loose string

"One-way streets and square one, The answers don't come from any one direction"

 

This is an update, a very happy update

Okay, more than ever, I believe in the magical, mystical, mind-altering power of the blog.

For those of you who have read the previous entry and now know far too damned much about by boob history: Sorry.  But, writing all of  that out really helped.  And it helped to say it out loud.  Because blogging is talking out loud.  But anyway, after I posted I started to get a little clarity.  And I called my nice doctor and told her that I could not wait for the damned appointment with the doctor who is not going to really see me but will pencil me in with his physician's assistant and for this I have to wait two weeks. Because, fuck that, I am not going to wait another two weeks of no sleeping and crying when the wind blows.  I am not!

So, I have an appointment with the partner of my doctor who passed away.  I have an appointment next Wednesday.  I can make it until Wednesday.  And I will be seeing an actual, for-real doctor.  Not his assistant.

I didn't think it was possible to be this excited about some old man who I have never met feeling me up.

posted by: loosestring at 15:28 | link | comments (4) |

Others decided it was nowhere except for where they stood

The song that is stuck in my head today is, imagine my surprise, not a horribly sucky one.  Usually when I get a song stuck on mental sound loop it is something appalling.  Something that I would not listen to.  Something that I would immediately switch off it it came on to the radio.  Like Journey or REO Speedwagon or Styx or even Bon Jovi.  This is not my music and therefore the goblins in charge of my brain functions delight in torturing me with it.  I think that they may be trying to get me to surrender using this tactic or just drive me batshit crazy.  Maybe I should release the hostages.  But anyway, this song is okay.  "Plateau" originally by the Meat Puppets but perhaps more notably performed by Nirvana on the "Unplugged" album.  It soothes me with it's sing-songy rythm and I really enjoy the jangly, wobbly guitar sound. 

I am currently waiting for an answer.  Anyone who knows me knows that I do not wait patiently. For anything. I want to know now.  I will hold my breath and stomp my feet.  Waiting for answers makes me edgy.  It makes me more irritable than usual.

Here's the thing: I will probably not want to have written about this because I don't have the answers yet but I am stressed out and I need to let this out.  I am not looking for advice or sympathy.  I just need to get this swirling mess of thoughts out of my head.  I need to write them down so that I can look at them.  So that I can get a little clarity. 

So, here goes:

I found a lump.  This is not the first lump I have found.  There have been two before it.  I have had a surgical biopsy that came back as benign.  I had a cyst that had some calcifications near it that was examined through a needle biopsy.  The diagnosis on that one was that it was something that bore watching.  I have had mammograms and ultrasounds and aspirations.  I have been poked and prodded and been felt up by every nurse and doctor within a ten mile radius.

The first lump terrified me.  I was a wreck.  But I had a lovely surgeon and he rushed everything through and got me answers as quickly as possible. 

The second lump scared me and I was definitely concerned.  My doctor rushed me through the process so that I could have answers.  The mammogram that time showed the calcifications.  They were a cause for concern and needed to be looked at.  So, the surgeon made the process move at lightning speed.  He got me moved up to the head of the line.  Got me in for the needle biopsy in record time. 

The needle biopsy procedure was really awful.  Mostly because the doctors and nurses did not really explain everything to me.  They explained the process and they told me they would be numbing me up so that I should not be able to feel a thing.  What they failed to mention was that they were using Novacaine to numb me.  If they had mentioned this little detail we could have made the whole thing much more pleasant for everyone.  Because I would have told them that Novacaine does not work for me.  So, they would have used something else.  Something that would have made it so that I could undergo the procedure with no feeling.  Instead I got to feel the entire process.  I cried until I could not physically make tears anymore.  After it was all over they sent me to sit in a quiet room with an ice bag on my chest.  I needed to wait until they could confirm that they had what they needed.

After about twenty minutes or so the nurse came in to the little room.  I asked if I could leave.  She looked very sad and my stomach dropped.  She told me that they had somehow managed to miss the target.  That the procedure would have to be performed again.  That they would see about re-scheduling as soon as possible. But, as bad as it had been, I needed my answers.  I needed answers more than I feared the pain.  So, I insisted that they find something to numb me up properly and repeat the process immediately.  They did give me a lovely blue pill to calm me down and then they went in search of industrial strength numbing agents.  And I climbed back up onto that torture device and went through the whole thing all over again.  This time without the crying and the pain and the impulse to confess to crimes I had not committed.  And, within a short time, I had answers.

This time I know a bit more.  I know the characteristics that are considered to be indicative of malignancy.  And this little puppy has most of them.  I know that I need to go for a mammogram.  I know that because of the location of this lump that the mammogram will be impossible.  I know that the next step is an ultrasound.  And that the ultrasound will indicate that I need to have a biopsy.  Because I paid attention the last couple of time around.  I know the drill.  But, because of the crappy HMO insurance, I have to go to my regular doctor and have her examine me.  She confirmed what I was telling her.  I have to go to her because she has to send me to the doctor who will be sending me for the mammogram that will not work and the ultrasound that will indicate the need for biopsy and who will ultimately perform that biopsy.  The doctor who cannot see me next week.  Who cannot see me until the week after that.  The doctor who is going to make me wait   Because the lovely doctor who made sure I got answers has passed away.

So, I am on edge.  I am trying to be as optimistic as possible.  But, as bad as I am with Math, I know that the odds are increasing that one of these times it is going to be something.  Something not good.  That one of these times I am going to get the bad answer.  And deep inside of me is the overwhelming belief that this life is going a little too well for me.  I am too happy.  I am too content.  I am too okay.

But, we are going to have to wait.  And by we I mean I.  I am going to have to wait.  I know that no matter what, no matter if it is the bad answer, I can handle this.  I know that there are good medical procedures.  I have access to some really great doctors and hospitals.  I know that I can do that part.  It's just the not knowing.  The being on hold.  If there is a problem I need to know so that I can get started on what I need to do to begin to fix it. 

It is not the being sick that frightens me.  It is the uncertainty.

posted by: loosestring at 13:45 | link | comments (5) |

You need a little jump of electrical shockers

Good Morning Chickens!

I am not chipper.  I am hardly ever chipper. But I am operating under the theory that faked enthusiasm is better than no enthusiasm at all.  In fact, that may be the cornerstone of my new religion.  No.  Strike that.  No new religion.  Perhaps a self-help group: Apathetics Anonymous.  Yes, I can see where this would be of some use to someone.  Or at least to me.  And I could bill myself as the founding member and maybe even "not just the founding member but also a client".  But that would require more action and less apathy.  Scratch that.

This morning on my drive in to work I was listening to the radio.  Flipping the channels as I am wont to do.  Short attention span + very few choices + way too many commercials.  Anyway.  I was driving along trying to find five minutes worth of music that was not going to make me scratch my ears off in disgust, when I happened upon "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" by the Clash.  I stopped to listen.  Because, even though this song is one of the most commercial songs they ever released, this is The Clash.  And listening to Joe Strummer do all of his little monkey screeching noises makes me happy.  And I remember when this song was on the radio as a new song.  Although it did not get much play in my little corner of the Universe, it did get some.  And that was better than 98% of the other music that was on the radio in 1982.

As if to hammer home this very point, the next song that came on was "Lights" by Journey.  Another song that was on the radio around that time.  I know that some people are able to summon a sort of kitschy-nostalgic fondness for bands like Journey.  And songs like "Lights" in particular. Hell, Britney Spears and Kevin Federline reportedly danced to this song at their wedding.  (Why do I know this sort of crap?) But for those of us sad few who had the misfortune of being subjected to this song at every turn of our high school careers, this song is just poison.  Nails on a chalkboard.  The song I had to sit through to get my friends to let me choose an album.  The song that played while all of the stupid girls and even more stupid guys made out at parties and dances and skating rinks.

So, this transition from song that I recall somewhat fondly to song that makes me want to crash my car into things is somewhat jarring.  And I have this moment where I try to figure out why these songs would be played back to back.  What the thought process is that would concieve of this combination.  It occurs to me that this nostalgic music has begun to blend and that with the passage of time the fine distinctions between good and bad begin to lose meaning.  That there is a whole unfortunate generation of people who will live under the misapprehension that Journey and The Clash were contemporaries or even peers.  That they might have hit the road on some sort of arena tourapalooza.  To bring the rock music to the children.  And the idea of Steve Perry and Mick Jones anywhere within the vicinity of the same stage sends a chill shiver down my spine.

This is far too much contemplation for the beginning of the day.

Perhaps this is the beginning of my elder years marked by stories that begin, "Back in my day...."

posted by: loosestring at 12:08 | link | comments |

In the whole vast configuration of things, I'd say you were nothing but a scurvy little spider.

Where have I been?  Trapped under a pile of discarded wrapping paper?  Struggling through the post-Christmas shopping insanity?  Committed for in-patient psychiatric evaluation? Training for my Space Shuttle trip?

None of the above.  Although a little rest and relaxation punctuated with the occasional Electro Shock Therapy treatment sounds lovely.  Do you think they could give me a tummy tuck and a pedicure while they were at it?

I must say that Christmas was, for the most part, lovely.  As lovely as it can be when I do not get to go to New Hampshire to spend the traditional family Christmas with my family.  T's family is very nice and I love all of them - with the exception of the psychotic girlfriend - but the noise levels are so very tame and the conversations are all so very adult and civilized.  I think I need the chaos and excitement that comes from small children receiving gifts and being pumped full of sugar.  Christmas is the one time of year that this seems most appropriate.

We spent Christmas Eve wrapping presents.  I am overcome with the urge to instruct my son in all of the essential skills of late so this was the perfect opportunity to show him how to properly wrap a gift and tie ribbons.  I am sure some lucky girl will appreciate my efforts.  But anyway, we engaged in the wrapping of gifts and the consuming of sushi and the watching of "Charlie Brown" and "The Grinch" and then "It's A Wonderful Life".  I know it is a cliche and the movie is far more trite and precious than my normal fare, but this movie is the family tradition.  This movie is Christmas Eve.  I know all of the lines and I can quote along for whole scenes.   I love this movie.

Christmas Day was spent in the aforementioned Very Adult, Very Reserved way at T's Mom's house.  I think I have become so good at pushing the bad thoughts out of my head that I did not think about the fact that the completely obnoxious girlfriend of T's brother would be in attendance until we were almost all of the way to the house.  I was so focussed on the making of guacamole and packing of gifts and making of cookies that I forgot about Her Miserableness.  By the time I remembered her it was far too late to create a plausible excuse for not attending.  So I forged ahead determined to ignore her.

This was a good strategy.  I did not engage her in conversation.  I did not make eye contact.  I did not play her reindeer games.  However, one of my favorite moments of the day, or at least one of the most amusing involved Her Miserableness.  We were unwrapping presents.  In the usual orderly fashion.  When T's brother unwrapped the new 25th Anniversary Edition of Born To Run.  (They are Bruce Springsteen people, but I don't hold that against them)  He was quite pleased and Her Miserableness leaned over to get a look at what he had gotten.  Which prompted the following dialogue:

Her Miserableness: What is that?

T's Brother: It's "Born To Run".

HM: Don't you already have that?

TB: No, this is a special edition for the 25th Anniversary of the album.  I have another one but it is not this one.

HM: So, this is what, the third copy of this album that you have?

TB: Yes, but they are different.  This one has a DVD and special features.

HM: I just can't believe that you are on your third copy of this CD and I don't even have a house yet.

By this point in the conversation I believe that I had turned to stare.  Perhaps my jaw had dropped open with shock and puzzlement at the asinine turn this was taking.  Cooler heads prevailed, or tried to prevail, when T's Sister tried to explain.

T's Sister: But it's a present.  It's not something he bought.

I had a brief vision of TB hoarding copies of "Born To Run".  Compelled to buy them wherever he went.  Running through his savings and lining the walls of their home with copies of "Born To Run".  Like some sort of nut job.  But then I realized that HM is the nutjob.  Especially when she said:

HM: But three copies?  Three copies? 

I must interject that I can identify with her on this point.  Who needs three copies of this?  But not for the same reasons.  Because I am not crazy.

TS: I think it cost about $30.  I don't think that you could buy more than a couple of blades of grass for $30.  It is a gift.

TB sat quietly throughout much of this exchange.  I am sure that this is his primary method of coping with HM.  It would have to be.  That or beating the crap out of her.  Or leaving her.  The former might lead to arrest and prosecution with the possibility of jail time.  I can see why he has ruled it out.  But the latter.  Has he really given it the thought it deserves?

Shortly after this I retired to the back bedroom to make phone calls.  To my crazy family.  Who seem so much less crazy and so much more endearingly kooky in light of this.

In a completely unrelated note - T and I were watching television on Sunday night and during the commercial break there was an announcement that has been puzzling me.  The annoucer came on and said," We here at Channel 2 wish to acknowledge Kwanzaa."  That was it.  It seemed so sterile and dry.  Not "Happy Kwanzaa" or "Enjoy this Kwanzaa Day" or even "Happy Holidays".  I am thinking that this is going to be my new greeting for any occasion.  I am going to make up cards that say, "I would like to acknowledge__________" and just fill in the event. 

posted by: loosestring at 12:01 | link | comments (5) |

The Christmas Miracle

Today I was off work as part of my Christmas holiday.  Knowing in advance that I would have this day available for shopping, I naturally left some things undone.  I procrastinated a bit.  And so I was a little bit leery about how the day was going to go.  It surely would be full of long lines and various other frustrations. 
 
I slept in and then took a long, leisurely bath while reading my book in order to delay the inevitable.  But, alas, it could not be helped.  I had to go shopping.  I decided to try to remain calm and make the best of it.

First stop: the big, noisy music store.  Full of grungy teenagers playing the intro line to some Smashing Pumpkins song over and over.  Full of frantic shoppers and even more frantic clerks.  Losing the illusion of cool they have carefully cultivated with their rockabilly hairdos and tattoos.  Full of noise and confusion.  I began to despair.  This day was not going to go smoothly.  Imagine my surprise when a clerk approached me, translated my request for a " case for my son's bass, you know, one of the rectangle ones." and promptly brought me one from the stock room.  There was a slight wait to get a receipt but he advised me of this in advance.  A couple more minutes wait and I was on my way.

To the Crap Store.  Because I am nothing if not arrogant in the tempting of fate.  Sure enough the place was a zoo.  The lines were twelve deep at the registers and there was a lot of chaos.  But I grabbed a cart and went in search of paper and ribbon and various other crap.  And, when I returned to the front of the store, there were only a handful of people in line.  In fact, only one ahead of me.  All items rang up without the need for discussion or price check.  I was on my way to the next stop in a matter of minutes.

On to the skate board store to get the sneakers my son had requested.  This store is inconveniently located and, of coures, the only place within fifteen miles where the shoes can be purchased.  But I was beginning to believe I might be on a roll.  Things were going my way.  But I was beginning to suspect the gods were just toying with me.  However, I walked into the store and had a brief moment of panic when I realized that I had forgotten the paper with the name of the shoes on it, but managed to locate them by sight and request them in a size ten within two minutes.  The clerk went and got them, rang me up and I was, once again, on my way.

Only one more stop.  The huge Borders bookstore.  I just needed to get a couple of things.  It seemed a bit crazy and crowded but I managed to locate the items I needed in a reasonable amount of time and headed for the line.  Which was the longest line I have ever seen outside of a sports arena concession line or the ticket line for the opening of a Star Wars movie.  But I was feeling brave and this was my last stop.  I made up my mind to make the best of it and I figured I could look at some books along the way.  But the line was moving so fast that I did not have time to look at anything.  They were moving everyone right along at a nice clip.  I was back at my car within five minutes.

So, this is just to say, sometimes everything is not conspiring against me.

posted by: loosestring at 00:17 | link | comments |

No sleep

We may have a problem and it could get ugly. 

My boss bought a coffeemaker for the office.  We used to have a standard coffeemaker.  The kind that makes four to twelve cups or whatever.  I am not a coffee drinker.  So, given that only one person drinks coffee, it was hard to justify making a whole pot every day.  And we rarely have visitors the office so we ended up just getting rid of it.  My boss stops for his coffee on the way in.

But today he showed up with one of those Senseo coffee makers that use the pods.  And he has been making cup after cup of coffee all morning. 

This is where the problem begins.  He is hyperactive without the coffee.  Bouncing off the walls with just his one cup of caffeinenated goodness a day.  Today he is, to quote an old friend of mine, "DOUBLE LIVE!"  I may have to kill him.  Or add him to the list of people I mentally punch in the face in order to cope with them.  This list is already filled with annoying television hosts and assorted store clerks.  I am running out of patience with mankind.

I am trying to sit peacefully at my desk and absorb my caffeine in the only civilized way: Diet Pepsi.  I am trying to clear my head and gather my thoughts and engage in all of my mindless and yet relaxing morning rituals and he is bouncing off the ceiling like someone forgot to give him his Ritalin.  It feels like daycare in here today.

And if he tells me about the wonders of his new Pod System again I may be forced to move the mental punch in the face into a more physical application.

In part my lack of patience may be related to my having entered a manic/creative phase in the last couple of days.  This finds me obsessed with creating.  This sounds innocuous enough until you know that creating keeps me up until 3:30 in the morning.  Hunched over a bit of needlework, looking over the tops of my glasses to see more clearly and watching Nick at Nite or TVLand. Oh the joys of mania with a healthy splash of obsessive/compulsion. 

The upside is that I am getting a couple of ideas out of the in-my-head planning stages into the actually-producing-something stage.  The downside is that I am not getting any sleep. This sets the stage for a complete meltdown approximately 6.5 times a day.  Maybe I need the Ritalin.

posted by: loosestring at 10:21 | link | comments |

Though bleak our lot, our hearts are warm

I should be relaxed and happy right now but the Universe is conspiring against me yet again.  My boss is out of the office and has been since Thursday.  That is three days of peace and quiet and restful solitude.  Punctuated by the occasional ring of the phone or the mail delivery.  And the ever-so-infrequent need to perform actual work.

I have been thwarted in my pursuit of near constant blog contact by several malfunctions.  First there was the whole Typepad fiasco.  I was out of touch with many blogs for many hours. Then the service I use to keep track of all of the blog updates went down.  They posted that there was a scheduled maintenance.  I took note of this and tried not to click back over every five seconds to check if they were back up and running.  This started on Thursday and they are still down.  I am getting a bit peeved.

So peeved that I attempted to recreate my blog list on Bloglines.  But it seems to be even more temperamental that Kinja.  It only accepted about half of the blogs I read and that is just not going to be good enough.  I am composing a letter in my mind.  A letter of angry protest.  But I am considering that a short video clip might more effectively capture my frustration.  Fist thrust upwards and foot stomping and flaring nostrils of outrage.

Good Lord, I am far too dependent on others for my entertainment.

On another note I watched two very excellent movies this weekend.

The Story of the Weeping Camel - The very simple tale of a family of Mongolian herders and their attempts to unite a mother camel with the newborn calf she has rejected.  I know it sound crazy but I really liked it.  There were only about fifty lines of dialogue all of which are subtitled.  The people and the scenery and the simplicity of the movie are beautiful.  If you like only movies with cyborgs or car chases or scantily clad co-eds or epic battles in space, this may not be the movie for you.

Murderball - This one is a little more action-packed.  The story of the US Paralympics Rugby team.  It is packed with macho and testosterone.  But it manages to show the spirit and the determination of these men who have overcome devastatingly life changing disease and accident.  There is no candy coating on these guys though.  They are shown as real people and not all glamorized and better than Mother Theresa.  This one may be a bit more satisfying for those of you who like a little action in your films.

This entry is pretty representative of my disjointed and disorderly thought processes.  Welcome to my world.

posted by: loosestring at 12:25 | link | comments (2) |

Hopping down the Christmas trail

Tonight we baked cookies.  My special favorite - peanut butter kiss cookies and also some sugar cookies.



There are the traditional Christmas trees and bells,



And then there are the carrots.



Because my son really likes the carrot cookie cutter.

posted by: loosestring at 21:12 | link | comments (3) |

On the fifth day of Christmas

Latest addition to the list I am compiling of ways in which my Tivo loves proves it's love for me: 

It started recording Beavis and Butthead for me.

It took all of the gardening and craft shows, the CSI and the Law & Order and the Masterpiece Theater and the art history shows and the Office and looked deep into it's little electronic heart and saw the real me.  It knew that sometimes what a girl needs is a little Beavis and/or Butthead.  To help her unwind.  It knew that despite my protestations and all of my delusions of cultured learning I cannot resist a good "stiffie" joke.

Oh Tivo, were it only legal I would wed thee and live happily ever after.  For truly you know me better than any man ever could.

posted by: loosestring at 21:03 | link | comments (3) |

Checking it twice.

A list.  Because lists make me happy. And I hope they make you happy too.

1. The Case of the Missing Blog Entries.  I have employed all of the knowledge I have gained from millions of hours of viewing CSI and Law & Order and every show that has any crime solving angle to deduce that there is something wrong with TypePad this morning.  It seems to have swallowed up whole sections of entries on some of my favorite blogs.  I thought at first that I had been granted a reprieve and it truly was only November 28th but, alas, the rest of the blog world is still on December 16th.  Damn!  Anyway, I am miffed because my blog habit is being impeded by this lack of service.  I shake my fist angrily!

2. Speaking of habits.  Over the last couple of weeks Maggie (mini-dachshund) has begun limping again.  She had a treatment at the beginning of October wherein they injected steroids into her shoulder joint.  It was a bit pricy but it seemed to do the trick because she was very shortly back to her usual self.  Hopping and skipping through the house and around the yard.  But now the limping has returned.  So, we contacted the vet's office and they told us that we would have to wait until after the first of the year to get in to see them because the doctor would be on holiday.  So, we said okay.  But give us some anti-inflammatories to ease her pain until that time.  Whereupon they said that the doctor would need to review the chart and they would get back to us.  Which they did.  I got a phone call on Saturday morning and the receptionist informed me that they would be unable to prescribe the anti-inflammatories until we had seen the doctor.  I carefully explained that we would be happy to see the doctor.  They were the ones saying that we would not be able to see the doctor until after the first of the year.  It did not seem fair to have the dog remain in pain until that time.  I asked why they were unable to prescribe enough medication until we could get in to see them.  And that was when I received the most asinine answer I have ever heard, "Well, we have some concerns about patients abusing medications."

I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the handset in puzzlement.  I tried to remain civil and not just tear this lady a new one.  But - really people - abuse of anti-inflammatories?  I think I would know if Maggie was slipping an extra pill for the buzz.  And, given her keen ability to remove a pill from the center of a wad of cheese or lunch meat and deposit it back on the floor untouched, I have little fear that she will become dependent on these drugs.  Plus, WTF?  Since when were anti-inflammatories considered "good drugs"?  Is there something I have been missing?  Should I be selling these? Or crushing them up and snorting them off a poodle's ass?  Now we have  to worry about our little drug-addicted puppy.  She may start selling herself on the street for a fix.  She can be a little forward.  If she begins humping your leg don't encourage her.  It's only the addiction talking - er, humping.

I excused myself from the conversation and assured them that T would call them.  I did not want to have to explain the current drug trends to this woman.  I think a doggie anti-inflammatory is a little farther down on the list of hot new drugs than oxycodone or even Midol.

3. I have held off discussing this next until now because I did not know what I thought of it.  At first it felt a bit dirty.  Like some drunk uncle had been caught rummaging through my underwear drawer.  Then it just seemed silly slightly creepy.  But, the truth is, it is gross and funny.  I have to avoid certain terms in order to prevent an recurrence, but I will try to explain.

One day a couple of weeks ago I noticed that my stat counter was way higher than I had ever seen it before.  It was approaching five times the normal daily hits I receive.  So, I had a brief moment in which I believed that I must have written something wonderful or funny or fascinating.  I could not recall what it might be.  Bit I investigated the new hits and they all seemed to be referrals from the same place and they all referenced an archived entry from last Summer.  I clicked on the link and waited to see who the kind stranger was that was referring people to my site.  Imagine my surprise when the referrer turned out to be a board or list of some sort devoted to people with a specific kinky turn on.  Specifically - as euphemistically as I can make it - people who get turned on by the red tide or Aunt Flo or whatever you call it in your code language.  I could not imagine what had brought them here because I most assuredly do not discuss this sort of thing.  I am kind of a prude when it comes to the specific details of sex or at least when it comes to writing about them and I do not have a monthly visitor.  Perhaps I could have made some sort of kinky entry while I was sleep-walking.  But when I went to the linked entry it was a really innocuous tale of getting my first (insert euphemism).  That just made it all the more creepy.

I am all for people letting their freak flag fly or engaging in whatever consensual adult activity that floats their boat but this was just yucky.  Because they were making me a part of their kink.  But, here's the thing, I read over the entry and it really is not sexy or detailed or seductive.  It is about the equivalent of masturbating to a Little House on the Prairie book.  It is not even as suggestive as "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret?"  It is not kinky.  So then I felt sad for these people.  Sad because there have to be a million other far more detailed accounts of this event.  Hopefully not my personal womanly blossoming but perhaps someone else's.

Thankfully now things have returned to normal around here.  The freaks have departed or moved on or gone away.  Far, far away with any luck.

4. It is December 16th and I have exactly one present purchased.  And exactly eighty-five Christmas cards that need to be decorated and signed and mailed.  My house is a disaster area and there are no decorations.  I have not mailed off my final Secret Pal Six package although I have contacted my lovely pal and let her know what was going on.  I have a million cookies to bake and presents to buy and wrap and all of the rest of this will have to be accomplished over this weekend. 

5. Oh yeah, Happy Holidays!

6. PIctures soon.

posted by: loosestring at 11:30 | link | comments (5) |

We can't even think of a word that rhymes

I am done.  Done with finals and final projects.  For the next month I am going to be just like normal people.  Or the closest approximation of normal people I can muster.

Yesterday afternoon I took the final for my Graphic Arts class and I am fairly sure that I did quite well.  Basically I could have tanked on it and still gotten an A in the class. 

Then there was the final group critique of our Photography projects.  It went well.  Some of my classmates blow me away.  There is one really quiet guy who mostly only shows up for the critiques and his final project was gorgeous.  In a very minimalistic, industrial way that would never occur to me.  He managed to make these photos of decaying brick buildings in an industrial park look gorgeous.  Not beautiful but just fascinating.  I felt like I wanted to keep looking at them for awhile.  I love that.  There is another woman who's project was a series of shots of her father's farm and the area surrounding it.  The farm has been inactive for some time and the area is economically depressed.  The photos were so loving and they had such emotion.  Without being soppy and precious.  Even the "fucking tool" managed to show some good work.  It was highly incomplete.  But it was good. I am going to miss this class.

Now begins the mad dash to Christmas.  The flurry of activity and mailing and shopping and baking and doing.  But after that, I swear, I am going to be like normal people.

Tonight I am going to a get together with the women from the jewelry program.  We are a diverse and interesting bunch.  I have not seen many of these women in awhile and I am looking forward to tonight.  They are the most talented and loving and supportive and decent women I know.  Naturally, I ran far, far away from them when I was going through my father's death.  Why would I want to be surrounded by loving supportive people when I am in need? 

Crazy!

But, they gave me my space and accepted that this is my way and waited for me.  And kept in touch.  And made me feel a part of things and included.  In spite of my crazy ways.  So tonight I am going back to them and I am very happy to be going.  

I am itching to start working on some jewelry projects.  I am hoping that tonight is enough of a kick in the pants to get me started.  God knows I could use a kick in the pants.

posted by: loosestring at 11:17 | link | comments (3) |

But then I relaxed a little, And I met more folks who liked me

There is this big chunk of realization that I have to get out of my head and onto paper - virtual paper.  The act of writing things down has historically helped me to move past them and this is what I hope - fingers crossed - to achieve with this.  So, if you are tired of the detailed explanations of the inner workings of my damaged mind, this might not be the entry for you.  If you are looking for spirited and festive tales of pre-Christmas cheer, this might not be the entry for you.

I'm just giving you the warning.

Recently I was driving along in my car thinking - because the car is the best place to think - and I happened upon a bit of information deep in the left corner of my head right behind the lyrics to "Copa Cabana" by Barry Manilow.  I am sure I left it there thinking that someday I would be searching for something cheerful and stumble upon it.  When the time was right.  When the moment was right.  When I was ready.  And, guess what?  My psyche had decided that, having reached the age of forty-one, I was ready.  Fitting that this occurred right on my birthday.  Fitting that it sat so long unnoticed.

I was doing a little pondering as I am wont to do.  I was thinking about some not-so-very-great recent events and some pretty-wonderful recent events and my reactions.  I was suddenly struck by the realization that I have spent almost my entire life feeling as though I was never good enough.  Not a good enough daughter, sister, mother, wife, girlfriend, person, worker, granddaughter.  Not good enough at anything I attempt.  Not pretty enough or smart enough or kind enough.  Not able to accept compliments.  Tell me you like something I have done or something I am wearing and I will find a way to deflect the praise.  To insist that any possible accomplishment was by chance or of someone else's making.

I noticed this.  Felt this. 

Not as though I was not aware of it on some level all of these years.  But Monday I actually knew this as fact, in a real way.  I heard the words and all of their meaning sunk in.  And I saw how damaging and limiting and depressing that is.  And then I noticed that I had tears runnning down my cheeks.  And I was a bit mortified.  Because I try not to engage in a lot of self-pity.  I try to be practical.  And here I was crying.

I guess there is no way to describe this without getting very New Age.  There is no way for me to explain my tears without some hippy-dippy terminology.  But I will try.  And hopefully the term "inner child" will not enter into the explanation.

When I really thought about it - the reason behind the tears - I realized that I was not crying for me.  I was not crying for the person I am today.  I was crying for my sixteen-year-old self and my twenty-one-year-old self and my thirty-year old self.  This is where it gets a bit heavy with the scent of patchouli.  But bear with me.  I realized that it must have been horrible to live in that way.  Those versions of me had a hard time.  I felt really bad for them.  I wanted to have a little heart to heart and let them know how mistaken they were.  I wanted to reassure them.  I wanted to explain this whole mess to them. 

You see, I have never had a lot of sympathy for my younger selves.  I have always judged them harshly and looked upon them with a bit of contempt and scorn.  I have been unkind to them.  In ways I would never be unkind to anyone else.  Ever.

Like I said, this is all a bit New Age. 

But I realized this and it made me sad.  It made me wish that there was a way to have changed this for my younger selves.  But there is not.

Last night I went home and made cookies.  Holiday cookies.  The first of many batches that I will bake this season.  I rolled dough into balls and I set the timer and I baked them and took them out of the oven.  I put them on racks to cool and I looked at them and thought about how lovely they looked and smelled and tasted.  And I thought about what good cookies they were.  Good and made by me.  Because I can bake a mean cookie.  Always have.

And while we are at it, "I'm good enough, smart enough and, gosh darnit, people like me."

posted by: loosestring at 11:47 | link | comments (5) |

They thin my heart with little things

I am waiting for the words to come.  Waiting for them to roll out and down and spill over.  This is the thing I can count on: the words will come.  Welcome or not, ready or not.  But there seems to be some malfunction.  Some sort of kink in the line.  The words are all jammed up, backed up inside my head.  They are expanding and cramping my brain making the everyday thoughts compressed and uncomfortable.

I suppose the backup may be of my own making.  Too many things to say that are uncomfortable or too painful or just too damned crazy.  You have to make sure that you dispense the crazy in small doses.  You bury it inside of something pleasant.  You mask the bitterness with a big spoonful of sugar.  It slides by unnoticed.  You maintain the delicate equilibrium.  Everything is a-okay.

But, the thing is, that there has just been too much new information these last few months.  Too many big realizations and other shoes dropping.  Like all of the answers have been coasting along behind me on a cart attached with a bungee cord and I have come to a sudden stop and they have crashed into me.  They have hit me hard and knocked me flat mentally.

But you cannot stay knocked flat.  You cannot lay down and wait for it to pass.  You have to get yourself up and dust yourself off and carry on.  Though it would be so lovely to sit quietly for a few moments and catch your breath.

posted by: loosestring at 12:31 | link | comments |

My Forty-first Birthday

Today is the day.  The day I turn older.  The day I pass the mark.

When I was younger I could not imagine living past the age of thirty.  Thirty seemed old.  Ancient.  I could not fathom being any older than thirty.  How did you do that?  How much change was involved?  It seemed that it was not just a passage of time but a complete change of personality and character.  I could not look out from my sixteen or seventeen years and see myself as a thirty year old person. 

Every year my perception of "old" moves up a notch or two.  Every year the outer boundaries of what is possible move.  Creep a little.  Expand to accomodate the passing of another year.

When I was sixteen I thought the very best I could hope for was to put off maturity as long as possible.  To avoid aging by avoiding responsibility and dependability and predictability.  To become predictable was to lose the youthful edge.  I thought about all of the things that were wrapped up in my concept of old.  The lack of excitement, the lack of adaptabilty, the lack of passion, the lack of wonder, the lack of anything new.  I never wanted to lose any of those things.

And, to be honest, there have been times over the past fifteen years during which those things have been absent from my life.  Because I chose to allow them to be absent.  Because I drove them away.  Because I gave up on them.  But I have come to believe that as long as those things  are there, as long as I welcome them and embrace them and appreciate them, I am never going to be too old.

These days I am predictably unpredictable.

posted by: loosestring at 11:45 | link | comments (2) |

Mr. Magoo much?

When I was growing up my mother was a source of constant amusement for us.  She was always doing or saying something completely goofy.  It was not from a lack of general intelligence.  She just sometimes was not very quick on the uptake.  Or she would be in the middle of a tirade and say something spectacularly silly.  Good Lord help you if you laughed. 

I am proud to say that I am continuing in the grand tradition of dithering mothers who have gone before me.  I, however, choose to embrace my goofiness and encourage my family to laugh along.

The other day I was walking into the livingroom with my glasses in my hand while I was cleaning them.  I am completely blind without my glasses.  I cannot see clearly farther than five inches in front of my nose.  The very fact that I was walking around without my glasses is dangerous and potentially hazardous.  But I am familiar with my house and it was a fairly bright morning so I was feeling up to the challenge.  I walked into the livingroom and stood for a moment while I finished cleaning the glasses.  I knew the puppies were in there and they usually run up to greet me so when I saw a black/darkish elongated shape on the floor I leaned forward a bit and began to talk my usual nonsense to what I assumed to be Maggie (girl mini-dachshund).  It only took me a second to become puzzled over why she was not moving.  Maggie is a tail-wagger and, because she wags with such enthusuiasm, her whole body moves when she does so.  For this reason we call her "Miss Wiggle".  She shakes her bottom with the enthusiasm of a go-go dancer.  Her lack of movement , as I say, was puzzling. Until I realized that I was addressing a pair of boots.

That is correct.  I was talking to shoes. Baby-talking to shoes.

I could be sad that I have obviously slipped so far mentally.  I could be ashamed of my goofiness.   Instead I choose to embrace it as a proud family legacy.  Glad I could be of service.

posted by: loosestring at 10:12 | link | comments |

You better be good for goodness sake

The end of the year always gets me a little panicked.  Not for the Holidays - although that could be reason enough - but usually trying to figure out how another year just flew by and whether or not I accomplished anything.  

I begin each year with grand plans - and many not-so-grand plans. Not plans of the New Year's resolution variety but rather a set of goals and hopes and wishes.  So, sort of like resolutions but, because I hate the whole New Year's Eve tradition, I like to call them not-resolutions.  They are a loose plan for the year ahead and subject to change and revision and reversal as the year progresses.  There is also much room left for improvisation and spontanaeity and accident and happenstance.  This is just the rough draft.

Last year I decided I wanted change.  I wanted to pursue some form of schooling and get a degree that would allow me to do a job that I would enjoy.  To that end, I have declared myself  at school and I am working on a degree in Photography with some underpinnings of Graphic Design and a smidgen of Web Design.  I am crazed and sometimes overwhelmed by the prospect of pursuing a degree at this late date.  But I am also happy and challenged and engaged and loving every minute of it.  Some days I stop myself and take a moment to enjoy those unfamiliar feelings.

The other form of change is an on-going process.  This one has gotten recycled onto every list for the past couple of years.  I am trying to change my reactive behaviours, my moodiness, my irritation, my quick temper.  I am trying to be less of an asshole, for lack of a better term.  This goal could take years - perhaps decades.  But there is a greater level of understanding on my part.  Understanding of the things that make me react, the  underlying insecurities and fears that make me angry and caustic. 

I am sure this sort of navel-gazing introspection is fascinating for some people but I am not always enthusiastic about it.  It is hard to look at your behaviour and your past and your relationships with brutal honesty and assess your behaviour without justification.  The attributing of blame and responsibility.  The distribution of fault.  To just accept that you have not reacted or behaved in a way that makes you proud or happy or comfortable.  To disregard provocation.  To accept full responsibility for your bad mood or bad behaviour.

So, I have been working on this for a couple of years now.  I could not necessarily point to concrete evidence of progress.  I take far too much self-congratulatory pride in the moments in which I do not react.  Few and far between as they are.  I engage in rounds of mental-back patting whenever I am able to gracefully restrain myself.  To behave  like normal people.   Or at least the people I think are normal.  Little victory celebrations for the miniscule "progress" I make.  But these are the signs of change. 

Perhaps the biggest sign that change is possible or forthcoming is that when I do over-react or just act like an asshole I am almost immediately aware of it.  Frequently the realization comes in the middle of the tirade or hissy-fit or meltdown.  There is nothing quite so startling as traveling outside of yourself and observing yourself in action.  Or quite so deflating.  Even when I do not immediately recognize my misbehaviour I always see it soon enough.   Not soon enough to stop it but soon enough to regret it. 

This is the lovely state of mind that I like to call "the asshole hangover".  It bears a striking resemblance to the traditional hangover.  It is full of pain and nausea and regret and promises never to do it again.  The difference is that no amount of caffeine or greasy hashbrowns or alka seltzer makes it better.  The only cure is a prolonged period of "best behaviour".

Ah, yes, change is fun!  Be careful what you wish for....

posted by: loosestring at 11:48 | link | comments (1) |

It's beginning to sound a lot like Christmas

I have to admit that I am not a really big fan of the holidays.  Mostly it's just Christmas but New Year's Eve can go to hell as well.  I am just not able to work up the requisite cheer for this crazed time of year.  There is so much pressure and guilt and bad associations wrapped up in my Christmas experience.  I think I may just have that contrary streak flaring up to say, "You will not tell me when and how I should have a good time."  I am just crazy like that.

For those of you keeping score at home, this is #562 on the list of ways I am crazy.

When I was growing up there was, of course, the anticipatory excitement of the Christmas morning reveal.  The buildup to the big haul of toys and clothes and goodies.  But this was tempered by the building tension in our house.  It started when the decorating began.  My father would haul out the lights and the tree and begin to set things up.  Then the cursing would commence.  The tangle of lights would be waved about and the accusations and recriminations would fly.  Because every year at the end of the season my mother would take the tree down and wad the lights up and stuff them into a box.  Where they would sit, becoming ever more tangled, until my father took them out and attempted to put them on the tree.  And every year there was the screaming and crying and angry words.  I will admit to an anal-retentive compulsion to carefully wrap my Christmas lights and secure them with a twist tie before storing them that surely stems from this bit of holiday tradition.

There is also the grand tradition of the Holiday Party.  This was the overblown social event of the season that my mother insisted on hosting for reasons unknown.  This was marked by flurries of preparation and cleaning and baking and frequent arguments.  There was tension and hurt feelings and harsh words.  All of the hallmarks of a great time.  Then the guests would arrive and the liquor would flow and the crabbiness would be forgotten. 

My dislike for this thing we call the Holiday Season was born of this tension.  It was like aversion therapy.

posted by: loosestring at 10:59 | link | comments (4) |

Bitter melodies turning your orbit around

One of the benefits or curses of working in the darkroom for long periods of time (six hours yesterday) is that you have a lot of time to think.  Sure, you are working and somewhat focused on the task at hand but I find that I tend to work things out in my head when my hands are occupied.  Part of the reason is that I have my headphones on and I am listening to music.  Songs tend to lead me.  Bits of lyric and melody that have memories or associations or evoke certain sentiments. 

Lately I have been listening to a lot of Wilco.  Mostly because this new CD - Kicking Television - is so very good. I did not listen to Wilco very much prior to this year.  The reason is convoluted and random. 

I began many years ago as a fan of Uncle Tupelo.  The band that Jeff Tweedy was in before he formed Wilco.  There were two main creative forces in Uncle Tupelo: Jeff Tweedy and Jay Farrar.  They wrote some really great music.  But, alas, as is the case with many creative partnerships, they had a falling out.  I don't know the cause of the rift but by all accounts it was ugly and there was a lot of anger. 

They parted ways and went on to form their own bands: Wilco and Son Volt.  I think that the Uncle Tupelo fans were divided and conflicted about this new arrangement.  I know I was.  I had decided that I was a bigger Jay Farrar fan than I was a Jeff Tweedy fan and therefore I was only going to listen to Son Volt.  I am sure that there was some asinine logic to this decision.  I think sometimes I feel compelled to take sides in disagreements.  I felt that somehow it was important to pick a side.  As though I was going to run into Jay Farrar and he was going to discover that I had been listening to Wilco and he would be so disgusted with me that he would revoke my privlege to listen to Son Volt or he would send me to bed without supper or he would not talk to me at recess.  I don't exactly know what the logic was.  Or even if there was any logic.

Over the years there have been a couple of Wilco songs that have gotten some radio play.  I have listened to them and thought they were pretty good.  I even bought a Wilco CD.  But I was still resisting.  Then, this past year the song "Theologians" was turning up on the radio with some frequency.  I really liked the song and I did not immediately know who the artist was.  But it would come on the radio and I would crank it up and sing along and really enjoy the lyrics.  Then came the day when the radio announcer said, "..and that was Wilco with 'Theologians'."  I had this brief conflicted moment during which I was thinking, "Oh, I can't like that." But then sanity prevailed and I realized I loved this song and I had no good reason to not listen to it.  No logical or sane reason.  Just some screwed up theory about who I should side with in a disagreement that had nothing at all to do with me. 

Crazy.

Over the past couple of months I have been catching up with Mr. Tweedy.  It seems he has been quite busy over the years  and there is a lot that I have missed. 

posted by: loosestring at 12:12 | link | comments |

It will all be over in a week

This weekend:

1. I went to see Over The Rhine.  But I seriously miscalculated the driving time to get to the venue due to the occurence of about an inch and a half of snow that slowed traffic to a creeping crawl.  This is Chicago, people.  It is going to snow.  Probably more than once and probably more than just a little tiny bit.  They do maintain the roads fairly well and, therefore, it is safe to exceed five miles per hour on the highway.  Get a grip.  Or get the fuck out of my way.  You choose.

So, we only saw the very end of the show and the encores.  It was very good but I would have liked to have seen much more.

2. I watched the movie "Closer" on television.  I did not hate the movie but I did not like the characters at all.  I wanted to see Jude Law get his face punched.  Multiple times.  I have decided that I do not like Jude Law.  I have always been a bit undecided about him.  Now I can say with certainty that he gives me the creeps.  He is slimy and he looks miniaturized.  None of the characters had any sympathetic qualities.  Natalie Portman was probably the least disgusting of the lot. 

3. I managed to do all of the re-shooting for my final photo project.  I am now entering the crazed phase of developing and printing and frantically trying to pull the whole thing together before Friday.  You might think that would plenty of time but it is not a lot.  To put it in perspective I was at the lab on Friday from 6:00pm until 9:00pm.  I managed to get one final print.  One print that I can use in my project.  In three hours.  At this rate I will never be done in time.  The good news is that this is not typical.  But it is still going to be tight.

4. I received a phone call on Friday afternoon from the salon where I get my hair done.  I assumed it was just a reminder call for my appointment on Saturday.  I was so very wrong.  It seems that the girl who normally does my hair had some sort of illness and she would be unable to keep our appointment.  This would not have been such a big deal but I was supposed to get my hair cut before Thanksgiving and I missed that appointment.  My hair was a wreck and I really could not stand it anymore.  So, I reluctantly agreed to take an appointment with another girl.  But none of the ones that I know were available.  I agreed to have someone I did not know cut my hair.

I have to state that I am not a fussy hair person.  I like simple, easy to manage styles that do not require complicated styling routines.  I have had some really awful haircuts in the past.  I am usually pretty calm about it.  It is just hair and it will grow back.  But I really like this latest hair stylist.  I have only been going to her for about six months or so but I have known her for quite a while.  She knows me and my style and never tries tomake me do anything complicated with my hair.  She never tries to talk me into expensive products that I do not need and she never bugs me about my color.  We have a pleasant, uncomplicated relationship.  The way it should be with a hair stylist.

I was a bit nervous with the substitute hair stylist but she was lovely.  She listened to me and then did my hair the way I like it.  The styling was a bit off but the cut was great.  Yay!  Substitute hairstylist is my hero!  I can now skip the clip to keep my bangs out of my eyes.  And, once my regular stylist passes her kidney stone she will be back.

5. I downloaded the new Wilco and I have been obsessively listening to it.  I re-played "Jesus, etc" five times in a row yesterday during the fifteen minute drive to the craft store.

6. The only reason I went to the craft store was because I needed to get some things to make my portfolio with.  I have to present my final project in a portfolio format.  So, I went to the art supply store and I could not come up with a ready-made portfolio that I liked.  I wavered and pondered and made myself crazy for about forty-five minutes over this dilemma.  Then I decided to go home and come back after having given it a bit more thought.   The brainstorming led me to the decision to make my portfolio in a box-style design.  That's right, I decided to take on yet another project this week.   And to make matters worse, I came up with a beautiful design that will be drop-dead gorgeous but will require a considerable amount of work.  Thankfully I have about five and a half hours a day when all I am doing is sleeping.   This latest project should turn those unproductive hours into time well-spent.

posted by: loosestring at 13:07 | link | comments (3) |

The Loot

Yesterday I received my final Secret Pal 6 package and found out who my Secret Pal was.  Her name is Emily and she writes on two different blogs : http://knitknerds.blogspot.com   and     http://emilysaid.blogspot.com .

She was a fabulous Secret Pal!



I got some yummy colored Freedom wool, a gorgeous lot of Mountain Colors hand-painted yarn and two great cd's Clem Snide and Paul Burch both of which I do not have but have been meaning to get.

The Secret Pal exchange was great fun and I am definitely going to do it again. 

posted by: loosestring at 22:22 | link | comments |

Would you like fries with that?

Last night I had my version of the dream where you show up for class and there is a test for which you are not prepared.  Don't get me wrong.  I had the unprepared-for-the-test dream for a lot of years.  Then I started waiting tables.  My unprepared-for-the-test dream morped into a nightmarish scenario involving waiting on tables that are scattered haphazardly throughout a dining room the size of a football field.  There is usually chaos of epic proportions and every task involves a maximum of effort.  Customers are frustrated and upset and angry.  Servers are crying in the kitchen.  And the busboy is drunk.

I think that anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant has had at least one night of total hell.  I am being generous here.  But you know that night where nothing goes right?  Multiply that by one hundred and that is my dream.  Not conducive to restful sleep.

Upon waking, however, I am always a little more happy to be off to my quiet office job where there is a minimum amount of noise and confusion.

In other news, I had my group critique of the initial work for my final photography project.  I will modify that to say that of the people enrolled in the class, six of us showed up for the critique and only three of us had work to show.  The comments and feedback portion consisted of a lot of suggestions from the guy who not only has not been to class in several weeks but did not have work to show.  Basically he wanted me to re-shoot the entire concept with a completely different slant.  To convey my point.  Oh, I mean his point.  I have two words that I reserve for this type of helpful person: fucking tool. 

The rest of the feedback was pretty good.  There are some shots that I am going to re-shoot.  There are some new angles that I am going to work on.  There is much work to be done in the next week. 

posted by: loosestring at 11:09 | link | comments (3) |

What Would Gil Grissom Do?

I have mentioned before that I live in a very religious area.  The town adjacent to ours boasts more churches per capita than any other town in America (or something like that - maybe more churches per square inch).  I am quite comfortable with my own heathen beliefs here safely hidden among the God-fearing folks.  But sometimes I have to wonder about the goings on.

This was in my mail today:



It is an invitation to a local church.  I am not sure God likes direct-mail proselytizing.  I am pretty sure He does not condone this sort of secular come-on.  I am almost positive that He does not watch network television.

I am puzzled.

And mildly amused.

I am considering going and wearing dark sunglasses that I can whip off as I gaze into the distance and utter a self-righteously withering remark to the accused.  Then I will jump into my Hummer and speed off to the next crime scene.

Or not.

posted by: loosestring at 00:01 | link | comments (2) |