Words

Aaaanhkkk

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 20:34:00 +0000

Oh my teeth.

Had some tooth drama back in October. Jaw bone infection, abscess, dentist-endodontists-periodontologists, antibiotics, appointments, oral surgeons, exhaustive dental benefit review, a little pleading, a lot of frustrated disappointment and anxiety on my part.

In the end, I have to have a lot of work done. A lot. Like the cost of a really nice used car in my mouth. Insurance companies and employers - are not big fans of modern dentistry FYI. Implants are excluded as a paid benefit. Dentures, bridges, Arkansas-mountain-man-teeth-gaps in the front of one's face hole - all paid for. But modern medicine designed to save more natural teeth in the long run; not so much.

I need to have 2 implants, all 4 wisdom teeth removed, a few cavities filled, and my old root canal checked. Along with a few other odds and ends.

For 2010, since my annual maximum benefit is $1500, I decided I could afford to have my wisdom teeth pulled. I've dodged this bullet since I was 17. You know, let this be a lesson to fellow procrastinators: I should have done at 17, when my Dad would have been financially responsible. Or I should have gotten them pulled 15 years ago when I had a spouse contributing to the dental benefit and household expenses. Glad it wasn't done by that freak in 2007, that's for sure. (I just re-read that blog. That hurt!) No. I had to wait until now, more fool I.

The pullin' was scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving. Universally bemoaned, "Awwwww, you'll miss Thanksgiving!" I thought it was brilliant. Four days off from work to heal without taking any sick time - excellent! I was told absolutely no food or liquid 6 hours prior to the surgery. So 7.5 hours before, I took my regular meds, and had a cup of coffee - didn't want to add a caffeine headache on top of tooth pain, now did I? Sooo, clever. I made some bean soup, bought potatoes for mashing. How bad could it be?

Bad. Well, now, not bad as these things go I guess. Could have been worse. My sinus wall could have opened up. I could have been a bleeder. I could have died under the anesthesia (and I needed to go to confession - THAT was stupid!). So, not that bad. Mr. Mississippi Dental Assistant assured me I'd be plenty numb for 6 hours after the surgery. WRONG SIR! My first conscious sensation was pain in the lower right quadrant....uuuhhnnnn then barely a breath later, pain all over my mouth. UUUHHNNNN, it huuuts...dat ogahy?

To be fair, the 2007 Root Canal Debacle left me with more blood and pulp and spit and gore on my face (see above link) than the Mouth Rape of 2010. Hurt plenty, don't get me wrong. Lovely cousins drove me to and from, got me home, settled me in on my couch, while daughter made me instant mashed potatoes and tea. I had to get food on my stomach before I could take the hydrocodone. BTW? Hydrocodone is overrated. 600 mg of ibuprofen did more for me than the narcotics as far as the pain was concerned. Hydrocodone made me crabby and constipated. I'll be looking into pain killing alternatives for the Great Mouth/Wallet Rape 2011.

Still healing. I am rinsing and spitting three times a day, I am now using a syringe to clean food out of the gummy holes twice daily, I brush frequently and in good lock-the-barn-door-now-that-the-cows-are-on-Aunt-Dorothy's-lawn fashion, I floss. All the time. Floss floss floss floss floss!

I'm trying to make friends with this new mouth by sending my tongue out to familiarize itself with all those holes. Holes don't like that. Holes swell up when I do that. Holes say, "No. Leave us alone. We are not ready for company yet. We will call you."

I hope they call soon.

Bit of a Thrill

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:58:00 +0000

Interesting day yesterday. I got out of work early to go to a doctor appointment. I love my doctor. He’s a good doctor, kind and patient, listens to me, answers all my questions. I have a lot of questions. Their office is something of an anomaly in the medical world I think – I’ve never had to wait more than five minutes before being whisked in for my appointment. Delightful really.

As an aside, I do not expect this to continue once ObamaCare achieves full throttle. I enjoy the best medical care in the world right now, however, and do not anticipate with any delight the socialist medicine state we will soon enter. B@stards.

The visit was made even better after having been given three months of pharmaceutical samples. I love pharmaceutical samples too.

That done, I was home by 3:00 pm. Gunner Beagle has been confined to his crate again during the day – he was doing so well, not chewing anything up, not ripping up tissues, or getting into the trash in the kitchen. But when I came home from work Monday the little fiend had not only chewed up a sneaker (tinnis shoe for my friend Lacie), but he ripped open and gnawed on my favorite k-drama dvd set of all time, “Thank You” with Jang Hyuk. B@STARD!

So as I said, he’s confined to his crate when I’m not home. He wanted so badly to come out – tail smacking up against the metal, so happy to see me. I pay Gunner no mind, I changed and went to the gym.

After that, I started “The Shack” (darn slow start btw, I’m hoping it picks up soon. Blaaaaahhhhhh.) Blah blah blah dinner, blah blah blah Legion of Mary, blah blah blah Sun and naked torsoed Jin on LOST.

As I left to go home, I happened upon two youths stealing beer from my cousin’s outdoor refrigerator. B@stards!! They took off, we gave chase (in a car, I’m too damn old to run in the dark, I’d break an ankle), and we caught up to them driving around the compound in their Daddy’s Infinity. Blah blah blah color blah blah plates blah blah blah make and model. We called the police (the officers that responded couldn’t have been more unalike; one was 6’10” and the other was 5’1”) and filed a report.

A bit of a change up in the routine. Bit of a thrill.

I’m Sad

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 17:58:00 +0000

During a bit of silliness Tuesday night, Guest Blogger Who Hasn’t Guest Blogged In 4 Years and I found Jai on line. Jai, was cute and flirtatious and I wrote a blog on him back in 2007. Best. Kisser. Ever.

I connected to him through a social networking site today and he responded pretty quickly.

He emailed me back and told me his brother, who we all called Zero, died last December. He had colon cancer. I think he was just 50 or so. Bruce shared a birthday with my sister. It got me thinking of one of my happier memories.

Bruce was tall, had black hair, freckles, big nose, drove a nice car - it was black and shiny, I have no idea what it was. I can see him; it's summer, it's hot out, the sun blazing. Zero had a perpetual sun burn. My cousin, my sister and I were by the milking parlor. We had tormented the guys (Zero, Jai, Trace) once they finished milking one morning - I think we ambushed them with shaving cream as they walked out of the milking parlor.

During the skirmish that ensued, Zero grabbed my cousin and held her head over a mud puddle trying to get her to concede defeat.
"Say I win! Say I win!"

Much laughter from the onlookers, as my cousin triumphantly squealed out, "I win!"

Aggressively dipping her closer to the mud puddle, Zero cried, "GAAAAAAA! NO!! SAY ZERO WINS!" She finally squealed it out to his satisfaction. She was safe from the mud bath.

Memories have the power to seal people in time, don't they? That's where Zero will forever be in my mind. And I will smile. And tonight, I will say some prayers for him.

Stupid Snow

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 16:03:00 +0000

It’s been quite a winter.

Using vacation and staying home is no picnic. I’m not dumb enough to go out in this. It has it’s pleasures though – I get to spend some pretty silly time with my daughter watching movies, listening to music, and making soup. Downside is unwatchable daytime television.

There was a Reba marathon.

Today’s storm is the third in 2 weeks. The first, Groundhog Day Night, after watching “Lost” with family was light and happy:

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Like magical Christmas snow! Four inches of fluffy joy! How fun!! Fat flakes, furry trees, I ran around snapping pictures left and right from my cell.

Friday, February 6, 2010 into February 7, 2010 – Deathsnow 2010 or SNOWPOCALYPSE as it is referred to was another animal. 32” of cold white death:

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And today. Officially termed a blizzard with wind gusts up to 44 mph. This isn’t Northern Virginia. It’s New Buffalo, Virginia.

Imagination too Active?

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 16:21:00 +0000

One wants to believe that their neighborhood is safe. There are occurrences of theft and depravity in every neighborhood – it’s part of the human condition – and I accept those as a matter of course. My run-ins with Chick have been a slightly entertaining yet very creepy little side-car to condo life, but they do not (yet) make me want to move.

I was further creeped out last year when my daughter spied a peeping Tom outside her bedroom window. We bought heavy curtains the very next day and started locking the door even when we were home.

An event last year added to my concern when my complex hosted a real CSI van in our parking lot. One of the residents “allegedly” strangled his girlfriend, wrapped her in saran wrap, stuffed her body under bed while he continued to utilize her email account to make her friends believe she was still alive. This event, gave me pause and made me look at my neighbors a little differently.

Speed up to present day. No Chick sightings, no more peeping Toms (Gunner thinks he is a much bigger dog than he is and has quite the bark), no more murders. The trash compactor is broken, and it’s been so cold no one seems to want to pick up their dog poop, but otherwise it’s been quiet.

Maybe too quiet.

January 3, 2010 – I’m walking Gunner at roughly 6:30 am. On our route, I pass the apartment I lived in when I first moved to the complex. I generally pay no attention; I pay less attention when the temps are in the teens and the wind chill is in the single digits. I just want Gunner to do his business so I can crawl back into bed.

As I walked by that morning, I paid no mind to the humming noise I heard, until, like a refrigerator – you only notice the noise after it shuts off – the humming stopped. I knew what that sound was. It was the air conditioner. What in the Snow Miser’s name was someone doing with the air conditioner on when the temps were in the teens? I looked up and noticed that the living room light was on, so someone must be home and awake. I thought it odd. I continued on my walk, since Gunner will not be denied.

January 4, 2010 – Same thing. The light was on air conditioner was running. What is with these people? Save on the electric bill and open a window until you cool off. Freaks.

January 5, 2010 – Air conditioner running, the light was off.

I’ve wondered and wondered what could be going on -

The home owners are on vacation and having left when the temperatures were warmer, inadvertently left the air conditioner on. The light bulb is timed to go on and off at certain times.
The residents are from a cooler clime and are struggling to keep cool with all that heat rising up from the floor below.
There has been another murder and the temperature kept at a chilly level will slow the body decay, making it more difficult to assess time of death, the perp having long since fled to Pachuca, Mexico.
There has been another murder and the sick deviant is keeping the body from decay so he may enjoy some intimacies previously avoided since the b*tch wouldn’t keep her big trap shut while she was alive.

There are problems with all these suppositions. But I can think of no others. Thoughts?

The Great Virginia Snowfall of 2009

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 20:20:00 +0000

It’s not unusual to get snow in Northern Virginia in the winter months, though it is unusual to get two feet of it in one big dump. That’s about what we got Friday night through Sunday morning. It was light and dry and beautiful. The prospect of a white Christmas, so missed by my daughter and, made the weekend a cozy pleasure.

Of course, light, dry and beautiful snow only served to spotlight the idiots. Headlines today are full of the idiot plain clothes cop in DC who brandished his gun at some happy-go-lucky idiots having a snowball fight.

A few suggestions for my fellow Virginians:

If you can only drive 2 mph in a snowstorm, you shouldn’t be on the road. You are a menace.
Women who stand in the middle of the road watching their husbands shovel out the driveway must understand that they aren’t helping their husband and that they are a danger to themselves and others. YOU NEED TO MOVE when a car is coming down the street. If you are deaf and can’t hear the traffic, you need to stay indoors. Cars can hurt you, you imbecile.
The Virginia Department of Transportation should focus a little more on cleaning the ice-potholed secondary streets coated with an inch and a half of hard-pack snow and ice. Go to New York or Colorado and take in a seminar on the basics of snow removal if you have to. If I wreck my car because you are stupid, I’m going to sue you.
People who require a brisk morning constitutional should NOT walk on said snow-packed unclean secondary streets. See, snow and ice are fickle masters – they might drag my tires straight into you, you retard. Go plow out a trench around your house and walk around that.
People who think that it is the height of snowy fun to load your three year old on to a sleigh and slide down your snow covered street into on-coming traffic – sister, you deserve to win a Darwin Award. You should die and take your kid with you so it won’t infect other generations with your half-wit DNA.

Idiots.

Gunner's Got a Mom

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 18:09:00 +0000

Navy Son has loved animals since he was small. Well, with the exception of the kitten I brought home when he and Married Son were 1 and 2 1/2 (respectively). I remember bringing home a fine young calico. Both boys screamed in terror, climbed up my legs, and wept until the little ball of fur convinced them he wasn’t going to claw them to death. They eventually named him Bango.

When he was two years old and suffering from double-pneumonia, we bought Navy Son a Pound Purry for $2. He named her Missy and she went everywhere with him. She became part of the family.

Fast forward; a few dogs, a wild cat, and one Buddy later, Navy Son wants a hunting dog – enter Gunner. Male, tri-color beagle, roughly ten months old. Still a puppy really – full of piss and vinegar, killer of bunnies. But Navy Son is getting deployed soon and they don’t let dogs on subs. I drove down to get Gunner.

We became fast friends, Gunner and I – until we loaded him into the U-Haul. Gunner was shaking and unsure. I tried to engage him on our nine hour drive home, but he wasn’t having any. I bought him some treats that he carefully sniffed and declined. He just sat in the passenger seat and looked out the window. My heart broke.

He warmed up quickly once I got him home – jumped out of the truck, ran into the Daughter’s bedroom, announcing himself by pooping on the floor. Nice.

It had been years since Buddy had that much energy, and it was a delight. We bought Puppy Chow, chew bone things, treats, a squeaky quacky duck thing , and several balls with which to play. When unobserved, he rips up tissues and papers and I need to put things out of reach so he doesn’t gnaw on them.

He sleeps in my bed every night, usually at the top of my head, though sometimes he burrows into the blankets and keeps me warm. He bounds outside, loves to snuffle things up with that monster nose of his, and would eat the whole bag of food in one sitting if I left it where he could get at it. Of late, he has started staring creepily into a corner of the Daughter’s room growling and barking.

I imagine our apartment is haunted. Haunted with either the ghosts of Chick’s Dead Brides, or the young woman across the parking lot who was killed by her boyfriend back in April.

So, I find myself the Mom of a young gun once again. Jumping all over me when I get home, flying around the house, leaping on tennis balls, and wagging his tail like a windshield wiper in a downpour.

We still miss Buddy and think of him often. There’s no replacing a beloved member of the family. But we are distracted and enchanted by our new friend.

Mommy’s Got a Gun

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 14:02:00 +0000

Drove down to my son’s place in South Carolina last weekend. You have to really love someone to drive 9 hours down I-95 South, in the rain on a Friday afternoon to help them pack their stuff into a Uhaul from a third floor apartment with no help from any burly young Naval officers. Do it again if it meant spending 12 hours with any of my kids. Parenthood – a synonym for insanity.

I re-learned a few other principle’s as well -

long trips are made to feel twice as long when you don’t have a Sirius Satellite radio in your vehicle
no cruise control sucks
AM radio reception has the same clarity today as it did in 1973
NPR is not a good substitute for anything
and the further south you travel, the more country-western channels populate FM waves

Brutal. Made worse a few hours later by driving home at 2am (I had to get the truck back to Uhaul by 12:30 pm). I was hoping Coast to Coast AM, the delightful paranormal AM program hosted by George Noory, would have a memorable guest on. It wasn’t George, it was Ian someone and the show was not a memorable one. Some noteworthy Coast to Coast AM programs (at least memorable to me):

A woman had a feral child in her basement. She wanted to know how she could get near it and keep it. Like a pet I presume.
Nancy Leider and her May 2003 apocalyptic warning that Planet X was about to crash into the earth.
Sylvia Browne’s prediction that the victims of the Sago Mine Disaster would be found alive.
Any show where a psychic predicts what will happen in the coming year.

Sigh* Good show. Wish they had it on Sirius.

So, I drove to South Carolina to help Navy Son pack stuff up. He promised to make chicken curry for dinner (it was fabulous – I need to learn how to make that stuff) and we decided to go to a local shooting range to lob a few bullets around.

I’ve never been to a shooting range before, nor have I ever shot a gun. The experience was entirely new. A shooting range smells and sounds like a bowling alley -- without the balls. Bowling balls, I mean. The walls are plenty drenched with testosterone – I could actually feel the hormone being leeched out of me. Handguns, pistols, bows, scopes, AK27s, even cotton candy pink rifles with knives on the end were bought and sold as a matter of course. Word on the street was that some yahoo walked in to a shooting range one day and tried to rob the place. He was shot 48 times. Idiot. Walking into a facility where milling about were men who had been waiting 35 years for just such an opportunity.

Navy Son had an M-16 and his friend had 2 pistols – one was a 9mm Sig Sauer. We got 2 targets – one was the typical round target and the other was a white man holding a white woman hostage while he pointed a gun at you. I presumed she was his emotionally abused whore jacked up on meth and he was using her as a shield to escape the police. He never would have shot her, but he knew Johnny Law would do everything he could to save her worthless life. I shot her in the neck.

I also shot him in the neck and head, but had less luck with the testicles than I had hoped. He wasn’t de-manned, but he sure was gonna limp out of there. Navy son disarmed him by shooting him several times in the hand.

I was so delighted with the 9mm that I swung it around pointing it in my face to get a closer look and I think I scared the boys a bit. They reached for me urging me to be careful. It was still loaded and the safety was off, my hand was on the trigger.

I did that twice.

Still, it was a thrill that I enjoyed immensely. Worth the 18 hour drive alone really; but then so was the chicken curry and spending altogether too brief a time with the boy.

And then I brought home Gunner; Navy Son’s beagle.

That’s a whole other story.

Awwwww

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 23:48:00 +0000

Indulge me a little bit. I found this in my drafts folder. I wrote it after we put Buddy down.

I don't write poetry. Ever. So it's bad. But it wasn't about being good, it was about expressing sadness after loss.

The house is quiet
The tears are shed
He's gone

As far as he was concerned
he was one of us
he was a person, not a dog

he liked our food

he ate chocolate
and chicken wings

Dogs aren't supposed to eat those things, they'll get sick

He loved his girl
would play games with her

would watch over her
protect her when her brothers would rough house

I'm not leaving the toilet seat up
it feels strange
We don't have to close the door quickly so he doesn't streak out

it feels strange
He's not here anymore
it feels strange

Just Don't Touch Me

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 23:46:00 +0000

Had another Chick sighting.

Wonder what Chick looks like? He looks like Russel Dalrymple – Seinfeld character – NBC executive who fell in love with Elaine Benes? Yeah him. Imagine Russel a bit scrawnier with a little more hair – uncombed and a bit oily, with a crazed look in his eye.

That’s Chick.

Went to the gym one Saturday morning a few weeks ago and noted as I walked in, that I was not to be alone for my workout. Chick was on the treadmill and the lovely little hispanic woman who works in our complex was lifting some weights. I do not know her name, but we will call her Maria.

I got on the other treadmill and hoped to get my time in and go – I had to drive up to NY that day. Chick got off the treadmill and began coaching Maria on her reps.

“Keep going! Unos..dos..tres…..diez y siete, diez y ocho, diez y nueve, viente!” Now, I am pretty sure that after working in this country for several years (I can corroborate four), Maria would have had an opportunity to grasp our numeral system.

But Chick wasn’t conversing in her native tongue. He was speaking some odd mixture of Spanglish to his hapless little captive. I was not convinced she had requested his personal trainer services.

“Michael doesn’t come over anymore,” lamented Chick. This must be a reference to the young man I had seen walking with Chick a few times over the summer. A nice looking hispanic young man with a happy smile. Maybe Michael was giving him Spanish lessons.

“He doesn’t come over any more. No MAS! No MAS!”

I was not sure how she knew Michael, but she explained that he came home nights and it was difficult for him to get out.

He raised the poundage on the weights. Maria made an attempt to lift them.

“I can’t do it.”

“You can! Try!”

To her credit, she tried. The bar wasn’t even moving. “No. I can’t.”

“You can! You aren’t trying! TRY!” This continued for three failed attempts. I made a concerted effort to pay no attention. He then moved her to another machine. I don’t know what its called, but where the bars are over your head? A few reps and she was moving her neck and shoulders around as though sore.

“You got a boyfriend?”

I hope that my neck didn’t snap up at that, though I’m afraid it did. I hoped I heard wrong. But no. “You got a boyfriend? Have him do this.” and Chick started to massage Maria’s neck.

EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW! EW!

Again, I hope that the horror didn’t show on my face, though I’m sure it did. Maria’s eyes met mine in the mirror. She smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I smiled back as best I could.

I put my head down.

Not long after, my time on the treadmill was up, I had done the requisite number of minutes and I had to get on the road. I started out the door when I was stopped by an enthusiastic Chick.

“I have a guaranteed method for you to lose six pounds.”

Well now, that’s a way to start a conversation. I guess its better than telling me Eddie Haskell of Leave it to Beaver was in porn movies.

“Oh?”

I was then given strict instructions on where to walk the bike trail nearby. You can appreciate that as long as I live, I will now never walk the bike trail, since I am convinced he will be laying in wait.

“Yeah. I guarantee you walk that, and you will lose six pounds. Guaranteed!” He was really quite enthusiastic and I thought it touching that he seemed to want to impart his wisdom.

“Really? So if I walk it today, I’ll lose six pounds? And if I walk it tomorrow? I’ll lose another six pounds?”

“Yes!” A pause. “Well, I walked it and lost six pounds. But then I got really thirsty and I drank it all back again.”

“Ah! Well, that can happen! But thanks! I’ll check that out some time!” justdon’ttouchmejustdon’ttouchmejustdon’ttouchme.

A Bit of A Catchup

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 23:04:00 +0000

It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing. August – September were stressful months and shame on my muse for abandoning me the way she has. Started before then, I know – I only wrote twice in August and only once in July.

So Buddy, the Dog Immortal, passed on; though Meghann and I refuse to believe he has really passed. We are convinced that once we left the vet’s office, Buddy confronted the Animal Hospital staff, exited the premises and had a little vacation in the wild. This is evidenced by the road kill on upstate New York highways and byways that we spied on our last trip up. We are now certain that he has moved on to the next family that needs him since his work with us is finished.

My friend Bess also moved on to better things; as I mentioned before, she’s hanging out with her adored Reuben in heaven. I miss my little pen pal. Her daughters have taken up her standard and are writing to me on occasion, something that makes me smile to no end. Bess would be tickled with that.

I don’t have arthritis as it happens. You may remember I had been self-medicating with Glucosamine Chondroitin with mild success. I had a check up with my doctor two weeks ago, and he explained that it was more likely to be tendonitis, or tennis elbow. Suggested aspirin for ten days and to use the arm more gently.

It’s working. Who knew?

I made two trips to New York in September, will be driving up this month for my niece’s confirmation and then driving down to South Carolina to see my Navy Son in the middle of October. My poor Honda. The exciting news there is I will be bringing back Gunner, my son’s beagle to stay with us while Navy Man goes on a sub. I’m looking forward to that.

Meg is adjusting to college, has applied for a second job, is researching Improv Schools in New York, DC, California and Chicago and is going out with her friends often. We are riveted watching past seasons of “America’s Next Top Model”.

I read Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. Fascinating information on foot binding in Chinese culture with an overall message, I thought, on what we as women do to ourselves physically and emotionally to be loved and accepted.

I also read A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson. Really enjoyed that as well – took me a day to read. Funny! The ending disappointed a little, but it was real and it was entertaining. I read two more of the JD Robb …in Death series and I started on the Harry Potter series of books and am on #4 – Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. They certainly are page turners, though they have not inspired in me the same affection for the characters or the story that The Lord of the Rings series had. The last movie I saw was the sixth Harry Potter movie. I think it will all make a little more sense once I have read all the books.

As a comparison, the Harry Potter books, similarly marketed toward a young audience, are much more interesting, far and away more well written than any of the Twilight series of books. Blech and shudder.

I am still without an active source of Korean drama – the sound drivers on my computer don’t work anymore and Comcast continues to refuse my request to include Korean programming in their line up. I can watch all the Al Jazeera, Chinese, Indian, and Russian television I can stomach, but I can’t watch any Korean stuff. I’ll get back to it soon. Promise. I’m planning on watching the first season of “Dexter”. I may start that this week. Anything with serial killers and I’m in.

So there you have it. It’s like I never went away, isn’t it?

The Immortal

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 23:18:00 +0000

We had to put Buddy down last month. Like a phantom limb, it feels like he’s still here.

August 18, 1991 – September 11, 2009

So long Budman.

Even now, it’s difficult to write about it.

I’ve never had to put an animal down before so I had no idea how it worked. Got some wonderful advice and support from my sister-in-law Char, then I called a few vet offices so I could get a sense – glad I did, since some places put animals down differently.

We chose to take him in and the nurse anesthetized him. He fell asleep while we pet him so he wasn’t too scared. Meg and I were allowed to stay as long as we liked – which was about 10 minutes after he fell asleep. We left and the doctor’s office took care of the rest. We chose not to keep his ashes, though we could have.

The vet sent us an impression of his paw. Meg and I cried. The last little dirt that was on his little paw is in that impression. We cried over that too.

I’m still afraid to leave the door outside open, for fear that he will run out. When I wake up in the morning, I can still feel him by my bedside. I still look for him to be under my feet in the kitchen.

So much for not being a dog person.

Friends

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 01:07:00 +0000

Funny how you meet people, isn’t it sometimes? Sometimes you just grow up with your friends. You know who they are and where they came from. You know their quirks, and the quirks of their family, and it’s ok, because you still love them.

Sometimes if you are lucky, your friends are in your own family. You grow up with them too. Sometimes you hate them, you torment them and vice versa, but in the end, you always love them.

Sometimes you meet them at work. Those are a little harder to capture, I think. We move from employment to employment and the daily things you have in common fade, so it’s harder to keep up. But there are those who become special to you and you stay in touch. As the years pass, they become dear and you love them too.

I met a friend a few years ago. And funny as it sounds, it was through my obsession with Korean drama that I met many enduring friends; one of whom in particular was a wonderful woman named Bess. We both liked Song Il Guk and were entranced with him from his series Jumong. We struck up something of a friendship. She admitted that the tune “With a Song In My Heart” made her think of SIG.

As time went on, Bess and I started to write rather frequently; often once a week. I’d talk about my children, she’d talk about hers. It took Bess nearly a year to admit to me that she was in her 80s. As if that would bother me.

Bess would tell me about her beloved Reub, the love of her life, who passed away not so long ago and how she missed him. I found out she had twins, and grandchildren, and that she lived on the West Coast.

And she didn’t just prattle on about herself. She’d read what I’d write back to her. She’d ask questions and she’d remember. She’d laugh at my jokes, she shared in my triumphs, she read all my blogs. She worried about my friend Lacie, she crossed fingers for Meg when she was nominated for her Cappie, and she called me to see if Meg won. She told me all about Newport, Rhode Island when Adam was there for Officer Candidate School and she loved to hear about Josh and his wife Stephanie. She delighted in the pictures I would send.

We decided she was my adopted Jewish mother and we both had a bent for Korean Drama. We adored Jang Hyuk and we couldn’t stand little Cardboard Face from “Kingdom of the Winds”. She loved “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir” and she loved her best friend Bev. She ached still for her children and their struggles, asking me for prayers and I did the same with her.

Bess passed away unexpectedly this week. I had thought about her a few times – I hadn’t heard from her since July 24th and wondered how she was doing. Her daughter was thoughtful enough to let me know.

I’m terribly sad that my friend is gone. But I’m overjoyed as I’m sure she is that she is now reunited with her dear Reuben. And I’m happy to have made friends with and known this dear woman, out of the strangest of circumstances. But sometimes, that’s how you meet friends. And sometimes you keep them, even when it’s just in your heart.

With A Song In My Heart - Jane Froman

Accomplished Something

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 01:17:00 +0000

I finally accomplished something today.

Can you recite all the Presidents of the United States? I can. Now. From Washington to Obama. I’m pretty impressed with myself.

Not such a grand accomplishment. I imagine 5th Graders the length and breadth of the land can recite the same list. Maybe with first names and dates of term.

Why? Because I was ashamed I couldn’t name all the Presidents of the United States – there haven’t been that many, and I WAS born and raised here, so you’d think I’d have them all committed to memory.

But no.

I think part of it started when I was trying to grasp ancient Asian civilizations and their rulers. Way too much. Thousands of years of history, conquests, coups, incest, and murder and all I have is 200+ years, and 40 something leaders to remember.

Oh, and I have a bathroom book that lists them and easy ways to help remember them. “i before e (except after c)” by Judy Parkinson. I came up with my own way to remember them. The problem now, is that I’ve been working this for so long, that now whenever I go into the bathroom to take care of business, I start to recite the list of presidents to make sure I have them down cold. Even at work.

I imagine there is a diagnosis in there somewhere.

I’ve said before I’m pretty simple. Still holds.

Next…memorize the Greek Alphabet.

I Am At A Loss

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 23:48:00 +0000

Something strange happened to me yesterday and I haven’t been able to wrap my arms around it.

Last year, my little Brain Tail friend and I met in Pennsylvania to watch the new X-Files movie together. We don’t get to see each other very often, since eight hours separates us, and Brain Tail suggested we meet in the middle this past Sunday to catch up. We found a picnic table, and set to have a very enjoyable 2.5 hours chatting. It was a gorgeous day in PA ~ the sun was bright but not overwarm, the birds were trilling, the scenery spectacular, and the company was as enjoyable as ever without a hitch in the conversation. We had a lovely time. We’ve decided to try to make this an annual event.

At 2:30 pm, we cleaned up our picnic and parted ways; Lacie to attempt to mow her lawn, and I to have dinner with family. I plunged back into the gaping maw of perpetual construction that IS I-81.

A moment: one of these days, I need to write solely on I-81 and the construction it has undergone in the state of Pennsylvania for the last 235 years. Seriously, I remember my Aunt bemoaning Pennsylvania road construction 40 years ago. I’ve been driving I-81 to visit family for 25 years, and there has always been construction in this state. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. I’m convinced that Organized Crime must be lining their pockets SOMEHOW and I’m bitter. One lane back ups for no apparent reason other than to give the United Orange Cone Makers of America extra coin to put bling on the necks of their trophy wives.

Thank you for the indulgence. I continue.

A mere half hour into my trip home, I noted a green van on the side of the road under a shade of trees. As I sped by at 65 mph, I saw the hood was open and a white man, slightly balding, wearing a blue short sleeved shirt and brown pants, standing in front of the vehicle with his hands gripping the open hood. His body language conveyed gloom, like “How am I going to get home now?”

My heart went out to him; I’ve had my share of breakdowns on the road. Not being a manly man with a tool kit in my trunk, but a single woman with few automotive resources, I did not stop. I wondered if he had a cell phone, and then spent some time pondering on the plight of today’s drivers versus vehicular predicaments in days past. What did we do before cell phones? I continued on that line of thinking for a bit before I RAN INTO STUPID ONE LANE TRAFFIC FOR AN HOUR.

As I said, I’m still bitter.

After breaking free from the bondage of that particular corridor of construction, I drove on listening to Christmas in July on Radio Classics. Jack Benny’s “A Christmas Tree Cactus” was great fun. Traffic had picked up to a normal pace. The trip was going well and I had no need to stop to use any of the rest area facilities or to get gasoline.

Two and a half hours into my trip home, I noted another green van on the side of the road under another shade of trees. As I sped by, I saw the hood was open and standing in front of the car was THE SAME WHITE MAN, SLIGHTLY BALDING, WEARING A BLUE SHORT SLEEVED SHIRT AND BROWN PANTS, WITH HIS HANDS GRIPPING THE OPEN HOOD. HIS BODY AGAIN CONVEYED GLOOM, LIKE “HOW AM I GOING TO GET HOME NOW?”.

Now, please understand. I am not given to visual hysterics of this nature. I’ve never seen a Cheetoh shaped like the Blessed Virgin, I’ve never seen a ghost and I have never met a psychic I considered really worth her $75 an hour fee. I love to hear the stories and I’m completely open to paranormal oddities, but I do not receive them. My kids do, a couple of my sisters do, some cousins, and even tiny little Brain Tail gets them. Not me. Though I get the occasional tingle when I need to pray for someone, I am mostly bereft of psychic ability. I’ve accepted this with equanimity.

For a second I was messed up. Had I somehow gotten turned around and was back in the same location? That couldn’t be right. I bounced back into character and said a “Hail Mary”, quickly and with fervor. I called Lacie. Surely, the brain tail would tingle if there was a psychic disturbance. There was apparently no hint of anything pawing at the cosmic continuum. I called Guest Blogger Who Hasn’t Blogged since 2007. Other than asking me if I was compelled to help him (which I was not), and considering a variety of urban legends, nothing solid was postulated.

I said a few more prayers but continued to feel a sort of unreality settle on me. An hour and a half later I picked up my daughter, went to Guest Blogger’s house, enjoyed a wonderful meal and put forth the mystery to my friends gathered around the table. All agreed the incident was creepy, and their responses were indicative of their personal character:

Guest Blogger – (curious, open to phenomena but not a medium to same, highly analytical with a psychological bent) - “I have no idea, but I immediately googled blue shirted, brown panted men on I-81. I found nothing. It’s strange.”

Starbuck - (a child of the universe, willing to believe the fantastic) - “You need to be more open to possibilities.”

Pamplona - (a devout Catholic Naval Officer) - “Did you pray? I’d have prayed.”

My Daughter - (scarred by years of my rigorous attempts to keep her from being victimized by teaching self sufficient situational awareness) - “Obviously, he wasn’t able to net any victims at his first location so he got back in his vehicle, sped ahead of you, pulled over to the side again hoping to lure someone into his green van of death and dismemberment.”

Guest Blogger’s Husband - (a solid thinking, no nonsense guy) - “Everyone in Pennsylvania looks the same.”

Additional theories:

It was the ghost of a soul trapped in purgatory who needed my prayers.

I was abducted by aliens, probed and didn’t notice I had a period of lost time.

It was a man driven insane by the never ending construction of Pennsylvania roadways who ended his misery by self-decapitating via his van hood. I was witnessing the paranormal re-enactment of the bloody event.

Now, in all seriousness, the only plausible explanation is that Creepy McBlueshirt got his van running after I first spied him, sped ahead of me and his engine broke down again. I simply happened upon him a second time as he peered curiously under his hood. It was all coincidence.

I’m not buying it. I don’t get it, I may never get it. I’ve looked on line for creepy stories, but none of these descriptions sound like my story.

You know what I’d love - I’d love to hear from someone who has seen “The Man in the Breakdown Lane”. And if you told me that I-81 is actually hell and Satan is the Head of the Pennsylvania DOT – I’d believe you.

More People to Hate

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 01:13:00 +0000

The glucosamine chondroitin is still working. In case you were wondering.

So, after the Cappie Awards (no more bitterness on that event shall be posted…whore), #2 son – the one who totaled his car – stopped by my house on his way back to his naval base. He purchased a BMW – yeah, I don’t know what number 355i4507q690f – I don’t know. It was silver and it was nice and it drove like a dream.

I am now praying he doesn’t smash this one up.

Went to dinner at Guest-Blogger-Who-Hasn’t-Blogged-Since-2007’s house and had a marvelous time. We were regaled with tales of South Carolina red-necks smashing Infinity #1, as well as the horrific tale of a representative slice of South Carolina law enforcement.

You see, my son witnessed an altercation between one of his friends and some other young men. My son was the shortest in his crowd (and he is well over 6 feet tall). During the shouting match, someone (whom I will call Ass Hat) bloodied my son’s eye and then punched him in the mouth. My son did not retaliate. The gendarmes were called and these pathetic excuses for police arrested my son (who LET ME REPEAT didn’t hit anyone – he was the only one bleeding), did NOT record his statement, did NOT tell him what he was being arrested for (“We can’t tell you that. Now just sit down and shut up.”), did NOT read him his rights, DID incarcerate him, DID take his bail money, and did NOT release him from jail for four hours after he posted his bond.

Don’t go to South Carolina and expect the police to know the definition of the phrase “due process”.

At the hearing two days later, my son and his friends appeared in dress whites, and the same slimy police officer that did NOT take my son’s statement approached and asked him to to drop the charges against Ass Hat. I guess Ass Hat was scared. See, Ass Hat was going to the Citadel and later realized he had punched an officer.

My son demanded that the charges against him be dismissed and he wanted to talk to the young man. Everything was straightened out in front of the judge, and charges were eventually dismissed in the civil court. However, I’m told that the military will continue to pursue action against the young Ass Hat. Good.

I just wish someone could do something about that backwards police department.

*Sigh. More people to hate.

Buck Toothed Hag

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 01:40:00 +0000

Ashamed of myself really for not having posted anything in forever. It’s another one of those times I figured I’d just jump on and see what plopped out.

Meggie did NOT win the Cappie for Best Featured Actress in a Play. If you will allow me a mom moment, some scag in a red dress with big teeth won. And I hate her.

Not hate. Not anymore. Not really. Disappointment there has almost faded. Mostly. Funny how as a parent you will hold a grudge against anyone who has hurt your child no matter how minutely. There are young men and women who have broken the hearts of my children. The offense is long forgotten in the minds of those same children. I still hate them. Hate them with the heat of a thousand burning suns.

Maybe not every parent holds that kind of bitterness. Maybe it’s just me. In 20 years Meg will mention the Cappie Awards and what a marvelous night it was, the fete at the Kennedy Center, a spectacular gala, a fabulous experience. And I’ll just mention the red-bedecked buck toothed whore who snatched the prize from Meg’s deserving fingers.

I’ll be 65 and I’ll still say whore.

My sweet daughter will roll her eyes and tell me to stop saying whore around the grandchildren. Then I will secretly teach them the phrase buck-toothed scag. It will amuse me.

The cast on stage at the Kennedy Center. Meggie is the one standing on the chair.

What a Weekend!

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 01:45:00 +0000

Oh my oh my oh my oh my. A weekend of emotional highs and lows.

Dunkin’ Donuts opened up an outlet 2.8 miles from my house! What joy! Heretofore forced to travel 17 miles round trip to secure my sweet sweet DD fix, I very often choked down Starbucks coffee.

I am NOT a fan.

But I AM a fan of Dunkin Donuts and am thrilled someone FINALLY opened one up nearby! HIGH!

I started my weekend at 3am Saturday morning. I was scheduled to spend an hour in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Last month, not enough people signed up and Father was called and sat with the Blessed Sacrament between 1am and 4am. So this month, as we got closer to First Friday and All Night Adoration, the President of my Legion of Mary presidium asked us all to sign up for an hour. I picked 3am. I always enjoy it when I go, I get so much out of it. So much peace. Hard to explain to anyone who isn’t Catholic; sometimes just as difficult to explain to Catholics.

So I’ll just say go. Catholic or not. Go. Sit. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Just sit.

Anyway, though I woke up and got there late, I arrived and I spent an hour. I said some Divine Mercy prayers; appropriate to the 3:00 o’clock hour and came away feeling really peaceful and good. I enjoy it so much I always come away saying I’m going to go next time - then I rarely do. But when I got home, it was so quiet, no cars yet on the road in the Land of Traffic, and all I could hear were the early birds starting to sing.

I went back to bed. HIGH!

At 7:30 am, I called my son; on his way to upstate New York his vacation. He was driving up from South Carolina and I figured he’d be close to his destination.

“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”

“I totaled my car.”

Pause.

“When?”

“6:30am” It’s the kind of low a parent doesn’t ever want to have; it’s always in the back of our mind, we always pray we don’t get that phone call or that knock on the door. Low.

Apparently, a deer ran out in front of him, and he swerved to avoid hitting it. When he turned to come back, he overcorrected and went off the road into something of a ravine, but at that point he was airborne, hit a tree about 5 feet off the ground and totaled his car.

That detached account does not relay the panic and anxiety that I felt while he was telling me this, and I kept hoping he was just going to tell me he was joking and that he was nearly there. He was not joking. But he was on the phone. He was alive. Complaints about totaling his car were like music to me; the alternative was unthinkable. High and low all jumbled up.

He had already dealt with the police, filed the report, called his insurance company – they were immediately supportive. Miraculously, he sustained no injuries at all and his brother was already on the way to pick him up. I learned later that the tow truck driver told my son he should think about going to church on Sunday. He was lucky he walked away.

Highs and lows. Highs and lows.

Bearing Down

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 01:57:00 +0000

I had a dream last Saturday night that begged for interpretation.

I was driving in upstate New York, likely the NYS Thruway between Utica and Herkimer. There was an unidentified little girl in the front passenger seat and my seventeen year old daughter was in the back seat, with her head up near the front so she could talk to me. I was traveling east on the Thruway and it was dusk. The sky had a sort of clear purple color that was darkening. I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a tremendous black tornado bearing down on the car (looked exactly like the above picture – it’s like someone was in my brain and snapped a photo.).

For one second, I pressed on the gas and thought I could outrun it. My daughter saw it behind us and shouted at me to go faster. Wasn’t going to work though. I looked on both sides of the car for a place to hide. There was a small shallow ditch on the driver side and a deeper wider expanse on the passenger side. It was doubtful that we would be able to get out of the car and get to a place low enough before the tornado consumed us.

At this point, I was conscious enough to begin to manipulate the dream, getting us into the big ditch to safety. I do not consider this part of the actual dream since I woke myself up.

I dream a lot, but it’s only the dreams that stick that are the ones that cry out to our conscious to be clarified. This one demanded to be understood.

Was I running from something? Was something bearing down on me? Was it prophetic – were there storms on the way of which I was blissfully unaware?

I rarely have luck interpreting my own dreams – my daughter is good at it, Starbuck is good at it, but it is Guest Blogger-who-hasn’t-blogged-for-me-in-years who has a remarkable sense of what my dreams mean. And she should – I do the same for her; we’ve been translating each other’s dreams for years. We have a good sense of personal symbolism and the sort of things that tic our subconscious.

So my daughter considered that I had been viewing my past – one full of turmoil and upheaval, the future was ahead and clear and I was driving right into it. Not bad. Starbuck wondered the what the tornado could symbolize. Guest Blogger-who-hasn’t-blogged-for-me-in-years just smiled and said, “The tornado is time.”

You could have punched me in the gut. That’s when I know an interpretation is on the mark. It feels right. The ah-ha moment.

Step aside for a moment to consider – oldest son is married and doing well in his work, pursuing a degree in human services. Middle boy has just graduated the most difficult educational program the Navy has to offer – Nuclear Engineering – and will be headed out into the murky depths within a year. But now - the baby that I nursed those years ago is graduating high school in less than a month, and soon to embark on higher education, a major life change on her horizon.

The tornado is Time. It’s bearing down on me. The little girl in the front seat is my daughter as a toddler and she’s also in the back seat, a woman. Me? Arthritis. Progressive Lenses. Middle age. Wrinkles. Surprised at the changes when they crop up. Identifying them. Combating them. Coming to terms with them. Then enjoying it when I see others as they find themselves on the same track.

The tornado is Time. I can’t outrun it, and though I didn’t realize it, I still try. I realized though, that as my daughter is headed toward a new and entirely unchartered course in her life, so am I.

Time. I was a daughter for 19.5 years. A wife for 15 years. Caretaker of the same dog for 16 years. But I’ve been a mother of dependent children for coming up on 25 years.

Time. This is going to be new and unchartered for me too. It’s pretty exciting. No bailing out of the car on this one. It’s time.

I Gotta Tell Ya

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 01:01:00 +0000

I received several suggestions from dear friends and readers on how to self-treat my self-diagnosed arthritis. I even had a gifted Doctor of Linguistics urge me to eschew the castor oil and go to an MD.

Having outright self-rejected the lukewarm water enemas, I decided last week to break down and buy Glucosamine Chondroitin. CVS had a buy one get one sale on some brand that had 50 extra pills in it, so I figured, deal deal! $21 for one bottle though, so you know the markup has to be stupid. Bitter when I read that it would take 4-6 weeks to kick in. Tomorrow will mark one week of near-religious dosage.

I gotta tell you, I’m feeling some alleviation of my symptoms! I didn’t expect to, so I don’t think it’s a placebo effect. Make no mistake; there’s still some pain but it isn’t as sharp as it was last week. I’m not perpetually rubbing my thumb and elbow and I’m not downing Excedrin at all. I am now enthusiastic about my self-prognosis.

It was a busy weekend otherwise; my daughter’s prom went nearly without a hitch - - $75 up-do fail caused some drama for a half hour, but that was quickly fixed. Otherwise, last minute boutonnieres, makeup and toe nail polish were executed with perfection and a good time was had by all.

Monday started splendidly, the weather was fine and my colleague and I were feeling adventurous. We investigated a highly touted food court and I was pleased with the salad bar. For about an hour. Until it started shooting right through me. When it threatened to shoot out multiple orifices, I decided it was time to go home. Chicken broth is a lot better for dinner than I thought. I was better by evening.

Today, Wednesday, I was feeling bright and perky. One of my bosses suggested we take advantage of another local establishment’s Wednesday special of Singapore Noodles. A favorite of mine since my days in Alexandria. I took him up on it and enjoyed every bite. For about an hour. I’m back in the bathroom.

I’ve ruled out cholera, typhoid fever, parasites and salmonella and have dramatically self-diagnosed amoebic dysentery. Not really, but it’s certainly taking my mind off of the arthritis.

Eager Arthritis Homeopathy

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Fri, 22 May 2009 22:47:00 +0000

I have not been stricken with a headache since earlier in the week, but I am still suffering with the joint pain, which I have decided is arthritis. I attribute this pleasure to both parents and their damnable arthritis-laden dna strands. Yet another hurdle placed on the track of my life.

I’m game enough to see if I can find an alternative remedy for my self-diagnosis. What you should take away from this is:

I’m young enough to I think I can tough out the pain
I’m too cheap to buy Glucosamine Chondroitin
I’m too cheap to pay the $20 copay to get a real diagnosis
I’m still in denial of my aging process.

When I got home Wednesday evening, I was in enough discomfort to give the “warm olive oil rub” a try. I had some in the cupboard, so it wasn’t like I had to go out and buy it (cheeeeeep cheeeeep cheeeeep). At the same time, and just to play it safe, I took 200 mgs of ibuprofen as well. The olive oil was nicely soothing, I wrapped my thumb in an old sock (NOT the alien master race vehicle that IS red flannel!) and I sensed an alleviation in my symptoms. Well that was easy! I felt the smugness of the effortlessly triumphant as I fell easily into sleep.

The next day, I remembered I had taken ibuprofen so I wasn’t sure if the that took away the pain or the olive oil did. Craaaaaap.

Last night, in an effort to test the truth of the olive oil cure, I decided to go anti-inflammatory-free and just put the lovely warm oil on my thumb and elbow. I wrapped my happy sock around the thumb, and waited for the magic to happen. It didn’t. Awwwwwww,craaaaap.

I want to avoid using aspirin and ibuprofen to excess, since I can envisage my stomach lining disintegrating, it’s molecules wafting up then bursting into nothingness. I’d like to exhaust all my “already have the stuff at home” methods. The olive oil tanked and I have vinegar, so I’ll try the “warm vinegar rub” tonight…see if that works.

If that proves a disappointment, my next grocery list will include ginger (for ginger tea), some cayenne pepper, and castor oil (where do you buy castor oil?).

You know I will keep you posted, and I welcome suggestions. As long as it doesn’t blister me, corrode my skin, is made of blechy eggs or gets me arrested, I might give it a try. However, there’s still no way I’m going to squirt lukewarm water up my backside.

Craaaaaaaaap, indeed.

Oh for Bleep’s Sake

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Thu, 21 May 2009 00:26:00 +0000

Yeah, so the headache stuck through yesterday. Better today and I’m glad of it. I decided that it must be the result of some sort of monster pollen engineered by Mother Nature as a response to animal hormone injections, airplane contrails, biotech corn killing off the monarch butterfly population, terrorist activity or alien master race implantation.

Not really. But I do think the pollen is nasty this year.

However, my complaint du jour is not the government-assisted ragweed. It is joint pain. Pain in the thumb and elbow of my left arm. And because I know how it works (the finger bone’s connected to the hand bone, the hand bone’s connected to the arm bone, the arm bone’s connected to the shoulder bone, them bones, oh them skeleton bones), I’m expecting the crippling effects of arthritis to debilitate my shoulder tomorrow. I’m envisioning my left hand gnarling up and hardening any day now.

The good news is that my left hand is not dominant, so I will be able to sign my social security checks and swat at mouthy children. I also look forward to getting a handicap designation for my car. I’m all for looking at the silver lining.

In the meantime, I’m investigating homeopathic remedies. Some appear to be very soothing, others are a little, uhm…no. The lukewarm enema for a few days to flush out my system? A big fat NO. The nettle soup doesn't sound too easy to make. The water and potato juice drink…ew. I could rub warm olive oil on the effected areas, or possibly warm vinegar. I'll smell like a salad. I'm unwilling to spend $20 for a few glucosamine chondroitin tablets. For now anyway. If it gets bad enough, I might. So expensive though.

I think I'll try the olive oil rub tonight. See if it helps. Oh, and I could wrap it in RED flannel. I don't know why exactly it has to be RED flannel. I get the flannel part – soft and warm – it’s nice. I’m unschooled, though, in the medicinal properties of the red dye. Maybe it makes it WARMER. Maybe it seeps into your warmed pores, lays red eggs, feeds on the inflammation, then exudes alien master race spores into the atmosphere causing the monster pollen that will give me another two-day headache.

I’m just not sure. But I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have any red flannel handy.

Blah

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Tue, 19 May 2009 00:53:00 +0000

I’m sleepy today; the result of nodding off on my couch in an awkward position with the television left on. The by-product - a bad night, a tired day, a sore neck and a dull ache that won’t relinquish it’s hold on my poor poor head.

A night of busy dreams about teeth. Teeth of all things. This could mean several things I suppose;

metaphorically – perhaps I need to “sink my teeth” into a problem;
emotionally – for all I know I may have anxiety about the way I am perceived by others;
perceptually – conceivably there was an infomercial on at some point in the night about teeth whitening that my subconscious picked up;
prophetically – an old acquaintance of mine is a dentist – it may be that I will receive and email or;
physically - maybe I just need to make an dental appointment.

Regardless, I’ve been lacking the enthusiasm that usually sparks the day and have felt apologetic. A little revived this afternoon, I’m still fuzzy and off my game. Not the end of the world. She’s awfully tiny and speaks in a tentative whisper, but my inner optimist tells me that tomorrow I will better appreciate the warmth of the sun, the clearness of my head, and life in general. It’s all good.

Yeah. I’ll be better tomorrow. Wait and see.

The Flu

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Fri, 01 May 2009 16:54:00 +0000

It might just be me.

“They” don’t want to call it the Swine Flu anymore – I don’t know if that’s in deference to our Jewish and Muslim friends who find pork offensive or if “they” wanted to be more clinically accurate in referring to this lovely strain as H1N1.

I can’t help myself. I now read it as “heiney”.

Yeah. Probably just me.

Under Pressure - 80s E

noreply@blogger.com (E) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 11:11:00 +0000

Love's such an old fashioned word -
Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the light
Love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves

under pressure - queen

One of rock music’s most famous basslines. I’m only sorry that hoards of American youth only know it from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby”.

I had forgotten what a great song Under Pressure was – it’s more likely I didn’t appreciate what a great song it was at the time. The lyrics are packed with beauty and that angst we get as we mature over, well, pressure. How it affects us, our families, our peripheries. The end a realization of what’s really the most important, and our biggest challenge – to love.