"One-way streets and square one, The answers don't come from any one direction"
I live in Chicago with my boyfriend T and our mini-menagerie of 3 cats and 2 dogs. I have very little of world-changing importance to contribute but I like to see my words in print so I blog.
Apropos of Nothing
Awesome
City Wendy in the Windy City
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The Redhead Papers
Things I Am Over
TranceJen
Very Zen
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today
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visited *loading* times
After pulling off the social event of the season, I taught myself how to knit a mitten:
I am bit pleased with myself because it has mostly been scarves up until now. With this project I used double pointed needles for the first time. I also used increases and decreases and knitted the ribbing and just about everything was a new experience for me to be honest. The yarn is this yummy wool/alpaca blend from Nashua Handknits. The lower part of the glove is a color called Delphinium and is a bit more purple than it looks here. The pattern is from a Knit Knacks kit that I got to challenge myself. The patterns are explained really well.
Two un-related items about music:
1. My office has no music. None. Not even Muzak. It is a quiet place and I like that for the most part.
Lately I have been doing a lot of mindless filing. Putting away old records and setting up the files for the new year. I don't mind this sort of work. It generally allows me to have my hands busy and let my mind wander. Yesterday I became aware that there was a song stuck in my head. It puzzled me a bit because I clearly knew the words and had been humming them for some time but I could not quite put my finger on the song. It was so familiar. And then I realized it was Loverboy. The song: "Turn Me Loose". This realization caused a mental shudder. Why do I know the lyrics to this song? Damn you ubiquitous 80's Canadian rock! Damn you to hell!
2. I belong to one of those CD clubs. You know the ones. You get 10 cd's free and you agree to purchase another 5 or so over the next couple of years. I don't know exactly why I signed up but I did. I barely ever take the "featured selection". It is so rarely anything I am interested in or if it is something I would like I already bought it or received it as a gift. But recently they had selected the new Fiona Apple. I had heard some okay things about it and I was willing to give it a try. Of course they suck you in with their offers of additional cd's for half off or free or some damned thing. So, I selected the Fiona Apple and I set about selecting the additional cd's.
The other day I received this package in the mail. I knew I had ordered something but I could not remember the exact details. Here is what I found:
Fiona Apple - Extraordinary Machine
The Talking Heads - Remain In LIght
Lynyrd Skynyrd - Greatest Hits
No wonder they can't seem to pin me down into one convenient category.
With all of this talk of my son's birthday of late I have found myself looking back over the last 18 years. One gets nostalgic when one's baby gets grown up.
My son is an only child. A lot of the reason that he is an only is because he was born into my very shaky first marriage. We were together for almost three years after we got married but we separated twice for periods of more than six months. It was not a match made in heaven. But most of the reason is due to fear.
My son was a miserably colicky child. He cried all day every day from about six weeks old until nine months old. We tried everything. There were doctor's visits that were basically just me saying, "I think he is broke. Please help me fix him." We fell into a routine. I would corral him all day. I would hold him every waking moment. I would utilize the only method we found that would help him sleep: laying stomach to stomach with me. I was for all intents and purposes a rather large hot water bottle. Dressed in sweatpants and formula-stained t-shirts. At 5:45pm - fifteen minutes before my husband was due to arrive home - I would put the baby in the crib and crawl into the bathtub with a glass of wine. Leaving the water running to mask the sound of the baby's cries as well as my own. And there I would sit and weep and feel ashamed for being so frustrated and sad.
Somewhere along the way I think I started to feel as though my son's cries were my fault. That they were the direct result of my failure as a mom. They felt like recriminations and accusations. Because I should be able to do this thing. This raising of and caring for a child. This was something that I should know how to do. And when I looked around me at the small circle of other moms that I knew they all seemed to be doing just fine. Their babies did not cry all day. Their babies did not require medication. Everything seemed sunny and happy and perfect in their worlds.
I felt like a failure.
And some times - to be honest - I felt angry. At my son. For being so needy and helpless and for crying so damned much. For making me feel so bad about myself. And those feelings frightened me. A lot. Because I thought that it meant that there was something more than just a little bit wrong with me. I was a horrible. awful monster.
Naturally the crying and the colic passed. But there was always something in the back of my mind telling me that it was all my fault. It was something that I had done or failed to do. I was just not really cut out for this motherhood thing.
Now I have a little perspective. I would hope that if I had gained nothing else at this point in my life that I would at least get some perspective. I think I made some mistakes. I think I was uneccessarily hard on myself. I think that is my nature. To expect perfection and chide myself for anything less. I think I did some good things as well. More good than bad. I am going to give myself a B+. I am a hard grade.
I know my son is a good person. He is kind and he genuinely cares about other people. He makes the world a little nicer place. I would want to know my son and have him as a friend even if he were not my son. I know my son is smart and funny. Smart and funny are a good thing. I know he has good moral values without judgement of others. I know he is talented. I know he is loving.
M is for the mudflaps you give me for my pickup truck
O is for the Oil I put on my hair
T is for T-bird
H is for Haggard
E is for eggs, and
R is for REDNECK
-Jerry Jeff Walker
On this day eighteen years ago at 11:14am I was in the delivery room of Ravenswood Hospital in Chicago and I saw my son's lovely face for the very first time. At the time it was the most beautiful and precious thing I had ever seen.
It still is.
Lately I have been filled with seething rage. But it seems to be very much focused in one sharp pointed direction. My work. To be more specific: my boss. I find myself sitting at my desk and holding my tongue and hunching my shoulders and burning with the rage. It is the mouth-breathing and the noise and the close-talking and the self-centered attitude and I am about ready to blow.
This morning I arrived at work, checked my email, discussed a quote that needed to be sent, ascertained the precise wording of the letter that was to accompany the quote, sent the quote and proceeded with running the W2's for 2005. It is a multi-part process and since I am a scatter-brain I was setting up the forms and trying to be completely sure that I was printing the right one at the right stage of the process. I was focused. And then the printer got jammed. I did the only logical thing. I cursed softly under my breath and proceeded to un-jam the forms.
At this precise moment my boss enters the office and observes me at this task. He stands breathing over my shoulder for several seconds and then says, "Jeez, have you screwed this up already?" And then, wisely, moves out of reach right before I whip around with nostrils flaring and laser beams shooting out of my eyes. I say nothing because one of the benefits of old age is the ability to realize when it is best to say nothing (mostly) but I do stare at his retreating back and silently wish him a slow, painful torturous death. When he gets no answer from me he realizes that perhaps his comment has not been so kindly received and attempts to explain his meaning to me with, "Taking more money out of my pocket, wasting all of those forms." To which I reply, "The printer got jammed and we lost about six of the forms. I can figure out what they cost and put some money in petty cash."
At which point he begins back-pedaling and claiming to have been "joking". To which I want to reply, "But aren't jokes usually humorous?" But I do not. Wisely, he retreats to his office and leaves me the hell alone.
It is not this particular incident. It is this as the final straw on top of a rather large pile of petty and insensitive comments that have been made over the last six months or so. It is the aggregate sum of all of the innuendo and slight and bullshit that comes out of the man's mouth. I have reached my limit.
On the other side of the coin - because we strive to be fair and balanced - he let me take a class that required me to leave early two days a week, he is never too pissy about the fact that I do not work forty hours a week and he is sometimes an okay guy. He just better not cross me again this week or the laser beams will be set to kill rather than stun.
My new schedule is going to kick my ass. In a mentally stimulating, overwhelmingly awesome kind of way. But kick my ass it will. I spent the weekend mostly loving my pyjamas and my couch and my Tivo and sitting still. I took not one but two naps. On the big plus side I really like my classes. I even kind of like the one that is at 8:30 am on Saturday morning. I like it even with the massive overnight snowfall and the almost sliding off of my driveway into a ditch.
Yesterday morning I woke with one overwhelming thought: eggs and bacon with toast and hashbrowns. Sure, I could probably have managed to produce something of this sort in my own kitchen, but breakfast out is one of life's small luxuries that I can not do without. So, we went off to brave the after-church crowd at the local eateries and soon my craving was satisfied.
Then it was off to the store for Secret Pal shopping and Surprise Party shopping and then a trip to the bookstore. And then home for a nap.
Maggie modeling one of her many sweaters.
Ernie will not wear a sweater.
And, as an added bonus, the stupidest thing ever:
On the back of a Ford Windstar there was a "bad boys drive bad toys" bumpersticker.
I am back in school as of Tuesday. I have not yet attended all of my classes but I am happy to be back. I am experimenting with a full schedule this time around. We will see how it goes. There is something soothing to my mind about the prospect of writing papers and turning in assigments. I like those sorts of deadlines and projects. I am a sick, sick girl.
That said, my photo instructor is quite possibly the most boring speaker ever. Something of a cross between Carl Sagan and the teacher from Charlie Brown with just a hint of Eeyore. But without the cuteness. Or the humor. I am telling you right here and now that I am bound to kill this man or at least miss out on valuable lecture information while my mind is distracted by the fantasy of killing him. Thankfully there is a lot of non-mandatory lab time built into the schedule. Because I am able to do the computer stuff from home I may be able to preserve my record of never actually ripping someone's head off or kicking someone in the face. Why, oh why, does everyone think that they have the ability to teach? It makes it so much nicer when a teacher has the ability to make a subject interesting.
Complaining. Because that is what I do.
I have finally taken the plunge and purchased a Fancy Ass Camera. This is a huge step for me because I have clung so very tightly to my ancient camera with no bells or whistles or confusing features. But technology moves forward and pulls me kicking a screaming along with it. I am not so much of a technophobe and, in fact, I am a bit of a gadget geek. It's just the learning of a new way when my old way works so very well for me. I have experimented with the new camera and so far I like what I see. It is pretty and shiny and oh-so-very brand new. I will post some new pictures soon. Because I know you want to see pictures of a mini-dachshund in a sweater.
There is this weird thing that happens to me sometimes when I am thinking about the past. Not the ancient past and the beginning of time but just my past. Specifically the years between 1988 and 1995 or so. I know I was around during those years. I know that I had jobs and birthed a baby and married a couple times. I know that I lived in a couple of different places and had a couple of different jobs. I know that I did things. But I can't always recognize myself in the memories that I have. This sounds all a bit odd. I know.
Over the Summer I unpacked a lot of boxes. Full of things that had been stored. Some of it for many, many years. And during the unpacking I would come across things that were obviously mine. That I had some vague recollection of having owned. But they just seemed so very unlikely. Puzzling. And I would try to think of the thought process that brought me to own these things. I am not trying to be coy. I really cannot remember what my thinking was. Why these things warranted purchase.
For instance I found a set of decorative plates. The kind you get from the Franklin Mint or something like that. Painted plates that are purely meant to be displayed. The particular set that I own has pictures of cats on them. Precious cats, mother cats with kittens, kittens playing with yarn or butterflies, kittens nursing mother cats, etc. And, while there is nothing wrong with someone producing these plates or even with someone purchasing these plates, I cannot understand me owning them. When I opened the box I got a little woozy and off-balance. I saw the little styrofoam containers and I knew what they were. I could picture where they hung in my old house. But I could not remember being this person.
This was almost a disconcerting as if I had opened a box and found evidence that I had voted Republican or belonged to a cult. It seems that unlikely to me.
But I guess this is more of an interesting bit of archeology. I opened these boxes and unearthed artifacts. Little clues as to what my life was like in 1992 or 1994. And the only thought I keep having is: no wonder I was always feeling so crazy. If you spend every minute trying to be a person you are not it is bound to make you crazy. I even called my ex-husband #2 and talked to him a little about this. About how I was crazy and unhappy and very unhealthy during our time together. And he agreed. I have a witness.
I do not mean to suggest that there is a direct correlation between the plates and mental illness. Just that the me that purchased these plates is so very different from the me that I am that I cannot help but see them a symptom or a symbol of my particular mental illness.
Tivo is definitely onto my fling with Netflix.
Last night I settled in to watch a two-part Masterpiece Theater about Henry VIII. When these things happen in multiple parts I record both parts and watch them in one sitting. But, imagine my surprise, I started Part One and found that Tivo had recorded an infomercial and the Game Show Network. There was no period clothing, no British accent, no beheading of wives, no excellent historical accuracy. None. Just a lot of boring nothing. I found it hard to accept so I fast-forwarded through the whole thing looking for something about the British Monarchy. But, again, none. I had to watch the second half. The half without Helena Bonham Carter as Anne Boleyn. The part without Katherine of Aragon. I only got to see the inferior Jane Seymour and Catherine Howard and Anne of Cleves and Catherine Parr. Although there was the most excellent beheading of Thomas Cromwell by an inexperienced executioner.
Okay, so I am going to talk about my boobs for a minute. I know I have spent way too much time talking about them lately but I have a small complaint. You know I can always find a small spot of tarnish on any happy moment.
This is it: While I am very glad that I have - to quote The Mincemeat Vixen - "healthy boobs", I am very disappointed in the surgical scar. This is incredibly shallow of me. I know in my heart that there are women who have mastectomies and huge lumpectomies. But there is now a two inch gash that will soon become a scar that is in a very noticeable place on my chest. I am not a big whiner about most things involving appearances. I am calm about bad haircuts and bad haircolor and all manner of bad waxing. But this scar is not small and not down low where you cannot see it. If I wear any of the shirts that I normally wear during the warm weather season it is visible. Not peeping out of the edge of the neckline. Right to the left of the beginning of the cleavage. It might as well have a red clown nose and a horn. It is going to be obvious. And, people being what they are, I am going to have to explain it. Or tell them to fuck off. I have a great story about being injured in a monkey knife fight. But I get tired of that one.
I know. I should be thanking my pagan gods and my lucky stars. And I did that. All weekend long. I was really glad that things turned out as they did. I was happy enough to bathe and leave the house. That is true happiness for me. But now. Yesterday. I changed the bandage on the incision and I got a really good long look at it. And I flashed on where it is placed in relation to my warm weather neckline. And I got a little frown. I have no idea why it had to be so big. In the grand scheme of things this is minor. But it is my chest and I am feeling a bit whiny about it right now. Things must be back to normal.
I like my job. For the most part. It is not very stressful and it is a very casual work environment. I don't have a tremendous volume of work. I have plenty of time to read blogs and the news and to look up information about things that interest me. I wear jeans and Chuck Taylors to work. My boss is a bit of a micro-managing ass but he knows that about himself. Of course in a perfect world I would work from home in my pyjamas for approximately one hour a day and be paid handsomely. But this is probably as close as we are realistically going to my "perfect world" scenario for now.
However, I have a small confession: there is one part of my job that I detest. It involves complicated spread sheets and manually entering production figures for each employee. I have to read work tickets for every part produced and record the actual production figures for each employee involved in the process. To account for every minute of their work day. The whole process is a major pain in the ass.
I used to keep the work tickets in the small pile of work that is in progress on my desk. The little pile that I keep of ongoing projects and things pending resolution. Seeing that stack grow was my motivation to get the work done. I could look over and see this work and my OCD mind would not let it sit. So I managed to keep in top of this work. But a couple of months ago the pile got shifted to a drawer of my desk. A drawer that I do not open frequently. And, of course, you can see where this is going - it has grown. Locking work in a drawer and denying it light does not kill it. It gives it the perfect environment in which to multiply.
This is my dirty little secret. Not too juicy or too terribly scandalous. Just enough to make me feel a bit guilty any time I open the drawer to add to the stack. But apparently not enough to make me do anything about it.
This weekend I was feeling good. Feeling well. Alright in my head and in my mind. And I decided it had been far too long since we had gone to the movies. Far too many movies that I wanted to see and did not go to see were already languishing in the limbo between theater and video release. And I decided that my New Year's resolution should be to see more movies in the theater.
I rarely make a resolution. Not being willing to participate in the New Year's hype.(blah blah blippity blah) But on the occasion I do make a resolution it is generally something fun or interesting. About being more conscious of the things I enjoy, that make me happy, and choosing to do them more. So this year it is movies. More movies.
And because I was feeling strong and invincible and new born with happiness and tolerance and joy I decided that I would go see movies that I really wanted to see. Movies that were important. Movies that could very easily turn out to be big disappointments if they were not done to my liking. ‘Cause that's just how brave I am.
The first was the previously mentioned "Walk The Line". For those of you who have not heard - although really I can't imagine that you could not have heard about be not living in a comatose state - this is the biography of Johnny Cash. Don't make me explain Johnny Cash. The thought that there is a human being who has not enjoyed a Johnny Cash song is too horrible to consider. But - I am a fan. I enjoy me some Johnny Cash music. And his wife was not so bad either. I had read the books and I knew the legend and the myth that surrounded their relationship. I had a picture in my head. I knew the story and how it should be told. So there was much potential for disappointment. But, imagine my delight, there was no disappointment. But rather laughter and tears and all of the good movie experiences. Aside from the aforementioned mouth-breathing movie troll. I enjoyed this movie a great deal. The acting was incredible and the story was well-told and I am joining in with the 3,476,854 other people who have recommended this movie.
The second movie was "The Chronicles of Narnia". This movie is especially special to my son and me because I read the books to him when he was little. It took some time. We had a lot of shared cozy memories about this book. Then the movie was about to be released and the idiots cranked up the hype machine and everything was all, "blah blah blah Christian imagery." and "blah blah blah Jesus" and "blah blah blah my God is better than yours." And I went into recoil. I became concerned that everybody was trying to ruin this movie for me. Because there is a plot against me. No one wants me to have fun or enjoy myself. Ever. But I decided that I was going to have to take the chance that I would not love this movie. I was going to have to try. And I am glad that I did. Because, in spite of the hideously crowded theater full of children, I thouroughly enjoyed this movie. They got it just right. For me. Because apparently, in opposition to the overwhelming world plot to ruin my good time, there is another smaller movement dedicated to seeing that I am happy and have things my way.
Who knew?
On Friday afternoon I went home and fell asleep. About five seconds after getting off of the phone with the doctor's office I began to feel sleepy. Completely relaxed - or what passes as a fair approximation of completely relaxed in my world - and just tired. Like the end of a long day's physical labor. Weary. So, I think I am officially sleeping again.
But I did not allow sleep to get in the way of my weekend. I went to the movies. I went out to eat with my son.I went and got the books for my classes. I watched television. I sewed. I went to the bookstore. I got a haircut. I voluntarily interacted with people outside my home. And it was quite nice. Okay, not 100% nice. The guy in the row behind us yesterday at "Walk The Line" was an ass. He talked during the movie. Not whispered asides to his companions but full volume discussions. And repeated lines from the movie before the character spoke them. And sang along with the songs. But I only felt like punching him once or twice.
I am concerned that my Tivo may become jealous over my new infatuation with Netflix. So far I think Tivo may not be onto us but soon, very soon, our new relationship is going to come to light. So I am torn. On the one hand Tivo is gentle and caring and always seems to know what I really want. On the other hand Netflix is smart and funny and we are in the carefree bloom of new love with a steady stream of documentaries and foreign films and independent films. Tivo knows me. He has been with me through the disappointment and heartache of re-runs and cancellations. We have grown together. But Netflix, oh my Netflix, there is so much potential in this relationship. I am torn.
This is wonderful. There is a huge fluffy snowstorm going on. It is Friday the 13th. However, the sun is shining here in my little corner of the Universe. It is the long-awaited Friday. The day of answers. And, hallelujah, it is a day of good answers. I am officially not sick. My lump was "a severe reaction to and scarring as a result of the previous biopsy." I am, naturally, quite relieved.
Thank you all for your well wishes and kind thoughts and patience. I am promising a full return to complaints about nothing and griping about the world and incompetent service posthaste.
It is amazing how very much energy gets consumed by worry. I am exhausted from having carried it around these last few weeks.
Coming soon: (following a week long nap)
1. Netflix is my new love.
2. The Postal Service (not the band, the actual US Postal Service ) sucks a huge amount of ass.
3. US Customs - ditto.
4. Movies I have seen that everyone else saw last year.
5. More pincushions than you can imagine.
6. A return to school.
It's all over except for the waiting and the whining. I went yesterday to get my biopsy. I must say that everyone was lovely and kind and I have no complaints about the procedure except that I wish I could have had it done in the comfort of my home and I wish the delightful anesthesia could have lasted until Friday afternoon. Because Friday afternoon is when I will have an answer. I guess it is not that long in the grand scheme of things. But it feels like forever. And I just want to be through this. I want to be on the other side.
In other news, there is no other news. Because this one event seems to consume every waking moment of my life of late. And frankly there are few things that warrant that much energy or attention. This is not interesting or fun or even educational.
******There is a real, semi-normal post after this one. You may skip ahead.
Because I am crazy. Because I love to take on far too much. Because I love the presents. I have decided to participate in Secret Pal 7. For those of you not interested in the specifics of my knitting preferences, you might want to skip this entry. Consider yourselves warned.
1. Are you a yarn snob (do you prefer higher quality and/or natural fibers)? Do you avoid Red Heart and Lion Brand? I love all of the fancy higher quality yarns but I am not a very advanced knitter and I don’t know much about them except I like the feel better than the acrylic stuff. I like natural fibers.
2. Do you spin? Crochet? I don’t know how to spin and I am really interested but kind of afraid to start because I have so many other hobbies. I can crochet but I have not done so in a couple of years.
3. What do you use to store your needles/hooks in? I have a big basket with all of my yarn and needles and stuff kind of jumbled in together.
4. How long have you been knitting? Would you consider your skill level to be beginner, intermediate or advanced? I learned to knit when I was about 8 but I have only just picked it up again this year. I would consider myself a beginner.
5. Do you have an Amazon or other online wish list? I don’t. I am afraid to start one because I might never stop.
6. What's your favorite scent? (for candles, bath products etc.) I like single florals and herbal or citrus. I live lavender and peony and rosemary and sage. Anything light and clean. But then I have my patchouli moments.
7. Do you have a sweet tooth? Favorite candy? Chocolate is my vice. I also love sour gummy worms and sweet tarts.
8. What other crafts or Do-It-Yourself things do you like to do? I make jewelry/silversmith, sew, photograph, garden, paint. You name it. But I tend to go in streaks where I work obsessively in one area and neglect another.
9. What kind of music do you like? Can your computer/stereo play MP3s? (if your buddy wants to make you a CD) I like all kinds of music. Mostly alt-country or classic rock, some punk, some rap, some country, the occasional pop song. I am pretty opinionated about music. I have an Ipod that I am currently working on filling.
10. What's your favorite color? Or--do you have a color family/season/palette you prefer? Any colors you just can't stand? I like color. Almost any color. I tend to shy away from pastels but then I do like them paired with a strong color like brown or black. I have been really into orange and green lately although traditionally I am more of a black or purple.
11. What is your family situation? Do you have any pets? I live with my (long-suffering) boyfriend and my teen aged son. We have a small menagerie of four cats and two mini-dachschunds.
12. Do you wear scarves, hats, mittens or ponchos? I wear mittens and scarves. I have been really getting into long wrappy scarves that can be worn as an accesory. I like hats but tend to forget them. I don’t think you could pay me to wear a poncho.
13. What is/are your favorite yarn/s to knit with? I like soft wools. I like hand spun. I like nice texture and interesting colors. I don’t have a particular favorite brand.
14. What fibers do you absolutely *not* like? The squeaky acrylic kind.
15. What is/are your current knitting obsession/s? I am not a very advanced knitter. I have been knitting a lot of scarves. I am currently working up my courage to tackle something in the round. Like a hat. I have delusions that someday soon I will learn socks or sweaters. I have to take a class.
16. What is/are your favorite item/s to knit? I mostly have been sticking to the scarves.
17. What are you knitting right now? Have I mentioned the scarves?
18. Do you like to receive handmade gifts? I love handmade gifts.
19. Do you prefer straight or circular needles? I would love to learn circular or how to use dpns.
20. Bamboo, aluminum, plastic? I mostly have been using aluminum. I cannot justify the fancy needles although I drool over the Lantern Moon needles.
21. Do you own a yarn winder and/or swift? No.
22. How did you learn to knit? I learned at school. My fourth grade teacher was this wonderful hippy woman and we did a lot of cool stuff.
23. How old is your oldest UFO? Maybe two months. I tend to rip out anything that loses my interest.
24. What is your favorite animated character or a favorite animal/bird? I don’’t think I have a favorite. I do love animated movies. I am really into birds and dachshunds right now. And chickens. But not Kountry chickens.
25. What is your favorite holiday? I love Easter despite the pastels and I like Halloween a lot.
26. Is there anything that you collect? Day of the Dead figures and art.
27. What knitting magazine subscriptions do you have? None. I am trying to figure out which one I might like the most.
28. Any books, yarns, needles or patterns out there you are dying to get your hands on? I don’t have any experience with patterns, I love the fancy needles but cannot really justify them.
29. Are there any new techniques you'd like to learn? Almost everything. But I am determined to learn socks this year. And I am really interested in felting.
30. Are you a sock knitter? What are your foot measurements? I want to learn. I wear a size 7-1/2 shoe.
31. When is your birthday? (mm/dd) 12/12
Dear Folks:
I have been busy examining the interior of my colon and have been unable to make it to the computer. It would seem that I have had my fill of wallowing for now and am making the upswing moodwise. This may be temporary or it may stick. Given my love of wallowing I am thinking the former is most likely.
I owe a couple dozen emails. I owe a thousand thank you's. I am trying to stop avoiding all human contact. You are all too kind and caring and wonderful. Please do not take my silence as ingratitude. I am truly touched by all of your kind words of encouragement.
But here's the real thing. I took a bit of a break from the computer over the weekend. I tried not to peek at this virtual world. I tried not to escape to the internet. I decided that it was time to be involved in my real life. I have not been so very good at that this last couple of weeks. I tend to contract into my shell like a hermit crab when I am worried. I put everyone at arm's length. And then, at the slightest provocation or even without any provocation I lash out. Or I begin to weep.
This last week or so T has borne the brunt of my crazy moodswinging. A list of crimes he has committed and received my immediate wrath for would include but not be limited to:
1. Making me a sandwich. With not enough hard salami and no mustard.
2. Bringing the mustard out into the living room where I was sitting in order to rectify the situation.
3. Daring to use two precious TiVo hours to record The Three Stooges.
4. Breathing.
5. Looking at me funny.
6. Not washing my sweatshirt that I have been wearing every minute that I am home. To do so would require that he take time off work in order to avoid disrupting my schedule.
7. Making me wear a far inferior fleece pullover while he washed the aforementioned sweatshirt.
8. Not reading my mind and anticipating my every whim.
I believe if this insubordination continues I will have to call for a court martial. Or perhaps nominate him for sainthood.
In other news I have been planning a surprise party for my son. He will be turning 18 in two weeks and we have never had a surprise party. Thankfully I have his lovely girfriend to assist me in this effort. I made invitations yesterday. They included the following picture on the front of the card:
I am hopeful that the party will make up for the fact that I have distributed this picture to twenty of his closest friends. But I could not resist. Look at that face. The cheeks and the pudgy fingers and the little man boobies. Priceless.
The doctor's visit:
1. The smell of doctor's offices and hospitals triggers some sort of Pavlovian crying response in me.
2. It has been some time since I have been to this doctor's office and I had forgotten all of the religious posters that adorn the walls of the examining rooms. There are actual framed Bible quotes. These were of little comfort to me. Almost as comforting as the large drawing of a breast with labels for all of the various parts and inset illustrations of cysts and tumors. I am willing to overlook the in-your-face religious decor because I really liked my doctor. He was kind. And this is the sort of thing that is commonplace in this area. Lots of churches = lots of Jesus People. Plus, when you are sick it never hurts to have God on your doctor's side.
3. The new doctor is nice. I was skeptical. And I think that he is not quite so religious as my old doctor. My only evidence to support this is that he said, "Let's get this damned thing out of you as quickly as possible." You read correctly - he swore. Not a big swear. I could have used a couple of f-bombs. But I take it as a sign.
4. The diagnosis is that I have a lump. Two doctors have now confirmed that what I have is a lump. Thank God I can rest assured that I am competent enough to recognize a lump. It does not seem to be a cyst. It does not feel like a cyst to the doctor. There is an outside chance that it may be scar tissue. There was a biopsy done on this breast before and it is kinda sorta in the area.
5. The next step is an ultrasound and a mammogram. Those are supposed to happen today.
6. The step after that is a biopsy.
7. There will definitely be a biopsy. Some time next week.
8. There is a lot more waiting for answers ahead of me. There is a lot more anxiety ahead which leads to a lot more sleepless nights. Which in turn leads to anxiety. The fabulous cycle of uncertainty. I have been taking some sleep medication that they prescribed but it does not seem to knock me out. When I mentioned this to the doctor they told me to double the dosage. I am wondering if there is a dosage that they could recommend that would put me to sleep for the next two weeks. After which I could wake up rested and have all of this behind me.
If you are attempting to soothe and distract yourself from some impending medical appointment. If you are trying to escape and forget. Do not choose "The Truth" by Al Franken to read for this purpose. Because, rather than distracting and aiding in escapism, this only serves to contribute to your anger and frustration. Thus the desired result of calming will not be achieved. Instead you will lie awake and re-hash everything that is wrong with this country and have nightmares with disembodied heads populating them. Disembodied heads might be disturbing enough but if they are Bush, Rove, Ashcroft, Cheney and the rest of the disturbingly creepy administration, you will be unable to sleep. Thus adding hours to your current sleep deficit.
Save Mr. Franken's humor for a time at which you are more receptive.
I have alluded to sewing and obsessing about a project. Basically I fell in love with a pincushion that I saw somewhere on the Internet. In all of my blog wandering. I thought it might be a cool Christmas gift for my sister. Of course I did not write the site down. So then my mind started thinking about designing a pincushion. The very most perfect pincushion that could possibly be made for my sister. Nothing less would do. I figured out a size. I knew I wanted to work with felt and embroidery floss. And I started cutting and sewing and decorating.
I sent off the pincushion to my sister. I sent one to my mother (who's dog thought it was a toy). I sent one to my Secret Pal Six. And I just keep making them. Thinking of new designs and new colors and new shapes.:
This is what I have finished.
I am considering putting them up for sale on Etsy.com. They are very good occupational therapy for my seasonal affective thing and the current anxiety but they are going to overrun my house if I don't find something to do with them. They are nicely made, all hand-sewn, weighted with a lentil-filled beanie bottom. They are decorated with colors and shapes and some beads and some flowers and some pretty threads. They are anywhere from three and half inches square to two and a half inches cubed to four inches round to four inches triangled.
What do we think?
So, New Year. Hmmmmm. Pretty much not a big thing for me. I have not been a fan of New Year's Eve for a long time. There are a couple of particularly dreadful New Year's Eve incidents that illustrate precisely why I am so indifferent to the occasion. But they are long and convoluted and they are ancient history. The short version is that I have had several New Year's Eves where I ended up alone or ditched or walking down the side of the road at 3:00 am. I cannot recall a shining example of good times and auld lang syne on any New Year's Eve. I can recall tears and hurt feelings and anger and disappointment aplenty.
I made the decision at some point that I would not go out or get dressed up or celebrate unless someone was paying me to do so. I have worked on New Year's Eve many times. These occasions have marked some of the best New Year's Eves I can remember. I was sober, woke up without a hangover and had a large sum of cash in my pocket. Deposited therein by many drunken people in exchange for contributing to their drunken revelry. I have called cabs and picked people up off of the bathroom floor. But at the end of the night I have returned to my quiet home and left the disaster zone behind.
Since leaving the restaurant/bar industry, I have celebrated in my pyjamas while watching some television or a movie. I usually make a nice dinner. This year was pot roast with roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. It was delicious. The gravy was just this side of heavenly. Full of red wine and carmelized carrots and onions and garlic. There was a brief acknowledgement of the moment it became 2006. But really it was just a moment. There were no noisemakers except for the neighbours shooting off fire works.
