Time Is Different

10:47am.  Drowned down one painkiller tablet.
10:57am.  No change.
11:07am.  No change.
11:27am.  No change.  Screaming becomes ineffective.
11:37am.  Pain actually seems to be increasing.  Cannot move leg or toes on right side.
11:47am.  Pain continues.
12:07pm.  Pain continues.  Pillows are soaked in snot, tears, and sweat.
12:27pm.  Pain continues.  Attempt to apply some CBT.  Consider painting.
12:37pm.  Pain continues.  Now aware of additional back spasms.
12:47pm.  Painting is looking better than expected.  Cannot determine if pain has subsided to any extent.
1:07pm,   Painting completed. 
1:27pm.   Wash face and hands.  Stand.  Legs hurt equally.
2:07pm.   More than three hours of agony and I am able to hobble to my desk.

Cheer Me Up!

Today is Blood Test Day and, of course I am sinking fast.  Usual terror.  Usual cigarette desire.  Usual imagining car catastrophes and traffic conflagrations.

Usual forgetting that these things usually work out and I make it home in one piece.  Usual forgetting that I promised myself to think of it as an interesting adventure and not another torturous phenomenon.  Try to at least think of it as a learning experience.

At least  eight vials of blood.  The coolest one is to test for some kind of genetic defect.

Then I'll really know who to blame.

Drug Dream

Madonna was shampooing my hair.  She had thick, moon shaped nails that she used to scratch and massage my scalp.  It felt terrific.  She rinsed my head with water from a shallow cobalt blue bowl.  We both smiled but did not speak.

When I woke at four in the morning it was raining.  It was like rain in a movie:  all parallel rows, a consistent whooshy sound, and dramatically back lit.  It went on like that for thirty minutes.  When it stopped it just stopped altogether.  No dripping.

There are so many prescription meds in my repertoire these days I sometimes don't know what is me and what is chemically induced.

Spy School

Before I get started I just want to point out that the Sartorialist has a post up already for today's date that allegedly has been "up" for one minute.  ONE!  And it already has six comments!  Not to be believed!  I love that blog; but come on!  Do these commenters set their watches so as to be the first to write how much they adore the fact that madras is making a fashion comeback?  Or maybe all his college roommates signed a posting pact.  Could he have that many relatives?  Beats me.  I'm going to keep peeking in because I adore seeing what the rich and sometimes famous are up to in picturesque places around the globe.  But don't expect me to believe six comments in one minute.

Now...

During my first months here at Elder House I spent many hours flat out in bed peering at the parking lot and the houses across the street.  Not the ivy covered walks or beachy, pebbly shores I prefer; but lots of trees and surprisingly quite a bit of human motion.  Lots of automobile traffic.  (This is where I learned about spoke wheels for cars which are so ridiculous I refuse to discuss them any further.)  The everyday parade of children during the school year and the skateboard competitors this summer.  Families out for post dinner strolls and kids (lots of kids) on bikes make me happier than I ever imagined.

The physical pain and emotional upheaval I was enduring at the time made getting up a terrifying prospect and so I imagined myself working as an undercover agent observing my neighborhood so that I could singlehandedly save my country from reprehensible Bad Guys.  Instead I got Industrious Guy and his wife.  HHHhhhhhhmmm.  A year later I have a bit less pain: and so am up and around a bit more.  (God bless drugs!)  I haven't watched with much enthusiasm for several months.  And, I furtively glance from side to side, I think he might be UP TO SOMETHING!

YYYyyyyyyeeeeeesssss.

He waits until the wifey leaves at around four. Walks in and out of the house five or six times and ultimately squats down in his driveway with a sheet of paper about the size of the maps you used to get at gas stations and talks on his cell phone.  Once he walked all the way through my building's parking lot, up the steep hill street, and ended up leaning on some kid's basketball stand while still on the phone.  He makes wild gestures with his other hand, too.  Isn't that a sure sign of evil doing?

He never lets anybody come in his front door.  He doesn't clean his gutters, which is going to be a huge issue this fall.  He idles his work truck for almost twenty minutes every morning.  And he swats dust off his pants before going into the house.  Then he comes back out in different clothes and makes another mysterious walking phone call.

Total Bad Guy behavior, right?

Anyway I'm glad my drugs are working.  But I was a good observer of human shenanigans before.  I'm also a very good listener.  So in case anybody wondered:  Yes, I heard what you said.

Saw This And Had To 2012-2



Saw this on a friend's fb page and had to take a second and then a third look.  Corporatate idiocy is usually not on my radar.  It seems such an easy target.  But this was too good to pass up.  Thanks, Becky.

Karmic Screwjob Or Just Plain Clumsiness? You Make The Call.

Very bad week finally ended with an entirely too brief but incredibly welcome visit from two of my Darling Daughters and the Winsome Granddaughter.  I must say that little girl is becoming even more of a delight.  Dug her chubby baby toes into my tummy as she jounced around.  Blew innumerable spit bubbles as we spoke fart noise/zerbit language to one another.  My shirt was soaked and I loved every minute of it.

Next day long awaited visit from my Downstate Best Buddy.  Tears, reminiscence, good Asian take-out, more tears, and solving most of the world's problems.   (If only the guys in charge would listen to the elder women things would go much more smoothly.  Alas, it is not to be.) Lots of hugs.

That night, in terror, I began the new drug regime.  Blah, blah, blah.  I woke up and was still alive.  Okey dokey.  I'll give this thing a shot.  Gritted what's left of my teeth and swung both legs over the side of the mattress.

Yikes! The same  pain in the same place with the same intensity.  AND I knocked a pile of folded shirts onto the floor.  Damn.  Gimps will understand how a little goof up like that can spin a morning almost out of control.  Let's just skip it.  I soldiered on.

Kitchen to cobble together the usual breakfast.  The margarine tub winds up on the floor.  Who did THAT?  It fell opened but right side up; so that really was a comparatively minor set back.

Hobble hobble hobble to the chair with coffee and toast. Sit-um-down gingerly adjusting for leg position.  Place canes at the ready near the bookcase.  KEE-RASH!!  Glass container with rooting pothos smashes to the floor.  Damn, damn, double damn,

I wasn't crazy about the vase and the plant was pilfered from the lobby anyway.  But cleaning up this mess may take me the better part of the day.  Reaching, bending, sweeping, carrying.  All are chores that are on my "Almost Impossible To Accomplish" list.  To say nothing of the microscopic glass shards I know are lurking.

Almost forgot!  Sloshed half a cup of luke warm coffee all over my phone.

Never the less.  It shall be done.  Tune in next week.

It's Not Unusual

Yesterday I finished reading my first graphic novel.  I'd heard of these, through nieces and references on the old Roseanne program.  I'm not an authority; but I'm told one should not refer to them as comics.  As if comics were shameful or somehow less worthy of the reader's time.

This book was mentioned on a facebook page I peruse and, since I know and respect the page writer, I decided to read the book.  I easily reserved a copy at my local library. I was surprised.  The book was good.  Not a lot of excess verbiage and the illustrations were quite powerful.  The plot specifically focuses on the middle and high school years of Jeffrey Dahmer.  The author was about the same age as Dahmer at the time, and so his insights are colored by that perspective.  But that is all to the good.  As he traces Dahmer's behavior the author poignantly asks, "Where were the adults?"  Indeed.  Aren't we all sick of hearing/reading after yet another catastrophe involving young folk that the adults saw no signs?  Just what the fuck were they doing anyway?

My familiarity with comics (and I see nothing wrong with lumping graphic novels into that genre) is limited to my own youthful fascination with superheroes.  Superman was my 'go to' guy.  I've written elsewhere about how I never had an older brother and always wanted one.  Anyway, my possessing even a smidge of Superman lore allowed me to win a beer and pizza dinner for myself and my then boyfriend when I was first an undergrad.  The question:  Name Superman's mermaid girlfriend.

Oh, I also had a roommate whose boyfriend was a bit of a stoner and tried to get  me to fall in love with r crumb.  It didn't take as I had far too much homework that semester.  Altho it seems Mr. Backderf was profoundly influenced.  His art bears a striking resemblance.

Anyway, this book did what I believe all good writing should do.  It made me want to learn more about the topic.  If exploring the mind of a budding serial killer and his parents and the boys he went to school with intrigues you; then by all means seek out My Friend Dahmer by Derf Backderf.

It might even make you wonder about public schooling in this ever so great country of ours. 

Did This Really Happen?

Two things that NEVER happen apparently did.

I won a bracelet in an online sort of writing contest.

AND...

Thanks to new drug program eligibility purchased two prescriptions for quite a bit less than expected.

Being the totally dedicated pessimist and resident of the Dark Side that I am, I did not celebrate.  Cried in disbelief on the drive home of course.  I am still anticipating the letter arriving telling me it was all a big mistake.

Life-10.   Me-Zero.