Summer time in the City of Roses means we stop, gape at the sky saying "What is that big orange ball? OH. My. Gawd! Is that the sun!? I forgot what it looked like!" for about twenty minutes, and then we begin complaining about how hot it is. It might take forty minutes, depending on how long and damp winter was. I'm giving us 35, based on the fact that we had a semi-Spring earlier this year, with nice warm days lasting over a week. Any minute now, the entire town will begin yelling "It's too hot! Turn on the air conditioner!" and running for the shade.
I'm enjoying the heat, so far, because warm weather means none of the hideous fibromyalgia pain I get when the weather is so damp and cold. Plus, summer means a few of my favorite things: popsicles, and tons of fresh fruit. So far this week I have indulged in both, having purchased and consumed a bag of lovely, ripe white peaches. They were so delicious. I may need more immediately. As well, I am indulging in my new favorite pass-time, creating popsicles, followed closely by eating these creations. So far we've had a berry medley, a yummy strawberry/banana yogurt, and a pineapple/mango/orange that was the best yet. Although Miss Google is very fond of the yogurt pops. but that may just be her love of strawberry yogurt showing through.
I am going to try a few poptail recipes this weekend: frozen cocktails. I'm thinking mango mai tais, and maybe Black and White Russians. Or Blueberry Moonshine pops. Haven't decided yet. Maybe all three... And a bloody mary for the next morning.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
WWJ(ennifer)D?
Yesterday, as I was flipping through television channels looking for something that wasn't reality television, a talk show, or a teen angst drama, I found a station showing back-to-back episodes of a classic show, WKRP in Cincinnati. The show originally ran from 1978-1982, a sit-com about the misadventures of the staff of a struggling fictional radio station in Cincinnati, Ohio. As we all know, the station's new program director Andy Travis tries to turn around struggling radio station WKRP, despite the well-meaning efforts of the mostly incompetent staff: bumbling station manager Arthur Carlson, oily sales manager Herb Tarlek, and clueless news director Les Nessman. Rounding out the cast are super receptionist Jennifer Marlowe, enthusiastic junior employee Bailey Quarters, and spaced-out veteran disc jockey Dr. Johnny Fever, and the too-cool Venus Flytrap.
I hadn't seen this show in years, but watching brought back memories, including one big one. As a 10-year-old-girl, watching this show for the first time, I saw the character Jennifer Marlowe, as played by Loni Anderson, as the epitome of all things classy, elegant and adult. I wanted to be her. She was smart, sexy, and in full control of her life. The people around her were in awe of her; she was the station's highest paid employee. I was mesmerized. I wanted to be Jennifer, but not blonde.
For a long time, my guiding principle became "What would Jennifer Do?" Would Jennifer wear that? This kept me from some HUGE fashion mistakes in the 80's! At some point, I abandoned this philosophy, and chose something else. After watching WKRP yesterday, I think I will return to my roots.
But I'm still not going blonde.
I hadn't seen this show in years, but watching brought back memories, including one big one. As a 10-year-old-girl, watching this show for the first time, I saw the character Jennifer Marlowe, as played by Loni Anderson, as the epitome of all things classy, elegant and adult. I wanted to be her. She was smart, sexy, and in full control of her life. The people around her were in awe of her; she was the station's highest paid employee. I was mesmerized. I wanted to be Jennifer, but not blonde.
For a long time, my guiding principle became "What would Jennifer Do?" Would Jennifer wear that? This kept me from some HUGE fashion mistakes in the 80's! At some point, I abandoned this philosophy, and chose something else. After watching WKRP yesterday, I think I will return to my roots.
But I'm still not going blonde.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Read All About It, And Watch It, Too
I got some weird email this week from someone who follows my Twitter feed @BossyBookworm, and was disappointed when I'd mentioned watching television once too often. As a reader, she said, I shouldn't even have a tv set! WHAT? How will I know what's happening on True Blood? How would I see every single minute of the lives of the Kardashians? Or the latest episode of RuPaul's Drag Race?! Not having a television is un-American.
I am a reader, from an early age. I do not remember not being able to read, or having a love of books. Some of the first pictures of me show me with books; either being read to, or reading. Mom & Dad read to me, my grandparents read to me, my older brothers and sisters read to me. And when my baby sister came along, I read to her. We are a family of readers. Books have been with me through everything. I never buy a purse unless it will hold a book--or these days, my e-reader. Somewhere there exists a photo of me, in my wedding dress, an hour before the ceremony, reading a Stephen King novel. I took two books along on my honeymoon, something my then mother-in-law found odd, but those who knew me well weren't at all surprised by. I am never more than a few feet from reading material. My worst nightmare is not being able to read; going blind, or having no access to words. When I read The Handmaid's Tale for the first time, the thing that bothered me the most was that these women were not allowed to read.
Yes, I love my books. But I am also a television junkie. I am of the first Sesame Street generation-- I was a year old when it first aired, and according to Mom, we were watching. That same year we watched the moon landing on television. Two historical events, both televised, and I don't remember either. I do remember watching a wide variety of well, variety shows as a child. We watched anything that had music or skits: Carol Burnett was my favorite, but we also watched Lawrence Welk, Glen Campbell, Hee Haw, and the Barbara Mandrell show. Those shows fueled my love of music and drama, and inspired my imagination. I'd write plays that I coerced my friends and relatives into performing. One other show that inspired lots of skits was Rocky and Bullwinkle; something about that made me love melodrama. I wrote a Snidely Whiplash-esque plat for my nieces and nephew. That play is still talked about in our family, mostly because Shelley screamed so loudly and threw her tea cup so far we never found it.
My love of books and television has always been intertwined. One of the first times I recall this happening is with Laura Ingalls Wilder. I loved the Little House on the Prairie books, and read all of them in second grade. I still have the set my mother gave me for Christmas! The next year the television series based on the books began, and I was a faithful viewer for years, although I often pointed out differences between the show and the books. This set a precedent I still hold to today: if I see a film or watch a tv show and discover it is based on a book, I have to read that book. Or vice versa: if a book has a film or television version, I have to watch it.
Sometimes, this leads to a wonderful discovery, an author I truly like even though the movie might have sucked. I'd never read Agatha Christie until I saw a film version of And Then There Were None; how could I stop once I began reading Aggie, how could I stop? Sometimes, it's the other way around. The shining example of this for me, as far as movies goes is Forrest Gump. Most people don't even know it was based on a book, and after reading it, I understand why. That was one of the worst books I'd ever read, and how the funny, touching film came out of it, I do not know. In television, I compare Bones. I love the show, don't care at all for the books. (They're better than Forrest Gump, but not my cup of tea.)
I also read Gone With the Wind for the first time because of television. Blame Carol Burnett for that. I remember being blown away (no pun intended) by her famous 'Went With the Wind' sketch, even though I had no real idea why parts of it was funny. (Something that happened a lot back than. And happens now, when I watch Comedy Central, but for a different reason.) I found a hardback copy of the book at the library the summer I was 10 and checked it out. It was huge, at least 6 inches thick, and the librarian looked at me oddly, asking if someone as young as I was could read something that big. I assured her I was capable, and trundled it home. Read it all in about three days, mostly sitting in the tree house in our back yard. It's stayed with me since then, as I eventually saw the movie, and saw Carol Burnett again. Now I understood that curtain dress!
I've always loved the interaction of the two. One of my favorite television shows is True Blood, which is based on Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse novels. I have read all of her books, and even got to meet her at a reading last year. This is one of those times where a show lead me to an author; I'd never heard of Charlaine Harris until I began watching True Blood. I began reading the Sookie books, which I loved, and then her other novels, which are even better, if not as well-known. Through a television show I love I have been introduced to many books I love. It's the circle of life.
My current fascination is Dexter. After years of hearing about how great the Showtime series is, I decided to give it a try. I had an ulterior motive, I must confess; the actor who plays Dexter, Micheal C. Hall, was one of the stars of another of my favorite shows, 'Six Feet Under.' I love a good mystery or thriller, and I do enjoy books and movies about serial killers. Dexter brings them all together. I am enjoying it, in the twisted way I always do. And to follow my rule, I began reading the book on which the series was based, Darkly Dreaming Dexter, by Jeff Lindsay. Happy to say it is just as dark and twisted as the show, maybe even more so. Another circle.
So, I testify that I can be a reader and a watcher. I have a brain, and know how to use it. Which is why I've never actually watched the Kardashians.
I am a reader, from an early age. I do not remember not being able to read, or having a love of books. Some of the first pictures of me show me with books; either being read to, or reading. Mom & Dad read to me, my grandparents read to me, my older brothers and sisters read to me. And when my baby sister came along, I read to her. We are a family of readers. Books have been with me through everything. I never buy a purse unless it will hold a book--or these days, my e-reader. Somewhere there exists a photo of me, in my wedding dress, an hour before the ceremony, reading a Stephen King novel. I took two books along on my honeymoon, something my then mother-in-law found odd, but those who knew me well weren't at all surprised by. I am never more than a few feet from reading material. My worst nightmare is not being able to read; going blind, or having no access to words. When I read The Handmaid's Tale for the first time, the thing that bothered me the most was that these women were not allowed to read.
Yes, I love my books. But I am also a television junkie. I am of the first Sesame Street generation-- I was a year old when it first aired, and according to Mom, we were watching. That same year we watched the moon landing on television. Two historical events, both televised, and I don't remember either. I do remember watching a wide variety of well, variety shows as a child. We watched anything that had music or skits: Carol Burnett was my favorite, but we also watched Lawrence Welk, Glen Campbell, Hee Haw, and the Barbara Mandrell show. Those shows fueled my love of music and drama, and inspired my imagination. I'd write plays that I coerced my friends and relatives into performing. One other show that inspired lots of skits was Rocky and Bullwinkle; something about that made me love melodrama. I wrote a Snidely Whiplash-esque plat for my nieces and nephew. That play is still talked about in our family, mostly because Shelley screamed so loudly and threw her tea cup so far we never found it.
My love of books and television has always been intertwined. One of the first times I recall this happening is with Laura Ingalls Wilder. I loved the Little House on the Prairie books, and read all of them in second grade. I still have the set my mother gave me for Christmas! The next year the television series based on the books began, and I was a faithful viewer for years, although I often pointed out differences between the show and the books. This set a precedent I still hold to today: if I see a film or watch a tv show and discover it is based on a book, I have to read that book. Or vice versa: if a book has a film or television version, I have to watch it.
Sometimes, this leads to a wonderful discovery, an author I truly like even though the movie might have sucked. I'd never read Agatha Christie until I saw a film version of And Then There Were None; how could I stop once I began reading Aggie, how could I stop? Sometimes, it's the other way around. The shining example of this for me, as far as movies goes is Forrest Gump. Most people don't even know it was based on a book, and after reading it, I understand why. That was one of the worst books I'd ever read, and how the funny, touching film came out of it, I do not know. In television, I compare Bones. I love the show, don't care at all for the books. (They're better than Forrest Gump, but not my cup of tea.)
I also read Gone With the Wind for the first time because of television. Blame Carol Burnett for that. I remember being blown away (no pun intended) by her famous 'Went With the Wind' sketch, even though I had no real idea why parts of it was funny. (Something that happened a lot back than. And happens now, when I watch Comedy Central, but for a different reason.) I found a hardback copy of the book at the library the summer I was 10 and checked it out. It was huge, at least 6 inches thick, and the librarian looked at me oddly, asking if someone as young as I was could read something that big. I assured her I was capable, and trundled it home. Read it all in about three days, mostly sitting in the tree house in our back yard. It's stayed with me since then, as I eventually saw the movie, and saw Carol Burnett again. Now I understood that curtain dress!
I've always loved the interaction of the two. One of my favorite television shows is True Blood, which is based on Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse novels. I have read all of her books, and even got to meet her at a reading last year. This is one of those times where a show lead me to an author; I'd never heard of Charlaine Harris until I began watching True Blood. I began reading the Sookie books, which I loved, and then her other novels, which are even better, if not as well-known. Through a television show I love I have been introduced to many books I love. It's the circle of life.
My current fascination is Dexter. After years of hearing about how great the Showtime series is, I decided to give it a try. I had an ulterior motive, I must confess; the actor who plays Dexter, Micheal C. Hall, was one of the stars of another of my favorite shows, 'Six Feet Under.' I love a good mystery or thriller, and I do enjoy books and movies about serial killers. Dexter brings them all together. I am enjoying it, in the twisted way I always do. And to follow my rule, I began reading the book on which the series was based, Darkly Dreaming Dexter, by Jeff Lindsay. Happy to say it is just as dark and twisted as the show, maybe even more so. Another circle.
So, I testify that I can be a reader and a watcher. I have a brain, and know how to use it. Which is why I've never actually watched the Kardashians.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Feeling Icky
I'm sitting here, watching Seinfeld, feeling positively icky. Like the sticky stuff on your shoe when you leave the movie theater. Not because of Seinfeld, although this is one of my least favorite episodes. The one where Kramer is accused of murder in California, and Jerry & George are there trying to find him. Personally, I always thought Kramer was too obvious a choice for a serial killer--the weird guy with no job, and odd habits? In a slightly different universe, Cosmo & Costanza would be a killing team. And Elaine, she' s a rage killer; you just know that she's be bumping off boyfriends and bosses and neighbors! Of the four, only Jerry is serial killer material: he seems relatively normal, and most people would say he's a nice guy. Of course, he's a seething mass of insecurities and narcissism, with OCD tendencies, and enough money to travel. The Comedy Killer.
But I digress.
I'm feeling icky because I've not been sleeping, and not sleeping leads to seizures for me. Some time today, I had one, I think. All the signs point that way, but I'm not positive. I'll know for sure tomorrow, if my legs and arms start to ache. I already have a huge headache, which is fun. NOT! Maybe this will break me out of the not sleeping rut. Either that or I'll be unconscious a lot more in the next few weeks.
Either way, I'll be thinking a lot about sitcom stars as serial killers.
But I digress.
I'm feeling icky because I've not been sleeping, and not sleeping leads to seizures for me. Some time today, I had one, I think. All the signs point that way, but I'm not positive. I'll know for sure tomorrow, if my legs and arms start to ache. I already have a huge headache, which is fun. NOT! Maybe this will break me out of the not sleeping rut. Either that or I'll be unconscious a lot more in the next few weeks.
Either way, I'll be thinking a lot about sitcom stars as serial killers.
Friday, May 10, 2013
In Case of Fire
People always ask what you'd save if your house were on fire, as if you wouldn't choose to save like, YOUR FREAKING HOUSE! I mean, I realize the point of this question is to figure out what's really important in your life, and crap like that, but honestly, having a place to live is right up there at the top of my list. I know I can't carry my bed, and even though it has wheels, it won't fit out the door. Not a chance I'm gonna be able to lift the sofa I've sat on my entire life, or that coffee table that has bruised my shins since I learned to walk. The china cabinet that belonged to my grandmother, or the few pieces of furniture that my grandfather made. Actually, I might be able to lift one of those, but my television is sitting on it, and I can't budge that. We have family photos up and down the hall, and stacks of photo albums in a bookshelf in the office. Most of my photos are packed away now, with my books, and other things, in the garage, in boxes. They'd go up like fireworks if the place caught fire, I'm sure.
I'm not sure what made me think about this, but there I was, in the middle of the night, wondering what I'd grab if the house went up in flames. Assuming my family, and Miss Google, and Daisy the dog got out okay, and I don't have to worry about saving lives. Because, really, does anyone want me to be responsible for saving their life? Me, who can barely get out of my pajamas most day? Me, who has a hard time finding matching shoes, or remembering if I've eaten today. Would you want me to be responsible for your life? Sure you would. Because in times of crisis, I rock. Normal days, I am worthless. Send me a hurricane, and I'd be the person gathering up puppies and getting them to high ground. Well, maybe not puppies. I'm not a dog person. Okay, yeah, I'd take the puppies, but only after I made sure all the kids, and kitties were okay, and saved the library first. I have my priorities in order.
What I decided in the dark of night was that if my house was struck by a meteor, or god forbid, the garbage disposal should burn up and explode like Max is scared it will do if we run it for more than a minute, I'd grab the following things:
My laptop, because, well, I'd need to tell you guys about this, and I like my laptop. My tablet/eReader, because it has all my pictures and my books on it, and I'll need something to read. And the pretty purse that has all of my meds, because well, without those I'd be a big ol' mess. And nobody want that. Most of that stuff would fit in my other purse, and I always know where that is, even when I can't find my shoes.
I'm not sure what made me think about this, but there I was, in the middle of the night, wondering what I'd grab if the house went up in flames. Assuming my family, and Miss Google, and Daisy the dog got out okay, and I don't have to worry about saving lives. Because, really, does anyone want me to be responsible for saving their life? Me, who can barely get out of my pajamas most day? Me, who has a hard time finding matching shoes, or remembering if I've eaten today. Would you want me to be responsible for your life? Sure you would. Because in times of crisis, I rock. Normal days, I am worthless. Send me a hurricane, and I'd be the person gathering up puppies and getting them to high ground. Well, maybe not puppies. I'm not a dog person. Okay, yeah, I'd take the puppies, but only after I made sure all the kids, and kitties were okay, and saved the library first. I have my priorities in order.
What I decided in the dark of night was that if my house was struck by a meteor, or god forbid, the garbage disposal should burn up and explode like Max is scared it will do if we run it for more than a minute, I'd grab the following things:My laptop, because, well, I'd need to tell you guys about this, and I like my laptop. My tablet/eReader, because it has all my pictures and my books on it, and I'll need something to read. And the pretty purse that has all of my meds, because well, without those I'd be a big ol' mess. And nobody want that. Most of that stuff would fit in my other purse, and I always know where that is, even when I can't find my shoes.
Monday, May 6, 2013
What I Am
What I Am
Somebody sent me a link to a bunch of ”pro-ana” websites today (For those of you who don’t know, that’s pro-anorectic.), saying that they’d noticed I was having a hard time losing weight, and this might help. First of all, let me say, no thanks. And secondly, looking at those sites, with images of bodies that could be straight from Dachau, and all that self-hatred, makes me want to cherish every single pound I have! There were lists of tips and tricks for how to starve yourself, some silly, some scary, some just downright dangerous. Posts from women and girls, mostly teenage girls, talking about how horrible their tiny little bodies look, even when they weigh less than the toddler next door, or their hair is falling our due to malnutrition. How to fool your parents, your doctor, your friends, into thinking you are eating, your are okay. How to best binge and purge. The self hatred on these pages was overwhelming. Stunning. I may be fat, and I may not look like a supermodel in a bikini, but damn it, I like me. I have never at any point, hated myself, or my body, the way these poor women do. Breaks my heart.
I had started a new, fairly restrictive diet today, but after seeing those, I decided to quit. I am healthy (relatively, anyway), and my eating habits are pretty healthy. I consume a ton of water, very little red meat, lots of fruit, and not nearly enough veggies. I don't exercise, but I have good intentions. I meditate, I pray, I journal, I am kind to animals, and I recycle I try to be the best version of me I can be, whatever that means. Somehow I doubt that has anything to do with if I have a gap between my thighs or not, and depends more on the people I love, the things I do, the way I behave. Fat does not equal evil. Thin does not equal holy.
Recently I read a book called "Two Whole Cakes: How to Stop Dieting and Learn to Love Your Body", which talks about fat acceptance, body image and the war on obesity. The author, Lesley Kinzel, made perfect sense, as she discussed how, in an age on The Biggest Loser (I hate that show), fat is seen as the biggest sin someone can commit. All health problems seem to somehow be related by the medical community to weight, even those which have nothing to do with it, something I've experienced first hand. I related to her lifelong struggles with weight, dieting, and health issues. But honestly, I was not converted to the world of "fat and proud" at that time. I like myself, sure, but am not thrilled with the santa belly. or the flappy arms. A big part of me would rather shop in the regular women's section, and I have no problems saying that.
There must be a middle ground between the fat activists, embracing every roll and dimple, and the skinny or die scary chicks, seeking concentration camp chic. I'm aiming at healthy. Able to walk up a couple flights of stairs without being out of breath; get a tattoo without being embarrassed. Be able to walk in heels. Run for the bus. Go to the pool. Take a yoga class and be able to do the stretches--hell, take any exercise, and be able to make it through!
I can manage health. That's something to aim for. Screw skinny. I'll be thrilled to be healthy. Happy, healthy, here.
images from perfectbucketlist.tumblr.com
Somebody sent me a link to a bunch of ”pro-ana” websites today (For those of you who don’t know, that’s pro-anorectic.), saying that they’d noticed I was having a hard time losing weight, and this might help. First of all, let me say, no thanks. And secondly, looking at those sites, with images of bodies that could be straight from Dachau, and all that self-hatred, makes me want to cherish every single pound I have! There were lists of tips and tricks for how to starve yourself, some silly, some scary, some just downright dangerous. Posts from women and girls, mostly teenage girls, talking about how horrible their tiny little bodies look, even when they weigh less than the toddler next door, or their hair is falling our due to malnutrition. How to fool your parents, your doctor, your friends, into thinking you are eating, your are okay. How to best binge and purge. The self hatred on these pages was overwhelming. Stunning. I may be fat, and I may not look like a supermodel in a bikini, but damn it, I like me. I have never at any point, hated myself, or my body, the way these poor women do. Breaks my heart.
I had started a new, fairly restrictive diet today, but after seeing those, I decided to quit. I am healthy (relatively, anyway), and my eating habits are pretty healthy. I consume a ton of water, very little red meat, lots of fruit, and not nearly enough veggies. I don't exercise, but I have good intentions. I meditate, I pray, I journal, I am kind to animals, and I recycle I try to be the best version of me I can be, whatever that means. Somehow I doubt that has anything to do with if I have a gap between my thighs or not, and depends more on the people I love, the things I do, the way I behave. Fat does not equal evil. Thin does not equal holy.
Recently I read a book called "Two Whole Cakes: How to Stop Dieting and Learn to Love Your Body", which talks about fat acceptance, body image and the war on obesity. The author, Lesley Kinzel, made perfect sense, as she discussed how, in an age on The Biggest Loser (I hate that show), fat is seen as the biggest sin someone can commit. All health problems seem to somehow be related by the medical community to weight, even those which have nothing to do with it, something I've experienced first hand. I related to her lifelong struggles with weight, dieting, and health issues. But honestly, I was not converted to the world of "fat and proud" at that time. I like myself, sure, but am not thrilled with the santa belly. or the flappy arms. A big part of me would rather shop in the regular women's section, and I have no problems saying that.
There must be a middle ground between the fat activists, embracing every roll and dimple, and the skinny or die scary chicks, seeking concentration camp chic. I'm aiming at healthy. Able to walk up a couple flights of stairs without being out of breath; get a tattoo without being embarrassed. Be able to walk in heels. Run for the bus. Go to the pool. Take a yoga class and be able to do the stretches--hell, take any exercise, and be able to make it through!
I can manage health. That's something to aim for. Screw skinny. I'll be thrilled to be healthy. Happy, healthy, here.
images from perfectbucketlist.tumblr.com
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Selfish to the End
Sometimes watching a television show, or reading a certain book will start me on a train of thought I never imagined taking. I've spent the last few weeks watching the HBO series 'Six Feet Under' and it has me thinking about death. Big surprise that a series revolving around a funeral home would take me there, huh?
I'm not having dark, goth thoughts, or seeing dead people like some Haley Joel Osmet wannabe. I'm not wondering about what it feels like to be dead, although I used to, once upon a time. Occasionally, the show has sparked a severe pang of regret, a wallop of a reminder of how much I miss those I've lost, and how much it still hurts. Mostly, what it has made me think about is planning. We never really know what is going to happen in life, and there are things that should be on paper.
For years I had what is known in Oregon and Washington as a 'Advance Directive' filled out, stating what I wanted done in case of a medical emergency, and who I wanted to make those decisions for me. My sister was my designated person, since she knew my wishes, and can keep a calm head. After Steven and I got engaged, I changed that paperwork, naming him. He was irate to read that I had a DNR order in case or a severe trauma. The idea of being kept alive by machines is totally appalling to me, simply abhorrent. I know now that if something had happened to me while his name was on that paperwork, he'd have been fine with keeping me all Sunny Von Bulowed, if only so he could play the martyr. Needless to say, his name is no longer on my papers.
I realize it is a bit grim to be thinking these kind of thoughts on a warm Spring evening, yet my mind goes back to the number of times I have awakened in an ambulance or hospital bed, and I can't help but wonder. What is going to happen if I have a seizure some day and don't wake up? I do not want things to be any more difficult for my loved ones than they need to be, and more than anything, I want things done MY WAY! Really, what is the point of a memorial service if it isn't done the way I want it? Seriously. I would be so pissed off if I looked down from Heaven and realized that they were playing "The Wind Beneath My Wings" at my service! Or if someone had the nerve to bury me in uncomfortable clothes! I swear, I refuse to go to my eternal rest wearing pantyhose and heels!
Yeah, that's me. Selfish to the end.
I'm not having dark, goth thoughts, or seeing dead people like some Haley Joel Osmet wannabe. I'm not wondering about what it feels like to be dead, although I used to, once upon a time. Occasionally, the show has sparked a severe pang of regret, a wallop of a reminder of how much I miss those I've lost, and how much it still hurts. Mostly, what it has made me think about is planning. We never really know what is going to happen in life, and there are things that should be on paper.
For years I had what is known in Oregon and Washington as a 'Advance Directive' filled out, stating what I wanted done in case of a medical emergency, and who I wanted to make those decisions for me. My sister was my designated person, since she knew my wishes, and can keep a calm head. After Steven and I got engaged, I changed that paperwork, naming him. He was irate to read that I had a DNR order in case or a severe trauma. The idea of being kept alive by machines is totally appalling to me, simply abhorrent. I know now that if something had happened to me while his name was on that paperwork, he'd have been fine with keeping me all Sunny Von Bulowed, if only so he could play the martyr. Needless to say, his name is no longer on my papers.
I realize it is a bit grim to be thinking these kind of thoughts on a warm Spring evening, yet my mind goes back to the number of times I have awakened in an ambulance or hospital bed, and I can't help but wonder. What is going to happen if I have a seizure some day and don't wake up? I do not want things to be any more difficult for my loved ones than they need to be, and more than anything, I want things done MY WAY! Really, what is the point of a memorial service if it isn't done the way I want it? Seriously. I would be so pissed off if I looked down from Heaven and realized that they were playing "The Wind Beneath My Wings" at my service! Or if someone had the nerve to bury me in uncomfortable clothes! I swear, I refuse to go to my eternal rest wearing pantyhose and heels!
Yeah, that's me. Selfish to the end.
Related articles
- How Much Does it Cost to Die? (creditloan.com)
- What Is Your Funeral Director Superpower? (funeralone.com)
Monday, April 29, 2013
Thrifty!
Upheaval has happened in my tiny room, and Miss Google is traumatized.
On Friday & Saturday, my Mom had a yard sale, selling (or attempting to sell) all sorts of stuff gathered from around the house. This included clothes, toys, and furniture. Among the furniture was a headboard that was part of a bedroom set. I've been using the long, low dresser in my room because, well, it was in here when I moved back, and it was just easier to use it than not. It's a lovely piece, blond wood, and very sturdy. The headboard matches. At the sale on Saturday a family decided they wanted to buy the entire set, and would be back on Sunday afternoon to pick it up. So Sunday morning, I moved all of my belongings from the blond dresser to my old dresser, and Dad transported it down to the garage for them to pick up. Of course, these folks never showed up, and the whole thing was done for no reason!
Here is where the problem comes in: since I moved here, Miss Google's food & water bowls had been on a tray on top of that dresser. There is not enough space on the tall one for the tray, so I moved it to my desk. She didn't like that; every time she jumped from the bed to the desk, she ran into the wall. So she kept looking to the place where her bowls had been before, and yowling pitifully. "Meooow?" It was pathetic. I compromised and placed the tray on the floor beside the tall dresser. I only hope I don't trip over it in the dark!
My new old dresser, and a calm Miss G.
This is the dresser I've had since I was a child. I once told Mom I wanted to paint it, and she said "But why? It's such good wood!" This is her response to me everything I mention painting a piece of wooden furniture. I love the look of painted wood; Mom thinks that just the wood is enough. Sometimes I agree, sometimes, not so much. She's gonna have a hissy fit when I paint my antique school desk this summer, but I want to use it as a vanity, and it needs to be a different color.
On a different note, I began searching for apartments this weekend. It was both exhilarating and depressing. Those available in my price range are either way out in the boonies (or in Vancouver, no thank you!), or creepy. Lots of studios. I am too old to live in a studio apartment. Been there, done that. As for sharing a bathroom or kitchen with a bunch of strangers, not even gonna think about that! Isn't that why I'm moving? I have lived in dorms, student housing, a studio apartment, tiny apartments, a "manufactured home", condos, houses, and fairly nice apartments. My dream apartment is in an older building, funky, and fun. A cross between Jerry Seinfeld's place and the apartment of Friends. Easy to find, right? And totally possible on my teeny-tiny budget, of course!
This, for $550 a month? In your dreams.
I do know that where ever I end up, I will be decorating on an even smaller budget, hitting up Goodwill and thrift stores for the furniture I need. Which is nearly everything. I don't have any living room furniture anymore, and I gave my kitchen table to my niece Kristan. Of course, she's not using it now, and I'm using her living room chairs, so maybe we can trade for a bit...hmm. Anyway.
The idea of hitting the thrift shop used to just appall me. If it wasn't new, I didn't want it. While I always had an appreciation for antiques, especially furniture, the idea of buying thing like clothing from Goodwill was abhorrent to me. Not any more. (Don't get me wrong; I'm not tying to be some hipster, shopping at the thrift store because it's cool. And I have no intention of posting every days outfit on Instagram or Tumblr--folks would get real tired of seeing my yoga pants and plain cardigans! Life on a limited budget is challenging, and until this point, I've not been trying very hard to live within my means. ) There was also a time when I refused to buy groceries at WinCo, preferring Fred Myers, or a higher priced chain over the bag-your-own stores. My ex-husband was a big fan of WinCo, and introduced me to the delights of lower prices. It took me a long time to discover that shopping the bulk bins was even cheaper, as well as a greener choice, but these days, I buy lots of my stuff in bulk. I'd still prefer to have someone else bag my groceries, mainly because I suck at it, and always end up with one bag way too heavy, but I am getting better. The lower prices and larger selection have converted me to shopping WinCo! (Sorry for the commercial!)
What was my point?
Oh. I am challenging myself to live within my means from now on. I haven't been spending like crazy, but after all those years of not having any money, I went a little wild. Amazon was my downfall... The months ahead will be tough. Trying to find a place to live, and keeping the budget tight. Saving up all I can. I hate being broke, but I always remember that I am so much better off than so many others!
Meanwhile: watch this, and sing along:
On Friday & Saturday, my Mom had a yard sale, selling (or attempting to sell) all sorts of stuff gathered from around the house. This included clothes, toys, and furniture. Among the furniture was a headboard that was part of a bedroom set. I've been using the long, low dresser in my room because, well, it was in here when I moved back, and it was just easier to use it than not. It's a lovely piece, blond wood, and very sturdy. The headboard matches. At the sale on Saturday a family decided they wanted to buy the entire set, and would be back on Sunday afternoon to pick it up. So Sunday morning, I moved all of my belongings from the blond dresser to my old dresser, and Dad transported it down to the garage for them to pick up. Of course, these folks never showed up, and the whole thing was done for no reason!
Here is where the problem comes in: since I moved here, Miss Google's food & water bowls had been on a tray on top of that dresser. There is not enough space on the tall one for the tray, so I moved it to my desk. She didn't like that; every time she jumped from the bed to the desk, she ran into the wall. So she kept looking to the place where her bowls had been before, and yowling pitifully. "Meooow?" It was pathetic. I compromised and placed the tray on the floor beside the tall dresser. I only hope I don't trip over it in the dark!
My new old dresser, and a calm Miss G.This is the dresser I've had since I was a child. I once told Mom I wanted to paint it, and she said "But why? It's such good wood!" This is her response to me everything I mention painting a piece of wooden furniture. I love the look of painted wood; Mom thinks that just the wood is enough. Sometimes I agree, sometimes, not so much. She's gonna have a hissy fit when I paint my antique school desk this summer, but I want to use it as a vanity, and it needs to be a different color.
On a different note, I began searching for apartments this weekend. It was both exhilarating and depressing. Those available in my price range are either way out in the boonies (or in Vancouver, no thank you!), or creepy. Lots of studios. I am too old to live in a studio apartment. Been there, done that. As for sharing a bathroom or kitchen with a bunch of strangers, not even gonna think about that! Isn't that why I'm moving? I have lived in dorms, student housing, a studio apartment, tiny apartments, a "manufactured home", condos, houses, and fairly nice apartments. My dream apartment is in an older building, funky, and fun. A cross between Jerry Seinfeld's place and the apartment of Friends. Easy to find, right? And totally possible on my teeny-tiny budget, of course!
This, for $550 a month? In your dreams.I do know that where ever I end up, I will be decorating on an even smaller budget, hitting up Goodwill and thrift stores for the furniture I need. Which is nearly everything. I don't have any living room furniture anymore, and I gave my kitchen table to my niece Kristan. Of course, she's not using it now, and I'm using her living room chairs, so maybe we can trade for a bit...hmm. Anyway.
The idea of hitting the thrift shop used to just appall me. If it wasn't new, I didn't want it. While I always had an appreciation for antiques, especially furniture, the idea of buying thing like clothing from Goodwill was abhorrent to me. Not any more. (Don't get me wrong; I'm not tying to be some hipster, shopping at the thrift store because it's cool. And I have no intention of posting every days outfit on Instagram or Tumblr--folks would get real tired of seeing my yoga pants and plain cardigans! Life on a limited budget is challenging, and until this point, I've not been trying very hard to live within my means. ) There was also a time when I refused to buy groceries at WinCo, preferring Fred Myers, or a higher priced chain over the bag-your-own stores. My ex-husband was a big fan of WinCo, and introduced me to the delights of lower prices. It took me a long time to discover that shopping the bulk bins was even cheaper, as well as a greener choice, but these days, I buy lots of my stuff in bulk. I'd still prefer to have someone else bag my groceries, mainly because I suck at it, and always end up with one bag way too heavy, but I am getting better. The lower prices and larger selection have converted me to shopping WinCo! (Sorry for the commercial!)
What was my point?
Oh. I am challenging myself to live within my means from now on. I haven't been spending like crazy, but after all those years of not having any money, I went a little wild. Amazon was my downfall... The months ahead will be tough. Trying to find a place to live, and keeping the budget tight. Saving up all I can. I hate being broke, but I always remember that I am so much better off than so many others!
Meanwhile: watch this, and sing along:
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Pictures, Pigs, & People
I woke up this morning wondering about all the British actors who have appeared in the Harry Potter movies. There was such a plethora of great names, such as Dame Maggie Smith, Kenneth Branagh, Robbie Coltrane, Emma Thompson, Bill Nighy, David Tennant (The Doctor!), John Cleese, Julie Christie, Miranda Richardson, Helena Bonham-Carter, Richard Harris, and of course, Alan Rickman. It's been said that anyone who's anyone in British acting was in these films, but that's not really true. Where's Sean Connery? Colin Firth? Judi Dench? Helen Mirren? I don't imagine they could have gotten Sean Connery, but Hugh Grant? Either way, it made me wonder. I wonder about all sorts of things. For example, how many of these actors will be given knighthoods (or the female equilvalent)? And if I were queen, who would I knight? I don't have an answer yet, but I'm still thinking.
It's Saturday. I cleaned my room, did laundry, made a pan of brownies (which I totally forgot about in the oven, and burned to a crisp!), helped my mom with her yard sale, and learned about Minecraft from my nephew, Max. Did you know in Minecraft, you can ride a pig for long distances, and your hunger bar will neither increase nor decrease? Yep. You have to saddle the pig (there isn't a crafting recipe for a pig saddle), and then use a carrot on a sick to control the pig. I've learned all sorts of odd things about Minecraft, since it's Max's favorite video game, which he plays all the time. He's built huge worlds, a model Titanic, and several hotels in Minecraft, and loves it.
Between Minecraft and burned brownies, I played around with my webcam toy, and took a bunch of silly pictures. here they are, all for you. Enjoy!
Have a lovely weekend!
It's Saturday. I cleaned my room, did laundry, made a pan of brownies (which I totally forgot about in the oven, and burned to a crisp!), helped my mom with her yard sale, and learned about Minecraft from my nephew, Max. Did you know in Minecraft, you can ride a pig for long distances, and your hunger bar will neither increase nor decrease? Yep. You have to saddle the pig (there isn't a crafting recipe for a pig saddle), and then use a carrot on a sick to control the pig. I've learned all sorts of odd things about Minecraft, since it's Max's favorite video game, which he plays all the time. He's built huge worlds, a model Titanic, and several hotels in Minecraft, and loves it.
Between Minecraft and burned brownies, I played around with my webcam toy, and took a bunch of silly pictures. here they are, all for you. Enjoy!
Have a lovely weekend!
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Sigh of Relief
It arrived in the mail yesterday, but nobody handed me the envelope until this afternoon. A big ol' manila envelope from the Department of Human Services, Seniors and People With Disabilities in Salem. First-Class mail. As soon as Dad handed it to me, I started to shake, knowing that my future was in there.
"We are writing to let you know that we have made a decision on your disability hearing."
So, yeah, what did you decide already!!
"We find that your disability did not end. Therefore, your benefits will continue."
And I breathed a HUGE sigh of relief. Huge. A weight dropped from my shoulders. If I'd had a bottle of champagne, I'd have been popping corks. I did start to giggle when I read this line:
"If you disagree with this decision, you have a right to appeal." Yeah, I'm going to appeal the decision that says I get to keep my medical benefits. The decision that says I don't have to start pounding the pavement looking for a job that would likely put me back into the hospital. The decision that says I will continue to get the measly checks that may allow me to be independent now. Sure, I thinks I'll argue with that. (sarcasm font needed!)
As of now, the future begins. No more being in limbo, no more saying "well, once I know.." I know now, and now I can move forward. To where, I am not entirely sure, but I know it is beyond these four walls. A place of my own, a new life. If that is here in Portland, or in New Mexico, I don't know yet. At least I now know I can go!
"We are writing to let you know that we have made a decision on your disability hearing."
So, yeah, what did you decide already!!
"We find that your disability did not end. Therefore, your benefits will continue."
And I breathed a HUGE sigh of relief. Huge. A weight dropped from my shoulders. If I'd had a bottle of champagne, I'd have been popping corks. I did start to giggle when I read this line:
"If you disagree with this decision, you have a right to appeal." Yeah, I'm going to appeal the decision that says I get to keep my medical benefits. The decision that says I don't have to start pounding the pavement looking for a job that would likely put me back into the hospital. The decision that says I will continue to get the measly checks that may allow me to be independent now. Sure, I thinks I'll argue with that. (sarcasm font needed!)
As of now, the future begins. No more being in limbo, no more saying "well, once I know.." I know now, and now I can move forward. To where, I am not entirely sure, but I know it is beyond these four walls. A place of my own, a new life. If that is here in Portland, or in New Mexico, I don't know yet. At least I now know I can go!
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
The Last Laugh
I couldn't sleep last night. Toss and turn, with the theme song from 'True Blood' running through my head (because in the last few days I've binged on books, and episodes of my favorite tv show On Demand.). My entire body aches from this cold/flu/whatever it is I've had for nearly two weeks now. I swear, this virus has stuck around longer than some of the men I've dated. I should give it a name. Let's call it Victor. Victor has kept me up most nights, coughing, feverish, sniffling. It's difficult to sleep when you are trying to hack up a lung. Once I fall asleep, I want to stay asleep, for days on end. Hasn't happened yet.
Anyway, last night I was tangled in my sheets, and a question floated across my mind. I can't remember that question now. So I'll ask a different one.
I have a Mary Englebreit print in my room, with the saying "She who laughs, lasts." I've always liked that phrase, but the saying it's based on, "he who laughs last, laughs best," has always puzzled me. I know that the phrase originated with in Tudor England, and was used by, but not coined by Shakespeare. Yes, I understand that revenge is sweet. So why does this still puzzle me?
Perhaps because I've never wreaked revenge, or laughed last. There are plenty of folks I'd like to take some revenge on, but since I've not exactly triumphed in my life, I'm afraid they'd be the ones laughing at me. Sure, I could seek out that evil red-headed girl who made my life hell in eighth grade, and show her that her cruel words didn't mean anything, but I'd be lying. It's easy to get revenge when you have the resources, and lifestyle of Bruce Wayne; he can build himself a Batcave, and take out the evildoer's who killed his parents, because, hey, he's rich as hell, and, well, he's BATMAN! I'm not Batman. Not even Catwoman. Or Robin. Hell, I'm not even Alfred.
So I think I'll take the Englebreit path, and laugh instead. Look at the odd twists and turns my life has taken, at the strange things that happen every single day, and instead of desiring to rain down vengeance on the world around me, I'll laugh. See the humor in my world. Like Max, following his mom around making seal noises. Or hearing a woman in the grocery store line comment on the man in front of us, by saying "I'd wear him like a scrunchie!" (He was pretty hot!)
Life is funny. Vengeance, not so much.
Anyway, last night I was tangled in my sheets, and a question floated across my mind. I can't remember that question now. So I'll ask a different one.
I have a Mary Englebreit print in my room, with the saying "She who laughs, lasts." I've always liked that phrase, but the saying it's based on, "he who laughs last, laughs best," has always puzzled me. I know that the phrase originated with in Tudor England, and was used by, but not coined by Shakespeare. Yes, I understand that revenge is sweet. So why does this still puzzle me?
Perhaps because I've never wreaked revenge, or laughed last. There are plenty of folks I'd like to take some revenge on, but since I've not exactly triumphed in my life, I'm afraid they'd be the ones laughing at me. Sure, I could seek out that evil red-headed girl who made my life hell in eighth grade, and show her that her cruel words didn't mean anything, but I'd be lying. It's easy to get revenge when you have the resources, and lifestyle of Bruce Wayne; he can build himself a Batcave, and take out the evildoer's who killed his parents, because, hey, he's rich as hell, and, well, he's BATMAN! I'm not Batman. Not even Catwoman. Or Robin. Hell, I'm not even Alfred.
So I think I'll take the Englebreit path, and laugh instead. Look at the odd twists and turns my life has taken, at the strange things that happen every single day, and instead of desiring to rain down vengeance on the world around me, I'll laugh. See the humor in my world. Like Max, following his mom around making seal noises. Or hearing a woman in the grocery store line comment on the man in front of us, by saying "I'd wear him like a scrunchie!" (He was pretty hot!)
Life is funny. Vengeance, not so much.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Hearings Hell, or, Another Week In Limbo
I've been on Social Security Disability since 2009, and last year I was informed my benefits were being terminated. See, I'm epileptic, and have fibromyalgia, major depression and chronic migraines, but since I'd gone 18 months without a seizure, they decided I was cured! (Cue "The Hallelujah Chorus" sung by flying cherubs!) Yeah. As if something I've been dealing with every day of my life for THIRTY FUCKING YEARS is just gonna go away. I filed an appeal, and asked for a hearing. Tons of paperwork, four different medical exams (their doctor, their shrink, my GP, and my neurologist) later, a hearing was finally scheduled. That hearing was today.
Of course, I have a nasty cold, and go in to see the hearing guy (he told me his title, but I cannot remember it for the life of me) carrying my cough drops & hankie and smelling of Vapo Rub.
The hearings guy (HG) is a hottie, obviously former military, still got that hair cut, and tall!! Big shiny gold wedding ring on his finger tells me someone else thinks he's hot, too. And he was compassionate, asked good questions, and really listened to the answers. Together we went through my medical records, and talked about my work history. I told him about how sometimes the pain is so bad I cannot lift a coffee cup; sometimes even wearing clothing hurts. That I have a difficult time focusing or remembering, will find myself standing in a room with no idea why I am there. I lose track of words, much in the same way a person with dementia does, and will struggle to name something I've known the name of my entire life. Imagine standing in the kitchen knowing you want a donut, but being totally unable to think of that word.
The HG listened to my side, and asked my sister a few questions, and then we were done. He will have a determination for me sometime next week.
Waiting has been hell, and now I get to wait some more. All I want is a decision, one way or the other. The Limbo is a nifty dance; being in limbo, stuck in that in between space, well, that sucks.
Of course, I have a nasty cold, and go in to see the hearing guy (he told me his title, but I cannot remember it for the life of me) carrying my cough drops & hankie and smelling of Vapo Rub.
The hearings guy (HG) is a hottie, obviously former military, still got that hair cut, and tall!! Big shiny gold wedding ring on his finger tells me someone else thinks he's hot, too. And he was compassionate, asked good questions, and really listened to the answers. Together we went through my medical records, and talked about my work history. I told him about how sometimes the pain is so bad I cannot lift a coffee cup; sometimes even wearing clothing hurts. That I have a difficult time focusing or remembering, will find myself standing in a room with no idea why I am there. I lose track of words, much in the same way a person with dementia does, and will struggle to name something I've known the name of my entire life. Imagine standing in the kitchen knowing you want a donut, but being totally unable to think of that word.
The HG listened to my side, and asked my sister a few questions, and then we were done. He will have a determination for me sometime next week.
Waiting has been hell, and now I get to wait some more. All I want is a decision, one way or the other. The Limbo is a nifty dance; being in limbo, stuck in that in between space, well, that sucks.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Rambling
Be prepared: I'm not terribly focused.
It's Tuesday night, and my room smells like Vicks Vapo-rub. I managed to catch the cold that has floated around our house for the last month, and for the last twenty-four hours I have been sneezing, sniffling and coughing. I feel like death on a stick. All I can
do sit in my chair and watch television, going through seasons of Six Feet Under, guzzling juice and tearing through Kleenex.We recently changed cable providers, from Dish Network back to Comcast, and I am digging the On Demand programming. Watching all sorts of shows that I missed out on the first time around, like Oz. For those of you who don't know, Oz is a HBO show set inside a men's prison. I watched a few seasons of Oz on Netflix, and now I am going on. This is such a freaky show, I have to be sure not to watch right before bed, or when Max is in the house. Honestly, all the male body parts flying around are, well, both disconcerting and titillating. The sheer violence is enticing, in a primitive way. This show is, for me, a guilty pleasure.
Then we have Six Feet Under, another HBO show, this one revolving around a family funeral home. At the beginning, my favorite thing about this show was the way the dead folks would hang around, talking to the morticians. I'm only part-way into Season two, and that seems to have stopped happening. The idea of death as a business, as well as a part of life, is complex and intriguing, and I find the idea of it just fascinating. Does that make me twisted? I don't know, or care, really. In the end, I'm not watching this because I'm interested in the deaths, but because of the characters and story lines.
Speaking of story lines and characters, my friend Karen is writing a book, and I've had the privileged of reading it as she writes, giving her some critique. I am so thrilled that she chose me for this honor; her book is, so far, wonderful! From the first paragraph, I was drawn in, and I cannot wait for it to be finished so I know what happens. Karen is enormously talented, which I've always known, but I think she is just figuring it out herself. I must admit to being a bit envious. She is doing what I cannot, or have not done. For that I am extremely proud of her, and at the same time, kinda jealous! When her book is done, I will be glad to share it with everyone I know.
The NyQuil is kicking in, and I am yawning. Goodnight, sweethearts, goodnight.
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Wednesday, April 3, 2013
I've Still Got My Health?
I have health issues. Epilepsy, which is fairly well controlled by medication; major depression; chronic migraines; RLS; fibromyalgia, a chronic pain disorder. The one causing the most problems these days is the fibromyalgia. In Portland's wet and damp weather, my body hurts all the time. The last few weeks, the has gotten increasingly worse. Day by day, my body seems to be turning against me.
I no longer have words for this pain. It has gone far beyond aching, stabbing, throbbing. It is constant, as present as breath, a companion I neither asked for nor want. Like that one person at the party who won't shut up, or they guy at the bar who refuses to take a hint, this pain has latched onto me, and is staying for the night.
I woke up this morning, swung my legs out of bed, stood up, and crumpled to the floor. The pain was so bad I couldn't stand; all I could do was lay on the floor and cry, as my cat looked at me in confusion. After a few minutes, and with help, I hauled my sorry ass back into bed, where I slept for another hour. Upon waking up again, I tried to have a simple cup of coffee; the pain in my arms was so bad that I couldn't lift the cup, let alone the coffee pot.
Once upon a time I went out of the house, had friends who I actually saw in the real world, dated, had sex, had a job, had fun. These days, the very idea of sex causes pain. I seldom leave the house because I don't have the energy. This week I will have to go to the doctor, and that relatively short trip is more than I can bear. Two buses across town, then two more to get home; just the idea hurts. I can barely stand the pressure of clothing on my skin some days; some days a shower is as painful as being whipped. I would love to be out in the world again, the idea scares me. Just a simple trip to the market is exhausting; how would I ever make it in the workplace again? How on earth would I be able to get myself ready for a date when I can barely get out of bed? The whole idea scares me, makes me tired. Depresses me. It is easier, safer, certainly less painful, to stay here in my chair, in my room, and read. Watch television. Surf the internet.
In two weeks I have a hearing with Social Security to decide if my disability appeal will be denied. I was granted disability based on my epilepsy, which, at one point was so bad I could not work. The seizures are under control, for now, and the government, in their infinite wisdom (I need a sarcasm font!) has decided I am cured! Nope. I am hoping, praying, that they will see that A) my epilepsy isn't gone, and B) there are so many other things wrong that prevent me from working that the seizures really don't even matter now! I can only hope I get a judge with a compassionate heart and a brain.
I no longer have words for this pain. It has gone far beyond aching, stabbing, throbbing. It is constant, as present as breath, a companion I neither asked for nor want. Like that one person at the party who won't shut up, or they guy at the bar who refuses to take a hint, this pain has latched onto me, and is staying for the night.
I woke up this morning, swung my legs out of bed, stood up, and crumpled to the floor. The pain was so bad I couldn't stand; all I could do was lay on the floor and cry, as my cat looked at me in confusion. After a few minutes, and with help, I hauled my sorry ass back into bed, where I slept for another hour. Upon waking up again, I tried to have a simple cup of coffee; the pain in my arms was so bad that I couldn't lift the cup, let alone the coffee pot.
Once upon a time I went out of the house, had friends who I actually saw in the real world, dated, had sex, had a job, had fun. These days, the very idea of sex causes pain. I seldom leave the house because I don't have the energy. This week I will have to go to the doctor, and that relatively short trip is more than I can bear. Two buses across town, then two more to get home; just the idea hurts. I can barely stand the pressure of clothing on my skin some days; some days a shower is as painful as being whipped. I would love to be out in the world again, the idea scares me. Just a simple trip to the market is exhausting; how would I ever make it in the workplace again? How on earth would I be able to get myself ready for a date when I can barely get out of bed? The whole idea scares me, makes me tired. Depresses me. It is easier, safer, certainly less painful, to stay here in my chair, in my room, and read. Watch television. Surf the internet.
In two weeks I have a hearing with Social Security to decide if my disability appeal will be denied. I was granted disability based on my epilepsy, which, at one point was so bad I could not work. The seizures are under control, for now, and the government, in their infinite wisdom (I need a sarcasm font!) has decided I am cured! Nope. I am hoping, praying, that they will see that A) my epilepsy isn't gone, and B) there are so many other things wrong that prevent me from working that the seizures really don't even matter now! I can only hope I get a judge with a compassionate heart and a brain.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
20 Questions for my 45th
Yesterday was my 45th birthday, and on the whole, it was pretty anti-climactic. I spent most of the day enjoying the benefits of Comcast on demand by watching Season 1 of Shameless. Between that I sat outside in the sun and read, which was lovely. Just having sunshine was a luxury! Oh, and I answered all the birthday greetings from friends on Facebook; that was excellent. I got a wonderful birthday gift from my sister & nephew, which they picked out weeks ago at a reptile show they went to. No, it isn't a lizard, it is an awesome Southwesterny owl necklace. I love it!
The last year of my life has been full of so much turmoil, so many ups and downs. While I have made some changes, I've mostly been sitting here, in my chair, stagnating. If there's one thing I know, it's that stagnant water STINKS! I am so tired of my life stinking. Starting now, starting here, I am churning up the water, changing my life. (Yes, I know I've said that dozens of times before. Shut up. I mean it this time.)
These questions came from a post titled 20 Questions You Should Ask Yourself Every
Sunday on a blog about productive living. I am using them here as a way to give myself a guide for goals, etc. Honestly, this seems like a lot of things to worry about every single Sunday, and I'd only ask myself all these questions every six months or so. Don't expect profound answers, people. If you are looking for genius, what the hell are you doing here? Seriously? Anyway, here we go. Text in italics is from the original post, these are my answers.
These are my 20 questions, and my answers, such as they are. Someone told me last week that 45 isn't a landmark birthday. Well, for me it feels like it, especially since I know so many who never made it this far. I miss Michele every single day, and will, for the next 45 years, or until I see her again.
The last year of my life has been full of so much turmoil, so many ups and downs. While I have made some changes, I've mostly been sitting here, in my chair, stagnating. If there's one thing I know, it's that stagnant water STINKS! I am so tired of my life stinking. Starting now, starting here, I am churning up the water, changing my life. (Yes, I know I've said that dozens of times before. Shut up. I mean it this time.)
These questions came from a post titled 20 Questions You Should Ask Yourself Every
Sunday on a blog about productive living. I am using them here as a way to give myself a guide for goals, etc. Honestly, this seems like a lot of things to worry about every single Sunday, and I'd only ask myself all these questions every six months or so. Don't expect profound answers, people. If you are looking for genius, what the hell are you doing here? Seriously? Anyway, here we go. Text in italics is from the original post, these are my answers.- What did I learn last week? – If you have trouble answering this question, it’s time for a change. It doesn’t matter how old you are, you should learn something new every week. That baby powder doesn't get rid of ants; that baking with gluten free flour is not that easy; and that I have no wish to date or do anything else with guys from Craigslist.
- What was my greatest accomplishment over the past week? – Reflecting on your accomplishments is a healthy way to raise self confidence and contentment. It’s also an effective way to track your progress. Umm, I didn't do much of anything last week. Big fibro flare, all sorts of health issues. However, I managed to read about 6 books, not a record for me, but pretty good. And while I have not lost any weight, I've not gained, either.
- Which moment from last week was the most memorable and why? – It may open up your mind to new passions and goals, or simple pastimes worth revisiting. So much fun just goofing around with Max. He was on Spring Break, and was sick half the week, but when he was feeling good, he and I took turns teasing each other in the odd little way that we do. It reminded me how much I love kids, and love being social, things I miss, hiding in my room.
- What’s the #1 thing I need to accomplish this week? – Everything else is secondary, and should be treated as such. Nevertheless, this question will also shine light on other noteworthy tasks. The same thing I needed to accomplish last week--get my ass out of this chair and EXERCISE!! My biggest goal for this year is to get healthy, and lose weight. The only way I can really do that is by exercise, which I never do.
- What can I do right now to make the week less stressful? – Set reminders in your calendar, get your laundry done, fill the car with gas… organize yourself. My doctor said I should schedule in exercise, thinking that would make me more likely to do it. When she told me this, I, of course did nothing; now I am thinking it's the right idea.
- What have I struggled with in the past that might also affect the upcoming week? – The idea here is to learn from your struggles and better equip yourself for future encounters. Pain. Last week was full of pain. And the coming weeks likely will be, as well. I am hoping that more exercise will help with some of the pain, and will allow me to break free of the evil ibuprofen monster which is messing up my tummy.
- What was last week’s biggest time sink? – Steer clear of this in the future. Setup physical barriers against distractions if you have to. Television is always my biggest distraction. I may have to hide my remote. And the chargers for my electronics, so I don't spend too much time online.
- Am I carrying any excess baggage into the week that can be dropped? – Physical clutter, mental clutter… eliminate the unnecessary so the necessary may shine bright. Oh, I could spend weeks cleaning up just physical baggage. My little room is small, and I will work on getting rid of more junk this week. I got rid of a lot of clothes a few weeks ago. But magazines, papers, and other crap still needs to go. Big fun.
- What have I been avoiding that needs to get done? – Pencil in a time to get these things done. For any 2-minute or less tasks, consider scheduling them first thing Monday morning. Didn't I just cover this?
- What opportunities are still on the table? – If it’s still available and you want it, make a concrete plan to go after it this week. I'm writing. Not as much as I should, but I am. And I will figure out two things soon: a job, and a place to live. These will be on hold until after my disability hearing on April 18th. Once this limbo is decided, one way or the other, I will make a decision.
- Is there anyone I’ve been meaning to talk to? – Regular communication can solve problems before they fester. Always keep an open line of communication to those around you. Yes, some near, and some far. I'd rather not mention names here, but just know some of you will be getting a phone call or email this week.
- Is there anyone that deserves a big ‘Thank You’? – Take time each week to thank the people who have helped you. Your kind gesture will not go unnoticed. My baby sister, Jolene. She's been here for me throughout everything, and never gets enough credit from anyone for everything she does. Same goes for my mom.
- How can I help someone else this coming week? – The easiest way to get what you want is to help others get what they want. If you help them, they will remember you when you need help. I am a lazy bugger, and do very little around the house to pull me weight. I chip in when asked, but I should do more...
- What are my top 3 goals for the next 3 years? – You’ll never make any progress in life if you don’t setup realistic goals for yourself. This is a difficult one. Three years, three things. 1) Get my own place again. 2) Get my book written 3) lose 100 pounds
- Have any of my recent actions moved me closer to my goals? – If the answer is no, something needs to change. I'm starting on writing, but on the others, not so much...
- What’s the next step for each goal? – Knowing the next step is the key to accomplishing the whole. I don't have an answer for this. Any ideas?
- What am I looking forward to during the upcoming week? – The answer can act as a great source of motivation. If nothing exists, schedule something to look forward to. I don't have plans yet, but I'm working on it. Suggestions?
- What are my fears? – Consciously address your fears each week and slowly work on resolving them. It’s all about taking baby steps. My biggest fear now is about that upcoming disability hearing, and it's outcome. I've been waiting for a year for this to happen, and I am, frankly, terrified, that these people who know nothing about me, will decide that I am "cured" of a lifelong disability, and will cut off my health insurance. I can figure out a way to get by without the money, but I need that insurance; without it, I have no way to pay for medications, doctor visits, etc. And then I am back where I started, with seizures all the time, pain and suffering.
- What am I most grateful for? – It’s a smart way to keep things in perspective, and something you should never lose sight of. Every single day I am grateful to be alive, grateful that I have a family who loves and helps me.
- If I knew I only had one week to live, who would I spend my time with? – Another helpful reminder… Life is short. Spend more time with the people you care about. I'd tell my family how much I loved them, every day. I'd find a way to get to Albuquerque, and see the friends there that I miss so much. Elissa, Kathy, Karen, and the rest (anybody else hearing the Gilligan's Island theme song?).
These are my 20 questions, and my answers, such as they are. Someone told me last week that 45 isn't a landmark birthday. Well, for me it feels like it, especially since I know so many who never made it this far. I miss Michele every single day, and will, for the next 45 years, or until I see her again.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Book Review: The Speed of Dark
The Speed Of Dark by Elizabeth Moon
This is an amazing book with, what I felt to be, a heartbreaking ending.
Set in the not-so-distant future, a time when most disease and crime has been wiped out by genetic modification or computer chips planter in the brain, this is the story of Lou Arrandale, an autistic man. Lou is part of the middle generation of autists; his generation has been able to gain great strides in "normal" functioning due to training in early childhood with computers that helped to teach speech in ways that accommodated the sensory problems of the autistic brain. Lou and others his age hold high-functioning jobs, drive, and live alone, things that the autists of the older generation have not been able to do. The younger generation has benefited even more; genetic modifications in the womb have made autism for them only something they had before birth. Yet Lou and his friends still have many of the same social issues that face all autistic people: trouble with social skills, difficultly reading language and facial cues, and a tendency to be overly literal.
Told from Lou's point of view, we see the world through his eyes, and it is often enlightening look. As Lou muses about God, or music, or the patterns of the stars, the world opens up. Lou has "normal" friends, and takes a class once a week in fencing, something that he enjoys. Yet, he doesn't realize he is having fun until someone points out to him that he seems to be enjoying himself; he had only noticed that he was flushed and sweating.
The crux of the story is this: a new therapy is going into human trials, a therapy that may "cure" autism in adults. The pharmacological company that Lou works for has purchased this therapy, and his boss, who dislikes the special treatments the autistic workers get (things which allow them to function well in the workplace, such as a gym, music and Lou's spinners at his desk), decides they will be told to receive this treatment or lose their jobs. Of course, this is illegal, and most of the team do not want the treatment.
Lou ponders what would happen if they change his brain. Will he be the same person? Like the same things as before? Will it matter? For example, he knows he likes peppers on his pizza and doesn't like anchovies. If he has the treatment, will he suddenly like anchovies? And will it matter? It will matter to the anchovies, he decides, and to the man who sells anchovies.
I truly enjoyed this book, although I was disappointed with the ending. As I read, I was reminded of The Handmaid's Tale, another novel set in a future that seems strange yet possible. Lou's voice is so authentic, and so touching. This is definitely worth reading.
This is an amazing book with, what I felt to be, a heartbreaking ending.
Set in the not-so-distant future, a time when most disease and crime has been wiped out by genetic modification or computer chips planter in the brain, this is the story of Lou Arrandale, an autistic man. Lou is part of the middle generation of autists; his generation has been able to gain great strides in "normal" functioning due to training in early childhood with computers that helped to teach speech in ways that accommodated the sensory problems of the autistic brain. Lou and others his age hold high-functioning jobs, drive, and live alone, things that the autists of the older generation have not been able to do. The younger generation has benefited even more; genetic modifications in the womb have made autism for them only something they had before birth. Yet Lou and his friends still have many of the same social issues that face all autistic people: trouble with social skills, difficultly reading language and facial cues, and a tendency to be overly literal.
Told from Lou's point of view, we see the world through his eyes, and it is often enlightening look. As Lou muses about God, or music, or the patterns of the stars, the world opens up. Lou has "normal" friends, and takes a class once a week in fencing, something that he enjoys. Yet, he doesn't realize he is having fun until someone points out to him that he seems to be enjoying himself; he had only noticed that he was flushed and sweating.
The crux of the story is this: a new therapy is going into human trials, a therapy that may "cure" autism in adults. The pharmacological company that Lou works for has purchased this therapy, and his boss, who dislikes the special treatments the autistic workers get (things which allow them to function well in the workplace, such as a gym, music and Lou's spinners at his desk), decides they will be told to receive this treatment or lose their jobs. Of course, this is illegal, and most of the team do not want the treatment.
Lou ponders what would happen if they change his brain. Will he be the same person? Like the same things as before? Will it matter? For example, he knows he likes peppers on his pizza and doesn't like anchovies. If he has the treatment, will he suddenly like anchovies? And will it matter? It will matter to the anchovies, he decides, and to the man who sells anchovies.
I truly enjoyed this book, although I was disappointed with the ending. As I read, I was reminded of The Handmaid's Tale, another novel set in a future that seems strange yet possible. Lou's voice is so authentic, and so touching. This is definitely worth reading.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Goodbye Roses Hello Enchantment
As much as I love Portland, I don't think I can take another winter here.
There are so many wonderful things about the Rose City: fantastic music scene, awesome coffee and terrific libraries, a real love of books, fabulous food, and year-round green. The public transportation system, TriMet, rocks, which is important to me, since I don't drive. I love living in a place where books and coffee and parks are valued, where there's art on nearly every corner. And there is so much green! It's the green that is killing me. Well, not the green itself, but the reason for it. All this damp chilly weather is wreaking havoc on this fibromyalgia-riddled body.
Let me explain:for those of you who don't know, fibromyalgia is a chronic pain disorder related, some think, to nerves. Medical science doesn't really know what causes it, or how to fix it; they don't even have an accurate diagnosis for it. Let's just say, if you have it, you probably know it. In my case, one of my older sisters and my younger sister were diagnosed before I was; when I continued to have body aches and pains that there was no reason for, we put it together. My younger sister gets pains more often in her hips and legs; mine are usually in my neck, shoulders and arms, radiating into my back. Occasionally I'd have pains in my wrists, or ankles; this was most likely because I'd broken all of them at some point (my right wrist twice, the left once), and not so much because of the fibromyalgia. My doctor has posited that I may also have early osteoarthritis, because this pain happens in joints that have prior injuries and gets worse in wet and cold weather.
The cold and wet weather also causes what are known as "fibro flares" where the pain of fibromyalgia in a certain area is severe and intense. These can last for days to weeks, in some cases longer. For some people the pain in manageable and they are able to go about a fairly normal lfie; for others, even the touch of clothing on their skin is too much to bear, movement causes excruciating pain.
I've been lucky for the most part and have fallen somewhere in the middle of this scale. When I'm having a "normal" day, I have a few aches, mostly upon rising, in my ankles and wrists; lifting things heavier than a half-gallon of milk is nearly impossible. This makes grocery shopping or trips to the library difficult. This is one of the reasons I have read so many e-books in the last 2 years; I can easily hold my tablet in one hand, even in bed, something I cannot even think of with a hardback library book, or even a trade paperback these days!
When I'm having a flare, forget lifting that half-gallon of milk; if I want milk in my coffee, I have to get someone else to pour it (into the smaller cup than usual, since that's all I can lift), or pour from a creamer someone else has filled for me. The muscles in my ankles hurt all day, sometimes causing falls, and my neck aches. I tend to clench my teeth when I'm in pain, so by the middle of the day I've usually given myself a headache, which doesn't help. To take the edge off, I take ibuprofen, but too much causes its own problems, not the least of which is a nasty upset stomach.
During this latest flare, I've had pain all up and down both legs, so bad that it has been difficult to walk. My left hand has hurt nonstop, and there is pain in the center of my back that feels like someone is scraping their nails up and down my spine. Every time it rains, something else starts hurting. I love Portland, but I don't know if I can take this any more.
One of the few things that actually helps with the pain of fibromyalgia (there is no cure) is heat. My older sister is living in Arizona now, and feeling much better. The month I spent in Toronto with Michele, while way too humid for me, was totally pain free. All of this is just to say if my disability hearing goes well next month (or even if it doesn't, probably), I am seriously thinking I need to pack up and move back to New Mexico. They have coffee, books, food, and my friends, and best of all, heat. I'd miss my family, but I would not miss being in pain.
There are so many wonderful things about the Rose City: fantastic music scene, awesome coffee and terrific libraries, a real love of books, fabulous food, and year-round green. The public transportation system, TriMet, rocks, which is important to me, since I don't drive. I love living in a place where books and coffee and parks are valued, where there's art on nearly every corner. And there is so much green! It's the green that is killing me. Well, not the green itself, but the reason for it. All this damp chilly weather is wreaking havoc on this fibromyalgia-riddled body.
Let me explain:for those of you who don't know, fibromyalgia is a chronic pain disorder related, some think, to nerves. Medical science doesn't really know what causes it, or how to fix it; they don't even have an accurate diagnosis for it. Let's just say, if you have it, you probably know it. In my case, one of my older sisters and my younger sister were diagnosed before I was; when I continued to have body aches and pains that there was no reason for, we put it together. My younger sister gets pains more often in her hips and legs; mine are usually in my neck, shoulders and arms, radiating into my back. Occasionally I'd have pains in my wrists, or ankles; this was most likely because I'd broken all of them at some point (my right wrist twice, the left once), and not so much because of the fibromyalgia. My doctor has posited that I may also have early osteoarthritis, because this pain happens in joints that have prior injuries and gets worse in wet and cold weather.
The cold and wet weather also causes what are known as "fibro flares" where the pain of fibromyalgia in a certain area is severe and intense. These can last for days to weeks, in some cases longer. For some people the pain in manageable and they are able to go about a fairly normal lfie; for others, even the touch of clothing on their skin is too much to bear, movement causes excruciating pain.
I've been lucky for the most part and have fallen somewhere in the middle of this scale. When I'm having a "normal" day, I have a few aches, mostly upon rising, in my ankles and wrists; lifting things heavier than a half-gallon of milk is nearly impossible. This makes grocery shopping or trips to the library difficult. This is one of the reasons I have read so many e-books in the last 2 years; I can easily hold my tablet in one hand, even in bed, something I cannot even think of with a hardback library book, or even a trade paperback these days!
When I'm having a flare, forget lifting that half-gallon of milk; if I want milk in my coffee, I have to get someone else to pour it (into the smaller cup than usual, since that's all I can lift), or pour from a creamer someone else has filled for me. The muscles in my ankles hurt all day, sometimes causing falls, and my neck aches. I tend to clench my teeth when I'm in pain, so by the middle of the day I've usually given myself a headache, which doesn't help. To take the edge off, I take ibuprofen, but too much causes its own problems, not the least of which is a nasty upset stomach.
During this latest flare, I've had pain all up and down both legs, so bad that it has been difficult to walk. My left hand has hurt nonstop, and there is pain in the center of my back that feels like someone is scraping their nails up and down my spine. Every time it rains, something else starts hurting. I love Portland, but I don't know if I can take this any more.
One of the few things that actually helps with the pain of fibromyalgia (there is no cure) is heat. My older sister is living in Arizona now, and feeling much better. The month I spent in Toronto with Michele, while way too humid for me, was totally pain free. All of this is just to say if my disability hearing goes well next month (or even if it doesn't, probably), I am seriously thinking I need to pack up and move back to New Mexico. They have coffee, books, food, and my friends, and best of all, heat. I'd miss my family, but I would not miss being in pain.
Monday, March 18, 2013
It's Not Easy Bein' Green
Lately, my obsession with trying to live a green life has grown. I've always been a bit of a "hippie," in that I always preferred natural products, fresh foods, and vintage things over chemicals, frozen or junk foods, and the latest trend. My teenage years don't count--those were drenched in Pepsi and Taco Bell, full of hair spray and Bonne Bell lip gloss. But it was the 80's, so I can be forgiven, right?
I always disliked plastic dishes & cups, way before we knew that plastic was so bad for us. The way it smells and feels is just somehow icky to me; I prefer glass, stone, china. My mother (who I love!) has a habit of saving every margarine, yogurt and sour cream
I get kind of freaked out reading these lists of toxic chemicals we are surrounded by. It's not bad enough that I sneeze my head off walking down the laundry detergent aisle at the market, or that most fragrances and soaps make me itch like crazy, but I read these and discover that my Taco Bell cups probably gave me some weird autoimmune disorder. And don't even get me started on the piles of disposable diapers that will still be around 200 years from now. Is it any wonder I hate plastic?
These days, my big drinking glass is BPA-free plastic, but I am trying to replace it. I drink at lot of water, and need something big, and in my search for a large glass tumbler, I've had a difficult time. Today I realized that I can use a mason jar if I drill a hole in the lid & add a rubber grommet for the straw! If I can find the drill, and get Mom to sacrifice one of her jars, I'll try this. I already have a mason jar soap dispenser, which uses the same principle.
This week I made a jar full of citrus-vinegar cleanser, using a method i learned on Pinterest. I kept a weeks worth of orange peels in a mason jar (Dad takes an orange in his lunch every day), covered them with white vinegar and let them soak for 48 hours. Today I poured off the pale orange liquid into a smaller jar, and tomorrow, I will do some cleaning with this concoction. I'll be sure and let you all know how it works!
Yesterday I found the site Zero Waste Home, a blog where a woman named Bea tells how she and her family have reduced their un-needed waste to nearly none. They use no plastic bags or products, with very few exceptions - toothbrushes being the main one. They've gone so far as to stop using deodorant, because of the plastic packaging; she bought an alum stone, and has used it for over a year. They buy recycled toilet paper, and compost all of their food scraps. Of course, Bea takes her reusable bags shopping with her, but she takes green shopping a step further: she also takes along homemade mesh and cloth bags for produce and bulk items, as well as glass jars for "wet" items like meat and cheese which she buys at the counter. They buy milk from a source (I'm assuming it is local to them) that uses glass bottles, the old-fashioned way. They even take along their own glass containers to ice cream shops and restaurants, for leftovers. Some of these places allow them to use their containers, others don't. All of this was very intriguing to me, although they take it all a bit farther than I ever could.
I'm not willing to give up makeup or deodorant, or not own a coffee pot, just
because of the packaging. I am willing to search out sources of these things that have
less packaging. At the moment I share a home with a lot of people, all very set in their
ways. While I try to be the change I wish to see, I will meet much resistance, I am
sure. I will continue. I see my niece and nephew, and I want them to have a healthy
planet when they are my age; I want it for their children as well.
I always disliked plastic dishes & cups, way before we knew that plastic was so bad for us. The way it smells and feels is just somehow icky to me; I prefer glass, stone, china. My mother (who I love!) has a habit of saving every margarine, yogurt and sour cream
I get kind of freaked out reading these lists of toxic chemicals we are surrounded by. It's not bad enough that I sneeze my head off walking down the laundry detergent aisle at the market, or that most fragrances and soaps make me itch like crazy, but I read these and discover that my Taco Bell cups probably gave me some weird autoimmune disorder. And don't even get me started on the piles of disposable diapers that will still be around 200 years from now. Is it any wonder I hate plastic?
These days, my big drinking glass is BPA-free plastic, but I am trying to replace it. I drink at lot of water, and need something big, and in my search for a large glass tumbler, I've had a difficult time. Today I realized that I can use a mason jar if I drill a hole in the lid & add a rubber grommet for the straw! If I can find the drill, and get Mom to sacrifice one of her jars, I'll try this. I already have a mason jar soap dispenser, which uses the same principle.
This week I made a jar full of citrus-vinegar cleanser, using a method i learned on Pinterest. I kept a weeks worth of orange peels in a mason jar (Dad takes an orange in his lunch every day), covered them with white vinegar and let them soak for 48 hours. Today I poured off the pale orange liquid into a smaller jar, and tomorrow, I will do some cleaning with this concoction. I'll be sure and let you all know how it works!
Yesterday I found the site Zero Waste Home, a blog where a woman named Bea tells how she and her family have reduced their un-needed waste to nearly none. They use no plastic bags or products, with very few exceptions - toothbrushes being the main one. They've gone so far as to stop using deodorant, because of the plastic packaging; she bought an alum stone, and has used it for over a year. They buy recycled toilet paper, and compost all of their food scraps. Of course, Bea takes her reusable bags shopping with her, but she takes green shopping a step further: she also takes along homemade mesh and cloth bags for produce and bulk items, as well as glass jars for "wet" items like meat and cheese which she buys at the counter. They buy milk from a source (I'm assuming it is local to them) that uses glass bottles, the old-fashioned way. They even take along their own glass containers to ice cream shops and restaurants, for leftovers. Some of these places allow them to use their containers, others don't. All of this was very intriguing to me, although they take it all a bit farther than I ever could.
I'm not willing to give up makeup or deodorant, or not own a coffee pot, just
because of the packaging. I am willing to search out sources of these things that have
less packaging. At the moment I share a home with a lot of people, all very set in their
ways. While I try to be the change I wish to see, I will meet much resistance, I am
sure. I will continue. I see my niece and nephew, and I want them to have a healthy
planet when they are my age; I want it for their children as well.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Book Review: I Think I Love You
I Think I Love You by Allison Pearson
You'd expect a book about teens in love with David Cassidy to be light and full of air, a pop song of a novel, wouldn't you? Well, that is not at all what the reader gets with this book. The story of Petra, who as a teenager in a small Welsh town, who along with her best friend Sharon, enters The Ultimate David Cassidy Quiz contest in hopes of winning a meting with their idol. Petra's mother is staunchly against all forms of popular culture the family doesn't even have a television and so Petra must hide her devotion to Cassidy, as well as her plans to see the man in concert in London. Years later, after her mother's death, she discovers a letter in her mother's things, telling her that she'd won that contest back in 1974; in a rush of grief, Petra calls the publishing company and demands her prize.
Intertwined with Petra's story is that of Bill, a writer at the magazine sponsoring the contest, who in many senses becomes David Cassidy for the fans. He writes the letters the teenyboppers think are from David, using his poetic and musical heart to win their love. Bill even behaves like a prince at the concert where he and Petra unknowingly cross paths.
Years later, as adults, they cross paths again, as Bill's publisher sends Petra and Sharon to Las Vegas to see David Cassidy, fulfilling their adolescent dreams. The plot sounds simple, but like a good pop song, there are layers. Upon layers. Love, anguish, teenage and adult heartbreak, music, poetry, and friendship. I didn't expect it, but I am so glad I found it. Allison Pearson, I think I love you.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Book Review: The Twelve Tribes of Hattie
The Twelve Tribes of Hattie by Ayana Mathis
This was an interesting, easy-to-read novel, but not, in my opinion, worthy of being a best-seller. I chose to read it for two reasons: sometimes Oprah is right about books, and the title. My grandmother was named Hattie, and my favorite niece is named after her. How could I resist? (A side note: Hattie in the book has a sister named Pearl; my grandmother Hattie had a daughter named Pearl.) In this case, I think Oprah was mistaken. Don't get me wrong: this was definitely better than Madame Bovary, but Oprah has chosen better books in the past. (Am I the only one who wonders if Oprah actually reads all the books she chooses? She has an empire to run; how does she find time to read? Or enjoy all that money? I have to wonder if she ever just curls up with a book, a cup of tea, and those dogs.)
WARNING: SPOILERS!
Hattie is a young black woman, only seventeen when the book begins, with a husband and twin babies. After leaving Georgia with her mother and sisters two years before and settling in Philadelphia, she marries and in quick succession loses her mother to death and one sister to the South. She is alone in a cold and lonely town, poor and scared.
The tribes of the title are Hattie's children, each chapter named for one or more, their struggles and experiences. From the twins of the first chapter, Philadelphia and Jubilee, suffering through pneumonia in the harsh winter, whose deaths change their mother forever. Her pain and anger after this event affects all of her relationships. She loves the rest of her children, but is unable to show them. Her children call her The General, and resent her hard work to keep them all alive. The children grow up to be everything their mother does not want them to be: Floyd, while a successful musician, struggles with his sexuality. Alice and Billups hide an event that tortures both of them. Bell throws herself into a life of debauchery to hurt her mother, nearly killing herself in the process. Franklin gambles and drinks away his family. Six is lost to the life of faith he does not really believe in; Cassie's mental illness is wrapped up in religion and paranoia. Ruthie is Hattie's love child, almost sets Hattie free. Ella, the child of Hattie's middle years, is loved, and sent away to live with sister Pearl, in hopes that she will have a better life. Sala, the grandchild, Cassie's daughter, is the child Hattie tries to save. She has lost Cassie to her craziness, lost the twins to death; Six to religion and his own desires. While she rescued Bell from her illness, we never find out if their relationship becomes better, or even what happens once Bell leaves the hospital. And this is my problem with this book-no follow through. I want to know what happens to these people! The book skims over the issues of the times, from Prohibition, Jim Crow, Civil Rights, sexuality, alcoholism and disease, as well as mental illness and religion, but never really addresses any of them. The ending is unsatisfactory and abrupt, without any kind of resolution. I enjoyed the stories, as far as they went, but I long for more. Perhaps Six Tribes would have been a better ides, with a bit more focus on each tribe?
This was an interesting, easy-to-read novel, but not, in my opinion, worthy of being a best-seller. I chose to read it for two reasons: sometimes Oprah is right about books, and the title. My grandmother was named Hattie, and my favorite niece is named after her. How could I resist? (A side note: Hattie in the book has a sister named Pearl; my grandmother Hattie had a daughter named Pearl.) In this case, I think Oprah was mistaken. Don't get me wrong: this was definitely better than Madame Bovary, but Oprah has chosen better books in the past. (Am I the only one who wonders if Oprah actually reads all the books she chooses? She has an empire to run; how does she find time to read? Or enjoy all that money? I have to wonder if she ever just curls up with a book, a cup of tea, and those dogs.)
WARNING: SPOILERS!
Hattie is a young black woman, only seventeen when the book begins, with a husband and twin babies. After leaving Georgia with her mother and sisters two years before and settling in Philadelphia, she marries and in quick succession loses her mother to death and one sister to the South. She is alone in a cold and lonely town, poor and scared.
The tribes of the title are Hattie's children, each chapter named for one or more, their struggles and experiences. From the twins of the first chapter, Philadelphia and Jubilee, suffering through pneumonia in the harsh winter, whose deaths change their mother forever. Her pain and anger after this event affects all of her relationships. She loves the rest of her children, but is unable to show them. Her children call her The General, and resent her hard work to keep them all alive. The children grow up to be everything their mother does not want them to be: Floyd, while a successful musician, struggles with his sexuality. Alice and Billups hide an event that tortures both of them. Bell throws herself into a life of debauchery to hurt her mother, nearly killing herself in the process. Franklin gambles and drinks away his family. Six is lost to the life of faith he does not really believe in; Cassie's mental illness is wrapped up in religion and paranoia. Ruthie is Hattie's love child, almost sets Hattie free. Ella, the child of Hattie's middle years, is loved, and sent away to live with sister Pearl, in hopes that she will have a better life. Sala, the grandchild, Cassie's daughter, is the child Hattie tries to save. She has lost Cassie to her craziness, lost the twins to death; Six to religion and his own desires. While she rescued Bell from her illness, we never find out if their relationship becomes better, or even what happens once Bell leaves the hospital. And this is my problem with this book-no follow through. I want to know what happens to these people! The book skims over the issues of the times, from Prohibition, Jim Crow, Civil Rights, sexuality, alcoholism and disease, as well as mental illness and religion, but never really addresses any of them. The ending is unsatisfactory and abrupt, without any kind of resolution. I enjoyed the stories, as far as they went, but I long for more. Perhaps Six Tribes would have been a better ides, with a bit more focus on each tribe?
Monday, March 11, 2013
Book Review: Madam Bovary
What is 'Madame Bovary'? A critique of the French class system? A look at one woman's very unhappy life? A comment on how romance novels and the belief in "romance" leads to disillusion and despair? It can be read as any or all of these, but why bother? The ramblings of Flaubert as his heroine throws her life away are not worth the time you will waste. But for a few brief moments of interest, a few random lines that are truly memorable, this book was no classic.
"Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars."
---Gustave Flaubert (Madame Bovary)
An Anniversary Post
One year ago today, I set myself free. Left the relationship, the man, the place that was keeping me bound. It was one of the most difficult things I've ever done, and I am still recovering.
In the three years he & I were together, I became isolated from family and friends, was bullied and ignored, alternately told I was stupid and beautiful, treated like a second-class citizen and on occasion, a princess. He denies that our relationship was in any way abusive or even dysfunctional. He believes I ruined his life; that every problem we had was my fault. I do not deny my fault in some things; I am, by no means perfect.
Yes, I tried to change some things about him. I am a woman, that's what we do. In my defense, what I wanted him to change were things little things like picking up socks, taking out the trash. Oh, and a few bigger things, such as getting a job, not lying to me, filing divorce papers, and not hitting on our friends. Maybe that was asking too much? Yeah, I didn't think so either.
I never once put him down, even when I could have, but he constantly tried to make me feel stupid. Compromise was something he would never do; I always had to give in.
My paltry checks paid all the bills, and any money I spent had to be accounted for. I had to borrow money from my family for things like toilet paper and shampoo, but he always found enough cash to buy treats and toys for his dog. The grocery shopping was a huge issue. On the once-a-month shopping trip, he'd give me a time limit, usually 20 minutes, then he'd sit in the car, while I shopped, and be angry if I took longer than he thought I should, or spent too much. The time constrain was his way of controlling me, and it made me angry, and sometimes frightened. I was always worried I'd come out of the store, into the dark parking lot to find him gone.
It took a long time for me to work up the courage to leave. I tried once before, even began packing. He cried so hard, sobbing and weeping, and I gave in, and stayed. This time, I couldn't. In spite of his threats of suicide if I left, even though he claimed he'd end up living under the bridge if I left. My own life finally mattered more. I broke those chains, and left.
Freedom is bittersweet. I was once a hopeful romantic, and now, the idea of love, at least for me, seems ridiculous. I have a very difficult time trusting people anymore. I am angry at him, very angry, and it may take a long time to get over that.
One year. I am free, and it good.
In the three years he & I were together, I became isolated from family and friends, was bullied and ignored, alternately told I was stupid and beautiful, treated like a second-class citizen and on occasion, a princess. He denies that our relationship was in any way abusive or even dysfunctional. He believes I ruined his life; that every problem we had was my fault. I do not deny my fault in some things; I am, by no means perfect.
Yes, I tried to change some things about him. I am a woman, that's what we do. In my defense, what I wanted him to change were things little things like picking up socks, taking out the trash. Oh, and a few bigger things, such as getting a job, not lying to me, filing divorce papers, and not hitting on our friends. Maybe that was asking too much? Yeah, I didn't think so either.
I never once put him down, even when I could have, but he constantly tried to make me feel stupid. Compromise was something he would never do; I always had to give in.
My paltry checks paid all the bills, and any money I spent had to be accounted for. I had to borrow money from my family for things like toilet paper and shampoo, but he always found enough cash to buy treats and toys for his dog. The grocery shopping was a huge issue. On the once-a-month shopping trip, he'd give me a time limit, usually 20 minutes, then he'd sit in the car, while I shopped, and be angry if I took longer than he thought I should, or spent too much. The time constrain was his way of controlling me, and it made me angry, and sometimes frightened. I was always worried I'd come out of the store, into the dark parking lot to find him gone.
It took a long time for me to work up the courage to leave. I tried once before, even began packing. He cried so hard, sobbing and weeping, and I gave in, and stayed. This time, I couldn't. In spite of his threats of suicide if I left, even though he claimed he'd end up living under the bridge if I left. My own life finally mattered more. I broke those chains, and left.
Freedom is bittersweet. I was once a hopeful romantic, and now, the idea of love, at least for me, seems ridiculous. I have a very difficult time trusting people anymore. I am angry at him, very angry, and it may take a long time to get over that.
One year. I am free, and it good.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Spoiling My Cat- A Project
My darling cat, Miss Google, has a couple of annoying habits. She wakes me up at the butt-crack of dawn, demanding to be fed; her favorite sleeping place is on top of my open book; and she continually drops pieces of food into her water bowl. Once there are little soggy nuggets of cat chow floating in the bowl, she refuses to drink from that water, and searches the house for any other source of water she can find, including the toilet bowl on occasion. Which just grosses me out completely.
Handmade Cat Fountain by Kieth David, available on Etsy for $138
I thought about getting her a small tabletop fountain, after seeing her drink from the running faucet, and remembering how my sister's cat, Cat-Cat wouldn't drink from a bowl, just from the faucet. However, the drinking fountains designed for cats are primarily made in China of plastic, which is not food safe. If I won't use it for myself, why would I let my kitty drink from it? There are stainless steel models, but Miss G has made her dislike of metal dishware clear in the past. There is a man selling pottery cat fountains on Etsy, with non-toxic glazes, and copper piping. They are beautiful, and if I win the lottery, I'll get her one, because they are pricey! He was inspired by seeing how his cat Bijou, drank from the tabletop fountain he had.
I've googled how to make my own tapletop fountain, and it seems like something even someone with my limited skills might be able to do, so I plan to head out to the nearest hardware store and pick up the needed supplies.
I will need:
- a wide and deep sealed terra cotta or pottery bowl for her to drink from
- a taller and deeper vessel (also sealed) to house the pump and a large amout of the water
- a "bubbler" for a fish tank
- some plastic tubing
- waterproof adhesive
Some of these things I will scrounge around the house to find, like the containers. I'm thinking about using an old wash basin, and a few mismatched teacups to make the fountain pretty as well as functional.
Pictures and updates to follow!
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Call Me Clumsy
I am a clumsy girl. Always have been. I manage to hurt myself doing things most people do without any problems, like sitting, standing, and even eating. I run into furniture, walls get in my way, I trip over my own feet, and I am the only person I've ever met who can be standing perfectly still, and fall over. An ankle will just twist, and suddenly I'm sprawled on the ground, in pain and looking stupid. I've managed to bruise every single part of my body at some point, and this does not count the injuries I've sustained during seizures.
As I write this, I have bruises on my right arm, hip and leg, as well as my chin. Friday night, in the act of standing up--something most people do without injury-- I skidded across the wooden floor of my bedroom when that ankle twisted, landing on a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner. With my face. It was a bit softer than where the rest of me landed, the floor and wall. I swore like a sailor, and spent the rest of the evening with am ice pack on my face. By Saturday morning, my face was fine, but my leg hurt so badly I spent the day with it iced. My right wrist is still killing me; that's the wrist I've broken twice, and it hurts all the time!
My dream is to go an entire week without a new bruise or injury. To not look as if I've been the victim of a bad beating, or car accident. Until then, I will keep buying arnica, and make sure I always have ice packs and ace bandages around!
As I write this, I have bruises on my right arm, hip and leg, as well as my chin. Friday night, in the act of standing up--something most people do without injury-- I skidded across the wooden floor of my bedroom when that ankle twisted, landing on a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner. With my face. It was a bit softer than where the rest of me landed, the floor and wall. I swore like a sailor, and spent the rest of the evening with am ice pack on my face. By Saturday morning, my face was fine, but my leg hurt so badly I spent the day with it iced. My right wrist is still killing me; that's the wrist I've broken twice, and it hurts all the time!
My dream is to go an entire week without a new bruise or injury. To not look as if I've been the victim of a bad beating, or car accident. Until then, I will keep buying arnica, and make sure I always have ice packs and ace bandages around!
Related articles
- How to Strengthen Your Ankles (houstonfootspecialists.blogspot.com)
- How Much Is It Too Much? (alexeelise.wordpress.com)
- Being a Clumsy Girl is Not Cool (bryonysbrainwrites.wordpress.com)
- I'm a clumsy guy (brandedzak.wordpress.com)
Thursday, February 28, 2013
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.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
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.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
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.
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.
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