software. I’m peripherally involved in the reporting aspect of this software, so it was suggested that I take advantage of being able to see how the users use it.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been in the building where these meetings were held. The building across the street, however, is where I spent the entirety of my work life from November 2007 through the beginning of the COVID pandemic in 2020, and sporadically through 2022. We officially moved out of our cubes (for the second time) at the end of 2022, when our department went fully remote. Even so, there was still a cube with my name on it where I could call home for those two days.

At the end of this month, several departments are being relocated to other buildings on the downtown campus, and the company will be leasing out floors to other organizations.

It was a weird couple of days. Things were almost like before, but so very different.

The commute was the same one I’d been traveling for the past 15 years. It’s changed slightly over time, with contruction projects here and there, but the route is the same.

As I pulled into the parking garage, my right hand habitually started to reach for the spot where I used to keep my monthly parking card, up in the sunglasses compartment, even though I knew I’d need to push the button and pull a ticket to park now.

In the office, my cube was right where I’d left it, in its barren state, with dual monitors I couldn’t use without the dock that’s now hooked up in my home office. Someone had been calling my work phone and not leaving a voicemail; the screen said I had 12 missed calls from the same number.

I went into the pantry to fill up my Tervis with water, and couldn’t help but set the clocks on both the microwaves forward an hour for Daylight Savings Time, even though it didn’t really matter.

The best thing about being back in the office for a couple days was getting to see people. To talk in person. To run into people by chance, and be fully present in that moment, with the knowledge that this may well be the very last time I see these people face-to-face. To eat ramen with my co-workers, and to run into other co-workers at the restaurant.

The meetings were worth attending.


On Thursday, a long-anticipated work project was scheduled for deployment. We were taking all of our hundreds of reports and dashboards and moving them to a new server, with new URLs for all the reports. There was a non-trivial amount of loose ends that needed to be tied up after the main move, including updating links and configurations, plus deploying some updates to reports.

It had been through development testing and QA testing, and still we expected something to go sideways.

The Universe did not disappoint.

I’d had to completely overhaul the report we use to report on the reporting — Report Usage, we call it. It’s a meta-report that shows who uses which reports and how well those reports are performing, among other things. And I couldn’t get it to finish loading up all the metadata, even though it had worked fine in testing. I spent all afternoon Thursday and a good part of Friday troubleshooting; since it was the last piece of the puzzle, and it was just internal to our department, we moved forward with getting all the links updated at end of day Thursday and we turned off the services on the old server at noon Friday. I finally managed to get Report Usage working after lunch on Friday, and we thought we were good to go.

Until someone submitted a ticket to the Help Desk saying they couldn’t access their reports.

Without getting too much into the weeds with the details: we had to turn the old server back on, change back some of the links, and let the old and new report servers run in parallel over the weekend until we can coordinate all the necessary departments to fix it for real come Monday morning.


The above is, of course, all firmly categorized under the umbrella of First World Problems. I recognize this, yet I still feel like this week has been mostly shit-show with glimmers of not-suck here and there. My co-workers, my family, and Krav Maga all helped get me through this weird-ass week.

When do I get to feel like I’ve actually got my shit together again?

Self Care Brain Dump

The term “self-care” gets thrown around a lot, especially via social media. It’s a legitimate concept, but the popular idea seems to be that self-care equates to taking time away from the daily grind to pamper oneself, and that isn’t the only part of self-care.

Self-care is also the everyday things: the little bits of maintenance that keep us from breaking down. Going outside and getting some fresh air. Taking some time to doodle. Putting away the smartphone. Drinking a glass of water. Sitting with your thoughts. Writing them in a journal or a blog.

A few months into our… relationship? …my therapist gave me a printout of a short essay by author Brianna Wiest, entitled, “This Is What Self-Care Really Means, Because It’s Not All Salt Baths And Chocolate Cake.” (Make sure your ad-blocker is turned on if you choose to read the entire essay.)

Self-care should not be something we resort to because we are so absolutely exhausted that we need some reprieve from our own relentless internal pressure.

True self-care is not salt baths and chocolate cake, it is making the choice to build a life you don’t need to regularly escape from.

And that often takes doing the thing you least want to do.

—Brianna Wiest
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Friday Morning

It’s a morning of self-care, now that I think about it. After I dropped Connor off at school, I drove to the salon to get my hair cut. After that, I had a little time to kill before having to be at my next appointment, so I opted to hang out here at Starbucks for a half hour instead of going home.

I haven’t had the occasion to sit at the laptop bar at a Starbucks, even though my local Bux has had one for years. It’s kinda super convenient that I can sit here and blog using my iPhone and my Bluetooth keyboard — positioned at a perfectly ergonomic height, by the way — while my Apple Watch is plugged in to charge via the USB port by my right elbow.

In a few minutes, I’ll head down the road to my next appointment: a New Patient Visit with a psychiatrist who can prescribe my ADHD meds. My GP has been the prescriber for all the brain meds I’ve tried over the years, but he confirmed at our last med check that he’ll be retiring within a year or two. I figured I’d rather transfer ownership of my prescriptions to a mental health professional so I’m not left scrambling at the last minute. Plus, while I do love my doctor, and he seems to be up to date on the latest pharmaceuticals, I suspect it would be in my best interest to have my brain meds prescribed by a brain expert.

Hopefully I haven’t spent too long tickety-tapping here — time to wrap things up and head five minutes down the road to meet my new psychiatrist.

Unpublished: 25 October 2021

I found this post sitting in my Drafts folder from over a year ago. Although it’s not quite finished, it’s still relevant, so I’m posting it the way I found it.

When my therapist asked me last week how I was doing, my answer was, “Meh.”

Then she proceeded to solidify a concept I’d been toying with for some time: the idea of maintenance vs. a mood boost.

She asked me when was the last time I did something that made me happy… and I didn’t have an answer right away. I had answers to most of her other self-care questions: my last workout was last Thursday, for example.

When I gave it some thought, though, the thing that had most recently made me happy was walking in the local Fall Festival parade with my karate dojo.

But only two days after that boost, I learned that a co-worker of mine had died unexpectedly in his sleep. He was three weeks younger than me, so it hit especially hard — people younger than me aren’t supposed to die of natural causes, much less pass in their sleep. It got me thinking about relationships, and mortality, and all the things I take for granted (including waking up in the morning).

My therapist reminded me that the profound losses and hardships of others doesn’t invalidate the day-to-day experiences in my own life, and made sure that I wasn’t minimizing my own emotions and reactions. That’s hard, though — with this reminder of our mortality, knowing that Greg’s world now has to go on without him, how can I continue to feel put out that I don’t have time for planting bulbs because the rain won’t quit and I have to make my son’s halloween costume? #firstworldproblems

Krav Maga: Level Up

On the day before my black belt test, I had my regularly-scheduled appointment with my therapist, who just so happens to be a 4th-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. She suggested that I write down how it felt to have passed my black belt test, especially since the memory of feelings can fade or change with time.

At the end of the nearly six hours of intense testing (punctuated by a handful of short breaks for water and/or snacks), Mr. Turner faced the line-up of black belt candidates and asked us how we felt. For me, “relieved” was the first word that came to mind.

I made it through six hours of testing without injuring myself. At age 46, with my back problems and knee problems, making it through the test uninjured was a huge relief. That had honestly been my main goal: push as hard as I could for as long as I could without getting hurt. During the test, I could feel my lower back and my left knee weakening as I pushed myself to the limit. At one point during the grappling portion of the test, I even approached Mr. Turner and told him (in a voice that, to my embarrassment, started to quaver with emotion) that if he saw me stop during the exercise, it wouldn’t be because I didn’t want to continue — it would only be because I can’t. I told him that I planned to train to failure if necessary, but that I was getting frustrated. Of course, he reminded me that getting emotional wouldn’t help, and basically just to keep going.

After the test was over, though, the constant low-level stress of uncertainty and self-doubt of the past several months had finally lifted. I had finally made it through the gauntlet of black belt testing. I am worthy. I am enough. I wasn’t “given” a belt promotion just by virtue of continuing to show up; I earned it.

Diana throwing some devil horns at the dojo
Me after hour one: feeling pretty hyped.

A sampling of the fun we endured:

  • Punches on the wave bags for speed, power, and technique
  • Sparring: one-on-one, two-on-one, and constant switching-out of sparring partners
  • Drilling choke defenses
  • Grappling drills, including kicking from the ground
  • Drilling knife defense and gun defense
  • Finale: “shark bait” many-on-one defense, including knife, gun, stick, chokes, bear hugs, headlocks, et al.
I was displeased by the third hour of testing.
By hour three, I was in the zone, mildly displeased at my physical limitations, and wanting this to be over already.

I see now, looking at my Hour Three Selfie, why my classmates all say I look so intense and angry when I’m going hard. I look pretty pissed. I’m a little intimidated by Black Belt Test Selfie Diana, truth be told. She looks like she is NOT going to put up with any shit.

Is that really me?

Hell, yes.

Four teens and two adults all earned ginormous black belt certificates

We did it. We all did it. Whether we were scared or hesitant or unsure or excited or nervous or what have you, we all made it happen. We all lifted each other up along the way, and came out the other side as stronger people.

We didn’t just show up. We showed up and kicked ass.