Laura, Queen of the Universe

Still Whiny

2012-01-18T15:17:00.000-08:00

I'm in love with this song....I'm immersing myself in music, in writing, in anything trying to pull myself out of this dark hole I've crawled into.

Wherein I Whine About Being Sick

2012-01-15T16:27:00.001-08:00

It's been a long time. I've been in hiding, both here on the blog and in my own life. I've been in pain, been anxious and depressed. I'm currently waiting to feel well enough to go and help one of my cousins with a dehoarding project. Ironic, that I'm the one trying pull myself together to help someone else clean their house when my house looks like someone dropped a small bomb in the living room.

There was a SCENE last night. In capital words with screaming and tears and accusations. We've had this weekend in the works for awhile, my cousin collects stuff in a major way...clothes, movies, crap...just tons of stuff. Shoes she doesn't and will never wear, clothes in sizes way too small that she hopes to fit one day. It's depressing. And this, from me, the queen of the messy house. My mess, though is of a life lived now...not for the someday, "if" future.

Anyway, earlier this week there was an accident...Lily, the rat terrier I've been fostering for months pushed Charlie under the car as I was coming down the hill from my aunt's house. He has a broken pelvis, but with rest he should make a complete recovery. However, it was touch and go, and because the emergency vet didn't get a great x-ray, I spent the weekend thinking I was going to have put Charlie to sleep. It was so scary and awful. Charlie is my baby, my boy...my best friend (well, after the Archeaogoddess, of course). He got me through the break up with the EG. He's the one who is there at night when I'm hurting, when I'm up all night testing the midget's blood sugar, when I have a panic attack and can't find my pills. I love him, and the thought of losing him was killing me.

So, as I've mentioned before stress makes everything worse. Stress causes major flares. I've been flaring all week, and then on Thursday night, the midget had soaring blood sugars that wouldn't correct (fucking adolescent hormones collide with fucking diabetes) and I was up all night...so by Friday morning, I was done in. I slept nearly all day. I was supposed to do my grocery shopping for the meals for this dehoarding weekend, but since I couldn't hardly walk to my bathroom, grocery shopping was out.

So, that led to yesterday, which was nearly as bad as Friday. I was in agony (oh and did I mention the part where my doctor took two days too long to refill my pain meds, so I spent a day in narcotic withdrawal this week, too) and exhausted, but I finally dragged my ass out of the house at around 2 in the afternoon and headed to the grocery store and did not only my shopping, but shopping for the cousin we are dehoarding as well. I had sent a note to my other cousin and my sister-in-law who were coming to help dehoard telling them that they'd better not back out, and I can't say that it was a nice note. I'm not in a good place, and I panicked because I thought that they weren't going to show up, and I've felt so responsible for the one cousin for so long, and I just can't take it anymore. I'm not making it on my own, and feeling responsible for someone besides the midget is wearing on me.

So, of course, the fact that I made a big fuss and then wasn't able to come through didn't go over well. I walked in to a very hostile situation. My cousin was furious that I hadn't made it there earlier, that I didn't call all day and let her know that I wasn't going to be there until then. (Not the cousin we're trying to dehoard, but the other one.) She called me a liar, said I wasn't sick, that I just chose to flake, that I could never be counted on, that I take advantage of everyone.

I flipped. I told her she was a selfish bitch who takes advantage of her sister, and only cares about herself and that I was done. I wanted to leave. I was hysterical at that point. It was an echo of everything that the EG had said to me. It's my constant fear...that people think I'm making this up, that I'm choosing to stay in bed, choosing to not do all the things I want to do.

And then I wonder, how the hell can anyone think that. I was always a flaky bitch, it's true...but I was a flaky bitch who did stuff. I hiked and camped and went on road trips and cleaned my house and went out for dinner with friends. And I'd sell my soul to be that girl again. It kills me when I have to cancel on something because my body defies me. I'm so tired...and it's not the good tired of knowing you've accomplished something. It's an exhaustion that is painful. Breathing takes effort. Typing hurts...not just my joints, but the tips of my fingers, my skin actually hurts.

My sister-in-law made me stay, insisted we all talk it out. And we did, for an hour...but I don't think I made any headway making it clear that I'm sick. That Lupus is real...that I don't choose to stay in bed, that I don't choose to give up everything that matters in my life. There were lots of tears and accusations.

Following, as it did, on this hell of a week, needless to say it didn't help the flare. I'm beyond useless today. The pain pills aren't touching the pain today. I want to scream and cry and I'm holding it together for the midget's sake. I'm contemplating a trip to the ER for a pain shot, but I am terrified to ask anyone for a ride. I can't bear to hear again how I let them down, how I let everyone down all the time, and that even this is just to make people believe me.

And it's stupid. My doctors verify that I'm sick. I know I'm sick, but it took so long to get anyone to believe me that I'm still scared that I'm just crazy, that it's all in my head. This is what chronic illness is, this is what invisible diseases do. I want to wear a sign that says I have Lupus, and Fibromyalgia and RA and no thyroid, and bipolar disorder and panic disorder and it causes me extreme pain and fatigue and a million other symptoms. And the worst part of it...the very worst thing is that I'm never going to get better. I mean, hopefully someday I'll have some sort of remission, or I'll find the right cocktail of drugs to get my symptoms under control, but I'm not ever going to be healed, it will always be a part of me, and looking into the future 30, 40, 50 years down the road and knowing that it'll always be this way...that alone is enough to make me want to burrow down into the bed and never come out...but I do.

Anytime I have any strength I do get out of bed, and I do what I can. I try to live my life the best I can in the gaps between the bad days, the bad weeks, the bad months. I hate that I can't be a good friend, a good cousin, a good mom. I want to apologize for myself all the time, to apologize for the disease, and then I feel like, I'm the sick one, shouldn't someone apologize to me, shouldn't someone come and help me?

I hate being sick, I really fucking hate being sick.

Profound

2011-11-23T02:40:00.000-08:00

It's been a rough week. Very, very rough.

I woke up on Friday with a sore throat, feeling slightly congested. I was irritated. A cold? The flu? Why? And why now? My BFF, the Archaeogoddess, is here, in our tiny hometown. For the first time in four years, we are on the same continent, just minutes from each other, and I have big plans to spend a lot of time with her. As much as I can manage. I want to grasp every moment I possibly can. I want to chat with her husband. And I desperately want to meet her baby daughter. It is agony to have your best friend have her first baby when she is so far away. So, I resolved...I just would not get sick. That's all there was to it.

Bring on the tea, and the rest. Think positive.

Useless. Of course.

Saturday I felt worse and by Sunday, I knew it was Strep at best, though I began to suspect it might be worse. I knew I had a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, so I thought I'd suck it up and hold out until then. One of the big disadvantages of small town life is the lack of an Urgent Care facility. Basically, if you can't get an appointment with a doctor if you need one quickly, your only other choice is the Emergency Room. I've been told time and again not to wait too long before making this choice. Doing so puts me in a bad place. My pain levels grow, my exhaustion deepens, and my immune system, always wrong, always misfiring, will completely go haywire.

Monday was horrible. I had a fever. I also had an afternoon planned with the Archaeogoddess her husband and Spawn. But, besides the risk to the sixth month old baby, The Archaeogoddess' brother has just recently had chemo, and though he is now cancer free, his immune system isn't in great shape. I can't justify the risk of that exposure, so I cancelled. And then I hung up the phone and cried. I sobbed and hurt so much. I hadn't felt like that since...well....since the god awful break up with the EG. Maybe not even then. I just felt so angry and hopeless, and so completely and utterly sad.

Being chronically sick has robbed me of so much, and now it's stealing the few precious hours I have to be in the same room with the person I love most in the world, after the Midget. I got home that day from having to accompany my cousin and her daughter to the dentist (long, long story) and took a short rest and woke up and realized that waiting just the 18 short hours to the following morning's appointment was a bad idea. My chest started hurting and I was coughing up green mucus. I could not wait.

At the ER, I was lectured about waiting and diagnosed with bronchitis and a sinus infection. I was given high dose antibiotics, a pain shot and a higher script for prednisone for the week. I went home dejectedly, and a little giddy from the pain shot, and called the Archaeogoddess and told her I'd have to put off the visit, and what with Thanksgiving and all, I might not be able to see her until Saturday.

This morning's doctor's appointment was for my disability paperwork. My doctor wanted to see me before he filled it out, to really get a clear idea of my physical state as it applies to tasks... It was entertaining to hear him complain about the hoops that someone who is sick has to jump through to get the help they need. And then he said something to me that he'd never said before. He looked me in the face and said "In my opinion, you have a profound level of disability."

Profound: a : characterized by intensity of feeling or quality

b : all encompassing : complete <profound sleep> <profound deafness>

I know this. I know that I am unable to do more than the simplest tasks without exhaustion, pain and weakness. Grocery shopping requires two days of rest beforehand, and at least three days of recovery afterwards. Some days, simply showering takes all the energy I have. This has been my reality for quite some time now. And yet...hearing it from a doctor in that definite, declarative fashion was like a kick in the stomach. It literally took my breath away. This is real. I am disabled. A vindication of sorts after years of begging doctors to just figure out what's wrong. And a deep sense of loss.

When I remember the person I was before all this started...it hurts. I miss my old life, my old self, in a physically painful manner. I miss my friends, I miss having a social life. I miss hiking and camping. I miss working, and feeling like I did something that mattered. I miss being able to clean my house from top to bottom in one day. This is what being sick has taken from me.

I know, though, that I am blessed in so many ways. I have so many amazing people in my life who love me. I have my beautiful, fantastic daughter. I am not homeless. I can see and hear, and walk (as long as it's not too far, doesn't have anything to do with stairs and hills and I can rest when I'm done) and talk. It could be worse. But, that knowledge doesn't really make it easier to be sick.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love the food, the family. I love the sense of tradition in our family on that day, being together, laughing and enjoying each other's company without the stress of Christmas and all it's commercial burdens. I usually cook the vast majority of the meal. This year, however, I am making only stuffing and rolls. I won't be up early in the morning to get the turkey in the oven. I won't be cutting and peeling sweet potatoes or mashing regular spuds. And I'm pissed because I love doing those things, but I just can't. If I want to have a fighting chance at being able to have a party for the Archaeogoddess on Saturday, I have to rest and conserve energy. I have to accept the reality of sitting on the couch with my heating pad while others cook.

I am so sad. I feel hollowed out and bereft.

Tomorrow, I'll get up, get dressed and smile. I'll go to my sister's house and enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner with her and my niece and my daughter. I'll remind myself of all that I have to be thankful for, and look forward to seeing my BFF this weekend. I'll breathe in and out. But, tonight, I feel profoundly alone, profoundly sad, and profoundly bereft.

A New Anthem

2011-11-18T23:05:00.000-08:00

You know how you meet some people and you think they should come with a warning label, up front? I'm probably one of those people. To people who know me well, the fact that I'm a bitch is just sort of how things are...just a part of me. Like the big hair and even bigger ass.

People who don't like me say it like it's a bad thing, and maybe it is. But, I'm a fiercely loyal bitch, so if I love you, I'm in your corner 100% and even though I'm likely to say something like, "You know, you're nice to the point of stupidity..." I'm also going to give you the shirt off my back if you need it and cook you a warm meal.

I'm loving this song right now. It's cheesy and sort of gimmicky, but definitely catchy, and really fun.

Crazy With Anger

2011-11-05T00:10:00.000-07:00

I live in a small town. A very small town...actually a collection of small towns referred to by residents and former residents as "The County." Yes, we capitalize it because it's a proper name, you see.

One of the benefits of living in a small town is that you are always running into people you know. This means people stop their cars in the middle of the street to chat, that we say "Hi" and give hugs in grocery markets. It also means if your battery dies or you have a flat tire, if you wait a few minutes someone you know will be along and you can get some help. It also means you see your ex a lot...or your ex's ex.

I try to think of myself as an essentially good person. I don't always succeed in thinking of myself that way, but I usually do. I try not to hurt people, and when I do hurt someone, it's usually unintentional, though I must admit to having a wee vindictive streak. This streak usually manifests itself in mostly harmless ways. I giggle when something bad happens to someone I don't like. Okay...I'll be honest. There are only three people in this world I actively dislike. The EG, her current wife, and the midget's former stepmother. And, unfortunately, they all still live in my county. Sightings have become rare because we just don't move in the same circles. The EG and her wife no longer have children attending the same school as my nieces, and I don't go out to the bars, where the midget's former stepmother hangs out.

However, because those sightings have become so rare, when they do, I kinda go crazy with anger. Thankfully, the more recent sightings have been while we're both in separate cars, I have managed to avoid any kind of major incident. I really don't need a criminal record at this point, and frankly, I'm pretty sure they could all take me. It's not exactly a difficult thing to do...I'm sort of fragile these days.

It's just....I don't wanna be that person. The crazy with anger person. I really need to believe that, deep down, I'm a good person. And good people don't go around assaulting other people, no matter how much provocation one might have endured.

I was listening to music tonight, as I usually do when I'm troubled by something, and I've got Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood by Nina Simone on repeat. And this is what's resonating with me tonight:

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good,
Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.

So, yeah, while I may lunge out my window and offer a less than appropriate hand gesture, or spew epithets in their general direction, it's not as though I'm actively sabotaging them, or sending them envelopes full of Anthrax, and that's gotta count for something, right?

My Owl, Hoot-Hoot

2011-10-30T01:33:00.000-07:00

When I was a wee girl...not yet the fabulous Queen of the Universe you know and love, I had a stuffed owl that went by the inventive name Hoot-Hoot. The thing was basically an oval cylinder made from brown shag carpeting, stuffed with newspaper, and it's bottom was made from cardboard. This thing was ugly. I've searched the internet to see if I could find anything that even vaguely resembled it. This is the closest I've come....only mine was much, much uglier, and uniformly brown.

I don't know where it came from or when I got it. I only know that I loved it intensely and it was my steadfast and constant companion for quite awhile. I don't know what made it so appealing. It was made from carpeting, stuffed with newspaper, so it wasn't especially soft or cuddly. In fact, it was quite rough and pokey. But, I loved it nonetheless. I spent hours smoothing the shag away from the glass eyes, touching the felt that made up it's beak...hugging it and loving it and carrying it places.

Unfortunately, my penchant for carrying it with me everywhere is what led us to part ways. I left it behind on a beach one night. I know we returned briefly to look for it, to no avail. I was devastated. Hoot-Hoot was one of a kind, obviously (because who else would want such a hideously uncomfortable stuffed toy?) and my family was poor, so when my sister or I broke or lost even the most treasured possessions, there were never replacements. This meant we took care of our toys and kept track of them far better than the midget and her cousins do. My nieces, nephews and daughter have so many more things...my daughter less so than her cousins, but even the midget is spoiled silly. I can honestly say that I never had even a fraction of the sheer amount of "stuff" the midget has.

Hoot-Hoot has not been a part of my life for 30 years, but a loss like that one is not one that's easily forgotten. I've told many people about my awful beloved owl over the years. And even though I still miss the thing as an adult, it never occurred to me to try and replace Hoot-Hoot. After all, it was entirely unique, and the adult Queen of the Universe has no real need for such a thing, even if I could find one. And frankly, if I'm going to spend any money on myself for an item that's not a necessary or practical item, it's likely to be a book. It's exceedingly rare for me to buy myself "things." All of the knick knacks or ornamental items I own are gifts from other people, with the exception of a single cobalt blue vase I bought myself back when the EG used to give me flowers often.

While perusing the Build a Bear website with my cousins, talking about gifts for the kids, I came across an owl. An adorable orange owl with multicolored polka dots. I immediately went into a coveting mode. However, since I'm still waiting for financial aid and my disablility claim to come through, there is no money for such things, even if I were inclined to spend the money on myself.

Tonight, though, my cousin came home from a trip to the Bay Area, and brought me the stuffed owl. I squeed and hugged it to my chest like a small child. Yes, it's an item now owned by little girls everywhere, so it's not unique like Hoot-Hoot was, but that doesn't make it less wonderful. She even had the sound thingy put in it, so that when you press it's tummy it hoots. I'm absolutely in love with this owl. And even more in love with my family. I am reminded, once again, how lucky I am to be surrounded by people who love me...not just my family, but my biofamily, and my best friend as well. It's a lot more than that sad little three year old girl who loved an ugly owl ever imagined she'd have in her life.

Fat Girl

2011-10-06T01:26:00.001-07:00

I'm sure every one's seen this photo making it's way around Facebook, along with a story about being a mermaid versus a whale. My older sister shared it today, as did something like 180,000 other people. The woman in the picture is a French model by the name of Tara Lynn. I love this photo...not just because she's gorgeous, but also because she's fearless. She isn't asking you to be okay with her body. This is not a woman who is asking for your acceptance. She doesn't even look it's crossed her mind that she somehow needs your acceptance.

I am, and, except for a brief period in my late teens, always have been, overweight, fat...whatever you want to call it. I'm also pale white, and freckled, with big, frizzy hair. I cannot say that loving who I saw in the mirror came easily for me. Don't get me wrong. I definitely had my days when I knew I looked good, but there has always been a little asterisk by that "I look good" feeling. It's always been, "I look good, but..." As in, I look good, but I could lose some weight. I look good, but I wish my hair was straight. I look good, if only it weren't for those damn freckles.

I spent my teenage years hiding my body inside of large baggy clothes. I didn't start wearing tank tops until I was in my 20s because I didn't want people to see that my shoulders were freckled. I look back at the pictures of myself then, and I think, why did hide myself? Even now, in my mid 30s, I wish I could look the way I did back then...and I hated how I looked back then.

Being a "woman of size" (blech, what an ugly term that is) I've had more than my fair share of ugly comments about my body. And though I try at this point in my life to not internalize what other people think about me, it isn't easy. Hell, even when the comment isn't about me, I get upset when someone is disparaged because of their weight. For instance, I'm a fanatic liberal who can't even begin to comprehend ever casting my vote for a conservative, but the last few weeks, as speculation about New Jersey governor Chris Christie's potential for a run at the presidency was hotly debated, I steamed at the sheer number of articles and opinion pieces that said he was simply too fat to be president. Too fat to be president? How is that even possible? I mean, I know there's an age limit, but I'm damn sure there isn't a weight limit. And in this country, with all the issues that are weighing us down (pardon the pun), how the fuck can we even justify asking questions about a man's weight? I won't elect him because he's a conservative douche bag, but these idiots talking about his weight minimize the real issues and just keep stuffing the same bullshit down the throats of fat people everywhere.

Basically, in our society, it's okay to hate someone because they're fat. And the hatred is rampant. I can honestly say that I feel more disenfranchised because I'm fat than I do because I'm bisexual, and straddling that fence is no picnic, let me tell you. I don't understand why there is so much hatred. I hear the health card, and I get it. Yep, there are lots of health conditions that are related to being overweight. But, if it was genuine concern for health, there wouldn't be such venomous hatred being spewed every where you look. Something about fat people sets others on edge for a reason I have yet to comprehend.

On the flip side, you have fat girls who call all thin women sticks, and toothpicks and other uncomplimentary terms. As though those are the only two views...either you can despise the fatties, or you can despise the skinnies. As a fat girl, I know that feeling when you look at a thin woman, the epitome of what our society deems to be beautiful, and you hate her because you can't look like her. I've said mean things about skinny girls, demeaned them as though that makes my fatness somehow more acceptable. Take the term "real woman" as an example. How many fat girls have you heard say something like, why don't we see images of "real women" in the magazines and on our televisions screens. As though somehow being a size 4 makes a woman less real than one who is a size 18.

I've wondered, whilst reading or listening to particularly venomous hatred of us fatties what causes it. I mean, when a bunch of fat girls are talking about skinny women and calling them "skeletons" and saying they need to eat a sandwich, we know that deep down, those girls hate the skinny girl because she has what they do not, which is the ideal body type...basically, the want to be her, and since they cannot, better to heap abuse upon her in order to make themselves feel better about who they are. I often wonder if the fat hatred comes from that same place...not because these people want to be fat, but because somewhere inside themselves they don't like who they are, so it's far easier to take that anger and disgust and throw it on me, the fat girl in the next booth at a restaurant eating the exact same meal you're eating. After all, I'm fat, and you are smaller than I am, so that makes you a better person.

I wish I could simply tell myself to ignore the fat hatred, or rather I wish I could make myself actually ignore the fat hatred. I've tried...believe me, I've tried. For awhile I was doing the HNT pictures and that did help with my self confidence a bit, and reminded me that simply being fat wasn't enough of a reason to hate myself, that being fat doesn't make me less human, less deserving of love and acceptance.

My sincere hope, and I feel it isn't too far fetched of an ideal, is that the discourse on appearance, fat or thin, will someday become less volatile, and less filled with hatred. Our bodies, whether they are thin or fat, simply don't deserve the level of vitriol we spew at them. And it says something about us as a culture that even the way we discuss something like weight is so polarizing. Tolerance, a term that has been so overused and misused that it almost has no meaning anymore, doesn't exist in our society. Freedom is the rallying cry for so many, but what it's come to mean is freedom only for those who look and think like me.

My Music

2011-09-30T15:49:00.000-07:00

A million years ago, when the midget was a mere babe in arms, and the EG (from now on, the exgirlfriend will simply be referred to as EG)and I had just started dating (for lack of a better term), we were young, and energetic, and my body hadn't yet betrayed me. We were able to stay up all night talking, listening to music and still handle the rigors of baby duty the next day. We also went on road trips...sometimes for the day, and sometimes longer. Music was always always a big part of that. The latest cd from whatever indie artist we were obsessed with at the time in the cd player, and often we were on our way to show, or back from a show.

Whatever. It was always about the music back then. In many ways, I'm still that way. I'm a notorious dictator when it comes to the music in my car, or any car I'm driving. I try to drive as much as possible just to be able to be the one who controls the stereo. Even if I have similar music tastes as the other people in the car, I want my music, not their version of the same songs.

I was big into mix tapes, and then cds, back in the day before my iPod came into my life. There's not a radio station out there that plays what I love. I've even tried building a station on Pandora to hear new stuff that might interest me. But, either I'm just really, really picky, or I somehow short circuit Pandora's algorithms when I type in Waylon Jennings, Eminem, Melissa Ferrick, Ani Difranco, Britney Spears, Nine Inch Nails, The Eagles, The Mamas and The Papas, New Kids on the Block (yes, I hear you laughing) etc... Once, in my late teens/early twenties my entire cd book was stolen out of the car and I was sooo pissed. Because you know whoever stole it, flipped through it, went Huh? and dumped in the trash somewhere.

While I still listen to nearly everything I listened to in the early days of life with the midget and the EG, I obviously don't get to live shows very often. And this sucks, since some of the artists I love (Melissa Ferrick and Abandon Theory to name a few) are very independent artists whose music you won't hear on the radio or see on TV, so you would usually hear new music at their shows, and that's where you'll buy the cd for 10 or 15 bucks. These days, (since I'm a broke-ass bitch) I don't get to shows, and even if I did, I can't afford the cds. Most of what I listen to now I "borrow" from the internet. I dislike doing this for indie artists because the only way they can make money to keep playing the music I love is for me and their other fans to buy the music, and go to the shows. I don't feel guilty for downloading an old Nine Inch Nails album I used to have, but either lost or destroyed somewhere along the way, but I feel mucho guilt when it's someone whose very artistic career depends on the cds they sell. Trent Reznor will still be able to play and make music if me and a hundred others download his albums...Abandon Theory may not.

Anyway...I had a point back before my tangent, at least I think I did... I miss going to shows, or being able to buy new music. And an eensy little part of me misses having someone in the house who can play music. Not enough to ever date a musician again, but still...just a little. I guess I miss the spontaneity and the freedom of being young and healthy. It's been said before, by people a lot older than I, but youth really is wasted on the young. I would love to have a word or two with my younger self about squandering all those possibility filled days on the couch back in my younger years. Had I known I was going to run out of fuel so early...well...best not to focus too much on what I might have done, I suppose.

So, I don't know that I have a point, except to introduce the reason why I'm posting yet another video. I spent part of today cruising YouTube for music, and found this. It's live, which is pretty much the only way to listen to Melissa Ferrick, because even though she's an accomplished studio musician, there is something about her energy that doesn't translate. It may be why she never achieved widespread fame, despite an early recording contract with a "real" record label. It's called I'm Gonna Break Your Heart and it's emotionality is rough, but that's one of the things I love most about her music. I'd love to see her play again, but the closest she usually comes is San Francisco, a three hour drive away, and I doubt that anytime she's there I'll magically have the energy to drive all that way, then stand in line at whatever club she's playing, and then stand through the show, even supposing I could come up with the money to make it happen. However, should you find out she's in your city, you should go and see her play. She's sheer genius...brilliantly talented, fantastically educated, and not too hard on the eyes...

Music Friday

2011-09-23T15:40:00.000-07:00

I've been updating my playlists on my iPod, and every time I do that, I run into a song or three or twelve that I really love that I haven't heard in a long time, and they get stuck on repeat. Today, it's a Fiona Apple number...it reminds me to like who I am.

Hope all my peeps out there have a beautiful weekend.

Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine

If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it, the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me, or treat me mean
I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine

I Still Miss Her....

2011-09-17T21:43:00.000-07:00

Not the exgirlfriend, if that's what you though when you saw the title. I miss this girl:

It's been over two years since she went missing. Unfortunately her loss got overshadowed by the break up with the exgirlfriend. While I wouldn't so much as throw a cup of water on the exgirlfriend if she were on fire, I'd give nearly anything to have Cera back.

There are some losses you never get over.

Video Thursday

2011-09-08T20:01:00.000-07:00

I love Adele. Love her voice, love her music...she's beautiful. And this song "Rolling in the Deep"...it's phenomenal. I had it on constant repeat for a while, and it's still in my top ten most played on my iPod. I just never get tired of it.

Ellwood...Cute, But Dumb as a Rock

2011-09-06T07:11:00.001-07:00

We went on a family camping trip over Labor Day weekend. I left most of the dogs at home to be fed and let out by my sister one night, and a cousin the rest of the time. Ellwood, however, is sort of special needs. In addition to needing his food prepared specially, he also can't be left outside in the heat for extended periods of time. Boston Terriers, like Pugs, are brachycephalic, which is a big, fancy word that means they have squished in faces which make it a lot harder for them to regulate air temperature.

Most dogs have long snouts and those snouts serve to cool hot air or warm cold air as the dog breathes in. Bostons, with their flatter faces can't regulate their air temperatures as easily, which means that they overheat very quickly if left out in the heat for an extended period of time.

Plus...Ellwood is really, really dumb, so he just cannot be left to his own devices. It doesn't take much to confused Ellwood, and he's easily distracted...unless there is food involved, at which point he becomes overly focused. So, rather than add the burden of caring for Ellwood to the already overworked dogsitter's list, I took him with me.

I'd like to write about the great weekend we had, and all of Ellwood's cuteness as he was loved on and petted and kissed by the little ones, but there is one defining moment of the camping experience that I simply cannot get past. On our first night there, as I was sitting in a camp chair with Ellwood on my lap...out of nowhere, the dog POOPED. ON. MY. LAP!! No warning, nothing. He was just sitting there calmly,watching the others put up a tent, and then there was a great big dog turd on my lap.

I love my dogs, I do...but poop? Excrement? On my lap? Really? Oh, Ellwood...you idiot....

Too Safe?

2011-08-27T17:21:00.001-07:00

When it comes to your child's safety, can you be too safe? I've pondered this idea for awhile now, especially since so much has changed since the midget was little, so just the last 7-12 years, basically. When the midget was little, babies were supposed to sleep on their sides to prevent SIDS, but now they're on their backs again. Back-facing car seat until 20 pounds, and front-facing after that. The midget was in a front facing car seat at about four or five months, whereas now that's not legal or safe until a year of age. So, apparently the midget was unsafe for about 8 months. Horrible parent, aren't I?

And then, when she was 4, and well over the legal 40 pound limit, I stopped struggling with the car seat in the back of our tiny Hyundai. And now, the law says she wasn't safe until she was 4' 9" and 80 pounds. I was reminded of all this thanks to a fantastic rant by my beloved Archaeogoddess on the difficulties of car seats. And, because I'd just finished reading this I thought it was an interesting question, can our kids be too safe?

When I was growing up, we didn't have seat belts half the time, let alone car seats. Our moms put us on our tummies to sleep. Stranger danger was a newish concept, and the dangers of pedophiles were talked about only in cheesy after school specials, and yet, most of us grew up more or less okay.

When my oldest niece was born, I remember thinking that her mother was going to suffocate her because she was obsessed with safety. I held the child once in her baby days because I couldn't handle all the instructions--"Don't kiss the baby! We're too concerned about germs!" "Hold her like this, not like that!"--and on and on. I remember thinking, "Ya know, I've had one of these, and she's still alive and sound...that's her over there, remember?"

Not coincidentally, my oldest niece was plagued with colds and bronchitis that led to so many ear infections that she had tubes put in at the age of two. Her growth was also delayed due to her many illnesses. You see, when you don't expose a baby to germs, their immune systems don't get the strength they need that comes with the experience of fighting off small infections. Said niece, though I love her dearly, is also the most spoiled and willful of all the children, and that's saying something. She is a victim (for lack of a better term) of helicopter parenting.

Helicopter parenting, so common today, is my deepest fear for the children of the midget's generation. They are protected from everything, even the dangers of accepting their own failures...there are no longer winners and losers in games or competitions for the sake of saving the feelings of these precious little darlings, and I get it, I do. I know I hated it when the midget was sad because she didn't win at a game, or another kid didn't like her, but that's life. You aren't going to always be the winner, and not everyone is always going to like you, and that's easier to handle it when you learn how to deal with it an early age. It's very difficult to reach the age of 18 or 21 or whenever Mommy finally cuts the apron strings, if you don't know how to deal with all of those things. If you've always been protected, you don't learn how to protect yourself.

I am not saying put your kid alone in room with glass shards to keep them from leaving and fill their bottle with codeine cough syrup rather than springing for a babysitter. (That's what duct tape is for). Nor should you ignore the common sense stuff...vaccinate, use seat belts and car seats, and for the love of god, don't put their names on their backpacks and sweatshirts to make it that much easier for strangers to gain their trust. But, at the same time...let them get kisses from aunties, even if they catch a cold, let them skin their knees and feel the sorrows of coming in last. This world is not always safe and soft and protecting, and we aren't always going to be there to catch them, so they need to learn how to protect themselves.

Because, after all...in the end you are not raising a child. You are raising a person who will one day be a responsible adult, one that must stand on her own two feet, without the training wheels, without the bubble wrap, and without Mommy's sheltering embrace.

Where the hell have I been?

2011-08-18T22:19:00.000-07:00

I know my regular readers are down to checking once a week or so to see if I've written (well, those who don't have a blogroll which tells them when I've done so), but since you are regular readers, then this doesn't surprise you. I'm a flaky bastard on a good day, and since good days haven't been too numerous around here, lately, mostly what I've done is deal with the midget's insulin pump start and look at pictures of cute puppies on my computer.

Anyway...to bring you (all five or six of you) up to speed, the midget is on an insulin pump now, and I love that thing more than...well, there are no words to tell you howm\ much I love that damn thing. It looks like a pager (you remember pagers, right?) and it's attached to my kid, or else I'd dry hump the damn thing I love it so much. It has made such a difference in the way we handle her diabetes, and it's only been on her body for two weeks, and I'm not yet as savvy about its software as I will be at some point. First and foremost, I only poke a needle in to the midget's skin once every three days (well, less if a site fails or we have some other issue, but usually three days). I don't give her long acting insulin any more, which is fantastic because the long acting insulin burns. We are also able to tell, at any given moment, just how much insulin is active in her system...and since we know how much one unit of insulin brings her blood sugar down, we've avoided numerous low blood sugars. It's brilliant!

The diabetes care isn't the reason I haven't been blogging, well, not the main reason. If the midget didn't have diabetes that requires my attention, I might have used the little energy I had for blogging, but then, I might not have. When I feel like crap, I only do what I have to do and these days, the only thing that falls under that heading is taking care of the midget. As parents everywhere will tell you, parenting is a full time job...you don't get to take time off even when your body is screaming for you to do so. So, the midget got taken care of, but very little else got done. It's been a pretty bad summer, which means all my lovely plans of spending nearly every day at the pool were vanquished. We had a few pool days,and even one water park (I prayed for death the next day) but, summer's over and I can safely say we didn't spend even a quarter of it at the pool. Or the lake. And the one day we did make it to the lake, I felt to crappy to even try to swim.

I've been fighting a very nasty chest pain off and on since March. The CT scan done before I got my gall bladder removed showed fluid around my heart, which was goodish, since I'd had several EKGs and knew I wasn't having a heart attack. But, obviously, fluid around the heart is bad. It's not terrible, but definitely not good...and my regular doctor, who while not anyone's vote for sweetheart of the year, is good enough, at least, to know when he doesn't know something. So, off the cardiologist I went. The cardiologist ordered another ECG (different from an EKG) and said that in his opinion, the inflammation, and resulting fluid, he saw were text book examples of Lupus. He also said that at this time, there is no need for surgery (Yay!) but that he wants me to go back to the rheumatologist and get started on treatment, which, since I'm already on high doses of NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatories)which are clearly having no effect on the inflammation, will be steroids. I've taken short courses of steroids in the past, and while I hate them, they are preferable to any long term, lasting damage to my heart.

I so meant to write a longer, more entertaining post, but I've run out of energy, and if I don't just put this up now, it'll go into the huge pile of drafts I've already got and it will never be done. So, pretend I said something funny...

Happy Sunday!

2011-07-03T09:12:00.000-07:00

One of my new favorite songs The midget's father's new girl played it for me yesterday, and I laughed and laughed and laughed. I don't ever genuinely wish bad things for people, really I don't...

I'm Not Even Breastfeeding....

2011-07-02T01:27:00.000-07:00

...and yet I feel compelled to jump into the fray. Because it's a big deal, apparently, this whole breastfeeding/formula fracas.

That's right...I haven't posted anything in over a month, and rather than write about something relevant to my life...you know, like about how I have pericardial effusion (fancy-schmancy term for fluid around the heart), and am now waiting to see a cardiologist. Instead, I'm going to write about this breastfeeding stuff.

When I was breastfeeding, the internet was still in it's fairly early days, and hardly anyone had blogs or got all their medical information online. Now everyone has a blog, and half of us diagnose ourselves via WebMD before we even make our doctor's appointments.

I was 22 when I had the midget. Young enough that I wasn't really prepared to be a mom, but old enough that no one saw me and went "Oh Em Gee, babies having babies!" Or whatever judgmental thing people say about teen moms. I was pretty big into the natural stuff, natural childbirth, breastfeeding. I figured I would have a baby the old fashioned way and feed her the old fashioned way.

I went ahead with the natural childbirth, but only because I got to the hospital four hours before the midget passed through my birth canal. About 30 seconds into pushing, I turned to the midget's father and said "I don't want to do this anymore." It didn't help that during the hours leading up to the pushing stage the midget's father would look at the monitor and say, "Oh, you're having a contraction, and it's a big one!" And I was all...no shit, Asshole. Because being in labor makes you say stuff like that. And frankly, being me makes you say stuff like that.

So, there I was set to breastfeed this child. I'd read a couple of books, so I totally knew how to do it, right? Wrong. First of all, the midget had low blood sugar at birth and so she needed to be fed...and even if we had been able to manage that whole breast feeding thing, the first couple of days after the birth, a woman's body only produces colostrum, which isn't high in sugar. So, she had formula, and they brought a breast pump in for me to use. Only this was nearly 12 years ago, so it was huge, not one of these cute "comfortable" pumps. It was a monstrosity. But we got through it and by the time she left the hospital her blood sugar was fine and we were breastfeeding sort of. We got through it, especially once my milk came in and we both got the hang of it...only...

I hated breastfeeding. It was "icky." I was 22 and breasts were for fun, not for producing dairy products. But, I persevered. I figured we'd get to a point where I was having those beautiful bonding moments mentioned in every book I read. But it never happened. Every day that I breastfed the midget, I hated it. I was grumpy, and uncomfortable. I had a nasty case of the baby blues, which I still haven't really ever talked about with anyone. I've alluded to it with a few friends, but it was dark. I imagined driving away and leaving my baby with somebody, anybody, sometimes even nobody, as long as I could leave...and that was on good days. I can't bring myself to type the thoughts that went through my mind on bad days. Some day, maybe with therapy...but not now.

Needless to say, the postpartum depression didn't help the breastfeeding challenge. Which is why, when I read this little article tonight, I got furious. When the midget's doctor decided to switch her to soy formula because she was lactose intolerant and that meant no more breast milk, I was thrilled...and I felt like the worst mother in the world. What was wrong with me that I didn't love breastfeeding? Didn't I love my kid?

I just don't get articles like the one I linked to above. How does choosing to feed your child something that is perfectly healthy and formulated perfectly for infant nutrition wrong? Yes, I get it that breastfeeding imparts natural immunities and I'm sure there are women right now judging me and blaming the midget's Type 1 diabetes on her not being breastfed (despite there being no link between formula or breast milk and Type 1 diabetes...so neither is to blame for diabetes, though not breastfeeding does seem to be linked to obesity rates in older children which can lead to type 2 diabetes). But I agonized over hating breastfeeding. I hated that I hated it...that and my not infrequent wish that the squalling midget was far, far away and I was a footloose woman with lots of freedom made me insecure about my parenting for years.

Perhaps not coincidentally, the postpartum depression disappeared not long after I stopped breastfeeding. Once I had no choice but to bottle feed the midget, I could enjoy her feeding times (well, except for the smell of that god-awful soy formula...blech), and because I didn't feel like a walking dairy, I didn't resent her as much. But I couldn't admit to other people that I was glad not to have to breastfeed anymore, because I knew how they'd judge me.

Since then, my most beloved Archaeogoddess has had a child, and we've discussed breastfeeding, including the fact that I hated it. She found an article that showed that there may be a hormonal imbalance that causes some women to dislike breastfeeding. See, because in the natural order of things, breastfeeding is supposed to trigger a hormonal response that causes mother/infant bonding. I was clearly a freak because that didn't happen for me. Or so I thought. And, frankly, the Archaeogoddess is the first person I ever told about my dislike of breastfeeding that didn't automatically think "Bad Mother." Of course, the Archaeogoddess is my go-to person any time I need to talk about something that could potentially cause someone to judge me. Because she doesn't. She doesn't look at me and think "Bad Mother" because I hated breastfeeding...she thought, huh, that's different, maybe there's a reason for that...and it's one of the eight gazillion reasons I'm blessed to have her as my best friend.

Mental illness issues are difficult, but when you don't have someone like the Archaeogoddess in your corner, not judging you it's even worse. I know I'm lucky...I cannot imagine how many women read articles like the one I linked to above and think, what the fuck is wrong with me, and I should just keep my damn mouth shut about hating breastfeeding, or even the idea of it, and unlike me, they don't have a best friend who will simply say, "OK" when being presented with clear evidence that according to the La Leche League their best friend is THE. WORST. MOTHER. EVER.

I get the judging thing, I do...there are times when I see parents giving their tiny monsters everything they want and never saying no, and never disciplining and I think they are the worst parents in the world...or the parents who do just about anything that's going to have a long term impact on a child's ability to function in society, I totally judge them. But judging a parent because they give their child a perfectly healthy substitute for something I choose to feed my kid? No fucking way. And frankly, since I get people evaluating the midget's general diet all the time now (because you know, they are experts on Type 1 diabetes, and they are sure that my kid can't have that diet soda I just gave her, or that candy I just gave her), I almost think I'm more sensitive about the breastfeeding issue now than I was then.

Yes, in a perfect world, every baby would have breast milk, and mothers who have an aversion to breastfeeding could buy or get breast milk donated to them easily. But, we don't live in a perfect world, and there are plenty of mothers who have to choose between their antidepressants and breastfeeding, or other medications and breastfeeding, and they shouldn't be judged for that. It isn't as though they are depriving their child of adequate nutrition. So, shut the fuck up about it. It isn't any one's business what nutritionally sound food you are giving your child. I mean, fine, if you know someone who is filling their kid's bottle with vodka, go ahead and get involved, but even if you think formula is the last thing that would ever cross your baby's lips, it's not your fucking business what that other mother is feeding her kid, or why. Let's focus on the babies who are getting nothing to eat, or the mothers who are watering down formula because they can't afford enough formula, but let's educate them, not judge them, or even better, if you are breastfeeding and you think it's essential for all babies to get breast milk, make yourself part of the solution, find someone in your community raising an infant that's addicted to crack, or a mother who has HIV, and can't breastfeed, and donate your breast milk. And don't go around thinking that the ability to produce milk makes you a better mother than I am...any fucking mammal can produce breast milk, so doing so doesn't make you a good parent, any more than it makes an alley cat a good mother.

Shhh...I'm trying to hear something...

2011-05-23T22:08:00.000-07:00

I'm not big into mysticism, and while I've said things like, "These things happen for a reason" I don't actually mean that I think there's someone or something out there with a plan. Nor do I think that Tarot cards or runes or the I Ching know some secret we don't. However, I do think things like Tarot cards can be useful for understanding things your subconscious is trying to tell you. It can be a useful way to meditate.

On a related note, I had an episode this week that, were I of the mystic mind, I'd say was an indication that the universe was trying to send me a message. For some reason, I had an urge to find a friend of mine from my carnie days. (Long story that I'll go into at some point, but the short of it is, at the age of 12, my biomom took my sister and I out on the road with the carnival for a year and a half.) Through the magic that is Facebook, I found her through her brother as she's since married and changed her name. Ironically, she'd just had a conversation with that same brother about me, well, about us. Said friend and I had an unfortunate habit if curling our bangs about six inches off our foreheads. Hey, it was the '90s. Quit judging me!

So, after an evening spent in fond reminiscence, fell asleep last night going over the happier memories of that period in my life. (Yeah, there are ugly memories, I was after all, a 12 year old in a very shady adult world, but let's not focus on that, shall we?) Then today I spent the day doing a time consuming errand that led to any even more time consuming errand. In the car, on the way there, I heard a song I haven't heard in years. And I mean....maybe 15 years or so. This song was one I listened to obsessively at the time. I wore out a cassette tape listening to the song.

It's all connected, but there are a million tiny coincidences every day that don't throw up this flag, this feeling of connectedness. I feel like my subconscious mind is trying to tell me something. Why is this significant right now? What am I trying to remind myself? Is there something about that time in my life that applies to my life today? Is it just that I'm getting old and that's what we do when we're old, is remember when we were young? No...I'm not that old damn it. I just feel like...I'm missing something here...

And for your listening enjoyment (actually I mean mine, I admit it) here's the song. You probably have never heard it, or if you did, you likely don't remember it, but I loved this song. It's by a girl group from the very early '90s called The Cover Girls. Enjoy, and don't mind me...I'll just be in the corner over here, humming this song and taking a stroll down memory lane.

Blog for Mental Health Day.

2011-05-18T12:58:00.000-07:00

I logged into Twitter today to see so many of my Twitter peeps (Yes, I have peeps...and no, I don't care what you say, I'm not too white to have peeps or say that I have peeps) linking to blog posts about mental health. Apparently, today is blogging for mental health day. Thank God for the Twitter, or I'd never have any fucking idea what day it is.

I found this oddly appropriate as I'm desperately trying to hold off an imminent panic attack, and as it turns out, since I only take my atavan when I'm having a panic attack, I didn't know I was out of them. So...no calming drugs for me, and I have to get through this one on my own. It's not the end of the world, I've done it before, many, many times. But expecting to be able to reach for relief only to find it's not there is disconcerting to say the least.

I've talked before about my bipolar disorder, how the highs make me chatty, keep me up, can aggravate me or turn me into someone who snaps over every little thing, and the lows keep me locked into myself, too sad, too miserable to talk about it. It sucks and I hate it...but given a choice, I'd take bipolar over the anxiety disorder any fucking day of the week.

Anxiety disorder makes me...well, it makes me anxious..but it's so much more. I feel like I can't breathe, my clothes, my skin are too tight, and are suffocating me. My heart pounds, my brain (never really all that slow or rational to begin with) races at lightening speeds with every paranoid thought you can imagine. I've seen numerous therapists and a couple of shrinks, and the general consensus seems to be that the anxiety is a holdover from a childhood so awful that I spend everyday in a state of anxiety, and, as it turns out, these responses become habituated in your brain chemistry, so now...even though I haven't had the cause for the anxiety in over 20 years, even though the main perpetrator in my childhood nightmare is dead and buried, I still get these bursts of panic.

I've tried everything...meditation, exercise, biofeedback, medication...nothing works. Nothing has managed to put a stop to the panic attacks. I take a medication that makes me so that I'm not so anxious I can't leave my house most of the time, but for these burst of adrenalin that kick off the panic? Nothing works because there isn't a pattern or a trigger (though sometimes thinking too much a panic attack can induce one). Most of my panic attacks occur in the middle of the night. I'm either suffering from insomnia and find myself freaking out...or, far worse, I wake up from a dead sleep in the grips of a panic attack. In those moments, the only thing that helps is the atavan. Otherwise, I doom myself to an hour or more of panic...and it sucks, my friends.

By far, the worst panic attacks are the ones that happen in front of other people. My brain just plays the same thought over and over..."What will people think of me?" I've avoided large gatherings for years just to avoid the chance that it might happen in front of other people. Because, I'm already the crazy one...how bad would it be to be even crazier? Even though the people I'm usually around are family or beloved friends, the idea that they would see me that way? Terrifying. Worse still? That those I love would know just how screwed up I am. Used to be I only talked about this with the exgirlfriend...and occasionally my beloved Archaeogoddess.

In recent years I've been trying to be more open...talking about it here, making jokes about it, because that's how I handle things. And, frankly, the fear monster doesn't seem so bad if you can laugh at it.

I know how hard it is for me to talk about, and I'm one of those people who has no problems discussing just about anything else. Pelvic exam post, anyone? So, if it's hard for me? How much harder for other people...you know, people who have filters?

It's time we take the stigma off of mental health. Just like with my Fibro, Grave's and various other illnesses, I didn't ask for this. I didn't make my brain betray me in the worst possible ways. It's time that we stop looking the other way when people we love are in trouble because we don't want to embarrass them. And it's time for us to stop being so damn uncomfortable with mental illness that we write off friends and loved ones who self-medicate as attention seeking addicts. Mental illness affects not just the one who's sick...it affects everyone around me. And pretending like it doesn't can lead to tragedy.

I'm blogging for mental health today. How about you?

And for the record...that panic attack I was talking about? Just writing about it helped so much...maybe I'll try to remember that the next time I wake up feeling like I'm going to crawl out of my skin.

Let's Not Focus on the Negative, Shall We?

2011-04-30T02:54:00.000-07:00

Blurgh...blah, blah, blah...I had emergency gall bladder surgery followed by over six hours in which various and sundry nurses poked needles into my body trying to replace the IV which had fallen out, meaning I had no pain relief for six hours following surgery. Some 30 pokes with a needle later, a man showed up and put a PICC line in my arm. For those of you not familiar with this sort of thing...he cut a hole in my upper right arm on the inside...found one of my very uncooperative veins, and inserted a long tube that delivered saline and whatever meds the nurses saw fit to give me directly to my heart. So, finally, after six agonizing (worse than when I pushed the midget out of my girlie parts, without medication, and a bit longer as well), the PICC line guy walked in after the chest Xray that showed whether he had gotten the line in the right place and said, "Well, I have good news and bad news........(long pause in which I briefly considered quick and painless ways to kill myself without the three people in the room with me stopping me) The good news is there is no bad news." I thought my sister (who held my hair while I vomited from the pain and handed me cold cloths and kept the world updated and tried really hard not to cry herself) was going to launch herself over my bed and murder him. Finally they gave me the drugs and I cried with joy. Did I mention that my kid witnessed me vomiting from pain? Yeah, awesome.

But, here we are...a week after surgery and my staples have been removed, and despite the nasty stomach bug that's putting me through the wringer at the moment...I'm mostly okay. I've lost 15 pounds, and I'm covered in bruises from the many failed IV attempts, but I'm okay...well as okay as I usually am.

I've got an appointment with the Stanford Rheumatology clinic on Monday, and I'm really looking forward to finding a decent plan of treatment for my arthritis, etc...

Anyway, the good happy stuff is what I want to focus on. See, for the last few years I have been rat free. When my last rat passed away a couple of years ago, I decided to simplify my life a bit, and be rat free. Then, my niece bought a couple of pet store rats and against my very strenuous objections, mated them. The resulting two litters were more than she could handle, and the midget and I had been discussing the possibility (okay the midget begged and pleaded and I considered) of getting more rats, and so now we're a rat home again.

We've got three precious little dumbo ratties...one has curly rex hair, two are white and one has a light, champagne colored hood. They are only two months old and it's been ages since I've had little rats and had forgotten what charming little clowns baby rats are. This last week has been difficult, but it's helped to watch the sweet little babies bounce around...watching one build elaborate nests in a tube hammock while his brother busily dismantles it...it's great fun.

So, without further ado, I'd like to introduce my new sweet boys.
On the left is Dre, a champagne hooded boy, in the middle is Buster, a rex PEW (pink-eyed white), and Cee Lo on the left is a sweet little PEW boy. They are so fun and so sweet, so while I really wish my niece had listened to me and not brought new rats in the world when the shelters are bulging with available babies, I am glad they're here.

I'm Late, I'm Late...

2011-04-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

For a very important date...

Okay, I'm not late.

But I do have a date this week. Me...a date...a real life date. With a person I haven't even actually met in person, yet. It's not a big deal...just lunch to get acquainted and see if the interest we're feeling online translates into the real world.

I'm excited and nervous and terrified all at the same time. Which is just silly, because I am not looking for anything serious, I'm just looking for fun, a fling...someone to make me laugh and, and someone to have a conversation with about politics and religion and life and the world.

I've never been on an actual date. All of my previous romantic involvements were with people I'd known for a long time before we got involved, so I've never done the dating to get to know someone thing. And I'm not good at first time meetings...it makes me very anxious to talk to people in real life. This date will involve taking a xanax, I'm sure. And I'll be obsessing about what to wear. What does one wear to a lunch date, anyway?

Aargh! Don't mind me, I'll just be hanging out in my closet freaking out!

I Need Help

2011-03-27T12:21:00.000-07:00

No big secret to anyone who's read so much as a single post here, right?

But, in reality, I do need help, actual physical help. I was never the world's greatest housekeeper, but since getting sick that's gotten much worse. I used to have regular cleaning binges, and if someone was coming for a visit, I could do the twenty minute clean and have my house be halfway decent...you know, as long as no one checked my closets or looked under the couch cushions.

The sicker I've gotten, the worse the arthritis and the worse the fatigue has gotten, the more sporadic my cleaning binges have become. Most of the time my house looks like a giant picked it up and shook it. There's crap everywhere, and laundry...dear god, don't get me started on the laundry.

The midget is a good kid, but she's a kid, and unfortunately has inherited my innate messiness and laziness. She takes advantage of the fact that I'm too tired to stay on her and push her to clean up after herself. She also takes advantage of the fact that my memory is a sieve these days and if I ground her in the morning I rarely remember that by mid afternoon.

When the midget's dad shows up to pick her up he makes it clear he disapproves of my slovenly nature. Of course, he isn't sick and taking care of a kid full time 24 hours a day, and even my four days a month minus the kid have shrunk down just a few hours once a week because the exgirlfriend has finally hurt the midget to the point that she refuses to see her at all. Which presents difficulties because, after all, the exgirlfriend is still living in the midget's father's house...the one his parents own.

Yeah, my kid isn't able to go visit her dad at the house her grandparents own. Awesome.

So...my few hours without the midget are spent sleeping, or doing homework, trying to get caught up on the things that are hard to do when a child, even one as old as the midget, is around. So..my old habit of resting the entire first day she was gone, and housework or schoolwork on the second...that's out the window...you know...along with my sanity...and my hopes for ever seeing her bedroom floor.

I know I need to ask for help. Ask my cousins, my sisters...my mom. Any of them would be willing to put on gaiters and wade through my mess and help me clean it. But I CAN'T ASK FOR HELP. I don't know why. I only know that it's common amongst people who suffer from chronic illness. There are so many amorphic offers of help, but no concrete..."Let me do this." "I am willing to do this." And asking for help feel like such an imposition, to do the things I should be able to do, even if I never really liked doing it in the first place. And worse, it feels like it makes the illness more concrete, more real.

Which is, simply, ridiculous. But I excel at the ridiculous, don't I? It's my forte. Because, refusing to acknowledge it's effect on my life doesn't lessen the impact, it only compounds it, because I wait until hope comes in late, comes in after the mess has completely demoralized me.

My cousin, the one who I'm always helping with a paper, or childcare or organizing or sorting laundry...she finally made me a concrete offer to help me clean my living room and kitchen. I had her for an hour and the front of my house, the largest part of my home, is now clean...I am not embarrassed to have company, not afraid the midget's father is planning another called to Children's Services, rather than offering help himself.

I need help...and I need help asking for help...

I'm Baaaaack....

2011-03-19T01:35:00.000-07:00

Disneyland was epic. The midget and I (along with the fam) had loads of fun, loads of bonding, and very little in the way of unhappiness. We drove home today. Yesterday? Some time after I woke up the last time at any rate.

We are mucho tired. Like beyond words tired...only I'm typing, so clearly I have words, they just don't make a lot of sense. I guess that's not really anything new, though.

While driving home this evening, once we finally in range of my usual radio station, we were listening to the radio and and the DJ told us about this story in which a woman hides various things (drugs and drug bags) inside her vagina. That part was nothing new if you've ever watched an episode of Locked Up Abroad, which being a NatGeo junkie, I totally have. What caught my attention was the $5.22 she was also carrying in her vagina. I mean...had the woman never heard of wallets, or even pockets for fuck sake? Of course, the DJ had it partially wrong...she actually had $51.22 up there.

I have some pretty big unanswered questions here, the biggest of which being whether or not that money will be returned to circulation. Also...how precisely do you come to the decision to stick not just dollar bills, but coins, in your vagina? And how the hell do you keep it there? And why the empty drug bags? I mean that has no value, does it? The drugs, the money that all has value, so it sorta makes sense you'd want to keep it close (I'd recommend a purse, but what do I know?), but the empty drug bags are basically just evidence against you so, I'd say...go ahead and not stick that in your vagina, if you must stick random items in your vagina.

I really want to talk to this woman. I mean, I want to know how you make the decision to stick these things in your vagina, and then how you go about making it all fit. 54 bags of heroin? Really? And even if you manage to cram it all in there, how do you make it stay? And who the hell would want to buy your vagina drugs? If nothing else, I want to give the woman a purse and explain to her how it works....

Effing Disneyland, Ya'll!!

2011-03-11T17:40:00.000-08:00

I'm getting ready to depart for The Happiest Place on Earth. We're leaving early Sunday morning (4 am) and making the 8-10 hour drive to Anaheim. We'll be in Disneyland and California Adventure Park for five whole days. This trip has been six months in the planning and we cannot wait to get there and have fun.

All this Disneyland stuff has me remembering a Disneyland trip when I was just a wee little girl...probably 30 years ago, now. (When the fuck did I get so old?) It's a somewhat clouded memory, but one that made me deeply afraid of Winnie the Pooh for years. It wasn't until my kid was born that I started to be able to handle exposure to Pooh Bear. I was there, at the happiest place on earth, and out of nowhere this giant yellow bear comes at me with his arms stretched out, intending to devour me, no doubt. I took one look at that menacing beast, noticed that no one was making any kind of move to save me and hauled off and kicked Winnie the Pooh in the leg, and ran and hid behind my mom.

Laugh if you want, but those fucking characters are huge and scary, especially when you're all of three feet tall. I couldn't even read a Winnie the Pooh book for years. It wasn't so much that I was scared of him (okay, I'm totally lying here...I was afraid of a fat yellow bear), especially as I got older and realized that there was nothing to be afraid of, that Pooh Bear wasn't an actual bear looking to devour little girls, that he'd much rather snack on honey than me, it was just that I couldn't get over that feeling of being intimidated by something so much bigger than I was.

I'm ready now...I want to get my picture taken with Mickey and Minnie, and Aurora from Sleeping Beauty. I'm going to be one pissed off camper if she isn't at the princess meet and greet. She's always been my favorite.

I haven't been to Disneyland in 15 years, and I've never taken the midget, so this trip is a really big deal for us. I'm not about to let anyone (not even some scary ass yellow bear) ruin it. The midget's been pretty sad lately...bullshit drama with the exgirlfriend who should be damn thankful that I'm a civilized woman and that it would hurt me more to punch her in the taco than it would hurt her. But that shit isn't going to interfere with us being happy at the Happiest motherfucking Place on the motherfucking Earth. I've kicked a six foot yellow bear with a gaping mouth and paws as big as my head. I'm hardly afraid to deliver the same treatment to some selfish bitch who isn't worthy of being spit on by the midget.

I'll be updating my Twitter stream but otherwise I'll be MIA here on the blog (Nothing unusual, right?). I'll be sure to put up a lengthy post complete with pictures.

As Aunt Becky of Mommy Wants Vodka has said...being sad is bullshit, and I'm totally hopping on her Bringing The Happy Back bandwagon. Because the midget and I have had a couple of shit years and Goddammit...ENOUGH IS FUCKING ENOUGH!! The midget and I are going immerse ourselves in the happy, happy, joy, joy that is the motherfucking Happiest Place on Earth, and we're going to bring that happy back and pound it firmly into our lives with a big fucking mallet. It's time to make 2011 my bitch, ya'll, and Disneyland is just the place to do it!

I Loved You First

2011-03-06T23:32:00.000-08:00

Use it

2011-03-02T04:23:00.000-08:00

For my entire life I've been fascinated with putting words together. I love writing. I love playing with words to make prose and poetry. Putting the constant running of words in my head into print was always my outlet.

When I was 24, ten long years ago, I lost a beloved friend. I wrote a poem for him, and then, I was visited by the worst case of writer's block. I still have it. I've written only a handful of poems since then, and hardly any prose.

I started this blog in the hopes that I would write more, get more of what goes on in my brain into print. And it's been fitful, and part of that is knowing that my audience includes people I know in real life, and a very small portion of those people would love to find something here that can be twisted into something ugly and use it against me. Having that kind of censorship built into everything I write certainly doesn't help.

Thankfully, I found the sparkly, and awesome Aunt Becky's blog Mommy Wants Vodka. If you aren't reading her, and you're not a member of her loyal Prankster army, you're totally missing out. And as if sharing her twisted brain with the world wasn't enough, she's also the force behind the collaborative blogs Mushroom Printing and Band Back Together. The beauty of a collaborative blog is the variety of voices you find, and the sense of community. And for me, it's a place to publish things that I can't publish here, which gives me a freedom this blog hasn't given me.

I'm not giving up my blog. I am the Queen of the Universe, and nothing will ever change that, and in fact, I think getting to publish elsewhere what is unpublishable here will grant me the freedom to really explore the rest of my brain. So, while I will occasionally cross post things from my blog on one of the above blogs, for the most part the two worlds will remain separate, unless I find something there that absolutely must be shared.

Passed Out on the Bathroom Floor

2011-02-25T02:10:00.000-08:00

I've made jokes about being passed out on the bathroom floor...I've been there a few times in the past. Mostly in the past when I could drink enough to get drunk. And it's a funny little anecdote or embarrassing story to tell when I've run out of stories about how I forget shit that I really should remember...you know, like fifty percent of the things my best friend tells me. I'm starting to think I should keep notes.

But I digress. (How unusual for me, right?)

Today I had the scariest fucking moment of my life. I thought it was last year when the midget was diagnosed, but I was totally fucking wrong. Today, when the midget passed out on the bathroom floor because of a nasty low blood sugar, that was pretty much it.

I've read about diabetic lows that result in black outs and seizures. I knew it would happen one day. It's impossible for a Type 1 diabetic with reasonable control of blood sugars to not experience a low blood sugar. Because no matter how precisely I count carbs and calculate insulin dosages, shit happens. Hormones play their fucked up little games, illness plays a part, exercise, rest, even temperature screws with insulin. I am not a machine, and I am not perfect. Unlike you and me, my daughter doesn't have a pancreas that does what it's supposed to do. I am her pancreas.

Let me repeat that for you: I am my daughter's pancreas.

Me...the woman who literally cannot remember ANYTHING! And I'm in charge of something as complex as regulating a hormone in my kid's body. Through math. This is a fucking joke, right? I have to keep my kid alive using math? Me? Seriously? This is someone's idea of a joke right?

I talked to her doctor...we went over what happened today, the carbs eaten and the insulin dispensed...and there's no clear mistake. There isn't something I can point to and say "Aha! Fucked up there, and I won't do it again." I spoke to some other Type 1 parents on an online group I'm a member of, and they each told me their story of how it happened to their kid, how bad they felt, and assured me that it wasn't my fault. The doctor assured me it wasn't my fault.

But I'm my kid's pancreas. My pancreas doesn't land me on the bathroom floor. Neither does yours.

I'm a shit pancreas.

It took hours tonight to convince the midget that she could sleep, that she would be safe, and that she shouldn't be afraid of the insulin shot I had to give her. She's finally sleeping now, and slept through the last blood sugar check...the blood sugar that told me I had to give more insulin, which means I won't sleep until we pass the three hour mark, the moment when the insulin peaks, and I can test her to make sure that the insulin didn't send her too low.

Fuck you, diabetes...fuck you...

Drugs

2011-02-17T01:33:00.000-08:00

I think I mentioned that the my regular doc prescribed me some decent pain pills and referred me back to Stanford with some very real hopes of a definitive diagnosis, beyond the ones I already have, of course. So, for the last month or so I've been taking fairly high doses of narcotics, and yesterday I started getting panicked about addiction.

I've taken pain meds in the past and never had an issue, but what I'm taking now is higher dosages, and more frequent. Of course, my pain levels are significantly higher these days, as well...but that doesn't mean it's not a concern of mine, the possibility of narcotic abuse.

I spent some time on the phone today with my therapist, my doctor and a good deal of time on some internet forums I frequent for sufferers of chronic illness. My concern is becoming addicted...having an addiction, which of course, at this point I technically have. I have a physiological dependence on the narcotics at the moment. That became very clear to me today when I woke up in a pretty nasty state of withdrawal, because since I was panicking yesterday about addiction, I didn't take my pain meds. Which was a mistake. A big one.

I'm trying to readjust my thinking that being dependent on the narcotics right now is okay, that, yes my I have a physical addiction to them that would make it hard to stop cold turkey, but the same can be said of my antidepressants or mood stabilizers and I don't view that as a bad thing. In fact, the withdrawal from antidepressants is nearly as awful from narcotics. The difference, of course, is that you never hear about someone robbing banks or turning tricks to finance their antidepressant habit.

It's ironic, because I've labeled drug seeking in the past. I always laugh at that because there was a time when I did drugs...a very short time, long ago...but I did drugs. And my go to drug wasn't something that made me tired or loopy like narcotics do...it was speed, aka meth. I loved speed. I loved the rush, the energy, the clarity...I loved everything about speed...until I didn't. Until one weekend when I pushed it too far and realized that there was an ugly side, and it would be easy as fuck to end up an addict, and that wouldn't be fun. That was the weekend that I could easily see myself becoming someone I just couldn't bear to inflict upon the people I love. So, I quit...just like that, no rehab, no detox...I just stopped. I did it again one other time after the midget was born, while she was at her dad's, and thought...yeah I don't really miss this...well, the kitchen got really, really clean and I kinda miss that, but coming down was hell, and a damn good reminder that I wasn't 19 anymore.

Even when I did drugs, even when I was younger and actually thought an evening of getting drunk was worth the hangover, it was always in the back of my mind that my DNA was heavily loaded towards addiction. Both bioparents are addicts, now recovered addicts, but addicts nonetheless...and they came by their tendency toward addiction honestly, via their shared Irish heritage. So, I was never an every day drinker or druggie. I was too scared. And once the midget came along...I won't say I never touched anything again, but it's been seven or eight years since I ingested an illegal substance and over four years since I drank enough to be drunk.

So, yeah. I love the pain meds. I love that it gives me some relief from the constant, unbearable pain. But, what I would love even more is a pain relief treatment that didn't mean a chemical dependence. I don't want to trade one set of problems for another. And there's a second side to having access to these pain meds that isn't very fun. When people know you have narcotics, they want them...not necessarily because they're in pain, but because they want to get high, so you constantly get people "jokingly" asking you for drugs...and I have a hard time telling anyone no, but I do it, and they still bug me. It's frustrating in the extreme. I get the drugs I get because I am in legitimate pain. And, yeah, I think this country's drug laws are stupid and that if people want to do drugs, the government doesn't really have the right to tell them no, but I get these drugs because I need them, and if I run out early, I don't get more, and being without pain meds when you need them is hell. So, giving them to someone who doesn't need them would be just plain stupid on my part...

And while I am prone to stupidity, I'm really trying to limit my stupidity to things that will eventually be amusing anecdotes...and sitting on the couch, crying in pain because I gave my drugs away...well...that just doesn't sound like it'll ever be that funny...

Baby, baby, baby...

2011-02-12T01:08:00.000-08:00

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I don't like other people's children. I never have. I'm the girl who doesn't think your little darling throwing himself on the floor in the middle of the store to get that toy is cute. And I think you're a jerk for subjecting me to his screams and his dirty, snotty face.

So, I was always like that...I babysat a few times, and my BFF the Archaeogoddess had a little brother ten years younger that I saw from time to time, and I didn't have the desire to punch him. So, given that I didn't really like kids, I didn't really plan on having them. But, then...uh...whoops...and there was the midget. And she was awesome. But I knew a lot of that is that built in biology thing, that moms are sort of programmed to love their kids. Which is good, because she wasn't an easy baby, and I'm not a patient woman. But I learned. I learned when to walk away, undeniably the single most important lesson I learned as a new mom.

But falling in love with the midget didn't mean I fell in love with all kids. I was still one of those women who didn't really like other people's kids. And since I was youngish when the midget was born, it wasn't like my friends had kids or anything. So, I loved the midget...but that was it. I liked the midget and other people's kids were annoying and frequently smelly and rude.

Okay, so then...I had a niece, and then another one, and then another one, and then a pair of nephews. And I finally fell in love with kids, at least these kids. I love them because they're my babies as much as the midget is my baby. I comfort them when they skin their knees, put them on time out when they bop their cousins, and make sure they talk to their mommas with the respect a mom deserves. In return, I get sticky hugs, pre-chewed food in my hand and that beautiful feeling when I walk into a room and one of them shrieks delightedly, "Auntie Doda!"

I've got babies on the brain tonight, in part because my beloved Archaeogoddess is getting closer to her due date, and it's killing me more than ever to be so far away, because I'm already in love with that baby, and I want to be there to see her come into the world, but also because my youngest niece is coming to visit with the fam this weekend with her grandma. Because her momma, my baby cousin who has been in some pretty dark places, stopped taking the medication that makes her capable of functioning and she's back in the hospital, and I don't know for how long, but I'm so beyond thankful that she checked herself into the hospital and that she's getting the help she needs, because that baby needs a momma, and I'm not interested in losing one of my cousins.

I still don't know if I like kids, necessarily, but I do know that certain kids have the power to steal my heart. I know that I'm thankful that my youngest niece has the family she has to shield her and cocoon her now while her momma is going through the dark times again. I know that I love a baby who hasn't even been born yet, just as I love the midget and her cousins and I know that my life would be a sadder, darker place without the babies I love so much, and I know from my own struggles with the darkness, that there's no better incentive in the world to fight the depression than your children. So, while I'm thankful for my baby niece for her own precious little self, I'm beyond thankful that she is here to give her momma a damn good reason to fight and get through this, get the help and get better.

Just Another Manic Monday...erm...Tuesday...

2011-02-01T04:17:00.000-08:00

Let’s talk mania, my friends. The flipside of my bipolar coin. When I was healthy, before walking was a tortuous task, I’d use my mania somewhat productively…clean something while listening to my iPod, do something, anything. I’d do anything to keep my mind from torturing myself…shop, talk, eat, have sex…anything.

But, now, with this body of mine that betrays me, with my responsibilities toward Cass, know I can’t just take off and do something crazy, even if my body cooperated. So now, I lay in bed at three in the morning, my mind racing, replaying conversations from years ago, thinking of all the things I’ve said, or should have said, or wish I hadn’t said.

I lay here in my bed, my brain racing, my body tensing slowly, insidiously, until every muscle is locked, every joint Is tensed and I’m nearly crying from the pain. So, I breathe, try to clear my mind, and relax minutely, and then before I know it, I’m tensed again…teeth grinding, every muscle locked in agony.

I hate it, I hate this. I hate going over and over the end of the relationship with the exgirlfriend, I hate replaying conversations with the midget’s father over and over. I hate remembering every hateful word anyone has ever said to me, but I do it. I dwell on fights I’ve had, I dwell on the ways I’ve hurt people or people have hurt me. I hate remembering every dirty horrible moment of my childhood, I hate remembering being scared and dirty and sad. But my brain won’t shut up. I can’t even read when I’m like this. Forming complete thoughts is nearly impossible. It makes me crazy. I just want it to stop.

In the past I’ve hurt myself, taken drugs, eaten everything I could get my hands on, just to spend an hour in the bathroom purging it from my body. I can’t do those things anymore, but I wish I could find a way to make it stop. I know hurting myself isn’t an option, but it makes it stop, makes my brain slow down so I can breathe, I can think and feel like myself again. I know I shouldn’t hurt myself…I know I shouldn’t, but I want to. So, instead I grabbed my laptop and I’m writing this…trying to reach out, trying to be out and open and honest so that maybe someone somewhere will read this and know that they aren’t alone, that it doesn’t just happen to them, and that each wretched manic night has an end, and it’s a reminder to myself that I am loved and deserving of that love, that people who love me will read this and understand me a little more.

Oh, Finally....

2011-01-25T05:58:00.000-08:00

It's been a million years since I wrote a blog post, and even longer since I actually published one. Between Christmas, New Year's and the holiday hang over blues and nasty inflammatory flare, the last thing I've wanted to do was try to come up with pithy and amusing anecdotes about my sad little life.

I had a doctor's appointment about a week ago, and he FINALLY fucking got it...that I'm actually, truly in pain, that there really and truly is wrong (thank you, for something finally showing up in the lab work) and he gave me drugs, and referred me back to Stanford's rheumatology clinic. Which is good for him because if he hadn't I was going to cut that motherfucker.

So, I'm trying to take the drugs as little as possible because, after all, I'm a mom to kid with Type 1 diabetes, and I'm a full time student. (Well, hello, spring semester, where the hell did you come from?) And I'm awaiting the late February rheumatology appointment rather impatiently. I would give just about anything to feel normal again...to not have to psych myself up for five minutes just to endure the pain of standing up...to not be so tired that getting dressed lays me out flat.

I want to talk about something The Bloggess put up the other day...about not being ashamed of mental illness, and "coming out" and letting others who are suffering know that it's okay to get help. I'm bipolar and it took me years to get properly diagnosed because I only ever sought treatment when I was so depressed that someone forced me to admit that I needed help. I'm damn lucky that the years of being prescribed antidepressants that were not intended to treat bipolar disorder didn't send me over the brink and land me in the hospital or worse. It's not that I didn't know that not being able to sleep and talking a million words a minute and spending the rent money on frivolous crap were abnormal, it's that being manic feels good...until it doesn't. I also have anxiety disorder and suffer from panic attacks...it's why I'm awake right now, actually. I woke up in the middle of the night in a full blown panic attack, and though the Ativan has brought me down from the ledge, I have had so many nights when there were no drugs and I was too ashamed or scared to ask for help, and only the thought of what it would do the midget and the Archaeogoddess has kept me from hurting myself.

What prompted The Bloggess to "come out" was the breakdown and subsequent suicide of the husband of a fellow blogger. It's heartbreaking that it ever gets that far, that someone, for whatever reason, is too ashamed or frightened to seek help when something's not right. There's such a stigma attached to mental illness, and there fucking shouldn't be. My bipolar disorder is no less a disease than my Fibro, or my arthritis, but that doesn't mean other people accept it as such, or that I've always treated it as such.

My point? If something's wrong...get help. Staying quiet and suffering nobly is bullshit. And you aren't saving your family and friends by suffering in silence. Hiding that shit from them will hurt them and scare them far more than telling them and letting them help you. Trust me on this.

Come out. Get help.

Arthritis robbed me of my Christmas spirit

2010-12-19T23:59:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to find my Christmas spirit. I've had it as I did all of my Christmas shopping online. I had it when I was sobbing over this amazing miracle The Bloggess inspired in so many people. I had it this weekend while I was making dough ornaments with the midgets and her cousins. I even had it as I was wrapping presents last night.

This morning, though, I woke up with a raging motherfucking arthritis flare. I can barely walk and there isn't a single position that feels comfortable or pain free. It's some bullshit, yo! I'm taking massive doses of NSAIDs and Tramadol and from time to time Vicodin and it's still agony. Makes it hard to think about Christmas and Santa and all that bullshit.

The only thing that's helping at all is singing this song at the top of my lungs, I don't know why...maybe it's the beat, which is truly groovy...or maybe it's yelling "Fuck You" at the top of my lungs.

Poor, neglected blog...

2010-11-14T14:11:00.000-08:00

I'm such a bad, bad blogger. I haven't been able to find a few moments to write more than a thought or two at a time, certainly nothing that would even vaguely resemble a blog post.

My life is so full these days. The midget, school, family, doctor's appointments...it's a whirlwind. I'm supposed to be doing homework right now and instead I'm hopping around the interwebs like a squirrel on crack and listening to music with my younger sis.

I'm posting this song because it popped up on my iPod and I was struck again with the message. It's so totally how I feel about love and relationships. It's unfortunate that being honest and saying I don't use words like "forever" and "only" in reference to love means that I have spent years defending my decisions to never get married, or promise monogamy.

One of the exgirlfriend's many complaints about me was that I refused to get married. I never promised her forever, and that was wrong to her. The irony? She promised forever, and then left. I always took her promises with a grain of salt, because I think everyone wants to believe in forever, and think it's going to happen. I don't think she made the promises knowing that someday we would not be together. The things I've been through have taught me that your entire universe can change with no notice whatsoever. Everything you know and believe is ever evolving and adaptable. It is easy to say that you will love forever, but the reality of loving forever means that you love when the shit hits the fan, and that's so much easier said than done. It takes guts to stick it out when life hands you a crap hand, as it often does. It takes more strength than I have to love someone when you find out your vision of that person is very different from who she really is inside.

So, if you can't promise forever, does that mean that there's no point to loving at all? If you're more cynical than I am, then I suppose the answer is yes, but for me love is always valuable, even love that has an expiration date. I am a better person for loving the people I have loved in my life. And, frankly, just because someone you love stops being who you thought she was, that doesn't mean the love goes away, it just becomes something else. If you throw away everything you've learned and been because the love turns out to be something different than you envisioned, you're robbing yourself of all the glorious beauty life offers.

Anyway, this song always makes me think of people I've loved in my life, makes me wish that my "love you today" philosophy was better understood, and shared by more people.

Reason #862 I love the Archeaogoddess

2010-10-19T19:36:00.000-07:00

A year or so ago, I got an e-mail from my most beloved Archaeogoddess with a link to a blog she thought I would enjoy. As usual, she was totally fucking right. And I fell in love immediately with The Bloggess.

This was the post that started it all. I was laughing so hard I was in tears. I spent the rest of that day reading through her archives and have been hooked since. Jenny, The Bloggess, is an amazingly funny, brilliant and irreverent writer. She has a beautiful soul, and a gorgeous smile. I love this woman. If it wouldn't require so much time and energy (since she lives in Texas of all the godforsaken places) I would totally stalk her. Though, since she's not a social butterfly and has a tendency to hide in bathrooms, it probably wouldn't be so difficult, come to think of it.

Anyway, since I'm doing my best to stalk her in the only ways available to me at the moment, I was totally on it when she made a Twitter request for favorite blog posts about Victor, ~~the luckiest man in the world~~ her husband. This was the blog post I immediately wanted to nominate, because it's fucking hilarious. Of course, I was in a pain induced fog, so I couldn't remember the name of the blog post or when it was posted, so I spent the day reading through her archives, and it kept me from crying. Because, seriously, the pain was that bad yesterday, but she's made of the awesome and can make anything better. Seriously, if I could bottle the woman, I would.

If you are unfamiliar with her blog, go there now and fall in love, and share her with all of your friends and family. Friends and family who can take a joke, because amongst some of her more memorable jokes are things like dead kitten mittens for the homeless. She also has an advice column and a sex column, both of which are equally hilarious.

Well, what the fuck are you still doing on this rinky dink little blog...go...spend the whole day reading The Bloggess' archives and fall in love.

Oh, Demerol...how I've missed you...

2010-10-19T01:34:00.000-07:00

I ended up at the ER tonight...well, actually I guess it would be technically last night since it is now the wee hours of the morning, but since I have yet to sleep, we're going to call it tonight. Back off, okay, bitches? I'm on drugs...

Ahem...where was I? Oh, ER...that's right.

So, I awoke this morning feeling like roadkill, and not even fresh roadkill, more like two day old roadkill. Upon entering the bathroom and inspecting myself in the mirror (which, I now admit was a really bad idea) I noticed that apparently someone had filled me up like a water balloon while I was sleeping. My entire self was puffy...it was not pretty.

I noticed right off the bat that my hands were in more pain than usual and the knee pain...well, if I tell you that it took me about five minutes to get up the courage to stand up, would that give you an idea of how much pain I was in? Not pretty.

But, I'm a lone wolf these days...single caregiver of a Type 1 child. That means sticking it out as long as I can. I called and made an appointment with my doctor, but the earliest he could get me in was on Thursday and he didn't want to prescribe anything without seeing me. Fair enough, but I was in motherfucking pain.

Now, if you're new here, and you got here by googling "snake poo" you probably don't know (or care) that I have a host of health issues. The bottom line is that my immune system is a ~~lifelong~~ charter member the I Hate the Queen of the Universe fan club. It doesn't like me much and for reasons of it's own it attacks perfectly healthy tissue, pretty much at whim. It's already claimed my thyroid, wreaked havoc on my intestines and done irreparable damage to my knee joints. Basically, my immune system is an asshole.

What that means is that an infection...any infection...is going to fuck up my entire body. A normal person gets a cold and their immune system happily sends out little cold specific antibodies and that's that. My immune system goes haywire and while it fights the infection it also fights the healthy tissue. Like..."Hey, her bladder has bacteria and we should do something about that..and while we're at it, let's take out this tissue here, because it is totally time to remodel."

At about five this evening it became apparent that whatever was going on was going to need intervention, preferably intervention that involved a morphine drip and a bottomless margarita.

My regular doc (who is totally pissed at me because I've been very remiss in regards to my own health because of the midget's diabetes) was not going to do anything, so I called my cousin, and she came and drove the midget and I to the hospital where a very nice doctor took one look at me and said the most beautiful words a girl can hear.."would you like a pain shot while we wait for test results?" Um...does a motherfucking bear shit in the motherfucking woods? Hell yeah I want a pain shot...and can I get a couple in a doggie bag?

So, an hour and a bit of demerol later, the results came back that I'm suffering from a particularly nasty UTI (which, by the way, I had no symptoms of) and the resulting inflammation from my very over active immune system.

The nice doctor man, who at that was kind of fuzzy around the edges and who totally deserves some kick ass theme music...I'm thinking "Chariots of Fire"...gave me antibiotics and prednisone and percocet. I left the ER actually smiling and not in pain. I then went to Taco Bell and had the best motherfucking quesadilla ever.

It was decided by all present (meaning me, my cousin, the midget and my four year old niece) that it was probably not a great idea to send me home alone with the midget while I was hopped up on demerol, so I'm staying the night at my cousin's house and Charlie is totally fucking bent out of shape and keeps trying to get me to go home.

Of course, it doesn't mean that someone else is doing middle of the night checks for high blood sugars, no that's all me...but at least if she is high or low, there's another adult around who can supervise me and make sure I administer insulin, instead of say...vodka...which is also a clear liquid, but would be considerably harder to draw up into an insulin syringe...

Ah...it's 2am at last which means it's time to test the midget and then, hopefully, get some sleep. I sincerely hope this post makes sense...if not just disregard it, and I apologize for the five minutes of your life you wasted reading this. Five minutes that probably could have been better used watching internet porn or trolling Craigslist for meth or goats or hookers or some combination of the three...

Better...

2010-10-16T01:10:00.000-07:00

This song got me through some very rough moments after the exgirlfriend left.

I am better. Happier. Just plain happy. I am strong again, for myself and for the midget. I am planning for a future that includes my family and my friends and the people I love so much who got me through those dark days.

Last night the midget had another of her breakdowns about missing the exgirlfriend. This after coming back from her dad's house and having had a similar breakdown in front of her dad. And I wish there was some way I could promise the midget that it won't hurt some day.

But, I can't. I lost a girlfriend, a lover, a friend...but she lost a parent, and I know how that feels, when you have a parent walk out on you. I know that for the rest of your life you wonder what you have done to make them stop loving you and what you could have done differently to make them love you.

I've spent years in therapy going over how it was never my fault, that my biodad bailing had nothing to do with me. I've discussed it with my friends, my new family...and I've even discussed it with my biodad. I know intellectually that it wasn't my fault...but, emotionally? Well, that's a whole other ball of wax. I know that so much of my self hatred comes from that feeling...that "how can anyone ever want me, when my own parents didn't?"

And I know it's different for the midget. She is surrounded by love daily. There has never been a moment in her life that she has been alone, or that she has doubted that she had people who loved her. But there is a part of me that asks...is this going to screw her up? Is this going to be the thing that breaks her so that she's constantly seeking approval from outside sources, like I am?

The hardest part for the midget is that the exgirlfriend is there peripherally. So, she sees the exgirlfriend for five minutes here and ten minutes there, but never alone and never in the parenting role. This is a woman she knew as her mother all of her fucking life, and now she gets to watch her be a parent to someone else's kid while she is pining for her mom. I could forgive the exgirlfriend for everything she did, the lies she's told the drama she caused...all of it. But, this? Watching my daughter go through her diagnosis and all of the hell she's gone through without her other mom? I can never forgive this.

I can only hope that my love, my family's love, her father's love will be enough for the midget. That she will be able to see and understand that the exgirlfriend's choices have absolutely nothing to do with her, but that instead the exgirlfriend is irretrievably broken in some deep way she cannot understand and I cannot explain. I can only hope that as the midget faces down the next few years of her life, arguably the most difficult years for any girl, that she doesn't internalize the exgirlfriend's choice to walk away as some sort of proof that she is not good enough, or that she is in some way undeserving of love.

I just wish there was a way that I could heal this for her and make it better, but I can't. I've tried. I've begged the exgirlfriend a million times to make time for the midget. I've offered to set up diabetes education so that she can have one on one time with the midget, and I've gotten no response. This is the one thing that never gets better.

Fuck off, Diabetes...

2010-10-05T01:28:00.000-07:00

There will be no funny or witty in this post. I'm warning you now, and I'll likely take it down, but I need to get this out, need to know that someone in the universe is hearing me, and I need to do it in a place the midget can't see it. She doesn't read my blog. It's not allowed, and it's blocked on her computer. I do that so I can say nasty things about her other parents, post not so appropriate pictures of myself and have a corner of the universe that I don't have to censor myself in relation to her.

It's 1:30 in the morning, and we're having the worst diabetes week we've had since diagnosis. Insane blood glucose numbers, ever increasing insulin needs, ketone testing...and the endless blood sugar testing. My daughter is a pin cushion, and I hate myself each time I jam another needle into her skin, when she winces, but doesn't say anything, when it hurts badly enough that she says "Ow, that one hurt," it feels like razors cutting my heart to ribbons.

170 days since diagnosis. 170 days since I leaned against the wall in the hallway outside the emergency room and allowed myself the luxury of five minutes of tears. 170 days since I called the exgirlfriend and the midget's father in the middle of the night and told them to get to the hospital NOW! 170 days since I watched them strap my daughter to a gurney and load her into an ambulance. 170 days since I heard the term "PICU" and realized that's where my daughter was going. 170 days of trying to readjust to normal, and realize that nothing was ever going to be normal again.

170 means at least 700 finger pricks and 700 injections. And that's assuming that every day we only test four times and give four injections. Which never, ever happens. When she runs high, I give corrections, then check again to see if she's come down. When she runs low, I give sugar, then recheck to make sure she's gone back up. Not even six months in and she's had 1500 holes poked into her body.

I'm sitting here at 1:30 in the morning waiting for it to be 2am so that I can test her again, and then lay down and try to sleep, but I know that I will instead spend the rest of the night waking up every thirty minutes to make sure she hasn't gone low in her sleep, because she doesn't wake up when she goes low while sleeping, which could mean...I can't even bring myself to type the word, can't bring myself to use it in conjunction with my beautiful, precious daughter...but it would be bad, very bad.

On the other hand...when she runs high all night like she has all this week, I think about all that sugar in her blood, and the damage it's doing to her body, knowing that it's coating the blood vessels in her heart and her eyes and her kidneys, another layer of damage, bringing her that much closer irreparable harm. It sickens me, makes me physically ill, makes me want to scream and cry.

170 days of wishing that I could take her place for each finger stick and injection. 170 of wishing I could take away her diabetes. 170 of wishing there was a cure...

Exciting? I'll pass....

2010-10-03T18:44:00.000-07:00

What's that saying about the worst thing you can do to someone is wish them an "exciting life?" Yeah, I tried to google it, but google's being an asshole and gave me NOTHING. It kind of fits in with the theme I've got going on this week.

Recent Events (in no special order, because that would require brain function I just don't have):

My Mom has been diagnosed with a Thymoma (tumor of the Thymus) and is now awaiting her appointment with the surgeon so they can cut open her chest and remove it.

The midget has been ill and has accordingly had the worst blood sugar readings she's had since diagnosis, including a meter reading which said HI...and yeah it said it all cheerful, like with big letters like it was an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time. Glucose meters are kind of assholey.

My younger sister had a birthday party at her house which I did not get to attend, due to the midget's illness and the havoc it's wreaking on it's illness.

I have been dealing with difficult blood sugar readings and am trying to complete three Excel spread sheets in four hours but due to my sleep deprivation, I keep surfing the web like a squirrel on crack.

Charlie erased about half of one the spreadsheets I was working on. Charlie's kind of an asshole sometimes...

I have become addicted to the show Veronica Mars three years after it was canceled thanks to the beauty that is Netflix.

I've discovered, through the aforementioned Veronica Mars addiction, a fantastic band called The Dandy Warhols and am currently obsessed with their music.

The midget's father has decided (finally) to go to AA and stop drinking. Said decision came the day after I spent an hour on Facebook chat trying to talk him down while I waited for the midget's blood sugar to drop under 400.

I didn't take my antidepressant for a day and I missed a dose of my thyroid med, too...and I was a total asshole for the subsequent two days, much to the dismay of everyone around me.

So, yeah...I'm kinda flailing here at the moment. I'm hoping this bug, whatever it is, that has the midget's numbers all wonky will resolve itself quickly.

Anyway, here's the song that got me hooked on The Dandy Warhols. You must love it, as I have loved it, and there will be joy.

See...I'm paraphrasing The Princess Bride. Clearly a sign of sleep deprivation.

We Used to be Friends-The Dandy Warhols

Enjoy this musical interlude

2010-09-23T22:51:00.000-07:00

I've been a busy girl lately. School, teaching the midget, life...damn diabetes. All of that.

I don't have the time and energy for a real post, so here's some music to while away a few moments.

I'm currently obsessed with this song and it's driving the midget crazy. But it's awesome!!

Brand New Key by Melanie

And this, too. Though the midget likes this one, so it doesn't bother her that it's on constant replay.

Secret by the Pierces

And last but by no means least...this one.

Love the Way You Lie by Eminem feat. Rhianna

Can't Sleep...The Christians will get me...?

2010-09-16T11:48:00.000-07:00

So, last night the midget slept with me. Her blood sugar was high and I had to give her a correction at bedtime. She's gone low at night a couple of times, which is scary because she doesn't wake up and feel the low.

Anyway, she was not falling asleep, so I put a documentary on (Love that Netflix streaming on the Wii) and she was out in five minutes flat. I left it on for background noise while I trolled the message boards for parents of children with diabetes. Not trolled in the Craigslist sense of the word. I WAS NOT looking for hookers or meth or goats...I just wanted to talk to someone else who was also not sleeping because of diabetes (Damn you, Diabetes!!). But, I got sucked into the documentary.

It was the stuff of nightmares. "Jesus Camp" is a look at the complete and utter mindwashing that goes on amongst children in Evangelical churches. These kids are crying about their sins, having convulsions as "the spirit moves them" and speaking in tongues. It made me physically ill. Small children, who should be worrying about how much money the tooth fairy is going to leave them, are crying because they "sinned." They used a bad word or had a mean thought.

Now, I'm all for religious freedom. I'm not religious myself, but if someone else wants to have faith, and chooses to live his or her life according to that faith...Hey, knock yourself out. Your faith says you need to pick up the poisonous snakes to prove that you have faith?...Umm...okay, but I'll be over here out of reach of the fangs, 'kay?

However, this goes beyond having faith and teaching children about that faith and crosses the line into child abuse. Pulling kids out of schools so you can teach them that evolution is a "belief" while creationism is "fact" is simply wrong, but you have the freedom to do it. But when you start telling kids they are bad for having mean thoughts, that they are bad for thinking about sex, that they are bad for doing doing any number of things that are natural and normal parts of child development you are warping their fragile minds. You are teaching them to hate themselves at a fundamental level. A developing boy can no sooner stop thinking about his female friend's developing body than he can stop breathing. Human beings have natural, inherent behaviors and instincts and labeling them as wrong does nothing but set a child up for the worst kind of self-loathing imaginable.

And this movement, the movement aimed at these children, was designed with a purpose. The ministers themselves admit to designing this movement with the sole intention of "reclaiming our Christian nation." These are the children who are supposed to grow up, become our nation's leaders and lead the country into the path of light. Furthermore, these ministers make it clear they want these children trained, as the children of Islamic extremists and terrorists are trained, to fight and die for their faith. Even when there is no threat to their faith besides the fact that there are people in this world that don't have the same faith. They want all Americans to be Christian and to be Christian in their way, and frankly, they don't care about the children themselves, about what the price is for these children who will be raised being told that the world is this "one way" and then venture out into that world to find out that there is no "one way."

These people are making these children into fanatic Christian zombies. When the zombie apocalypse comes it's not going to be decaying corpses shambling after you craving your brain...it's going to be neatly dressed white kids in khakis and button down shirts...but they'll still be after your brain.

I'm investing in a sturdy helmet and reruns of The Family Guy. Hey, when the Christian zombies attack...at least I'll be safe on my mountain with dirty cartoons to fight the mind melting attacks of the Christian Right.

I'm procrastination's bitch...

2010-09-10T22:59:00.000-07:00

I should be getting ready for bed. If I was smart, and did things that made sense, I'd be done with the two chapters I'm supposed to read and I'd be all snuggled in bed and sleeping already. Tomorrow is a big day...the midget and two of her cousins have birthdays in a 6 week span, and being that we moms aren't as young as we used to be, a couple of years ago, we looked at each other and said...you know what's a great idea? One party for these three...saves us time and money and keeps us from going insane and duct taping our kids to walls.

Which, reminds me...the other day, my sister-in-law was putting my niece to bed and said niece was being a complete pain in the ass, and my sister-in-law wanted to put her in time out, but the kid was already in bed, so she wasn't sure if she should get her out of bed just for a time out, so my precious angel niece looked her mother in the face and asked "Are you going to tape me to the wall like Auntie Laura always says?" It brought a tear to my eye when I heard that story, and also, since it involved no outside humiliation, I didn't have to apologize. Unlike last week when one of my nieces told my cousin B's friend that she was going to "Punch her in the face." I apologized for teaching my niece that particular phrase, but since the midget threatened to kick me in the taco last week, I don't know why B was so bent out of shape about the punch in the face thing.

Anyway...I was saying something, wasn't I? Oh, that's right...procrastination. So, yeah, big brunch birthday bash tomorrow and then an anniversary party for my aunt and uncle in the evening, so even though the assignment technically isn't due until 11PM tomorrow, there is clearly no way I'm going to be able to do it tomorrow, and sleep needs to happen because if sleep doesn't happen, I cannot be my usual sparkling self (as in I will not be threatening to punch people or kick them in the taco) and I might fall asleep in the middle of the pinata portion of tomorrow's agenda.

And if there's one thing I know when it comes to these kids and candy, it's that you need to be on your guard. And holy crap...whose idea was it to give these children candy in a game that involves a baseball bat...it's all going to end in tears...

I Cain't Say No...

2010-09-09T22:42:00.000-07:00

I'm a giver by nature. It's in my blood. Someone says "Can you-" and before they can finish their sentence, I'm all..."Fuck yeah, I can...now who did you want me to hold down so you can shave your initials in their pubic hair?" The problem is...that the whole giving thing is actually something I do because somehow, somewhere in my twisted history, I got some wires mixed up and my brain interprets the needs of others as the way to find my own value.

And secretly, deep inside me, there's a grouchy, shriveled shrew who is pissed off at this automatic agreement to do whatever anyone asks me. It makes me whiny and not at all attractive even to myself. I'm all "Boohoo...Why does everyone always want something from me." And I'm surly and as anyone who knows me can attest, if I don't want to do something, it either doesn't get done, or it gets done in the most half-assed fashion you can imagine. And I bitch about it the whole time.

This is not to say that there aren't times when I joyfully do things for people I love because I love them and I want the best for them. Because that happens. Sometimes. When the planets are alligned just so...

I was talking to my cousin (and friend) B the other day, and she asked me to do something, and though I didn't want to, didn't really have time to, and probably would have bailed at the last moment, anyway, I said yes. But I said it half-heartedly and she knew I didn't really mean it...so she yelled at me for saying yes. She was all, "Why didn't you just say no? Didn't you just spend hours bitching about how you're going to be assertive and say no? Grow a spine, woman." So, I said no. And the sky didn't fall. And she called me later to make sure I was okay, so obviously I didn't hurt our relationship any.

This week, the midget was visiting her father. And I had plans...plans which included staying in bed, resting and relaxing and not do anything for anyone, besides feeding my dogs and being their doorman. Which I did. And I am struggling with the guilt of it, because my other cousin called me about 50 times asking me for help with this or that or the other thing. And she's not a girl who can manage for herself. So not doing things for her feels like kicking a puppy. Except that doing things for her becomes drudgery and I build up boatloads of resentment. It gets so that I don't want to answer the phone when she calls, I just want to curl up in my bed with the blankets over my head and pretend like I'm not here.

It's a bad combination...a girl who can't do anything for herself and a girl who can't say no.

Which brings me to this...I love this song, it's on my iPod and I'm only half-joking when I say it's my theme song.

Charlie Bit Me

2010-08-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

So...the other night, I spent ages and ages combing burrs out of Charlie's fur. He didn't like it...he really didn't like it. Now, usually when I comb him out, there's some growling on his part. Basically it's grumbling that lets me know he doesn't like what I'm doing. This time, however...he was super matted and despite my best efforts to not inflict any pain, there was a fair amount of tugging and hair pulling. And...the little fucker bit me.

He felt bad about it right away, and hung his head and everything...But...Charlie bit me. It was shocking. And slightly funny. Because I'm weird, and I maybe think a bit too much about our relationship, I couldn't get over the whole "Charlie bit me" thing...and it made me think of this video on Youtube that I saw a while back.

Bad Blogger: Revisited...

2010-08-14T22:53:00.000-07:00

Gah...this whole living a real life thing is really eating into my computer time. Between family and school stuff and cooking and cleaning and unpacking, I'm down to just a few hours a day on my computer, and since most of my favorite people live in the internet, that really bums me out.

School starts for me on Monday...I'm excited and nervous and hoping that nothing derails the semester. I won't bore you with the details, but I'm sure to be bringing you humorous anecdotes about the morons who inhabit online courses and their complete disregard for the rules of grammar...or, you know...you'll hear about it on your nightly news when I lose my shit and start shooting from the tallest building in town...which is, like, three whole stories tall...

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2010-08-02T00:36:00.000-07:00

So, remember that post where I was all zen and happy and shit...yeah...I ran out of time and gas money and didn't get to the pharmacy to pick up my meds and today has been such a fucking roller coaster it's ridiculous. Woke up happy, got sad, got happy, felt serene for about five minutes, then got irritated. My mind has been hopping from subject to subject without actually finishing a single thought. I've been grumpy and teary since the midget went to bed.

I watched an episode of Whale Wars and then half an episode of Pit Boss, and when I started sobbing and cuddling my dogs and trying to figure out how to justify adopting a pit bull, I said...Um...Fuck this...and turned off the television and turned on my iPod and did dishes and some more unpacking and cleaning. I've since taken a sleeping pill and am now trying to shut my brain down with mindless facebook games.

However, while listening to my iPod and singing (screaming) really badly, I decided I really, really wanted to share this song with you, gentle reader. I think if I could just play this on an internal loop 24/7 I'd be so much easier to withstand...

Don't Make Me Get All Dictionary On Your Ass

2010-07-27T00:33:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know me in real life...all two of you out there who got here by googling "snake poo" or "Craigslist hookers and goats" (so not kidding...) I'm a bit of an English freak. Particularly as it pertains to grammar and spelling, but punctuation is a subject that gets me all testy as well. So, needless to say, the angrier I get, the colder and more precise my English gets...well, until I reach the point of hysteria and then I'm just shouting gibberish and at that point, it's probably best to back out of the room slowly and return an hour or two later with a Coke to appease my murderous rage.

About a week ago, one of my favorite bloggers, Dee of Curvaceous Dee Twittered that a troll was lurking on her site. The comment the idiot left was ridiculously lame. So lame in fact, that I won't even bother to repeat it here. However, as I have more than a slight internet crush on Dee and I think she's fucking kickass, I was totally offended. And what happens when I get pissed? Other people shout, swear, ignore or laugh at idiots. I, however, pull out a dictionary and cut them to pieces with my favorite weapon...words.

Another thing you won't know about me unless you know me in real life is that I'm fiercely protective of people I love or admire. I once jumped into a lake to save the Archaeogoddess' sandal (true story)...even though of all the people on the boat I was the worst swimmer (still am) but the Archaeogoddess had stuck her finger in a cheese shredder and couldn't get her hand wet. Oh, and the sandal was totally floating so it wasn't even an emergency...but it was the Archaeogoddess' sandal for fuck sake! So, yes, even though I know that it's better to ignore the trolls, that feeding the trolls only encourages them, I let him (well, probably not him, since I doubt he returned to view the venom spewed in his direction) know in no uncertain terms what I thought of his comment, and idiots like him in general.

But that wasn't the best part...the best part is that Dee did a round up of the incident (because I wasn't her only reader to tell the troll to fuck off) and the ensuing reader comments in which she thanked each one of us for defending her loveliness. When mentioning my comment she said "Laura got all dictionary on his ass" which may be the most kickass description of my English fascism to date. I love it. It is totally going to be my new threat when someone pisses me off.

I highly recommend checking out Dee's site, though you should be warned that it's totally NSFW.

Also, I should totally get out more...

Further Evidence That The Midget is My Kid

2010-07-25T20:29:00.000-07:00

Had a big family barbecue today. The midget and I were tired and slept in, and were just kind of lazing around the house until about noon, when the cousins started calling to harass me into getting my lazy ass into gear. About the third time they called, the midget answers and I hear her going "Uh huh, uh huh" and then "Okay." She hangs up the phone, turns to me and says..."Basically, Mom, all I heard was 'whine, whine, whine...get up here.'"

It brought a tear to my eye...

I'm so Zen I'm Like Buddha...well...kinda...

2010-07-24T00:23:00.000-07:00

You ever have one of those days where everyone you see and everything you do totally has a theme? That's been the last 24 hours for me. I just feel like I've had an epiphany or a break through...or maybe I'm just manic and haven't realized it yet...ah, the joy of being bipolar.

Anyway...the epiphany is this...No one can make me unhappy, unless I choose to let them. And that's the only power I have. That's it. I can either take your shit and let you treat me like crap and feel bad about myself, or I can love myself enough to say, you know what...Fuck you if you don't like me, if you think I'm too fat or too messy or too flighty. Whatever. That's your issue. It isn't mine, and I'm not going to take your issue on...Got it?

See, last night at about midnight I get an instant message from my cousin, who, from the magic that is Facebook, found her ex-fiance...the one that walked out and left her flat with no explanation, no goodbye....nothing. Just boom...gone. Well, turns out he's married, and she's cute and they look happy. My cousin, who I love dearly, is not a "glass half empty" person so much as she's a..."why is MY glass always empty" kind of person. As though everything in her life sucks and she's the only who has bad things happen.

Now, I love this girl, don't get me wrong. She's funny, and kind and generous and good...but she wallows a lot. I mean a lot...if something happens that's not what she wanted, she ignores all the good things in her life and says "Why does my life always suck? Why can't I have anything good?" Now, in fairness...she's a single mom, has some health issues and very little money (gosh, where have I heard that story before?), but on the other hand...she has an amazing family, a place to live, all of the necessities and quite a few luxuries...But she doesn't want to see that, she wants to focus on what's wrong. And I've been there...I've so been there. It's hard to drag yourself out of that place. It just sucks to be miserable all the time, and yes...it is a choice. Find a way to laugh, to inhabit your life so that when you look at what other people have, you don't ignore all that you have to wish for what you think they have.

Because that's the key isn't it? It's our perception. I told my cousin, yes, I'm sure they look happy in the pictures. Most people don't share the not so good times with the rest of the world. They want you to see the happy, everything's great moments, not the "my kid was up all night, and the dog peed on my only clean blanket and I got a flat tire" moments. Because we all have them, we just aren't interested in taking pictures. It's not a moment we want to keep.

Then tonight I was talking to another friend (that accommodating, picture taking friend, who we've decided to call Sam) and he was sort of having a wallowing kind of a moment, and I was totally on my soapbox with the same blunt realizations I'm giving myself and my cousin. And while I was chatting with him online, I was also watching a silly romantic comedy of the same theme...the "it's all in how you choose to see it" theme. It felt like the universe was just saying..."Yes, you idiot woman, you've finally got it."

Now, in fairness...there's a good chance I'm headed into a manic phase,and that in a week, I'll be all "boohoo, my life sucks" but I'm going to try and keep this centered in my mind, that it's all in the way you choose to live your life. If you've decided to be happy, and that nothing, not that flat tire or pissing dog or empty wallet, is going to ruin that happiness. And then maybe, just maybe...that'll be enough...

HNT

2010-07-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

Ugh...moving is such a pain, isn't it? I completely forgot it was Thursday, and I had this lovely pic, taken by the same accomodating friend as the last. I'm going to have to come up with a handly pseudonym for him, aren't I?

Happy HNT, everyone!

Click the pretty blue button to see what HNT is all about....

All Tied Up....

2010-07-14T21:40:00.000-07:00

I'm a busy girl these days...barely a moment to think about posting, but a good friend lent me a hand for this week's HNT post...So unselfish of him, don't you think?

Bad Blogger...

2010-07-12T03:47:00.000-07:00

That's me. I have attempted several starts at posts, but life (and my crazy fibro-fogged bipolar brain) has stopped me dead each time.

There are big changes coming to my universe...the midget and I are striking out on our own..well, kinda. For a number of reasons I'd rather not explain, it just isn't working out living with my sister. So, we're headed back "up the hill" to the family's property (well, you know, assuming it's okay with my parents). I've been batting the idea around for awhile, and the midget's been begging for the move, so better to do it now, before school starts...you know, when it's eight million degrees outside.

So, given that the next few weeks will be all about moving and getting shit done, I doubt I'll be a good blogger, but I'm going to try like hell to at least continue with the HNT posts and a tidbit here and there...Onward...right?

HNT

2010-07-01T22:04:00.000-07:00

i don't need anyone to hold me
i can hold my own
i got highways for stretchmarks
see where i've grown

-Ani Difranco, My IQ

That Old Song

2010-06-30T03:32:00.000-07:00

I'm going to write a post about the awesomeness of taking your giddy ten year old daughter to see a much anticipated movie on opening night at midnight tomorrow after I've slept and recovered a bit, but tonight, on the way home from the sparkly vampire movie, the younger sister had the radio tuned to the station that plays song from our youth...you know eons ago, back in the '90s. And I heard two songs that I haven't heard in ages, and seemed a tiny bit symbolic given my earlier post...

First..this gem from Ace of Base...

And this fantastic anthem from Meredith Brooks...a long time favorite and theme song of mine...

No Words...

2010-06-29T17:58:00.000-07:00

I'm sad today...learned something last night that made realize the exgirlfriend as I knew her truly does not exist any longer. After all that's happened in the last year and a half, this final straw seems insignificant on the surface, but speaks volumes about how far she's come from the woman I once loved. It's not even worth explaining, as it doesn't really affect me or the midget, other than to make me realize that the exgirlfriend's choice to be less active in the midget's life than the midget's father is a blessing in disguise.

I've tried to write this post three times in the last 17 hours, and I'm still having a hard time finding the words to convey how I'm feeling. I can't even find a song that says what I can't...

So, instead, I'm going to post this youtube video of the current audiobook that is amusing me and the midget, because it's made of awesome. It's also in keeping with the vampire theme I've got going on today, since the younger sister is taking the midget and me to see the new Twilight movie...Yay for sparkly vampires...

The Return of HNT

2010-06-24T02:26:00.001-07:00

So, my promise to myself to post a weekly HNT (half-naked Thursday) was totally derailed by the intrusion of Diabetes into my little universe. It's hard to think about body scapes and tasteful pictures of this body that has housed me for 33 years when I'm up at 2am checking blood sugars and trolling through websites for ways to make our lives easier.

I struggled with this picture. It shows more of me than any of my previous pictures. I'm hesitant to post it, because it's very honest, the pinky pallor of my skin, the curves of flesh that resemble a landscape far more than an ideal bodyscape, the freckles...

But, this is the body that housed my midget for 40 long weeks, the body that comforts her when life gets too tough, the body that hugs my nieces and nephews, the body that has laughed for an uncountable number of hours with my beloved Archaeogoddess, the body that I have promised myself I would learn to love, if not for my sake, then for the sake of my midget, who needs to see that self worth should not be measured by numbers, or whether or not you look like the models on the covers of the magazines.

Thank you to everyone who comes here, and keeps coming back, regardless of the number of half nekked pictures I post, or the number of times I use "fuck" in a sentence. Thanks for letting me be me, and being brave enough to come back.

It's Not Just Me

2010-06-16T01:57:00.000-07:00

I've been laboring under the mistaken impression that I am the lone woman on the planet who doesn't want a relationship and has no desire to find a "mate." I have gotten such strange looks for saying things like..."I love you today, I loved you yesterday and I'm pretty sure I'm going to love you tomorrow...please don't ask for more."

I also used to get the weirdest looks when I told people that the exgirlfriend was not my best friend, that I have an amazing best friend who gets me and to whom I can tell anything and know that she will not judge me. She's like another piece of my soul. Not that I didn't love the exgirlfriend. I did. People would always say that I was being unfair to my girlfriend by having a best friend. Or people would assume that because I'm bisexual, the love I have for my best friend must be somehow romantic in nature. Which is just ridiculous.

Anyway..I never knew other women that had the same feeling. Until tonight when I read a fantastic post on Fuck Yeah, Motherhood and went "Holy Fuck! I'm not the only one."

This is the best part...Each word is something that resonates, that I could have written. I fucking love it!!

But it’s not enough. People want things that baffle me. Like girlfriends. And wives. And forever. I am now. I am “I love you”, not “I will always love you”. I am “I like being with you”, not “I’ll never leave you”. I am “Let’s go to the park today”, not “Let’s go to the Caribbean in March”. I am not a picket fence. I’m not even a key to your apartment. I am just me. I have seen always, forever, and never go south and I believe in only making promises I can keep. I don’t know if anyone will ever be able to accept my tiny bit of today without asking for a whole lot of tomorrow. That’s okay, though. I’m still sensational.

Dogs, Dogs, Dogs

2010-06-11T15:23:00.000-07:00

I may have mentioned my obsessive and totally requited love for this thing

at least once or twice on this here blog thingie. We love each other. I'm not embarrassed to tell you that. Sure, other people have fulfilling relationships with human beings, but that rarely works out for me, so I'm sticking with this guy. He's cute, cuddly and jealously posessive. Not in a creepy "If I can't have you, no one can" kind of way, but in a really cute "I'm going chase away all the other dogs...and WTF, you got another dog?!?" kind of way. And only rarely does he change the channel when I'm watching the Discovery channel.

Now, just because I love him, that doesn't mean there isn't room for other dogs in my life. It's not like my obsession with Coke (no, not coke as in the white powder, but the brown carbonated stuff that comes in the red can, and No, I will not allow you to substitute Pepsi, what kind of girl do you think I am?), I love lots of dogs...I mean there's this guy:

And now, the newest member of my family...

This is Chewy. Chewy is a seven month old Chihuahua mix. He's actually not my dog, he's the midget's dog. Of course, that hasn't stopped me from stealing him and cuddling him and holding him and giving him kisses, much to the dismay of Charlie and Ellwood. They don't dislike him, not at all...they play with him and Ellwood lets him cuddle and everything. But, Ellwood and especially Charlie, are not thrilled about my affection for this little guy. They are of the opinion that two dogs ought to be quite enough for me, and they appear to feel that I should pretty much ignore the new puppy.

We're going to have a group therapy session next week...you know, so I can reassure them of the love I have for them, and we can talk about any other issues that may be lurking just beneath the surface of our happy home...like Ellwood's need to vomit on my bed at one in the morning...

What a Difference a Year Makes...

2010-06-06T01:05:00.000-07:00

Ah, the first weekend in June. Warm weather, the end of school and for us here in my tiny corner of the universe...the Italian Picnic. It's as small town as you can get. A small carnival with a handful of rides, playing bingo for salami, listening to a bad cover band, visiting with a good friend at the Bocce Ball court. It is such an integral part of life in this area that it's never really a question of if you're going to go, but rather, when, and with whom.

I spent the evening at the picnic with the family. Barely organized chaos it was, what with the youngest girl wanting to do everything the midget (who is 7 years older) did, while our middle girls tried to be brave enough to ride the carousel by themselves. The midget was amazingly patient with her youngest girl cousin, as she always is. She went on the "baby rides" with her and took her down the big slide about a dozen times and only whined a little about not being able to go on the big, scary rides because she didn't want to go by herself.

It really made me think about last year, and how far I've come since then. I was tying myself in knots over someone who wasn't worth the time and the effort and trying to be strong enough to parent by myself, giving the exgirlfriend far more credit than she deserved in terms of what she brought to the table. A year ago, I thought the worst had happened, but I've since learned better. What had happened was the best thing that could happen, it was just tied up with so much ugliness that I couldn't see how much better off the midget and I were without a woman who not only wasn't happy, but didn't want to be happy, and didn't want the life we lived. I keep thinking how hard it would have been to make it through the last two months with all that's happened with the midget and having the added burden of trying to tiptoe around the exgirlfriend.

I hate to use a cliche, but things happen for a reason. Every horrible, shitty thing that has happened in my life has made room for something better, made me strong enough to be the midget's mom and to parent on my own. I'm not perfect, far from it, but I'm holding our lives together and the midget's world is full of lots of love and laughter and family, and that's the only indicator of success I need...

Full Disclosure?

2010-05-29T01:11:00.000-07:00

Warning: This post definitely falls under the TMI category...

I keep coming back to the same question with this here blog thingy. Now, in my opinion, having a blog is a bit like having a memoir you publish whilst you are living it. You know, so you don't forget the good bits. (Unless, of course, you are like me and have and forget what you're doing in the time it takes to walk from one end of the house to the other, then you forget the good bits as you go, anyway.) There are problems with that theory, of course. Now, if you're like me and you have your very own anti-fan club, then anything you say will definitely be mangled and twisted into a weapon to use against you and those you love. Or there's the fact that while you may not have a problem with airing all your dirty laundry for the world to see, the people who are part of your daily life maybe don't want their lives exposed for all and sundry to see. And, of course, there are the readers who know you in the real world who maybe don't want to hear about your sexual exploits (hi, Mom) or see your naked pictures. But, dammit...You all (all two of my readers)have been warned many, many times...if you're still coming here, I refuse to be held responsible.

Why is this coming up again? Because for the first time in eight very long months, I've had sex. Glorious, uncomplicated, no strings sex. And it was awesome. It was exactly what I needed, without all the gory relationship crap that I really, really don't need. It reaffirms my belief that monogamous, committed relationships aren't for me. It was not awkward or weird and there are no expectations on either end. And you know what? I feel no guilt, no shame, no embarrassment. We both got exactly what we wanted out of the experience and said good night and went our separate ways.

I hesitated to say anything about it for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that I don't want to answer a lot of questions about this person, because while I genuinely care for this person, it's not the kind of caring that's going to lead to any kind of a relationship type thing. Even if I was in a place emotionally or logistically to have a relationship, this just wouldn't be going there. And hell, I really don't even know if it's going to happen again, well with this person, I mean...because sex will be happening again. Eight months was too long, I can't see hanging up my...erm...bits and pieces...at the very, very young age of 33.

It was healing, and refreshing and goddammit, life-affirming. I am still here, still someone besides a mom, besides a sister or a cousin or a friend. I'm a woman in my own right, and proud of it. And walking around with a bit of a cat who ate the canary smirk this week....

Back On the Couch...

2010-05-26T00:04:00.000-07:00

Back in therapy. Trying to deal with my shit, look my crazy demons in the eyes, then lay them to rest once and for all. A lot of things precipitated the move, but the biggest thing has been the midget. Dealing with her diagnosis, trying to take care of her alone...frankly, I can't be up all night wrestling with a brain that torments me endlessly, I just don't have the time.

I hate this shit, I should mention. I hate looking my craziness full in the face and trying to make sense of it. I hate taking apart my mistakes to see the motivations behind them, and (big surprise) I hate admitting my mistakes. If I knew how to say...Hmmm..fucked up, okay, learn from it and move on, admitting my mistakes wouldn't be a problem. Because I don't mind admitting I'm a fuck up and a flake and a high strung nut case. I am all of those things, and I can say that easily and honestly without batting an eye. But the individual things that I have done, words I have said that hurt people, that sucks. Because I basically have two settings...Ignore and Obsess. So, either I put it out of my mind and act like it never happened, or I play it over and over in my mind, analyzing each and every second, thinking of all the things I could have, should have said or done instead. I torture myself and berate myself, and my worst enemy could not tear me down the way I do when I Obsess.

And, I hate having to be honest. Because in real life I'm rarely very honest about how I feel. I'm flippant and dismissive and sarcastic. Admitting that I'm sad or scared or lonely...I don't like to do that, but therapy doesn't work if you aren't honest.

In that vein...the honesty vein..I'm posting this video. It's one of my all time favorite songs, something that's been in constant rotation for years, off and on, and back on right now in a big way. The song is beautiful and amazing, but the video, with Robert Downey Jr. doing his hot, soulful broody thing, really just makes it. I wish I had written this song, it says everything...

Yeah, I'm That Liberal Freak...

2010-05-17T17:30:00.000-07:00

The one that makes her own cleaners because store bought chemicals are bad for the earth. The one that watches "Ru Paul's Drag Race" with her 10 year old, and answers the same 10 year old's questions about sex and life with as much honesty as the midget can stand before she runs screaming "Eeew!!" The one that doesn't believe in any gods or follow any religions.

Latest adventure in liberalism? Homeschooling. No, not denim prairie dress wearing, putting GOD back in the curriculum homeschooling, but instead, I'm going to fill my midget's brain with all my nutcase liberal ideas and then turn her loose on the conservatives..Mwuhahaha...

Not really.

Kind of....

Actually, I'm just really tired of sending this kid to school all day and having her come home having learned very little. I'm tired of the fact that they spent an entire month on "Black History," but she can't name a single important leader in the Civil Rights movement. I'm frustrated with public education, that they don't read fantastic books like "Where the Red Fern Grows" or "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry" anymore. I'm literally nauseated at the idea of my 10 year old, type 1 diabetic midget with ADD in a classroom with 40 other kids and 1 (nope, not a typo...that's 1) teacher.

Now, since I'm a broke-ass bitch, I had to go with an online charter school for my curriculum. I've heard a lot of good and a lot of bad about online charter schools, but I've looked over the curriculum, and it's so much MORE than what she's been getting in her "normal" school, that even though it's exactly what I'd have chosen myself, it's close enough, and I'll have enough freedom that I can add some things that I need her to know. I won't have to "unteach" her the sanitized version of history they are teaching kids these days. Because that shit pisses me off.

It's a lot of work, I know. If I was that mom, the one that could just let it go, the burden of time and energy and the fact that the midget and I will be together all day long every damn day would send me running for the hills. But, I'm not that mom. I'm not interested in being that mom, 'cause I'm that liberal freak...

Damn You, Diabetes!!!

2010-05-10T01:22:00.001-07:00

That's the new tag line in our house. Often said with fist waving and mock anguish that is trying to chip away at the very real grief and fear this wretched disease invokes. Truthfully, we are holding up well here, and doing what we do best, which is to smile through our tears.

You know, I've spent years now listening to people tell me their stories about so-and-so, a friend of their mother-brother-father-aunt-cousin-firstgradeteacher who drank some magical fruit juice and cured whatever condition their mother-brother-father-aunt-cousin-firstgradeteacher had that I also have...And I thought I was frustrated with it before, but I've reached new depths of frustrations with the ignorance with which some people go through life, the way they repeat every insipid little snippet they ever hear. I've heard all the misinformation about my health issues and learned to smile and nod, but the mama bear in me has a hard time letting it go when someone insists they know what caused the midget's diabetes or that they heard of a "cure." And the one that gets me angriest is that she simply needs to cut out sugar and become more active and the diabetes will go away.

Now, admittedly, a month ago I didn't know a third or even a hundredth of what I know now, but I also knew that I didn't know it and would never presume to tell a parent of a child with a life threatening illness how to care for the disease, but some people think that a thirty second segment they half-assedly remember from a news program a month ago gives them the right to tell me that my daughter will be "fine." And that shit makes me want to stab them.

Let's get something clear here. Yes, I am aware that compared to even just 10 years ago, the treatment options for type 1 diabetes have improved exponentially. I know that the midget's prognosis is good, especially because we do understand the severity of the disease and all that it takes to treat it. But just because there are effective treatments, just because diabetes treatments have improved so much doesn't mean that it isn't scary as fuck to know that your child has a disease that can kill them. When you hold that tiny vial of insulin in your hand and realize that the smallest of mistakes can be fatal...that's scary, and no amount of patting me on my head changes that.

Still...I am grateful that she is doing as well as she is, that we caught things before it got so bad that her kidneys were damaged. I am grateful for my family who listens to me rant and rave about how unfair this all is. I am grateful for the doctors and nurses that have taught me so much in such a short time. And I'm grateful that my midget is strong and resilient and brave.

Gratitude aside...the fact is diabetes sucks...

Really, Universe?

2010-04-20T02:00:00.000-07:00

My poor midget...Type 1 Diabetes??? In the latest Lifetime movie of the week twist in my life, my sweet (haha, bad pun..) midget has been diagnosed as a Type 1 diabetic. We are in the hospital learning how to test blood sugars and give shots.

Thankfully, I tend to overreact rather than underreact, so I caught that something was wrong before she got seriously ill. Her numbers are high, and not at all under control and won't be for a few more weeks at least, but she's nowhere near as sick as she could be or as sick most kids are at diagnosis. She's the toughest, bravest, most amazing kid, and I'm so damn proud of her.

As a parent, it's damn important to trust that voice in the back of your head that says, "Hey, something's not right." Don't feel like a freak if you're worried about your kid and you want to get something checked out. It is so much better to be the neurotic Mom who worries too much than the Mom who wishes she'd listened to her gut...

Insomnia Plus Sick Kid Equals Bad Day...

2010-04-14T13:15:00.000-07:00

I had great plans for today. Was going to do some baking, some cleaning and take some pictures. But between my own insomnia and the midget's coughing keeping her up all night, I'm having a very rough day. Everything hurts, I'm tired and swollen and basically having a crappy, crappy day.

This Grudge...

2010-04-09T21:32:00.000-07:00

I'm finally going through all my old music and putting it on this computer...making ringtones for my new phone and I came across this song I haven't listened to in ages, but have always loved. Tonight, it strikes a deeper chord in me than I can ever remember. I wish I just knew how to let go and forgive. My anger may be justified but it's only serving to gnaw at my happiness, the throbbing ache that nags at the edges of my otherwise contented life...

"Who's still aching now/Who's tired of her own voice/Who's it weighing down/With no gift from time of said healing"

HNT...Please Excuse The Farmer's Tan...

2010-04-07T23:05:00.000-07:00

The midget's softball season started a week and a half ago and I got a bit too much sun on my arms because it was the first really nice day we'd had in a long time, and I was too busy enjoying the sun to bother with pesky things like sunblock and umbrellas.

So, I know I missed a Thursday or two, but I have given it up...and here's this week picture. As you can see, I have exactly two skin colors to my name: white and red.

Thank You, Bloggess, For Saying It Better Than I Ever Could

2010-04-06T23:59:00.000-07:00

Like so many people who believe in equality for all, I've been following the story of the girl whose school cancelled the prom rather than allow her to attend with her girlfriend. The latest chapter in this ugly, hate-filled saga can be found here.

Now, go read what The Bloggess has to say. And say a little prayer to whatever powers you believe in for all the gay kids without Constance's ability to believe in herself and face down the people who are showering her with hatred. You know that there are kids who are gay, who don't know it, or can't admit it yet, attending that school, and likely attending the other prom, and the scars they will bear from this will never leave them.

And then...if you have time or money and are looking for a worthy cause to support...go here. Gay teens are at a higher risk of suicide than any other demographic.

As If She Wasn't Hot Enough Already...

2010-04-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

Anna Paquin. Can I just say "Yowza!" and also, "Yum"? I love, love, love her. I'm more than mildly obsessed with True Blood, and for once, I actually like the Hollywood version of a character better than the book version of the character.

Then, today...I see this tweet from the utterly fabulous Mistress Matisse that Anna Paquin has come out as bisexual. Okay, seriously? Between her and her costar (and fiance) Stephen Moyer, I may not be able to watch without hyperventilating.

I'm sort of amazed at the announcement, especially as she's not been a media whore kind of celebrity, and being engaged to a MAN, she didn't really have to acknowledge her orientation, not that anyone has to, but it wasn't like she had to hide her relationship.

I can't think of anyone other celebrity, with the exception of Sandra Bernhardt, who has made an announcement that they were bisexual, and it makes me very happy indeed. I've discussed before the difficulties inherent in being bisexual, how you belong fully to neither the gay or straight communities, and how you hear a lot of "Make up your mind" or "It's just a phase" or "You're a slut" kind of nonsense when you identify as bisexual.

And On a Darker Note...

2010-03-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

I've been absent from the blog for the last week. Obviously. Every time I would start a post, the words would stop and the fog that obscures my brain would take over and that nagging voice, the one that I can't turn off, the one that follows me around telling me how I can't do things, that I'm stupid and no one wants to read what I have to say, that voice takes over and when I'm that tired and the fog is weighing me down anyway, it's easier to give in and give up. I'm not proud of that, and that gives the voice strength, too.

See, what I don't talk about a lot is that in addition to my myriad physical issues, I'm also bipolar. And when I'm manic and up and laughing and talking any my brain is working full speed ahead, it's awesome. But, when I'm not manic...well...not awesome doesn't remotely begin to cover it. And hypothyroidism, fibromyalgia, hormonal imbalances and bipolar disorder are like this evil gang of square dancers that have their choreography down to a science. Any one of them can trigger a flare in one or all of the others. But, when the physical stuff sucks, at least my brain still works and I can laugh and talk and still be, essentially, me. The depression, though...that's a whole other animal, and it weighs me down and turns me into a zombie, and suddenly I'll realize that three days have passed and I've been on autopilot.

I did too much this weekend. The weather was beautiful, the midget had a softball game, there was family stuff going on, my little sister who I miss dreadfully, was staying with me...it was good. And then my body said...Whoa, there...hold on...this is too much fun and too much activity and the hour you spent in the sun is going to combine with all of the energy expenditures and every cell in your body is going to scream in agony and breathing is going to become so exhausting that it makes you want to cry, and then when you try to sleep you're going to have a panic attack because you're having tachycardia. And all of that slams me into depression faster than you can imagine.

I don't like to talk about it much. It sucks and it's sad and it just drags people down. And that voice, that voice that I can't shut out, is really good at convincing me that I'm alone, a freak...that everyone else is normal and no one will understand, so why even bother trying to tell them about it. And so I hide in my house, cobbling together what little bit of energy I can muster so the midget gets to and from school and gets dinner and clean clothes and homework help, and I stagnate and cry and then...I start to feel a bit better. Maybe I don't hurt so much, or I get a little sleep. And then I'll read something on one of my favorite blogs...usually The Bloggess (someone who actually gets the depression/anxiety thing and laughs about it) or see a good show, find a good book...something...and I'll the depression lifts a bit. And then bit by bit, it gets brighter. For awhile.

I'm surfacing right now, and starting to recover. Thankfully it's only been a day or two this time. I still hurt and I'm still exhausted, but the depression is lifting, thankfully.

Black and White HNT

2010-03-18T01:40:00.000-07:00

Taking pictures of one's self is not as easy as you may think. I mean there are easy shots: feet, arms, hands, etc... And there's the self-timer, which I need to practice with a bit more, but getting anything else is difficult. I set out this evening to get some hip shots, but it just wasn't happening, but I love this long leg shot I got, so I guess it worked out.

Why I Love to Cook

2010-03-16T15:22:00.000-07:00

Last night I had an urge for banana bread, and an hour later there was banana bread in my kitchen. Not instant gratification, no...but good enough, especially since I get it warm and soft right out of the oven...and bonus: my house smells like banana bread all night.

I had been perusing food blogs, as I tend to do...if it's not food blogs, it's sex blogs...but that's another story, and perhaps another blog. I came across a recipe for breakfast pizza that looked interesting, except that having breakfast pizza would involve me being up early in the morning, which I had no intentions of doing since it is, after all, the midget's spring break and I am going to take every opportunity to sleep in.

So, instead we had pizza for lunch, and the only thing it had in common with the recipe that inspired me was bacon. I ended up with this lovely pizza....

First, I sprinkled some drained diced tomatoes, followed that up with feta cheese and Parmesan cheese. Then I broke out the artichoke hearts (YUM) and broke up the bacon I had just fried up and sprinkled that on, threw some more tomatoes on and added a bit more Parmesan cheese. Oh. My. God. So good. The only thing I think I'd change if I did it again is to add some diced garlic, because garlic makes everything better.

I had some left over bacon and there were these two dogs...well, could you resist this?

It would take a stronger woman than I to resist those faces...and they were so sweet about it...but, then the bacon got the better of Ellwood and he completely forgot his manners...

Charlie, however, behaved like a complete gentleman...

My dogs love that I can cook, too...

That's MY Cookie

2010-03-12T03:06:00.001-08:00

Warning...the following picture is so cute, it may hurt...

Now, normally, when the boys get a cookie, Charlie scarfs his on the spot, and Ellwood does a victory lap around the house, grunting all the way, and then settles down to gnaw on his. Today, for some reason, after his victory lap, Ellwood laid down and basked in the glory that was his cookie. Charlie, having already devoured his, came to investigate whether Ellwood had left any crumbs he could steal. When Charlie spied the while, uneaten cookie, he tried to steal it, which wasn't at all surprising. What was surprising was Ellwood's insistence that he wasn't giving up his cookie. Not only did he not just walk away from it, he actually barked. Barked. At Charlie. I'm not sure who was more shocked, me or Charlie. Charlie, attempted his theft again, and AGAIN Ellwood barked.

Charlie was so bewildered that he backed off and laid down on the floor below where I was sitting on the couch. Ellwood went back to loving his cookie. He eventually scarfed it down, but the two of them stayed like this for about a half an hour...

Charlie looks so forlorn. Who knew Ellwood knew how to stand up for himself?

Taking Advantage...

2010-03-11T01:38:00.000-08:00

I think I've mentioned my longing for spring. It's been ridiculously cold here. I know, I know, those of you in higher latitudes are laughing. I mean, 0 C is nothing to you, but to us California girls, it's painful. Cold to me is anything under 55 F...

We had one day this week when the sun shone and it was 60 Fahrenheit. I reveled in it. The midget was at her softball clinic, so I grabbed my camera and headed outdoors. And though it was still vaguely chilly, the sun felt amazing...Of course, the sun didn't last long and we had snow (SNOW! AGAIN!) a few days later, but at least I had that one glorious day of sunshine.

This was my first time using my timer on my camera to take self portraits. It was tricky, and I got a lot of awkward face shots and being as ridiculously pale as I am, many of the pictures were pretty washed out.

I loved the way this one turned out, though...especially the sun on my hair. And though you can't see it, there's a horse in the tress trying to figure out what the strange human is doing...

Happy Thursday, everyone...And here's hoping the sun is shining in your corner of the universe!!

"The Happiest Days...

2010-03-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

...are when babies come." Melanie Wilkes says that to Rhett Butler on the day Scarlett O'Hara gives birth to his baby. And for all that it may be the most well-worn platitude ever uttered, it is also 100%, irrefutably true.

I finally got to meet this little angel...my newest "niece" (okay, okay, really she's my cousin's daughter, but as I've mentioned before, we don't make those distinctions).

Now, I'll admit, when I first heard, some 10 months ago, about this bebe's impending arrival, I did not exactly jump for joy. In fact, my first thoughts were colored by anger, by fear, and by a deep sorrow. I believed, and still kind of believe, that her mother, my beloved cousin, wasn't really in any position to be having this baby. She's older than I was, certainly, when I had my "whoops" that led to my precious little midget, but her life is a bit of a mess. Without going into too many details, it just wasn't a good situation, a sentiment shared by many in my family. So, while we're a close knit group and love children, we found it hard to get excited about this birth, and given that my cousin's pregnancy was high risk, we were all nervous about the outcome...so, unlike all our previous babies, we weren't excited, we just couldn't be...We wanted to be, but it just wasn't happening.

Time passed, as it inevitably does. We had a baby shower (which I missed, thank you FM). And this baby came early...and was tiny...She was in the hospital for several days due to her teeny size. She's been in and out of the hospital for the last two months, suffering from various ailments. She's still tiny, at two months, she's smaller than my midget was at birth, though, admittedly my midget was a giant baby, nearly 10 pounds.

Finally, finally...she was healthy enough to come and meet us, her crazy, extended family. And despite my fears for her mother, my concerns about her health, it was lovely and amazing to see the joy on her cousin's faces as they each took it in turn to hold her tiny body in their laps. It was joyful and funny and silly to watch as her cousin accidentally made her smack herself in the face, a precursor of things to come for the youngest in this horde of monster children, I fear.

So, though I am still nervous about the future for this baby, I am reminded that my situation, when my little midget was born, was not too promising, either, and yet, she is a lovely, amazing girl on the edge of teenage angst who has had a lovely, amazing life due to all the wonderful people who love her, namely of course, my insane extended family. And so, perhaps there is less to be worried about, and more to be happy about. Because, this certainly was a happy, happy day.

Welcome to the madhouse, sweet girl, we are so happy to meet you.

Spring Fever...

2010-03-07T11:27:00.000-08:00

I have it...I have it bad...

It's a gorgeous sunny day. Okay, so it's only 60 degrees, but don't bother me with details. It's brightly sunny and I'm supposed to be doing my cooking chores...getting breakfast burritos made and frozen, making some challah, but all I can think about is the sunshine and the way the grass would feel on my bare toes. I am so ready for the end of winter. I'm ready for capri pants and sandals and tank tops...

I think I'm going to head outside with my camera and see if I can't get a good shot or two for my HNT post this week. Meanwhile...here's a little music, something that's in pretty much constant rotation on my iPod...

Fantastic Shoes, Right?

2010-03-04T23:20:00.000-08:00

Here's this week's HNT submission. I love, love, love these shoes. They're devilishly hard to walk in, but I'm definitely working on it. I've got another fabulous pair in hot pink that I'm wearing to my brother's wedding in May, but I like these better.

Geek Squad, Schmeek Squad...

2010-03-01T06:36:00.000-08:00

Ack...so they replacement cord for my laptop MELTED...and now I can't charge my laptop at all, even when I tried to use my sister's brand new universal cord. I'm off to Folsom this morning to get it fixed, which will likely mean them sending it off for repairs and I'll be without my laptop for another month. Since October, they've had it more than I have and I am beyond frustrated. Of course, this latest issue happened just after my warranty expired, which means they're going to try and get me to pay for any repairs that need to be made, which means I will scream at the top of my lungs about what asshats they are and how if they'd fixed everything correctly the first time and hadn't had my laptop for three out of the last five months, my warranty wouldn't have expired before this happened.

I'm also going to Target and Old Navy to buy clothes for the midget. She refuses to quit growing and doesn't seem to care that I'm too poor to replace her wardrobe every three months.

What the Fuck?

2010-02-27T05:37:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it's another sleepless night for the Queen of the Universe, and I'm watching late night tv and there was nothing else worth watching, so I settled on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I don't normally watch this show, because the families always make me cry, but there was literally nothing else besides footage of the earthquake in Chile.

So, the episode I'm watching is this one. This kid, Garrett Yazzie, who asked the show to help his family...this kid blows my mind. Not just because of the selflessness with which he devotes himself to his family, but because of the reason they decided to help the family.

You see, Garrett's family is Navajo and they live on the reservation, in a trailer that was falling down around their ears. They were heating their home with coal or wood, but his younger sister has asthma and the fire was making her sick. So, this kid, this junior high school kid goes out to the junk yard and with nothing but his hands, his brain and crap he finds in the junk yard...namely soda bottles and an old radiator...this kid builds a solar powered water-heater that also heats his house.

And this is where the "What the Fuck" comes in...because this kid...he's a kid, you know? A junior high school kid with no fucking education can build a solar powered heating system out of trash. We have fucking scientist and government agencies supposedly devoted to this shit, and it's "too expensive" and real change is "years away." It's fucking bullshit. If a teenage kid can do it, why the fuck can't our government get their shit together and figure it out?

Body Image, Bravery and HNT

2010-02-25T06:16:00.000-08:00

I have struggled with body image issues my entire life. I don't remember a time when I didn't hate my body, whether it was my freckles, my hair, my pallid skin, my body size or shape...none of it ever pleased me. I never looked in the mirror and thought good thoughts. Like so many other girls, I have never been able to look in the mirror or at pictures of myself and not tear to pieces what I saw there. No matter what cruel things have been said to me by various people at various times, I have always been the person who treated myself the worst.

I am a recovered(ing?) bulimic. It's been awhile since I purged, but rarely a week goes by without the compulsion rearing it's ugly head. It's a compulsion like nothing else I've ever felt. But, now, there is always in my mind that beautiful young girl I'm raising, and the idea that I could relapse and she could find out about that relapse is a pretty decent defense. It gives me more strength than I'd ever have on my own. Because, you see, as a mother of a young girl, I am painfully aware of negative body image and the effect that media has on a young girl. I try really hard to make sure she knows that she's beautiful, that she's perfect the way she is. I try to help her love who she is and the body that contains who she is. But I am just one tiny voice, and the media is everywhere, telling her in subtle and blatant ways that she is not good enough, that she will never be good enough. And the idea that she could hate herself the way I have always hated myself sickens me in a way I cannot ever describe.

Just recently, she had an assignment for school and she had to do a project about her biggest hero. To my utter delight and surprise, she chose me. She wanted to talk about how smart I am and how I deal with being sick and how I'm still a good mom despite that. And, wow, nothing in the world makes you want to be a better person than the realization that your child admires you...you want to feel like you deserve that admiration. So, we had an evening where we went through my old Academic Decathlon stuff, and pictures of me and we talked about me. Which was...disconcerting. I mean, certain things I love to talk about, like Academic Decathlon, and my friends and things I like to read and basically anything dealing with my intelligence, of which I have an inordinate amount of pride (or vanity). But when she asked me why there are hardly any pictures of me, I had a hard time coming up with a good answer. How do you tell your child that you hate yourself? You can't. Not if you are a halfway sane and decent parent. So, I stuttered about and made excuses about always being the one taking the pictures, which she called me on because I never let her take my picture. So, I made some more lame excuses and changed the subject.

But, later on, and over the past few weeks, it's been gnawing at me. The best way to lead is by example, right? Because that whole "Do as I say, not as I do" thing is ridiculously ineffective. And I want to keep her respect, and being a hypocrite isn't the best way to do that, I think.

I was reading one of my favorite blogs last week, and the writer had posted her HNT picture. For those you who are unfamiliar with HNT, it stands for Half-Nekkid Thursday. You can read about it here. HNT is different things to different people. For some, it is an opportunity to let out their inner exhibitionist, for others, it's about the art and for still others it's about bravery. But, the basic idea is to celebrate the human body, in all it's wildly imperfect perfection. HNT is not pornography nor is it about sex, though, of course, given the subject matter, many HNT pictures are sexy or provocative. But, they can also be silly or sad, serious or light hearted.

I've been looking at HNT pictures for a long time, as I do truly admire the human body, and yeah, some of the bloggers I look at regularly I find attractive, but that's not why I keep reading their blogs. They have substance, or their pictures are beautifully artistic or they give good photography tips. So, I've been sort of ruminating and I've decided to begin HNT here on my blog. I'm hoping that by forcing myself to take pictures of myself, I will have to look at my body through different eyes. Not hating, loathing eyes, but objective eyes. I'm hoping to gain acceptance of myself, and then.....love...and wow, does that sound awfully corny to my cynical mind.

Obviously, I'm aware that since some of my readers (most, actually) know me in real life, this is sort of a pretty big minefield to navigate. Americans are incredibly prudish and while it's totally okay to look at pictures of people we don't know, looking at naked pictures of our friends and family members is a huge taboo. But, even though I'm embarking on this learn to love my body project, I'm not looking to change my basic personality, so you aren't going to see something vulgar or horrifying. I mean, my mother reads this blog, as do other family members, and there's a contingent who know about and read this blog in what I feel is an attempt to find things to use against me. So, while you're going to see more of me than you ever have, you're not going to be seeing anything R rated, let alone X rated.

I thought about starting a different blog, or just posting on one of the many sites that allows random posting of HNT pictures, but I rejected that idea almost immediately. First of all, I post here erratically enough as it is, splitting my posting energy between this blog and another blog is unrealistic and would lead to the demise of both pretty quickly. Secondly, starting a new blog would mean having a blog with zero readership, so there would be no accountability. And, I really think this is important for me. It will be good for me to in that making this commitment guarantees that I blog at least once a week, but I think it'll actually lead to me blogging more than that, because I'm going to not want it to be all about HNT, so I'm going to be forcing myself to blog on other days about other things.

I took this picture in bathroom mirror. My bathroom has the best lighting of any room in the house, and since I'm new to this, I wanted to keep it simple, so I didn't want to try to set up a scene and use the timer function on my camera, though another perk of this project is that it's going to push me to be a better photographer.

Without further ado...Welcome to the first edition of the Queen of the Universe's Half-Nekked Thursday...

It All Comes Back 'Round Again...

2010-02-23T07:32:00.000-08:00

My younger sister mentioned this song the other day on Facebook, flashing back to a whole other time in our lives, and it's been on pretty much constant rotation on my iPod since.

Back in the day, this was just a fun song to sing at the top of our lungs over and over again while a friend played it on the guitar. Good times, great memories...now, it's got another layer of meaning for me since the exgirlfriend was one of those singing along and things ended so spectacularly badly between us, but I kinda like that. I love when something familiar takes on new meaning...

This is the only version I could find to post, and it's edited, which kinda sucks, but that doesn't mean you can't scream "you fuck" at the appropriate moment. I highly recommend it, it's very therapeutic.

I Can't Decide If This Is Sad or Funny

2010-02-21T17:56:00.000-08:00

Why The Queen of the Universe Should Really Learn To Read Labels

So, the other night, when this cold kicked in, I was coughing up a lung and in an effort to keep from dislocating something I went looking for cough syrup, and when I found some in my medicine cabinet, I did a happy dance (which caused another coughing fit....idiot) and promptly dosed myself, then went back to bed where I waited for the coughing to subside so I could get my three hours of sleep. The coughing kinda slowed, but sleep eluded me...also I started to get the urge to organize my kitchen, at like 3 am. At which point, I went back and read the label on the cough syrup, and there, in bright bold letters it said...Non-Drowsy formula. So, I read the ingredients and there it was...ephedrine. Shit...

See, I have no thyroid, and I take thyroid hormone replacement, and one of the first things you learn when you are taking thyroid meds is that all the good cold medicines, you know, the ones that contain ephedrine that make it so you can breathe and all that are kind of off limits. So, I haven't had any ephedrine in years. It was like someone shot speed straight into my nonexistent veins. So, there I was at 3 am with a racing brain and weak and tired body, feeling very spacey because I was all hopped up on cough syrup. I'm sure other people would have handled themselves maturely, but, me...I cruised the internet and ended up on Craigslist in the personals section. Which, really, isn't so unusual for me. I spend a lot of time trolling Craigslist looking at the all the animals I want to adopt, but can't and reading the silly and misspelled, grammatical nightmare ads in the personals section. But on this particular night, someone was clearly fucking with me. Because they obviously knew that I was hopped up on cough syrup, and had posted a rant against bisexuals.

Now, I've posted before about how much it kinda sucks to identify as a bisexuals, so needless to say, in my addled state the rant, which was vaguely illiterate and ridiculously insulting struck a nerve and because I was hopped up on cough syrup kinda ticked me off...particularly this part...

when you're bisexual or a man looking to molest, rape, or whatever you predators do

Umm...what?!? What the fuck is that? Because I like women and men I'm a predator??? Now, normally, I'd laugh and shrug this off. I mean...we are talking Craigslist...you know. the site where you can get a goat and a used vibrator and hook up with meth-seeking hooker, all for free? Not that anyone should do any of those things, and probably not all at once, but, hey, I'm not here to judge...well, except the goat part. Leave the goat out of the equation. I mean, if you want to hook up with a meth-seeking hooker and use someone else's used vibrator, by all means...but leave the goat out of it, okay? We have to draw the line somewhere...

So, okay where was I? Oh, right...getting all worked up because some anonymous Craigslist idiot was calling bisexuals predators. So, anyway, because I was hopped up on cough syrup I got the idea in my head that for some reason I could educate this woman about how bisexuals are people just like anyone else. I wrote her a very polite e-mail explaining that bisexuality was as valid a sexual identity as lesbianism and how I was sorry that some bisexual girls are skanky asshats who use lesbians as experimental objects, but how we weren't all like that. To which she replied that I was a dirty slut.

Erm...okay...I've slept with all of two people in the last 13 years, but I'm a dirty slut?!?

A rational person would have given in at this point. Okay, a rational person would have never gotten involved in any of this, but you get my point. But, since I'm me and I was all hopped up on cough syrup (Did I mention the cough syrup yet? Because I'm certain that the cough syrup is why I did any of this, not because I'm a somewhat irrational drama queen.) I wrote my own Craigslist post, asking lesbians to be somewhat more understanding of bisexual girls and admonishing bisexual girls to stop posting ads looking for a "gift" for their boyfriends and posting pictures of their vaginas. Seriously? I was trying to reason with strangers on Craigslist.

Needless to say, I got lots of replies, ranging from "Shut up, you dirty bisexual pervert" to "thanks for standing up for bisexuals" to "I'm looking to surprise my boyfriend with a threesome, here's a picture of my vagina." I finally took down the ad because I get enough spam in my inbox, and it was confusing and upsetting to read insults in one e-mail, propositions in the next and heartfelt thanks in a third.

So, what have we learned, dear readers? We have learned that the Queen of the Universe needs to read labels before she ingests cough medicine, that Craigslist is a black hole of all that's wrong with humanity, that the Queen of the Universe is open-minded to other's sexual perversion so long as they leave the goat out of the equation and that it's probably best if none of this ever sees the light of day.

The Old One, Two

2010-02-21T01:03:00.000-08:00

So, now in addition to the flare I've been experiencing, I've got a cold. Colds suck quite enough on their own, thank you very much...I don't need this two for the price of one thing. Headache, cough, sore throat, all compounded...viruses and chronic illness don't have an additive effect, they have an exponential effect. So, instead of the fun filled shopping I could be doing this weekend, I'm bed and couch bound. Sigh...

Not Fair, Not Fair, Not Fair...

2010-02-16T18:14:00.001-08:00

I've been busy, I've been happy and accomplishing things and I've felt pretty dang fantastic. The last week or so I've felt a little icky, nothing too bad, but I slowed down, tried to take it easy and ignore the mess, and steel myself against the snarky comments that would be coming my way from my sister because of the mess. I spent time with family, yes, because regardless what happens, I'm not isolating myself again, and I won't be sad and lonely and sitting by myself all the time. Bad enough that I'm sick, I'm not going to be miserable and alone, too. But, I've said no to a few family gatherings, or cut them short to try and conserve energy.

My body, however, decided to remind me that I'm not in charge, that I'm sick, and that sometimes means that life sucks. It started yesterday morning, feeling icky, tired and nearly hungover, which was hugely unfair, considering that I didn't drink and haven't drank in nearly two weeks. Then the vague headache that had been building all day became one of those crippling, shattering headaches, and I had no pain relievers at all in the house....not so much as a single aspirin. I dragged myself to the convenience store because it was that or wait for at least two hours for someone else to be available to get them for me, and by them I'd have been crying on the floor, vomiting. Not my idea of fun, and if it got to that point not only would I be in bed for a week, I'd likely have ended up at the ER because my headaches have a point of no return for ordinary painkillers and once I pass that point the only thing that brings relief is Demerol.

An hour after taking Excedrin Migraine and Motrin (yes, it's safe...they're two different types of medications and I was within safe dosage range) and thankfully, the pain faded. I had acted in time...but not in time to keep the headache from recurring four hours later, which it did...and not with a gradual onset, but with sudden, raging intensity. And so another hour of waiting for the pain to subside. Which meant about two hours of sleep last night. After dropping the munchkin off at school this morning, I came home and went back to bed, hoping against what I knew, which was that I wasn't going to feel better after a few more hours of rest. And I didn't. I woke up nauseated and dizzy and in oh so much pain. I had to cancel a meeting I had, and have the midget's father pick her up from school, which I hate to do because I feel like asking him for help gives him ammunition to use against me, because we have a somewhat contentious relationship, but my sister had to work, the exgirlfriend is out of reach (not that I even seriously considered asking for help from that direction), my cousin is watching her sister's kids due to a family emergency, which sort of left me with no options.

The feelings all this caused...the anger and sadness about being sick, the guilt about not being able to pick up the midget, the fear of what asking the midget's father for help might mean, anxiety about missing my meeting....it nearly sent me into a full-on panic attack, something I distinctly did not need. I made myself relax, tried to accept that I was going to be in bed all day, possibly tomorrow as well, and spent my afternoon reading blogs. I'm still sad and angry and slightly anxious, but also a bit resigned and determined not to fall into that deep, dark hole called depression, and hold onto the fact that yes, today sucks, and tomorrow might as well, but I'll feel better again, I'll be up and around again, and I will make the most of a shitty situation.

Okay, chronic illness...this round goes to you...but I'll be back...

Don't Make Me Stab You...

2010-02-15T23:02:00.000-08:00

Swiped from one of my favorite bloggers, The Bloggess.

Busy

2010-02-14T01:40:00.000-08:00

Things have definitely picked up around here. Between school for me and the midget, cooking, family gatherings and whatnot I'm a busy little bee...Which I rather like. I'm concerned, of course, about keeping my activity levels low enough that I don't end up in bed for a week from exhaustion, so I'm trying to be smart about my activity..saying "no" when I should and all that. It's hard, though, because I'm enjoying my life so much these days and "sitting this one out" is so patently unfair it makes me want to scream. But the reality is that if I don't do this, I'll be sitting on the sidelines for everything for awhile and that holds absolutely zero interest for me, thank you very much.

Why Try To Change Me Now

2010-01-28T01:50:00.000-08:00

My most recent anthem. It's a remake of an old Cy Coleman song. Though, of course, the only other version I've heard is the Frank Sinatra version. And while he does it beautifully, of course he does, Fiona Apple's version is so haunting, and her voice is just better suited to the song, in my opinion. Listen, and then listen again, because I don't think the full impact hits on the first run through.

Furry, Floppy Love

2010-01-25T02:42:00.000-08:00

This is my sweet boy...Charlie. He makes everything better. He protects me from all the bad things in the world. True story...The other night when the munchkin was off at her dad's, I was watching a special on NatGeo (geez...I'm a nerd) and was surprised by a particularly traumatic scene and started crying and Charlie went nuts...barking and running around trying to figure out what was making me cry because he was going to kill it, dammit!!

Charlie, like me, is a huge drama queen. He is good at pouting and whining and letting the world know just how miserable his life is. As sad as this picture is, it's nothing to look on his face when I gather my things because I'm...leaving the house...There is nothing worse in the world than when I leave the house. And if I'm gone overnight? The moping is ridiculous. He won't eat, and just lays around feeling sorry for himself.

But as far as Charlie is concerned, that's nothing to the horror that is this guy...

This guy has no concept of "personal boundaries." He doesn't seem to know or care that I belong solely to Charlie. This guy thinks it's a good day if there is never a shred of sunlight between us. Charlie tries to keep Ellwood in line, he really does. But Ellwood is stubborn...and stupid...which means that Charlie has to tell him again and again to MOVE!! Or to stop chasing the damn laser light or any number of other things that Ellwood does that Charlie does not approve of.

I think Ellwood's really starting to grow on Charlie, though...either that or he's decided that Ellwood is just too dumb to take care of himself. See, while Charlie is a very verbal dog and lets you know if there is an intruder or just a stray falling leaf that offends him, Ellwood never barks...well, unless he's chasing cats...but that's a whole other subject... Since Ellwood isn't standing up for his rights at the top of his lungs, Charlie's decided that's his job. He's taken to whining at the door if Ellwood wants to be let in or let out or to look at the business section of New York Times...

I love this dog. I really, really do...and he loves me...he really, really does...

Just Because I'd Rather Have My Eyes Poked Out With Sharp Sticks...

2010-01-15T15:50:00.000-08:00

...does not give someone else the right to tell me whom I may or may not marry. My queer pals have just as much right to tie themselves up in an outdated social convention as do my straight pals. And given that I'm pretty pro-civil rights for everyone, not just myself, I'm deeply emotionally invested in the fight for marriage equality. As long as our government insists on giving rights, responsibilities and privileges to straight, married couples, it cannot deny those same rights to committed gay couples. It makes no sense and is deeply, intrinsically wrong.

So, needless to say, I'm following pretty closely the Prop 8 trial. I've got my reservations about the timing of this trial, because I think it may end up doing more harm to the movement than good, because whatever the outcome of this trial, it's going to be appealed to the Supreme Court, and the current political make up of the Supreme Court leads me to believe there's a good chance that the Supreme Court will rule against gay marriage...not an insurmountable obstacle, but one that would seriously hinder the movement. It takes a very long time for the Supreme Court to reverse itself and since I think that gay marriage is a no brainer for most people under thirty, I think that we need to wait only a few years, say no later than 2016, before voter legislation legalizes it.

I know, though, that it's easy for me, someone who doesn't want to ever get married, to say wait, because I'm not waiting. Marriage equality is a moot point for me personally, since I will never get married. But, that doesn't make me insensitive to the needs of others. I have family and friends who would dearly love to be able to get married, and it's hard for me to say to them..."Wait." My concern, though, is that by pushing the issue too early, before it's likely to succeed, we'll actually end up increasing the amount of time before marriage equality is gained.

My concerns, of course, are a moot point since the trial is ongoing, so all I can really do is watch, and wait, and hope. Part of that watching and waiting, however, gave me a good laugh today, because I do so love it when the anti-marriage equality folks make themselves look like the morons they truly are.

The Courage Campaign has a blog following the progress of the Prop 8 trial that is using this logo:

which is, of course, a parody of the ProtectMarriage logo. You can go to the blog and read about the response of ProtectMarriage and the hilarious answer from the Trial Tracker blog. Hopefully, it will give you a good laugh at the stupidity of the marriage protection folks...

Happy New Year

2010-01-02T03:53:00.000-08:00

I don't do New Year's resolutions. I mean, I'm sure I did once, like, a million years ago, but nowhere in my memory is a New Year's resolution. But even without a specific memory, I can tell you how any such event would have played out. I'd have done really, really well for a few weeks, maybe even a few months, and then, slowly but as surely as the sun will rise within just a handful of hours of my typing this, I would slip, falter and then fail utterly. I'm great at starting...and godawful at finishing. It's been my biggest personality flaw my whole life.

And yet, tonight I am filled with a sense of wanting to begin again, to try my faulty resolve and, for once, find it not wanting. I've been contemplating this last year as we're prone to doing at this time and finding myself ready to turn the page on this trying chapter of my life, but I find myself wondering what comes next. Not like the big mystery of what does the future hold, but the question of what will my life be about. The last ten years that question has been easy to answer. My purpose has been my family, my daughter and my now ex girlfriend. So I knew that whatever else I might do, my life would revolve around them.

To some extent, even with the disappearance of the girlfriend from that picture, my purpose will still by my family...my daughter and, of course, my larger extended family, but the reality is that every day my daughter grows older and the days until she is a woman on her own deciding where her life story will lead her are getting fewer in number every day. And my goal, as is every parent's, is that I will have raised my daughter to be a capable adult who will have her own life, and her own family and while I always intend to be close to her, at some point, living every moment of my life for my daughter will not only be unnecessary, but also wholly unhealthy for the both of us. In the past, of course, the idea was that the girlfriend and I would ride off into the sunset and grow old together and be grandmas and all of that.

I've always defined my life by my relationships. When I was a teenager, my friends were my life, as a young adult, my daughter became my life. So, I've always thought of myself as someone's daughter or sister or friend or lover or mother, and rarely as an entity into myself, and while I will still continue to be all of those things to various people, it's clearly time to be Laura, the woman...who also happens to be a mother and a daughter and a friend and a lover. I know that, for the time being and the foreseeable future, I am not in a position to add partner or wife or girlfriend to that list (okay, so never, ever on the wife thing) and frankly, I really don't want to look for that now. Not until I know where I want to place the focus of my life.

It would be far easier if there was one thing I was more passionately interested in than I was in any other thing. But, as has always been the case, my interests are wide and very little can hold my attention to the exclusion of other things for long enough that I can really make a life out of it. I love so many things: cooking and history and social causes aplenty. There are many things that strike a chord in me, but none so deeply that I really want to devote myself to it. Once upon a time, before chronic illness became my bosom buddy, I thought I had found it...I worked for a time as a Certified Nurse's Aide and wanted to become an RN and devote myself to nursing because it was something I could care about, something that I could feel good about, that would hold my interest due to it's ever changing nature. Now, of course, physically and emotionally, nursing is too much for me.

And chronic illness is going to truly complicate this search, because any work too strenuous, whether physically or emotionally taxing, is out of the question because it will hurt my health and make any part of my life impossible.

I have some plans, some educational plans that will be set into motion in the very near future, but they aren't long term plans and it's not something that I can see myself doing for the rest of my life without wanting to gouge my eyes out with pointy sticks.

So...while I hesitate (out of superstition, lest I jinx myself) to use the term resolution, it appears that I have one. While I go about my short term education goals that are going to give me the financial ability to be independent, I am also going to start exploring my interests, my skills...and finding that thing that's going to give my life meaning when my daughter is grown and happily finding her own path.

Sex Is Work

2009-12-19T02:47:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned my opinion on sex work before. I think it should be legal, and I get really frustrated with the judginess of other women when discussing the choices of fully grown women. Let's be clear here...I'm not talking about women on street corners addicted to crack or little girls at the mercy of their pimps, I'm talking about women who are smart enough and mature enough to decide for themselves that spending a few naked hours with your heels in the air beats the hell out of flipping burgers any damn day of the week.

Supposing I'd had the guts back in the day when the goods had a bit more financial value, I like to think I'd have made a damn good escort. Smart enough to realize that sex work is at best a gig that lasts a few years and crazy enough that the outlandishness of a client's requests wouldn't have caused me a moment's hesitation, but also sane enough to keep a life outside of sex work. I think I could have done it, and I wish like hell I'd tried. These days, let's face it, I'd be lucky to be pulling down a twenty for a back seat blow job. The goods ain't what they used to be, and for that matter, neither is my stamina.

Besides, really, what is sex work? Supposing you have no religion to answer to, and that you could give a rat's ass what society thinks of you, (both of which applies to me, btw) why not? How hard is it to pretend that you're enjoying sex? We've all done it. God, knows I have. (And for the record, no, that's not a dig at my exes...it's simple honesty.) In the confines of even the most loving relationships there are times when your partner wants it and you don't. And, yeah, you could be a cunt and tell them to fuck themselves, or you could be a stand up gal and take one for the team...heh heh. In theory, I suppose, it's a lie...in reality...it's another way of being a loving partner. No one wants to be rejected. Even when you know your partner loves you, even when you know your partner is enormously turned on by you most of the time...that one time they say, "Not tonight, honey..." It can really hurt. Now, admittedly, if your sex life becomes all about the sex for your partner's sake, something's wrong and you need to fix it.

And, frankly, let's face it. A lot of the jobs I've had in my life were about someone paying me to be a body...I didn't make my minimum wage at McDonald's (my after school job in high school) for my brilliant mind, let me tell you. It was hot, sticky, stinky work that hurt my back and my feet and for which I earned a pittance. I think of the hours spent scrubbing the smell of rehydrated onions and french fries out of my hair and realize that for the same amount of ick factor I could have easily made fully 25 times what I got paid to sling burgers. Wasted opportunities....

And for the record, as a mom...no, it wouldn't be my first choice for my little midget's career, but neither would I choose for her to sling burgers. If she decided, as an informed adult, to spend a few years as a sex worker, why would I have any more problem with that than if she were gay or bi or straight or anything else having to do with her sexuality, which is not really any of my fucking business. Now, if she becomes a born again Christian, or (oh, the horror) a Republican, then she'll hear it...

Smile

2009-12-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

I have a few blog posts all ready to go on my laptop. Unfortunately, my laptop is back at the shop for repairs...boo... They assure me that this time it won't take 4 weeks to get it back, so hopefully I'll be up and running again here soon.

In the meantime...here's a musical interlude. This is what I have on repeat on my iPod at the moment.

Mmm...Fresh Baked Bread

2009-12-12T16:18:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in my living room enjoying our beautifully decorated tree and the smell of the bread I just took out of the oven. It's very cozy on this blustery day. It's been pouring down rain all day, but thankfully we haven't lost power. It's probably because we're prepared and actually could go somewhere if we need to do so.

I'm a baking queen these days. I even made english muffins last night, but they're kind of a pain to make and I think I'm doing something wrong because they didn't have all the nooks and crannies they were supposed to have. I might try them again, but today was all about the French bread. French bread is a bit more fussy than the challah I made last time. It requires regular kneading during the rising process, so while I was helping the midget decorate the tree, every ten minutes or so, I had to stop and punch down the dough. But it was well worth judging by the heavenly smell wafting through the house. I won't get a chance to sample it until tomorrow night as I baked it for the family dinner at my aunt and uncle's house. It looks as good as it smells though...

While it looks pretty, it doesn't look anywhere near as pretty as the challah.

I used the second loaf of challah to make French toast this morning. It was amazingly yummy stuff. We ate it so fast there was no time to take a picture.

Baking is fun stuff...I just wish I had a maid or an assistant to do all the cleaing up afterwards!!

Snow Days: They're Just More Fun With Power

2009-12-10T01:18:00.000-08:00

We got snow early this year. Usually, my neck of the woods doesn't get much snow and when we do get it it's February/Marchish. But Sunday night we got a foot and a half and most of it is still sitting in my yard.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love the snow. I love watching it fall and I love how beautiful it is when I'm looking out my window. And I love, love, love having my four wheel drive (such a dykey thing to admit, right?) when it snows. But, this week I did NOT love the snow. I did not love it because about two hours into what was supposed to be a cozy snow day with my daughter, our power went out.

Everything in my house runs on electricity. Heat, stove...We're on a well so even our water doesn't work when there's no power. But we hunkered down and tried to make the best of it, thinking that we'd have power back shortly. Only, we didn't. And without heat, and no firewood, this house got very cold, very quickly. I had my snake in my shirt, and my kid and I were bundled up with blankets and trying to make the best of what was started to look like a very uncomfortable situation.

As night started to fall, I must admit I started to panic a bit. I'd tried to figure out a way to get the kid somewhere else so that she, at least, would be warm, but my parent's driveway was impassable and her other parents were being less than helpful, and then the temperature dropped very suddenly, and despite the layers of clothes and the layers of blankets we started to get very, very cold.

I had a short break down and threw myself a pity party. And then I made myself snap out of it. You really don't have time to fall apart when you're a mom, regardless of the situation. We gathered up scrap wood, I made a fire in the fire place, broke out the candles and started to try to figure out exactly how we were going to entertain ourselves until bed time. Just as the house started to warm up, and we were getting around to thinking we were going to be okay...we'd made ourselves a nest of blankets in the living room near the fireplace and were cuddled up with the dogs (Ellwood was, and still is, very upset about the snow) when suddenly the power came back on and there was much rejoicing.

It's funny, but during those cold hours, I hated every single flake of snow that fell. I took it somewhat personally, as though this massive storm front that was affecting millions of people was somehow aimed at me and my little one, and our beloved pets. Can you say narcissistic? And then, the power was on, and it was warm and bright and the snow was beautiful again and Ellwood's disgust with the cold wet stuff and Charlie's silly hopping through the snow and my daughter's open wonder was joy distilled.

I've got some pics of Charlie romping through the snow, because, let's face it, there's nothing cuter than a moppy little black dog romping in the snow. I'm going to try and remember how to post them so that interwebs can feast their eyes on the cuteness that is my Charlie-dog...

Control Freak

2009-12-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, guys....hold onto the edge of your seats, it's confession time. I am a huge control freak. I like things my way and feel that it would be best for everyone if they just did what I told them to do. My therapist says this stems from my inability to control my crazy life as a child. My exes say it's annoying. I say it's just part of my charm.

Anyway, the point of that startling revelation is that I have found a way to channel my need for control in a way that is neither self destructive or a nuisance to those around me. I'm baking. I've immersed myself in all kinds of baking projects. I'm waiting for challah dough to rise as I type this and yesterday I made my own bread sticks and a few days before that I made dinner rolls.

Previously, I avoided any recipe that required yeast, because it seemed like a job that is much too fussy for me. But what I've discovered is that there is no reason to be afraid of yeast. It as actually quite easy to work with and I've had fabulous results. And while my aching hands occasionally protest and I think longingly of the beautiful stand mixer in my mom's kitchen, I really enjoy getting my hands in the dough and taking out of my anger and aggression in a harmless and productive way. I tell you, it's saved me years in prison, because I hear that's where you go when you throw bricks through windows.

Stabbing...

2009-12-03T21:52:00.000-08:00

Did you ever have one of those days where stupid people keeping giving you reasons to stab them? That's the kind of day I've had. And the people who keep giving me reasons to stab them know that I'll totally do it. Okay, I probably won't, but the stress of not stabbing them makes me want to stab myself which is totally lame because I'm not the one doing stabworthy things.

Queen-Sized?

2009-12-03T00:38:00.000-08:00

I have a queen size bed. I bought it about seven years ago. The exgirlfriend and I had been sleeping on a futon. A horrible, tiny lumpy futon. That first night in the queen bed...it was such a luxury. I could turn over and not get an elbow in the eye.

The ex has moved on, but I've still got the bed. You'd think I'd be feeling lonely in this big bed all by myself. But...uh...I'm not sleeping by myself. I've got about 30 pounds of canine cuteness sprawled out beside me. These two are small dogs. I keep telling them..."You're little dogs, you don't need that much space." They're not buying it.

Before Ellwoood, Charlie was not a cuddler. But Charlie's such jealous lump that he has to be closer than Ellwood, and since Charlie has a tendency to snap at Ellwood if Ellwood dares to touch him while he's sleeping, I end up with one on each side of me. I think I need a bigger bed...

A Game I Can Really Get Into...

2009-11-30T23:34:00.001-08:00

I think I've mentioned a time or two my feelings on marriage. It's fine for other people, but I'd rather just stand here while you beat me with a stick. Basically, it's not for me.

It seems the folks at Adult Swim can empathize, and they have created the most fantastic game...Five Minutes To Kill Yourself: Wedding Day. You can personalize the wedding to represent you and your potential mate. It even allows for same sex couples....or you can just let it pick for you, which is what I do. It's great fun and a good way to kill (get it..ha...I'm so damn funny) five minutes.

Go here and check it out. Poke around the site for other fun games. (I like Zombie Hooker Nightmare, too.)

Thankful

2009-11-26T01:24:00.000-08:00

I've spent my day doing what I love most...cooking. And cooking my favorite meal of the year, at that. There is something about traditional Thanksgiving fare that just lightens my soul. I love the simple flavors, the savoriness of it all. Not to mention that while it takes quite awhile, it is the simplest, most straightforward of cooking. And I'm damn good at it.

While I dislike the racial history behind Thanksgiving, it is my favorite holiday. I am hardly religious or even "spiritual," but the gathering together of the people I love so that we may feast and enjoy and simply be together, without all the consumerism that mars Christmas is lovely.

As I went about my tasks...boiling the yams and making stuffing, I realized how very different this Thanksgiving is from the last one. Last year seems so far away, perhaps because so very much has happened this year, and I am miles away from the life I was living last year at this time. All the joy had gone from my life and I was so numb, so anesthetized by my depression that I didn't even see it. I went through the motions, but took no joy in what has always been a joyful task for me.

I have so very much to be thankful for this year. I am thankful, as always, as I will forever be, for my beautiful, healthy, brilliant daughter. I am thankful for the task of being her mother, though it isn't easy and some days it is harder to see the joy, she, more than anything else in my life, gives me a reason every morning to be. If I accomplish nothing else in the world, being her mother will be enough. Though, to be brutally honest, I haven't always felt that way. I was not one of those mothers who looked at their infants the moment they were born and felt that indescribable feeling of coming home to oneself. I spent years struggling with the occasional resentment I felt that I was not living the life I had wanted, the fear of being "just a mother." I wish it had been easier, that I had felt the rightness of being her mother from the moment she was born, but then, those things that are the most important rarely come easily to me.

And while this has, in many ways, been the hardest year of my life, I am thankful for the things that got me here. I am thankful to be feeling again. And, yeah, the pain has sucked. But, I've also found the capacity for joy again. I'm still a little rusty at all of this, and parts of my heart are so broken I wonder if it will ever again be whole. But, even if it isn't, at least I am present in my life once more, present as a mother and a sister and friend, and that is beautiful to me.

I am thankful for my family, without whom this year could have been the death of me. I never cease to be amazed at the good fortune that gave me a second family to give me what my first could not. I am thankful for all the people who love me despite my craziness, despite my irrationality. I'm not the easiest person to love, and my family and my best friend (who is half a world away from me tonight, but still the one of the biggest pieces of what makes my life beautiful) make it look simple. I thank you and I love you with all of my all too imperfect heart.

Junk Science

2009-11-21T01:02:00.001-08:00

At the risk of sounding really conceited, I'm a really intelligent girl. There's quite a bit going on my noggin...no common sense 99% of the time, but that's a whole other ball of wax.

As an intelligent girl, it never ceases to amaze just how uneducated (or just plain stupid) other people can be. There's so much information available in the world, it seems a waste to not take advantage of it. But, that's not the worst of it, really. The worst thing (as far as I'm concerned, anyway) is that some people will believe anything they read or see or hear someone else say. The idea of finding legitimate sources, or cross-checking facts simply doesn't occur to them. They read it on the internet or in some new-age dimestore novel and so, of course, it must be true.

This sort of thing, the "I saw it on the internet, so it must be true" ridiculousness is my single largest pet peeve. When I run into it, it makes my head explode. Okay, not really...but it does set me off on a three hour lecture about fact checking and peer reviews and reliable sources, and no, goddammit, Wikipedia is NOT a fucking reliable source.

The Archaeogoddess runs into this far more often than I do, what with her being a an archaeologist and all. I once listened as this utter moron I know talked about The DaVinci Code conspiracy crap with the Archaeogoddess as though it was fact and not ridiculous fiction. The Archaeogoddess kept a polite smile on her face the entire time, and then politely changed the subject. If it had been me, I'd have berated the woman up one side and down the other...but that's just part of my charm.

Here's a hint, folks...if it's been "kept hidden" or if it's a "secret they don't want you to know" move on. It's likely utter nonsense.

And just because there was a "new study" that showed that the cure for cancer is rubbing bacon grease in your butt crack, that doesn't mean every cancer patient should be slathering on the lard. A study is just that...a single study. It could have been an anomaly, a chance occurrence, a mistake made by the researchers. In order for something to be true, you must be able to prove it. You must show me proof. I want to see first sources, and repeatable results. Your cousin's friend who drank pomegranate juice and suddenly cured her fibromyalgia isn't going to impress me.

The Archaeogoddess Rocks!!

2009-11-17T07:47:00.000-08:00

Ha..I love it...Archaeogoddess...rocks...get it? I kill me!!

Anyway, my best friend is on a dig in Qatar as a paid archaeologist. You can read about her adventures here. I am so proud and amazed and thrilled...despite the fact that she's even less accessible than normal due to lack of regular internet access.

On a completely unrelated note...I have been reunited with my beloved laptop and should, therefore, be back to posting quasi-regularly. I broke my ankle the day before Halloween so my life has been that much more lacking in adventure, but I'm sure I'll find something to blog about, given enough time I always find something about which to complain.

Reunited....

2009-11-15T22:42:00.000-08:00

...And it feels so good...

My trusty laptop is back where it belongs...sure, it only took a month for them to replace the motherboard...the motherboard of a computer only 9 months old, but it's not like I'm complaining or anything...Fuckers...

So, the loss of my laptop for the last month has meant more time on my hands. Even on the days when I was able to use my sister's computer while she was at work, that atill left hours of no computer access of everyday. And then I up and broke my ankle...because I am a dork like that...and I had even more time on my hands. So, rather than use my time productively, I spent a lot of time thinking, obsessing really. Because Facebook keeps me from thinking...it's true. The last day and a half have been filled with mindless Facebooking. Good times...