Questions Worth Asking -- And Some Answers

A while ago, someone sent me a link to a page entitled '25 Beautifully Illustrated Thought-Provoking Questions.' I glanced at it, thinking "Hey, that's nifty," bookmarked it, and went on with my life. Today I stumbled upon it again, and a few of these questions hit me right between the eyes.
The last few weeks have been rough, and I've spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. Complaining, whining, bitching, whatever you want to call it, I've done them all-in spades. (There is a reason I called this site "Read Between the WHINES!") Not enough money, bad health, bad weather, too many stupid commercials, nothing good to eat, blah blah blah. The worst thing was, after two-and-a-half years without a seizure, I had a whopper of a fit. Ended up with a huge headache, sore muscles and a nasty bitten tongue. Poor Jonna.
Then, as I was scrolling through these photos today, this question struck me.

Of course, I am aware that others have things much worse than I do. I've always been aware of that, but sometimes I forget. When I began having seizures at age 15, I took it in stride, and never made a big deal out of it, partly because my friends didn't. If my friends had flipped out, I might have, but not one of them did. I'm sure there were people in our small town high school who thought I was a weirdo, but I was not aware of them. My mom always took it the hardest. And when I began seeing specialists at the OHSU Epilepsy Center, and met young people who had never been able to have any kind of normal life because of their seizures, that was reaffirmed. I was able to do almost everything that so-called normal people did: I worked, I had a home, a life. I never had to wear a helmet, or be confined to a wheelchair. For a long time, I even drove! (Looking back at that, I am amazed at how careless I was with others lives!) Many people who have the type of seizures I do (tonic-clonic, formerly referred to as grand mal) often lose control of their bladder and/or bowels during a seizure. I have always been extremely thankful that this has never once happened to me!
So yes, I am aware that others have things much worse, in many areas. I am struggling financially, but what that really means is that I don't have spending money, and cannot afford to move. I am not homeless, nor will I be; nor am I going hungry. My family is always here for me, and I for them; so many don't have that. So, I cannot buy a new book, or get a manicure. I have a perfectly good library card, and a drawer full of nail polish. So, I can't afford that gym membership. I'd probably never go, anyway! I have perfectly good walking shoes, and the neighborhood behind us has sidewalks.


This month I turn forty-five years old, and shortly after that, the anniversary of Michele's death arrives. I miss her every day. If Shel was anything, she was positive, and she would want me to celebrate what I have, not what I am missing. Somehow, I think finding these pictures was her way of reminding me of that.

 

I Don't Like Ratatouille.

Maybe I should be more careful about my mix of beverages and television before bed. Last night I watched North by Northwest, and drank decaf chai,  a seemingly innocuous combination, right? Yet I had one of the strangest, most disturbing dreams I can remember. 

In a warehouse somewhere behind where we worked, seated in lawn chairs, I was holding hands and snuggling up with a man who was by turns Trace Adkins and LArry the Cable Guy. Oddly, that isn't the disturbing part...

The warehouse was stacked roof-high with empty crates, boxes, furniture, and various odds and ends, and crawling through all this junk there were rats. Big, gray sewer rats, with huge shiny teeth. I hate rats. Totally creep me out. The rats would get close to us every so often, and someone would take a swing at one with something, like a rake or a snow shovel, trying to scare it or kill it. If the rat was struck, it would bulge a bit, oozing blood and goo, and then BAM! Explode! Mostly, they were small explosions, and the rat guts only covered a small area, as if someone had stepped on an over-ripe tomato. 

Here's where it gets  gross. 

When an especially "friendly" rat kept coming nearer to me than I liked, I swung at him with pieces from a wooden crate, and smashed him flat into the concrete floor. Within seconds, this rat exploded everywhere, covering me with rat blood. It was IN MY MOUTH!! There was exploded rat in my mouth! I woke up clawing at my face, spitting and hollering, shuddering with disgust. Had to brush my teeth 3 times before I felt able to go back to bed, and even then it was an hour before I could fall asleep again. 

I can't write anymore. I have to go brush my teeth. Ewww. 

Book Review: Potboiler

Potboiler by Jesse Kellerman

 Twice this week I've read a book in one sitting, and both books came from the same DNA. The first was the newest Alex Delaware book by Jonathan Kellerman; the second was written by his son, Jesse Kellerman.

This novel, 'Potboiler,' is a strange twist on a post-Cold War spy novel, combining the intrigue of conspiracy theory and fancy techno-gadgets with the annoying literary babble of academia.
The story opens with the death of a famous writer, and his long-time friend, our narrator, attending his memorial service. Arthur then discovers that an unfinished, unread manuscript has been left behind, and he takes it. Unable to resist temptation, Arthur edits it a bit, and publishes this as his own; it becomes a bestseller, and he soon discovers lots of things he did not know about his dear departed friend Bill. For example: he's a spy, and his novels are carefully coded to give instructions to agents around the world. By changing his last book, Arthur has messed things up, and now must either go to work for The Boys, or pay the price.
With character names I can't spell, let alone pronounce, a fictional communist country divided over the burial place of a hero from their national poem, and lots of root vegetables, I was drawn in by the story, and yet had occasion to laugh. James Bond would never glue his false mustache on upside down; then again, Bond wouldn't need a false mustache!
I will be looking forward to the next book from Mr. Kellerman, and checking every "beach read" from now on for spy code, just in case.