There's No Day Like Today...

...unless the things you are really excited for are events in the future. Like this mud run I wanted to do, or an immersion yoga weekend or bike ride to raise funds for the local food bank or even the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy (what a cliffhanger!). All of those things are happening in the two weeks after I get my eyeballs surgically shoved back into my skull, meaning there is a 95 percent I won't be recovered in time.

Maybe it's a little bit of self-pity, like I'm complaining about things I won't be able to do but if I wasn't having surgery I wouldn't end up doing them anyway (which is not the case, but could be), but I htink it's just bad timing.

The most important part of my life in the fall, aside from the Big E which begins a week before my surgery so I can go (!), is college football. More specifically, my beloved Gators. Every team gets one weekend off for scheduling purposes, but I like to pretend it's so we devoted fans can give our hearts a rest for just one weekend. Typically, though, there's another game going on that affects our ranking and SEC Championship chances, so it's hardly a break from the heart attack risk. Some people think the bye week is a perfectly acceptable time to have a wedding, and that drives the rest of us bananas because not every single person in our lives is a Florida fan...despite my greatest attempts at converting them.

If I had to pick any time to have surgery in the fall that would impact my ability to look at a TV screen for at least a week, I hit the jackpot. My surgery is scheduled for a Tuesday, and Florida doesn't play for 10 days - thank you bye week! Of course, there's a chance I still won't be able to see straight in time for the LSU game, which also means I will spend my birthday being miserable and cross-eyed, but I'll fight those battles as they come.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm watching "Julie and Julia" and it makes me want to go to cooking school. Neither of my parents cooked much growing up. By that I mean my dad could only make a few things - hot dogs, pork chops, pasta (always undercooked), and stew (which I'm pretty sure my mom prepared and he heated) are all I remember. Everything was drenched in salt but no other seasoning - thus flavorless. My mom could (and still can) cook, but she worked nights when we were little so that she could be home with us during the day, so she mostly made our lunches. As we got older, family dinners became rare with busy sports and scouting schedules. And then in high school, I basically lived off bagels and pudding. I was a cheerleader, so I was obsessed with my weight and figure, and thought carbs and sugar were better than salty, meaty meals. So I refused to eat anything except the occasional shepherd's pie or grilled cheese I could convince my mom to make for me. I also went through a fettuccine alfredo stage, and I still can't really eat it more than once or twice a year after living off it for six months.

What I was getting at is that I basically taught myself to cook. I can follow a recipe and I can buy a bunch of random stuff at the grocery store or farm stand and figure it out. Every time I visit my mom, we make a meal and I love that. It sucks cooking for one, and I don't really like cooking at home because no one ever thanks me or even acknowledges they enjoyed my meal. And when everyone buys their own groceries but won't share, why should I share mine? Also, I think if I cook, you should clean up and vice versa. Guys' brains don't work like that. I will acknowledge that I am not easy to live with, but for christ's sake - if I cook, say thank you and offer to do the dishes!

I'd like to learn the basics of cooking - it takes me 10 minutes to chop vegetables and 20 minutes to make cookies. I'm slow and inefficient. I don't know how to season food without a recipe. And I never seem to be able to grill any kind of meat or seafood without burning the outside and leaving the inside raw. I can bake like no one's business - muffins, cookies, cakes, brownies, fudge, you know it. But cooking on a stove or grill is not my forte.

Because I'm feeling down, I want to remind myself how crazy everyone went over the Nutella and sea salt stuffed sugar cookies I made last week. The RAs at the college moved in two weeks before everyone else, and since the dining hall wasn't open yet, departments took turns cooking them dinner so the RAs could get to know who's who of the staff. The marketing department - all four of us - decided on Mexican. We make pork carnitas, beans, guacamole, four kinds of salsa, queso, rice, and probably more things I'm forgetting. We wanted to offset the spicy dinner with sweet, non-Mexican desserts. My boss made a chocolate cake that turned out really dry because we were baking in a convection oven rather than a conventional oven, so maybe that made everyone like my cookies more than they should have. But they were so good. The students were coming up and saying, "Thank you so much for dinner. Who made the cookies?!" and the next day, several people - who were not at the dinner - emailed or stopped by and mentioned they had heard about my cookies and when would I be making them again. Soon, my friends, soon. But will I share? We'll see...

Like Mother, Like Dog

I took Rags to his six-month checkup last weekend. Or should I call his almost-six-year checkup? Either way, he'll be 6 years old in September and he goes to the vet for a checkup every six months. So that's what this was.

After trying to teach the vet tech who was boss (Rags - 1, vet tech - 0), he got a cool muzzle and his vaccines. Much like a human going to the dentist or an annual physical, we saw the vet for about two minutes of a 25-minute appointment. The rest was spent waiting, with the tech, waiting, and more waiting. When the vet finally made an appearance, he told me Rags is 90% healthy. He knocked 5% off for a one tooth that's worn down (as in, it's not deadly sharp) from "eating something hard." I don't give Rags bones or anything hard, but my dad has always let his dog eat bones and gnaw on plastic bottles, so when I moved in, suddenly Rags was introduced to this delicacy. Once I realized it, I quickly nipped that in the bud (I don't let Rags eat anything that isn't natural or that contains red dye), but apparently the damage was already done. The other 5% was because of his cherry eye.

You can't see his cherry eye here at the ripe old age
of 8 weeks, but I had to throw it in for the cuteness factor

Rags has had a cherry eye since he was born. As a puppy, it would only pop out every now and then. Lhasa apsos are prone to cherry eye, and since he's half Lhasa, half poodle, both he and his brother have them, but only in one eye. Every once in a while, the other one will pop out but my previous vet taught me how to massage it back in. It works, but since the "bad" one had been popped out for so long, there's no massaging it back in. Every time I take him to the vet, they tell me, "Well it doesn't appear to be bothering him but a $2,000 surgery would take care of it so that it doesn't cause problems down the road."

I am obsessive dog mommy, but I don't think it's worth putting Rags under anesthesia for a $2,000 surgery that has a 20% failure rate, plus all the risks that any surgery carries. This new vet told me it would only be around $700, and he strongly recommended the surgery. I don't understand why. It gives Rags character - along with his underbite, bowed front legs, and affinity for sleeping like a human (under the covers with his head on a pillow).

How his eye normally looks

When my surgeon asked me to bring in photos of my "old eyes" so he knew how much bone to take out in order to make my eyes look like my eyes again, he also asked me to bring any photos I had taken when my eyes literally bugged out the sides of my head last summer when all these shenanigans started. So I did, and I also slipped in a photo of when Rags and his brother got into a tussle and Rags' cherry eye was scratched and bleeding. I thought my surgeon would appreciate the fact that both my dog and I have wacky eyes. He did.

Rags' battle wound after it finished
gushing blood

I asked my dad if he'd rather just kill two birds with one stone and take care of both of us after surgery at the same time. He said no. I still haven't decided if I'm actually going to put Rags through this. I'm leaning toward no. I'll definitely get a second opinion, but right now, he's fine and my eyes aren't so I'm going to let him keep being his cute self until I'm back to my old self.

Check Your Feelings at the Door

Many of us spend more awake time with our co-workers than we do with our families, friends, and significant others. So it's important that you get along with your co-workers. Or is it?

I've always had a strong sense of separation between work and personal life. Occasionally, those lives intertwine. A co-worker has a baby or falls ill. You end up really getting along with with a co-worker and become outside friends. But for the most part, work is work and life is separate. At least in my life, that's how it's been.

I've been accused of being cold or closed-up because I don't share every personal detail about my life with co-workers at the Monday morning staff meeting, or because I like to spend my lunch break going home to walk my dog instead of gossiping with the secretary. I find excuses not to go to things like a co-worker's baby's christening. At my previous job, I spent the months leading up to my co-worker-close-in-age's wedding dreading that I'd be invited.

There are certain exceptions to these rules. At my last job, I felt quite connected with a few of the women, who were old enough to be my moms, and one guy, who was old enough to be my dad. And they were like parents to me. They gave me rides when my car constantly broke down and even drove me to and from the hospital when I was pumped full of anesthesia for an endoscopy. They knew I was in Florida, mostly alone, without my parents and they jumped right in. Because they had kids my age, I think they did what they would want someone else to do for their children. It was nice, and we became very close (by my definition). They supported me in my health struggles and I was privy to the details of theirs and their lives.

It takes me a LONG time to open up to someone. In my previous relationship, we had a running joke. One of us would shout, "Feelings!" when the other was getting emotional or sentimental. My close friends know I hate feelings, in the sense that I think there is a time and a place for them. It's not appropriate to show up to work crying because you and your boyfriend got into a fight (unless he hit you, and even then I'm pretty sure you should call the cops and/or a family member, not a co-worker). It's hard to respect someone as a colleague when they are constantly emotional or sharing little details about their lives. I remember a woman from the Junior League who told me she knew every little detail about her secretary's life - not because she shared it - but because she made all sorts of personal phone calls 3 feet away from her boss. That's another huge pet peeve of mine - personal calls in public places...especially the office. I remember multiple times I heard a co-worker call her therapist for a refill on her anxiety and depression meds - from her cubicle in the middle of our office! It was like she wanted someone to hear and go over to her and say, "Are you OK? I had no idea you were struggling with depression." Sorry, I don't care. Unless it starts negatively affecting your job which then affects my job...then I'll care.

I guess it was easier to hold this ideal of a professional life separate from a personal life when I worked in health care. I went on a blind date once and told the guy how seriously I took my job, and that although I wasn't a doctor (whose bad day can kill someone), I felt responsible for the patients with whom I worked, so bringing my problems into a conversation about their cancer or dying child was absolutely not acceptable. His job was to make sure college students had fun, and he balked at my comments. The date quickly went sour after an otherwise great three hours. I knew it wouldn't work when his perfect job meant farting around for eight hours a day. Don't get me wrong - I love casual Fridays (don't have them now), office potlucks and departmental retreats, but for the most part, work should be taken seriously.

Now that I work in higher education, it's a lot more relaxed. It's better and worse than health care in some ways, but I've noticed that feelings come into play a lot more. Any time we have an event, 18 people think they are entitled to be on the agenda as speakers. I'm assuming this dates back to the days of old - when pomp and circumstance and pageantry were revered, students actually respected their elders and faculty, and everything was an event - even meals at the dining hall. But it's 2012, and if you're going to have three hours of speakers before an actual event, go right ahead, but no one is paying attention. I don't do much public speaking, but I would imagine that if you look into the crowd and see numerous people looking down at their phones and iPads, you've lost them. Time to wrap it up. But if you tell speakers that this is going to happen and that maybe only one or two should speak, and they should keep their speeches to five minutes, they get all bent out of shape.

Obviously I don't want to get into detail about work, and no one cares about anyone else's job, but I'm just speechless sometimes at how personally things get taken. When you spend five minutes in a meeting telling us about what you did over the weekend (unless it's really cool like jumping out of a plane or discovering an alligator in your bathtub) or why you're running late, it's makes everyone else uncomfortable. Now, this isn't true when you work in a tiny little four-person department like I do, because if you're not family, you're not going to work well together, but the other 296 people who work for the same employer do not have to be your friends.

You're allowed to have feelings, but unless you are on that very short list of people I care deeply about (or we're both drunk, because I love everyone when I'm drunk), then don't bring them up in my presence or else I will think less of you. Just being honest...

As My Rage Dissipates...

On my way into work this morning, everyone seemed to be in an even bigger rush than normal during rush hour. I like to drive in the middle lane because, well, that's where you're supposed to drive, but also because there are several on and off ramps on my route, so I like to be out of the right lane to let those cars on and off, and the left lane is just downright scary on I-91 in Springfield. But through the heart of downtown, the road is so bad in the middle and right lanes than I almost always try to get into the left lane for that mile-long stretch so that I don't spill my coffee or even worse, have an accident (and I don't mean a car crash). It is SO bumpy. I know that means I have to speed up in the left lane or else face the wrath of psycho woman-doing-her-makeup-while-yelling-at-her-toddler-and-switching-lanes-to-maintain-her-90mph-speed, but no matter where I drove today, I was being tailgated. Mind you, I was hovering between 65 and 70mph, until the speed limit drops down to 55mph in that god-awful stretch of bumpiness, and then I was still going around 60mph to avoid being trampled.

Normally, my rage would have kicked in and I would have started giving these drivers nasty looks, letting them pass then tailgating to give them a taste of their own medicine, and just getting myself all worked up. Actually, in the past, I would have been driving just as fast as them, so it probably wouldn't have been an issue. But since I recently got into a minor accident at an intersection and my insurance will likely skyrocket because of it, I drive like I have a state trooper in my backseat with a checklist, ready to take away my license. Besides, I'm responsible and leave when I need to in order to get to my destination a few minutes early, so that even if there's traffic, I arrive on time. Genius, eh?

Instead, today I let people drive around my like race cars while I maintained my legal speed as well as a sense of peace. Let them rush. I will get to work safely and on time as long as they don't cause any accidents up ahead. Eventually, I got through the downtown area and mass of exits, and I was "home free." Except I wasn't.

Right where I got into my accident, a car came flying up behind me. I could see the flamboyant dude (is that an oxymoron?) in my mirror - talking on his phone, flapping his other hand around instead of keeping it on the wheel. I think I could read the time on his watch - that's how close he was. Like, if I let my foot of the gas, he would have plowed into me. So I slowly decelerated since we were coming to the awful intersection where I and all of my co-workers have been involved in accidents, and where I see one at least once a week. He never got off my tail. I held my breath as I came to a complete stop to check for oncoming traffic, almost certain I was about to be rear-ended. Thankfully, I was wrong. I watched in my rearview mirror as he cut off two cars to turn instead of giving them their right of way. Awesome. Then, up ahead, a bus was stopped to pick up passengers. I could see him yelling at me in his mirror since we were stopped. He hung up his phone at some point, or put it down, because now he was yelling with both hands in the air. Eventually, we got going again and I was getting annoyed so I decided to go about 15mph. Granted, we are driving up a steep hill, turning a curve, and passing through a school zone that is also currently a construction zone. He starts laying on his horn and screaming more, so I slow down to 10mph.

Let me tell you: this was pure bliss. I was doing nothing wrong and had we both been pulled over, he would've gotten a warning or even a ticket and I would've been praised for slowing down for schoolchildren and construction workers. Instead of taking a hint, he took a sharp right turn onto a side street to apparently get ahead of me. I was about .1 mile from the parking lot at work, so I didn't get to see where he was going in such a freaking hurry, but I gave myself a figurative pat on the back for staying calm and slowing down instead of giving him the finger or slamming on my brakes. I actually felt a little bad because he was apparently late for something, and I had to keep reminding myself that I was being the responsible driver and he was breaking all sorts of driving laws, and I had no reason to feel guilty.

I think yoga is working...

Getting Back to the Old Me

I found out on Monday that I am officially ready for eye surgery. Thyroid eye disease can be a nasty little bugger, and often times, people must wait years until the disease “calms down” enough before they can have surgery. I am fortunate in that regard because I only developed moderate TED in July 2011, so 13 months ago, and it “calmed down” in October. I’m not fortunate to have TED, as many people experience no eye involvement with Graves disease, but my eyes started changing soon after I was diagnosed. I always had deep-set eyes that I was somewhat self-conscious of because, from a profile view, my eyebrows almost “stuck out.” Within a few months of my Graves diagnosed, my eyes began bulging not to the point that it was noticeable to anyone but me, but enough that my eyes now lined up with my eyebrows from a profile view. Unfortunately, a year later, my eyes bulged to the point that I became unrecognizable to people who hadn’t seen me in a few years. This was devastating, and extremely painful—both physically and emotionally. Now that the physical pain is gone and the swelling is under control, my surgeon is ready to operate.

The official name of the procedure I’m having is a bilateral (meaning both) orbital decompression. An ENT surgeon will enter through my nose to remove the medial wall (between my eyes and nose) on both sides, and part of the orbit floor (the bone under my eyes). My oculofacial surgeon will create a small incision on the outside of both eyes to remove the lateral (outer, near my temples) walls. He told me the scars would fade into my wrinkl…oh yeah, I don’t have wrinkles. Anywho, they will be tiny little scars that probably only I will notice, and since this whole TED thing required steroids that caused acne, I rarely leave the house without makeup anyway so I’m sure the scars will be nearly invisible. The point of the surgery is to create more room around my eyes so that they can go back into my head where they belong. Normally, this can be achieved by only removing fat, but since mine is pretty significant, they need to remove bone. You don’t need that bone anyway.

Since two surgeons will be operating on me, so the surgery is almost two months away on Sept. 25. I’m ready today but I still need to meet the ENT, see my primary care doctor just to ensure everything else is working properly and my ticker isn’t going to give out on the operating table.

I have never told my co-workers or boss about Graves or my eyes. But now I have to. So last week, when I officially got the surgery date, it was a convenient coincidence that my boss wanted to know if I was taking any vacation time and if not, why not? It’s summer and pretty quiet here with no students on campus, so better now than during the semester. Too bad I don’t get a real vacation now that I have to use my sick time, personal days, and two weeks of vacation (in that order) for surgery and the lengthy recovery.

Thank goodness, even though I went into my boss’s office shaking, she was more curious than anything else. Concerned, too, and that’s probably because her daughters are only a few years younger than me. It turns out a former colleague had Graves and TED but quit shortly after their diagnoses and onset. Strange, because a former colleague at my previous job had Graves also. That’s three PR people who have it, and I’m sure many more. They say it’s caused by stress, so no surprises there. PR is hardcore.

The recovery is supposed to be pretty intense. Aside from all the risks surgery carries, and the pain and swelling and the fact that I will look like I got into a brawl, there is a 50/50 chance that I will develop double vision (strabismus) regardless of any precautions the surgeons take. It just happens. If I do, and it doesn’t go away after two weeks like many double vision does, then I will need eye muscle surgery after about three months. It’s a fairly simple procedure. If I don’t need that, the next surgery will still be three months later to lower my eyelids. Since my eyes have been bulging for more than year, the eyelids have stretched over them. Once my eyes go back to normal, the lids will still be "stuck" up over where the top of my eyeballs would hav been, and I will still look surprised all the time. If I need the eye muscle surgery, the lid surgery will be three months after that, so we are talking six months worth of surgery and recovery at minimum, or nine months to a year if I need all three. I planned for this, and I’m freaking ready.

I took a full week off, and we are going to play the rest by ear. Maybe I will work the second week doing half-days or working from home or some sort of part-time arrangement, and then I will still come back to work on Day 15 bruised and swollen but probably OK to work and drive, unless I get that double vision. That’s a bridge I don’t plan to worry about until it comes time to cross, but I have to make at least tentative plans in case that happens. If it does, I won’t be able to drive, and will rely on my dad mostly. My boss passes me on her way in, so we could probably work something out for most days, and my dad gets out of work before me but doesn’t work too far from here, so it would just be those days where other people have appointments or meetings and I maybe need to work from home or something. Again, that’s a bridge I’ll cross when I get there.

Here is the photo my surgeon is going to use as a reference. He said, “You look adorable here.” I took that to mean I don’t look adorable now. Nah, he is the most genuine person I have ever met in the health care field, so what he meant is that although people say, “Your eyes look fine,” or, “But you have such big, pretty eyes,” that the changes since TED are significant and severe, and this surgery is medically necessary (if it wasn’t, insurance wouldn’t cover it). On a somewhat unrelated note, I agree with the surgeon. I like this photo of me. I used to be very comfortable in my own skin. I never thought I was hot (too plain) or gorgeous (too flawed), but I thought I was pretty and like the way I looked. Because this is “the look” we’re going for, I think it would be helpful if I cut my hair to be about the same length, and did my best to lose any excess weight I can before surgery. My thyroid levels are a whole other issue, and I have little control over my weight and metabolism right now while we are still sorting everything out, but I have decided to really cut out junk. I’m still going to eat dairy products and red meat and carbs, but I’m going to try and eat as little processed food as I can, while still allowing myself to eat whatever I want for two meals a week, which is probably going to be my Dunkin Donuts on Friday mornings and a dinner out with friends or family. Otherwise, I’m eating lean protein, fruits, vegetables, healthy starches, dairy (ice cream is my weakness), and lots of water, and less coffee. The reason I’m going to cut my hair is not just because I want to look like this, it’s also because my hair is really long and there won’t be a female presence in the days after surgery (more on that later) to help me with it, so the less I have to deal with, the better.

That was my headshot at my job on Sanibel Island. It was taken in May 2009, about nine months before I was diagnosed with Graves but probably only a few weeks before the Graves started (I began noticing symptoms in July that I attributed to all sorts of other causes until I was diagnosed and realized all the symptoms were Graves symptoms). Here is my headshot for my current job, taken in February 2012. Drastic difference. No, I have not colored my hair. But it was definitely lighter when I worked on an island every day, and the lighting in the recent headshot was really odd. And, I was squinting as hard as I could here. I always do in photos now.

So, for an accurate look at my eyes, I leave you with this - a photo comparison of my eyes in May 2009 versus August 2012, a little more than years apart. I'm not squinting in the first photo or trying to open my eyes wide in the second photo, just smiling.

Spoon Theory

This analogy of what it's like to have an autoimmune disease was recently shared on a website I regularly visit. First of all, I love that the website is called, But You Don't Look Sick. I think I look sick, but most people don't. My family thinks I look sick, because they watched me drop 20 pounds and go through hell without a diagnosis for several months, then they watched me face the decision of surgery or radiation, then they watched my eyes bug out of my head, and then they watched my face and body completely transform (aka gain it all back and then some) when I was on steroids for six months that saved my eyesight but ruined my social life for a while. My good friends know I look sick. Everyone else just thinks I'm overweight and that I always looks surprised. Guess what? I don't care anymore. I'm happy, slowly getting better, and about to embark on the biggest transformation of my life (I promise to blog about that next week). I know I'm sick and the people who matter know I'm sick. End of story. Except it doesn't end. Because people tend not to believe others are sick, and let that affect their opinions all too often. We judge each other way too much. So I've decided to educate people who prefer to judge me and others with Graves and in particular, thyroid eye disease. So please, take 10 minutes and read the Spoon Theory.

The spoon theory is applicable to most autoimmune diseases. And although Graves usually isn't as debilitating as lupus, it can be just as serious and you can die from it. And when Graves goes undiagnosed like mine did, or remains severe even after starting medication like mine did, it can really wreak havoc on a lot of things. For me, my social life took the biggest hit. Forget the appearance aspect...when going to work and making dinner take all your energy and you have to cancel your Friday night plans, no one asks if you need anything. Instead, they take it personally, get pissed off, and assume you are making excuses. Well, you know how the saying goes: when you assume, you make and ass out of u and me. I make decisions about how I spend my free time by first determining if I want to do X. I spent too much time in my past doing things to make others happy even if I was miserable. And guess what? I stayed miserable, so now I don't do things that don't make me happy. I'm not talking about taking out the trash or doing dishes - although you could argue those things make me happy because the end result is a clean home - but things like spending my Saturday out when I would rather be home reading or taking Rags to the dog park. So anyway, if I decide I do want to do X, then I need to figure out if I can physically handle it. If it's 95 degrees and X is taking place outside, then I know the answer is no. If X requires me being in a brightly lit room where sunglasses would not be acceptable, then the answer is no. If X involves any sort of physical exertion, unless I can take a shower immediately afterward, then the answer is no. This is all because of Graves, not because I don't like the heat or bright lights or exercise.

So when I cancel on you or say no to an invitation, try to remember that A. I don't owe you an explanation but B. it's not personal. You have no idea what is going on in someone else's life.

Saturday Morning Project

We had our first official heat wave of the year last week. We're on day two of consecutive 90 degrees or hotter days, so we could be in the middle of our second official heat wave. So of course, I find an outdoor project. My thyroid issues make me so much more heat intolerant than others, but I also lived in Florida for 4.5 years, including 2.5 in southwest Florida, so as much as I hate the heat and sweat like a man, I can probably handle it better than most who have never lived in the South.

Anyway, back to my project. Growing up, we had a dirt driveway. As the little tomboy I was, I thought it was the greatest thing ever. Whenever it rained, I had at least half a dozen puddles at my disposal in which to stomp, play, roll and even from which I probably drank, at least once. When I was in high school, we finally joined the late 20th century and had it paved. By then, I was relieved. I was always getting my white cheerleading shoes muddy, and my brother and I couldn't play basketball on dirt very well.

Before

Unfortunately, I still ruin shoes to this day. Our sidewalk from the back porch goes straight to the garage and doesn't connect with the driveway. This sounds like a minor problem, but when you're rushing out the door in high heels or trying to get to your car on a rainy day in flats, there is no way across the grass/dirt (it's actually weeds, not grass, and the weeds are sparse) unless you take a 40-foot running start and leap. And in heels or sandals, that could end badly, especially if you've got my clutz gene.

My brother is a Woot! fanatic (I'm sure the proper term is something like wooter or wootite), and I finally took his advice and started checking out the daily deals. Low and behold, one of last week's woots was a five-pack of step stones for only $12. They arrived this week and I just installed them this morning.

After

I like that you hardly notice them since they are made from recycled materials and look very natural, yet they're sturdy and I installed them so they don't shift as you walk over them. Now I can walk across the small section between the sidewalk and driveway without sinking my heels 4 inches into the ground or ruining white shoes in the mud. Yay!