...I don't like Halloween anymore.
I can't eat the candy; kids don't trick or treat anymore because their parents are sure every other person is a pedophile; the movies aren't scary (even though I sat through all the Old Reliables like THE TINGLER; REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN, THE WOLFMAN; FRANKENSTEIN MEETS THE WOLF MAN; HOMICIDAL; THIRTEEN GHOSTS; MAD LOVE; etc. etc. etcetera like the hopeless droogie I am when it comes to those things); it's too much trouble to dress up (why? because there aren't any trick-and-treating kids, that's why); and I've lost that ghoulish feeling, whoa-oh, that ghoulish feeling, I've lost that ghoulish feeling, now it's gone, gone, gone...
I'm not even all that thrilled with the new AMC series I'm watching right now - THE WALKING DEAD.
This isn't like me. The old me would have kidnapped kids from a nursery school and forced them to dress up like ghosts and witches and vampires and ask for some fucking candy, dammit. The old me would have dressed-up, decorated the place, played those tacky Spooky Sounds CDs and dared the kids to reach into the skull for their Milky Ways and Snickers. The new (and not-quite-as-good-as) me sat around in a flannel nightgown smoking pot and ate sugar-free DeMets turtles, sugar-free Russell Stover chocolate-coated coconut bars, sugar-free Doves' raspberry dark chocolate (it'll still raise my sugar because they have lots and lots of carbs, but...fuck it...).
At least, my flannel nightgown was black with orange jack'o'lanterns and white ghosties and neon green skulls on it (KMart - Home of the Totally Tasteless Poor).
Oh, and every hair I have was waving to every direction in the universe since I hadn't bothered to wash, comb or brush it since getting up this morning. Jelly made the comment that my hair was having its own party, and why weren't we invited?
Guess I was dressed for the day after all.
The new me did housework and laundry and made lunch and dinner and went through a bunch of shit I'd left here (Jelly's) to sort it for the trash and Goodwill.
The new me is as exciting and provocative as a mud puddle.
The new me is a noisy space...
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
I Named it Kirby...
...last night, I blew my nose so hard it felt like I'd given birth. In fact, I named it Kirby and wrapped it warmly in a soft Puffs tissue before throwing it in the trash to fend for itself...
Seriously, I'm feeling better, so I'm eschewing the docs' office in favor of going with Jelly and Rose to Manitou Springs to cruise the shops while they look at, maybe buy, some Christmas presents (yeah - pick the tourist trap with the terribly inflated prices to shop...). I'll still need oxygen, and I think I'm going to use my walker since Manitou consists of uphill goat paths and lugging that heavy O2 around tires my ass out.
The Scarf - its become my personal bogeyman - is coming along. I worked on it last night until I got to the point where I was swearing at it out loud. If I go into one of the shops there and see a black scarf with a rosebud motif, I'm going to jump on it and BURN the cursed thing mocking me at home.
My next project is a shawl, but I'm buying one that's plain - a nice cream-colored one - that I'll embroider with vines and flowers along the edge. Since I like embroidery, it'll be a project I actually enjoy.
(And I decided I need a shawl to drink tea in... I am becoming a true recluse, and the professional eremite requires the proper clothing. A shawl is as essential as casting brooding looks at well-meaning strangers and growling at small children.)
The truth is that considering the way the wind is already whipping through the cracks around the windows, I think I'm gonna be a little cold this winter, so I'm getting ready to hibernate. Sweaters, a shawl, and my awesome collection of hideous sweats will, I think, get me through the frigid months. I know that the owner, as sweet as he is, isn't about to waste much money on keeping the collection of failures and moral defectives who abide here warm.
Seriously, I'm feeling better, so I'm eschewing the docs' office in favor of going with Jelly and Rose to Manitou Springs to cruise the shops while they look at, maybe buy, some Christmas presents (yeah - pick the tourist trap with the terribly inflated prices to shop...). I'll still need oxygen, and I think I'm going to use my walker since Manitou consists of uphill goat paths and lugging that heavy O2 around tires my ass out.
The Scarf - its become my personal bogeyman - is coming along. I worked on it last night until I got to the point where I was swearing at it out loud. If I go into one of the shops there and see a black scarf with a rosebud motif, I'm going to jump on it and BURN the cursed thing mocking me at home.
My next project is a shawl, but I'm buying one that's plain - a nice cream-colored one - that I'll embroider with vines and flowers along the edge. Since I like embroidery, it'll be a project I actually enjoy.
(And I decided I need a shawl to drink tea in... I am becoming a true recluse, and the professional eremite requires the proper clothing. A shawl is as essential as casting brooding looks at well-meaning strangers and growling at small children.)
The truth is that considering the way the wind is already whipping through the cracks around the windows, I think I'm gonna be a little cold this winter, so I'm getting ready to hibernate. Sweaters, a shawl, and my awesome collection of hideous sweats will, I think, get me through the frigid months. I know that the owner, as sweet as he is, isn't about to waste much money on keeping the collection of failures and moral defectives who abide here warm.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Annoyances
This cold is kicking my ass, so I'll have to waste a few hours tomorrow with yet another unscheduled dr's visit. (My lazy lungs aren't efficient about being able to clear themselves of all the crap in them, so a cold tends to develop into pneumonia or bronchitis) so he'll send me to the clinic next door for chest x-rays where I'll have to wait a looooooooooong time to be seen, then, I'll have to go back and wait more in his office for him to simply tell me to pick up a 'script for antibiotics. Why not cut all the shit and simply call in a 'script for me to begin with? I dunno - to annoy me, I guess. People exist just to piss me off...
Another annoyance is knitting. Since I can't find the kind of scarf I want, I am forced to knit myself one. I don't particularly like to knit; I dislike knitting more when I have to work with more than one color (I want a black scarf with a rosebud motif, dammit); and I REALLY hate it when I can hardly see what I'm doing, so I am in the process of annoying myself by making one.
I was knitting while listening to my mp3's "Angry Shit" playlist, and Jelly started to laugh at me. I paused it to ask him what was so funny, and he said, "You have this fierce frown on your face and you're rocking back and forth with those needles like you're thinking about stabbing them in someones' face. Surely it can't be THAT bad!"
Yes. Yes, it is. Just call me Davida LaFarge and commence with the beheading of all who invented this dull craft, AND all store purchase departments who refused to carry a simple black scarf with a rosebud motif this season.
I have to wear oxygen, too. I'm so congested my O2 level went down, down, down, so I'm back to 24/7 on the leash for a little while. It - the cold - is also fucking with my sugar readings as I don't feel well enough to eat as much as I should with my medications, so the readings are artificially low and I'm feeling loopy half the time, and need to chew on glucose tabs (raspberry flavored wafers) to maintain a healthy reading.
The annoyances of Life...
Bleh.
Another annoyance is knitting. Since I can't find the kind of scarf I want, I am forced to knit myself one. I don't particularly like to knit; I dislike knitting more when I have to work with more than one color (I want a black scarf with a rosebud motif, dammit); and I REALLY hate it when I can hardly see what I'm doing, so I am in the process of annoying myself by making one.
I was knitting while listening to my mp3's "Angry Shit" playlist, and Jelly started to laugh at me. I paused it to ask him what was so funny, and he said, "You have this fierce frown on your face and you're rocking back and forth with those needles like you're thinking about stabbing them in someones' face. Surely it can't be THAT bad!"
Yes. Yes, it is. Just call me Davida LaFarge and commence with the beheading of all who invented this dull craft, AND all store purchase departments who refused to carry a simple black scarf with a rosebud motif this season.
I have to wear oxygen, too. I'm so congested my O2 level went down, down, down, so I'm back to 24/7 on the leash for a little while. It - the cold - is also fucking with my sugar readings as I don't feel well enough to eat as much as I should with my medications, so the readings are artificially low and I'm feeling loopy half the time, and need to chew on glucose tabs (raspberry flavored wafers) to maintain a healthy reading.
The annoyances of Life...
Bleh.
Friday, October 22, 2010
It Was a Dark and Stormy Day...
...and it is. Snow is expected - brief flurries - in some areas... Helloooooo, winter (and I worry about my little furry friends now).
I have one badassed cold. I'm worried about giving it to Jelly, but there isn't anyone else available to keep an eye on him, help him out, so I get to wear latex gloves and a mask around him, and dry out my already parched skin by washing my hands 1,482,630 times a day.
Bob and Gary were around last night. They want me to prepare to go to Temple. (The church isn't a temple. In fact, it isn't called a church by Mormons - it's a Meeting House. The Temple is a whole other animal, and you need your 'temple recommends' to get into it.) That takes a year. A year of no coffee, tea, cigarettes, and special classes, meetings, etc. to attend. I'd have to spend a mint I don't have on the special clothing you need to wear inside the temple - all white, all specially made right down to the satin slippers and 'Mormon undies' - which, from head to toe, would set me back at least $400 for the cheaper things. (Like a wedding dress or a tux, this outfit is meant to last for years, and only to be worn at the temple, though, so it's all well-made (most of it handstitched) and DOES last - some people are proud of having their temple clothing for 20, 30 years before they had to replace them...)
I'm pretty sure that - once in the inner sanctum - I'd be touched by the angry finger of God and go up in flames...
Besides, in the ritual, I wouldn't be able to go to Heaven as a single woman. I'd be stuck in the not-quite-here-nor-there, I suppose, waiting for one of my elders to remember I'm waiting there and call me over... Sigh... (Because I have respect for the beliefs of my church whether I entertain them or not, I'm not going to relate the ritual here. People who despise Mormons have enough ammunition to use against them without being able to mock the ceremonies.)
Bob related a cute story from church. A little one - about four - was concerned because her older brother had devised a cvery crude 'bird trap'. As he, himself, was only a year or two older, there was never any real danger that he'd actually trap a bird, but she believed he might, and told her mother that she was going to prayer to Heavenly Father that he wasn't successful.
A few days went by, and each day the mother inquired after the success of these anti-bird trapping prayers and was informed that God was 'working on it' by the little one.
Finally, the little girl announced that she knew Heavenly Father wouldn't let any birds be trapped in such nefarious machinery as devised by her evil little brother, and the mother asked why.
"Oh, I prayed and prayed to Him," said the little girl. "And, then, I kicked it to pieces!"
The point is that the little girl had just heard, via a conversation between her parents, a discussion in which the father, aggravated by his wife wanting to prayer about the smallest decisions, had told her that, sometimes, God wants us to take matters into our own hands and do what we think is the right thing.
Now, that's the kind of little girl I like...
I have one badassed cold. I'm worried about giving it to Jelly, but there isn't anyone else available to keep an eye on him, help him out, so I get to wear latex gloves and a mask around him, and dry out my already parched skin by washing my hands 1,482,630 times a day.
Bob and Gary were around last night. They want me to prepare to go to Temple. (The church isn't a temple. In fact, it isn't called a church by Mormons - it's a Meeting House. The Temple is a whole other animal, and you need your 'temple recommends' to get into it.) That takes a year. A year of no coffee, tea, cigarettes, and special classes, meetings, etc. to attend. I'd have to spend a mint I don't have on the special clothing you need to wear inside the temple - all white, all specially made right down to the satin slippers and 'Mormon undies' - which, from head to toe, would set me back at least $400 for the cheaper things. (Like a wedding dress or a tux, this outfit is meant to last for years, and only to be worn at the temple, though, so it's all well-made (most of it handstitched) and DOES last - some people are proud of having their temple clothing for 20, 30 years before they had to replace them...)
I'm pretty sure that - once in the inner sanctum - I'd be touched by the angry finger of God and go up in flames...
Besides, in the ritual, I wouldn't be able to go to Heaven as a single woman. I'd be stuck in the not-quite-here-nor-there, I suppose, waiting for one of my elders to remember I'm waiting there and call me over... Sigh... (Because I have respect for the beliefs of my church whether I entertain them or not, I'm not going to relate the ritual here. People who despise Mormons have enough ammunition to use against them without being able to mock the ceremonies.)
Bob related a cute story from church. A little one - about four - was concerned because her older brother had devised a cvery crude 'bird trap'. As he, himself, was only a year or two older, there was never any real danger that he'd actually trap a bird, but she believed he might, and told her mother that she was going to prayer to Heavenly Father that he wasn't successful.
A few days went by, and each day the mother inquired after the success of these anti-bird trapping prayers and was informed that God was 'working on it' by the little one.
Finally, the little girl announced that she knew Heavenly Father wouldn't let any birds be trapped in such nefarious machinery as devised by her evil little brother, and the mother asked why.
"Oh, I prayed and prayed to Him," said the little girl. "And, then, I kicked it to pieces!"
The point is that the little girl had just heard, via a conversation between her parents, a discussion in which the father, aggravated by his wife wanting to prayer about the smallest decisions, had told her that, sometimes, God wants us to take matters into our own hands and do what we think is the right thing.
Now, that's the kind of little girl I like...
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Starring in My Own Sitcom
I'm too tired to go into all of what happened last night...
I knew Michael was up to something, and when we sat down at our table and I saw there were three settings, I knew something was up. Some new con job or flight of fancy on Michaels' part where I was not only his girlfriend, but a pregnant one at that.
The other man - an older man named Gavil (I never heard that name before, he said it's Hungarian) - joined us about a half-an-hour after we got there. Tall, gaunt, and very well-dressed, I could tell he'd been a hottie when he was younger and was, still, a very striking man with large, sad eyes and a quiet voice I had to strain to hear a few times. He was unfailingly polite, and I was sorry I had ordered two glasses of champagne I didn't drink when he picked up the tab at the end of the meal as I thought I was sticking it to Michael for putting me in that situation.
I thought it was absurd. Whether Michael pulled off whatever it was he was aiming for is questionable - if Gavil had any experience with Michael at all, I'm sure that he, too, found it absurd. He, obviously, had money, and Michael, I've both observed and heard, will go through any number of hoops to acquire those desired shekels BUT work...
Who knows? Michael isn't talking even though I've badgered him to distraction, and when I asked if I'd have to repeat my performance, he said I did not... Did it fail? Did he get - or prove - whatever he was striving for? I don't know. The best I can do is tell myself I got an excellent - truly exceptional - meal out of sitting there quietly, stuffing myself, while the pair of them made small talk I didn't connect to. (I'd decided at the onset that the safest thing to do was to remain as quiet and unobtrusive as I could.) For all I know, Michael just sold my ass to some elderly Arab man whose goons are going to kidnap me off the street in a day or two...
Ya never know.
Michael does fascinate me, though. He's a little like my ex-husband, Brian. Both of them can be charming and charismatic. Both of them seem to feel that other people exist only for their amusement and to advance their own agendas. Both of them would rather climb mountains, swim oceans, and risk death a thousand times over than get a fucking job. The big difference is that Michael doesn't have the cruel streak that Brian had - instead of beating someone half to death to get his way, he cajoles; he wheedles; he charms; he swindles.
He has never - not once - left my place without carrying something of mine out with him that he is 'borrowing', never to be seen again...
Sigh...
I knew Michael was up to something, and when we sat down at our table and I saw there were three settings, I knew something was up. Some new con job or flight of fancy on Michaels' part where I was not only his girlfriend, but a pregnant one at that.
The other man - an older man named Gavil (I never heard that name before, he said it's Hungarian) - joined us about a half-an-hour after we got there. Tall, gaunt, and very well-dressed, I could tell he'd been a hottie when he was younger and was, still, a very striking man with large, sad eyes and a quiet voice I had to strain to hear a few times. He was unfailingly polite, and I was sorry I had ordered two glasses of champagne I didn't drink when he picked up the tab at the end of the meal as I thought I was sticking it to Michael for putting me in that situation.
I thought it was absurd. Whether Michael pulled off whatever it was he was aiming for is questionable - if Gavil had any experience with Michael at all, I'm sure that he, too, found it absurd. He, obviously, had money, and Michael, I've both observed and heard, will go through any number of hoops to acquire those desired shekels BUT work...
Who knows? Michael isn't talking even though I've badgered him to distraction, and when I asked if I'd have to repeat my performance, he said I did not... Did it fail? Did he get - or prove - whatever he was striving for? I don't know. The best I can do is tell myself I got an excellent - truly exceptional - meal out of sitting there quietly, stuffing myself, while the pair of them made small talk I didn't connect to. (I'd decided at the onset that the safest thing to do was to remain as quiet and unobtrusive as I could.) For all I know, Michael just sold my ass to some elderly Arab man whose goons are going to kidnap me off the street in a day or two...
Ya never know.
Michael does fascinate me, though. He's a little like my ex-husband, Brian. Both of them can be charming and charismatic. Both of them seem to feel that other people exist only for their amusement and to advance their own agendas. Both of them would rather climb mountains, swim oceans, and risk death a thousand times over than get a fucking job. The big difference is that Michael doesn't have the cruel streak that Brian had - instead of beating someone half to death to get his way, he cajoles; he wheedles; he charms; he swindles.
He has never - not once - left my place without carrying something of mine out with him that he is 'borrowing', never to be seen again...
Sigh...
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Queer Eye for the Hot Fucking Mess
This morning, I was given my instructions for how to dress for dinner tonight at the Steaksmith...
"Are you going to spruce up tonight?" said Michael.
"Did I not the first time? Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Do I offend in some manner?"
"You looked great last time. Do that again."
He gave me the stinkeye, and made a face.
"What?"
"Look at you now - I know you haven't combed your hair even though it's hard to tell when you do, you're wearing a shirt at least three times too big for you, and I know if I lift that shirt, I'll find out that you've got that awful skirt pinned or tacked so it'll stay on you, too. And those socks! OMG! Those socks and Mary Janes..." He rolled his eyes, he looked towards the heavens for God to agree with him. "You are one hot, fucking mess, girl."
"Eat me on rye, Queer Eye. I like what I have on, thank you."
He went to my closet and began to rummage. Finally, he comes out with this light sage, empire-waisted dress with a gold sash and cap sleeves. "Does this come close to fitting you?"
"Yeah..."
"Will you wear it?"
"Fine...with Mary Janes or sneakers?"
Rummage, rummage, rummage. He pulls out a pair of brownish peep-toe shoes with small heels. "These will do...and, for gods sake, wear nylons and not ankle socks, okay?"
Hmmmm...
My spidey senses are tingling.
The Steaksmith is a place you don't go into unless you have at least $150 on you to spend for dinner. It isn't the most expensive place in town, but it's a classy place, and this is TWICE he's taken me. (Where does a gay guy on SSDI get this much money????) Now, he's all a'twitter about what I'm going to wear? Something, as Holmes would say, is afoot, I believe...
As he leaves, he says, "And wear makeup. You look so good with a little makeup. Too bad you can't do much with that hair..."
(Fuck him. I like my hair this way. I LOVE my hair this way.)
Now, it is true that I don't, normally, pay much attention to what I wear, and most of my clothes ARE too big for me, but since I don't make a habit of going anywhere that my clothes matter, I don't care - I wear what's comfy, what I like, and what appeals to me (which is, unfortunately, often a lot of conflicting colors and styles, but I'm not trying to impress anyone, and the squirrels have never complained.) I discovered a loooooong time ago that when you dress to please yourself instead of others, you find you have your own little style goin' on, and anyone who doesn't like it can suck it.
He picked one of the few dresses that make me look like the Mormon I am. This is much more misleading than the clothes I wear every day. Dresses like that have people expecting things like manners and the observation of simply rules of etiquette that I am, frequently, too casual to employ. In MY clothing, I don't disappoint when I eat with my fingers or say, "What the fuck is that gray thing in my soup?" to the waiter.
And does it make food taste any differently?
I don't mind being a hot, fucking mess, but just for his attitude this morning, Imma gonna order me some champagne and, then, not drink it...
...so there...
"Are you going to spruce up tonight?" said Michael.
"Did I not the first time? Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Do I offend in some manner?"
"You looked great last time. Do that again."
He gave me the stinkeye, and made a face.
"What?"
"Look at you now - I know you haven't combed your hair even though it's hard to tell when you do, you're wearing a shirt at least three times too big for you, and I know if I lift that shirt, I'll find out that you've got that awful skirt pinned or tacked so it'll stay on you, too. And those socks! OMG! Those socks and Mary Janes..." He rolled his eyes, he looked towards the heavens for God to agree with him. "You are one hot, fucking mess, girl."
"Eat me on rye, Queer Eye. I like what I have on, thank you."
He went to my closet and began to rummage. Finally, he comes out with this light sage, empire-waisted dress with a gold sash and cap sleeves. "Does this come close to fitting you?"
"Yeah..."
"Will you wear it?"
"Fine...with Mary Janes or sneakers?"
Rummage, rummage, rummage. He pulls out a pair of brownish peep-toe shoes with small heels. "These will do...and, for gods sake, wear nylons and not ankle socks, okay?"
Hmmmm...
My spidey senses are tingling.
The Steaksmith is a place you don't go into unless you have at least $150 on you to spend for dinner. It isn't the most expensive place in town, but it's a classy place, and this is TWICE he's taken me. (Where does a gay guy on SSDI get this much money????) Now, he's all a'twitter about what I'm going to wear? Something, as Holmes would say, is afoot, I believe...
As he leaves, he says, "And wear makeup. You look so good with a little makeup. Too bad you can't do much with that hair..."
(Fuck him. I like my hair this way. I LOVE my hair this way.)
Now, it is true that I don't, normally, pay much attention to what I wear, and most of my clothes ARE too big for me, but since I don't make a habit of going anywhere that my clothes matter, I don't care - I wear what's comfy, what I like, and what appeals to me (which is, unfortunately, often a lot of conflicting colors and styles, but I'm not trying to impress anyone, and the squirrels have never complained.) I discovered a loooooong time ago that when you dress to please yourself instead of others, you find you have your own little style goin' on, and anyone who doesn't like it can suck it.
He picked one of the few dresses that make me look like the Mormon I am. This is much more misleading than the clothes I wear every day. Dresses like that have people expecting things like manners and the observation of simply rules of etiquette that I am, frequently, too casual to employ. In MY clothing, I don't disappoint when I eat with my fingers or say, "What the fuck is that gray thing in my soup?" to the waiter.
And does it make food taste any differently?
I don't mind being a hot, fucking mess, but just for his attitude this morning, Imma gonna order me some champagne and, then, not drink it...
...so there...
Friday, October 15, 2010
Save Me, Lady!
While the visiting nurse was taking over for a few hours, I went to the park to feed my followers...
I sat down on 'my' bench and was preparing to divvy up the food - strange that there were no mouths already waiting to be fed - when I hear this really strange squeaky-giggling noise. A ball of black fluff runs by - making this noise - scrambles into the bush behind me (about 2-3 feet from my head) and continues to chitter...
It was my only black squirrel, and he was mad-excited about something.
The something came along a minute later - a man had been chasing it...
"I've been trying to get that thing for an hour," he pants.
"You intend to try to catch a squirrel bare-handed?" I said. "I'm glad I'm here to see that."
"No... I want a picture." He shows me his other hand that is holding a small digital camera. "Black squirrels are rare around here. I've never even SEEN one."
I told him to stay still for a moment. I took a peanut out of the bag and offered it to the squirrel who was very hesitant to leave the safety (?) of the bush to come out after this hairball had been chasing him around for an hour. Finally, greed overcame fear, and he calmed down enough to hop onto the back of the bench and allow me to give him the peanut - and gave the man time to snap his pic.
"I can't believe he lets you feed him like that!"
"He's used to me. And if you stop acting like a fool and sit quietly - or just go away - the rest of them will come out for food, too. Squirrels, birds... I'm their human soup kitchen."
He sat on an opposite bench and they started to creep out, little by little. He took some pics of them - I hope he got one of the two red squirrels fighting for peanuts because they look like little boxers - and even got some more of the elusive black squirrel.
The weird thing is the noise that little thing made! I've never heard anything like it - a squeaky giggle is apparently squirrel for "HOLY FUCK, THERE'S A LARGE BIPED ON MY ASS!" And that he thought safety was to hide behind me in that bush made me all squishy inside - I am a squirrel saint, I am - even though he was probably just feeling more secure in a place he was familiar with (the bush is his hidey-hole while he waits for me).
Sigh...what small things make my life worthwhile these days...
I sat down on 'my' bench and was preparing to divvy up the food - strange that there were no mouths already waiting to be fed - when I hear this really strange squeaky-giggling noise. A ball of black fluff runs by - making this noise - scrambles into the bush behind me (about 2-3 feet from my head) and continues to chitter...
It was my only black squirrel, and he was mad-excited about something.
The something came along a minute later - a man had been chasing it...
"I've been trying to get that thing for an hour," he pants.
"You intend to try to catch a squirrel bare-handed?" I said. "I'm glad I'm here to see that."
"No... I want a picture." He shows me his other hand that is holding a small digital camera. "Black squirrels are rare around here. I've never even SEEN one."
I told him to stay still for a moment. I took a peanut out of the bag and offered it to the squirrel who was very hesitant to leave the safety (?) of the bush to come out after this hairball had been chasing him around for an hour. Finally, greed overcame fear, and he calmed down enough to hop onto the back of the bench and allow me to give him the peanut - and gave the man time to snap his pic.
"I can't believe he lets you feed him like that!"
"He's used to me. And if you stop acting like a fool and sit quietly - or just go away - the rest of them will come out for food, too. Squirrels, birds... I'm their human soup kitchen."
He sat on an opposite bench and they started to creep out, little by little. He took some pics of them - I hope he got one of the two red squirrels fighting for peanuts because they look like little boxers - and even got some more of the elusive black squirrel.
The weird thing is the noise that little thing made! I've never heard anything like it - a squeaky giggle is apparently squirrel for "HOLY FUCK, THERE'S A LARGE BIPED ON MY ASS!" And that he thought safety was to hide behind me in that bush made me all squishy inside - I am a squirrel saint, I am - even though he was probably just feeling more secure in a place he was familiar with (the bush is his hidey-hole while he waits for me).
Sigh...what small things make my life worthwhile these days...
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
So - What Happens Now?
I was watching the rescue of the Chilean miners, and listening to some shrink talk about how the ordeal was going to affect them. I thought, "I can relate to this..." Not that anything I've gone through is as dangerous and horrible as what they endured, but - I've been in a deep, dark hole for years, and, now, I have to deal with re-entering the sunlight, and what that means for me.
I should be happier, but I'm not.
Oh, I'm glad that they've solved the mystery of why I wasn't responding to treatments (some of which actually exacerbated the problems), why I was, still, always sick and had a few dramatic crisis situations, why I'm not fucking dead, and all of that shit, but - what's next?
How much will I recover? What have I lost due to misdiagnosis and the wrong treatments? How much can I hope for? To work again? To go upcountry and hike, camp again? To look forward to a relatively normal life? I'm afraid to hope for too much, but I keep looking forward at getting it all back...will I?
I want...
I want...
I want, want, want...but...
I'm told it will be approximately six months before I see 'substantial, marked mprovements' and a year before I can assume I've reached the optimum plateau. In between, there's a lot of work on my part, including physical therapy, and a lot of diddling about with my medications - most of which Dr. Curry discarded, by the way, leaving me with a total of seven that include three inhalers (no more nebulizer!!) and one I only take occasionally. My oxygen level has already improved to the point that, soon, I might only need it at night, and maybe not then - maybe only when I'm physically stressed or have other issues with breathing (a cold, etc.) that makes it necessary. I would be feeling blissed if I could do away with my leash, my O2 converter...
But I won't let myself get too high on this yet. I've been fucked over before by the medicos, and my trust in them and theirs is, now, close to zero. While I don't blame them - I accept the explanation that lupus, COPD, CHF and diabetes is a witches' brew of symptoms that all masquerade as other issues - I no longer have the faith I did that They - the unknown They - will take care of me. Hell, they almost killed me a few times from what Dr, Curry told me.
(One of the male nurses told me that Curry called my doc more than once to jump his ass about what was done to me. While I think its nice he was a White Knight for me, I, still, like my doc. I think he really did do his best, and he followed prescribed procedures - what else could he do? And he WAS the one who, finally, suspected diabetes being the hidden demon in the brew, so...)
Right now, I'm feeling really lost about what to expect from my future. I don't like not having a path in front of me... I was prepared to die, oddly enough, but the idea of living is what scares me now........
I should be happier, but I'm not.
Oh, I'm glad that they've solved the mystery of why I wasn't responding to treatments (some of which actually exacerbated the problems), why I was, still, always sick and had a few dramatic crisis situations, why I'm not fucking dead, and all of that shit, but - what's next?
How much will I recover? What have I lost due to misdiagnosis and the wrong treatments? How much can I hope for? To work again? To go upcountry and hike, camp again? To look forward to a relatively normal life? I'm afraid to hope for too much, but I keep looking forward at getting it all back...will I?
I want...
I want...
I want, want, want...but...
I'm told it will be approximately six months before I see 'substantial, marked mprovements' and a year before I can assume I've reached the optimum plateau. In between, there's a lot of work on my part, including physical therapy, and a lot of diddling about with my medications - most of which Dr. Curry discarded, by the way, leaving me with a total of seven that include three inhalers (no more nebulizer!!) and one I only take occasionally. My oxygen level has already improved to the point that, soon, I might only need it at night, and maybe not then - maybe only when I'm physically stressed or have other issues with breathing (a cold, etc.) that makes it necessary. I would be feeling blissed if I could do away with my leash, my O2 converter...
But I won't let myself get too high on this yet. I've been fucked over before by the medicos, and my trust in them and theirs is, now, close to zero. While I don't blame them - I accept the explanation that lupus, COPD, CHF and diabetes is a witches' brew of symptoms that all masquerade as other issues - I no longer have the faith I did that They - the unknown They - will take care of me. Hell, they almost killed me a few times from what Dr, Curry told me.
(One of the male nurses told me that Curry called my doc more than once to jump his ass about what was done to me. While I think its nice he was a White Knight for me, I, still, like my doc. I think he really did do his best, and he followed prescribed procedures - what else could he do? And he WAS the one who, finally, suspected diabetes being the hidden demon in the brew, so...)
Right now, I'm feeling really lost about what to expect from my future. I don't like not having a path in front of me... I was prepared to die, oddly enough, but the idea of living is what scares me now........
Friday, October 8, 2010
The Failure of my Flesh
Not so much now.
I'm in a skin prison, and waiting for parole. I want to get the fuck out of this place where everything aches so much and so much has gone south on me.
Wish it were as easy as it is in the picture...
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
A Different Room, a Separate Table
I think I sit in a different room, at a separate table, because I just don't see what others' see. I don't 'get' it. I don't want to get it. The things I see would, probably, disturb most other people...
Currently, we are living in a society that apparently believes its possible to live forever if you follow The Rules. That The Rules are, always, changing doesn't seem to daunt them. They'll draw back, in horror, at the idea of eating a greasy burger and fries, and will gladly consume gallons of over-priced (and relatively useless) pomegranite juice simply because one health guru or another is telling them one is going to kill them, and the other one will make them beautiful with bowels that perform with clock-like precision. You follow the rules, you'll live forever...
When something happens, and you are suddenly forced to abide by a set of rules that - while not making you immortal - need to be followed in order to make whatever life you have left tolerable, you are faced with making a few decisions. French fries, or eyesight? Pizza, or your feet? You want salt on that? Well, how about a nice pig valve for your suffering heart since you insist on mistreating it...
I can take pills; I can exercise; I can use nebulizers and inhalers; I can put up with all manner of medical foolishness because I have and I will, but I'm not sure I can spend the rest of my life measuring every fucking teaspoon of low-fat, low-carb, salt-free, sugarless, TASTELESS food I put into my mouth. My life has become dreary enough without that...
And not to smoke anymore? Not ever again?
Shi-i-i-i-it... EVERYBODY smokes in Hell...
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
No More...
In the past when things got too tight, I packed up my toys and left the state. Sometimes, I'd just hitch around for weeks doing nothing but moving - keeping moving kept me from thinking, and that was enough. I can't do that now because I'm too ill and require both medication and machinery to keep my scabby ass alive. I'm stuck. I'm trapped. I fell on my Fate and I can't get up...
Mary Ellen and Paul want me to move down to Arkansas with them and their four Siamese cats - Belle, Buddy, Jasmine and (I swear) Turdblossom. It is a sweet gesture, but I don't know how to tell her that living in Arkansas is a bit like willingly moving into Purgatory, and that I couldn't stand living with four felines who are as spoiled as hers. (In her last email she writes that Turdblossom, who likes to sleep on her head, got testy when she moved in the night and disturbed her. She wrote, "He struck - like a rattlesnake - and bit me in the middle of my forehead." She laughed about it. I would have introduced Turdblossom to my friend, the ball peen hammer...)
I've been through Arkansas a few times. There was never any option but to keep moving...
I'm so depressed. The high of getting out of the hospital has disappeared - helped by Gerry taking a bad fall and hurting himself while I was napping - and I'm left with a future I just can't draw much hope from.
Fuck it all forever...
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