March Is Coming In Like An Idiot

Last night was a bad night.

A very BAD night.

Terrifying dreams involving me being crushed by a skinny dying woman at a beauty salon; chasing criminals towards an open , non-functioning elevator;  and the overwhelming smell of spoiled food.  Three separate dreams. not just one.

New stabbing pains in my right cheek.  Well, new at night anyway.  Blindness approaching I bet.

And seriously escalating leg anguish.  Usually night is a bit of relief because the pressure is literally off.  Not last night.  Sheez!  If I was my neighbor I would have called the cops to find out who was torturing the old crazy lady next door.  I did my best to stifle screams of agony;  but I feel I should post a written apology on my hallway door.

This pain is almost indescribable.  Like contractions of labor they recur over and over.  They make me think of how I've heard crush injuries are experienced.  Twisting razor wire and pummeling cinder blocks and machete-like bone slivers also come to mind.

Sleep is impossible and a comfortable position does not exist.

My kingdom for a chainsaw and the guts to use it.

And snow is expected yet again.  So far this month sucks.

Drop Dead!

Lance Armstrong makes me puke!

This is a man who presented himself as a medical warrior valiantly rising above incomparable odds to emerge victorious in his sport and to heap glory upon his country.

Instead he was a stinking, rotten cheater.  A common selfish liar.  A greedy fake we should run away from and shun.  An example of what we want our children NOT to be.  He does not deserve any second chance for rejoining competitive cycling.  He had a second chance every time he pulled  up his racing pants and went ahead and cheated anyway.

The arrogance involved in his chicanery just boggles me.  Every single person on his support staff took their little share of the ill gotten winnings and kept quiet.  I wonder if Sheryl Crow knew what was going on and that's the reason she head for the hills.

 Personally I've gotten some of the ass ends of American medical care; but every blood test I've ever had was capable of revealing if I had so much as inhaled in a room full of Twinkies.  With Armstrong's level of care, are we supposed to believe not one single doctor or phlebotomist saw something awry?  And the possibility that one steroid injection or (Holy Hannah!) dose of calve's blood might have jeopardized  Armstrong's cancer regime didn't scare the bejeezus out of any of his doctors?  No thanks.

I don't give a rat's ass about an interview with Oprah.  What I want to see is Armstrong drowning in tears and his own snot on his knees in front of every cyclist who had ever raced against him.  He should be forced to return every single cent of tainted financial winning.  He should beg forgiveness and then bestow the first place awards to the allegedly second place finisher in every competition currently credited as an Armstrong win.  And then the world should turn its collective back.

Usually I am the first  to giggle at the hoopla surrounding competitive sport.  But even I understand that athletics, when done fairly and well, has a level of dignity and maybe even honor that I can appreciate.  Children recognize this even if they don't know what it means. No way does Armstrong deserves to be included in that circle.

What he has taught me, and taught all of us, is the meaning of hubris.  Shame on him.  Shame on him forever,

Lost

Even if Kubler- Ross had it right, this knowledge about the grief cycle is not helping me.

Physical and emotional losses have hit me like a ton of bricks in the last several years.  I never denied them. I realized clearly what was going on; no denial was involved.  Intractable pain is not something I could ignore or pretend that it wasn't happening.  Banishment by former dear ones was also made undeniable.   SMASHO!

And maybe that was the problem right from the start.  Maybe if I had pondered the impossibility of these events I would have been better prepared for what came next.  In any case I've been stuck at anger for far too long. Every morning the pain wakes me up, then literally brings me to what is left of my knees during the day, and crushes me into bed at night.  Does this make me furious?  You betcha! The emotional wounds by people I thought I knew better cause  me to fantasize serious science fiction type torture for them all.  Anger is what I've got these days.  But, whoa, if I ever got hold of real weapons on an especially bad day; and there's no telling how much or how many I would annihilate.

Still, perhaps I've been lagging at this stage longer than is helpful.

I don't think bargaining is for me.  No one I know is willing to change much less listen to what I'd need to say.  Not much talking goes on in my sibling circle.  Drama, yes.  Photo opportunities, yes.  Serious conversation, NEVER.  Not with me anyway.  Who knows what they are scared of.  And there is no bargaining regarding medical care.  I am poor, old, and over weight.  Limitations prohibit any optional discussion.  YIKES.  Working around all this stuff is exhausting.

So what's left is acceptance.  And, 'dear holy god and matrimony' I am trying.  But, I am seriously considering the chain saw aisle at the big box.

Get Out Of My Way

This week I have been sleeping scandalously late.  And for me, that means 8:30 to about 9ish in the morning.  I've been an early starter since my children were teensy.  Never minded it and never needed or used an alarm clock.  And I realize that 9:00 am isn't that late; but here at Elder House there are folks who are up and around at four!  No, no, no.  That can't be good for a person.

This week I've been stretching and snicking the eye gunk out of my eyes and reading book after book.  My load this week from Library Guy has been especially good.  Nora's last, The Language of Flowers, and the second Stieg Larsson.  Yummy.

So why the snark?

Beats me.  I , like Snoopy, "feel every now and then that I wanta' bite someone."

Let's see.  The property manager still hasn't responded to an email question I sent on Saturday.  But I didn't really expect her to and it's not a big issue anyway.  That's not the reason.  Neither is the third day in a row of 100+ temperatures.  Nor is it the fact that I heard on the news that grasshoppers are going to reproduce THREE times due to the weird weather this year and they will eat all the grass and grain and humans will starve to death and die of bread withdrawal.  Nope not it.  A loaf of good bread, expensive at $2.78 a loaf now, will cost over $5.00 by fall.  Close, but not.

Well, what the hell is pissing me off then?

Yup, that's it.  I want my 20 year old body wrapped around my this year's brain.  I'd be freaking unstoppable.  And I bet Mick wishes the same thing sometime.

Spare Me

Small animal photos.

Orders to copy and paste to prove that I am reading your entries.
Posts with misspelled words.
Posts exclusively composed of "text-ese."
Pseudo religious pleas or instructions.

Orders to copy and paste so that I will avoid dire consequences.
Links to horrible music.
Exhortations about dead family members.
Links to gun or gun owner sites.
Images of trite encouragement. Trite images of encouragement.

Sports related links.
Political links.

Thank you.  I promise to do the same.

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.

Kill All The Incompetent

This has been another frustrating week; and so in order to preserve what little is left of my sanity and to save the economy I am putting my foot down once again.

Filling a prescription should not require an act of Congress.  It should also not require a translator or the use of nuclear weapons.  There is no excuse for illegible prescriptions in 2012.  There is no reasonable reason why it should take more than a week to remedy the situation. Medical offices should be quick to admit their error, rectify it, and apologize.  Not returning phone calls does not make for good PR, nor does it aid the ailing and desperate patient.

Delivering a package is another task that should be painless for all involved.  Bringing the item to the receiver as promised and WHEN promised are not complicated tasks. Delivery companies should make their policies clear and when those policies fail the very least they should offer is a live human who can answer questions.  They do not offer that as an option.  "Our menu has changed" is not an excuse for the endless looping and avoidance of responsibility that a call to an 800 number has become.

So...

Office managers.  ESL telephone receptionists.  Doctors with attitude.  Lying delivery people.  Anyone not doing their job to the best of their ability.  All of you lazy, worthless fucks who contribute to making my life the living hell that it has been this week.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

These Would Totally Be My Lines

AND



AND

If I can ever find Vivi's confessional scene from "Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood" that would go right here.

Skip the commercials.

To be continued.

Ridiculosity

This week I finally decided to purchase a little red rock.  I had saved up sufficient pennies and located the exact item at the Big Box website.  I even called the store itself to ensure the red rock I had in mind was available.  All good.  Go for launch.

What do you think happened?

In the red rock aisle I found box after box of sparkly rocks and battery operated rocks and rocks with all manner of attachments.  None of which I desired or intended to pay for.  When I finally located a Big Box employee she suggested I try the low tech red rock aisle.  So I did.

What do you think happened?

No red rocks at all.  Stretchy rocks.  Bendy rocks.  Rocks with extra long handles.  But nary a plain red rock.  Ah, well.  I chalked it up on the ever growing list of disappointed shopping experiences and went to the grocery departments.

Waited several days.  Armed with a bit more patience and a view of the actual website listing of the desired red rock I phoned the store again.  Spoke to the red rock department manager.  She said:  "We have it on the shelf.  I am looking at it."  I jokingly requested that she save it for me.  Could she put it at the service desk?  No.  Hide it behind some other rock containers?  No.  Okey Dokey.  I saddled up for another trek.

What do you think happened?

In the red rock aisle.  Same snazzy rocks as before.  Not the rock I was promised.  Shanghaied a Big Box employee (a man this time) told him my tale of woe and he ASSURED  me he would personally place the red rock in my hands.  Back to the same aisle where he proudly lifts one of the battery operated rocks and turns to me,  "There you go!"

After I explained yet again that I did not want THAT rock, after I described the rock I was ASSURED was in stock, and after I restrained myself from ripping out his larynx; I listened in astonishment while he explained that they could not order the rock I hoped for unless they already had the actual rock.

What do you think happened?

I leaped over the scooter basket and pummeled the guy and his sparkly rock into a bloody pulp and left him to die on the floor.  Well, not really.  But I did choose my words VERY carefully.  "You are the Big Box for god's sake!  You are the KINGS of the department store world!  If you can't sell me a simple red rock then you are a bunch of goddam fakes who should be ashamed of yourselves!"  Then I spun around in the electric cart and drove away.

This is my vow:  I WILL find and purchase the red rock in question.  Then I will bash in the head of each Big Box employee in my path who made this transaction so goddam ridiculously complicated.

Drain

Another week of beautiful weather.
Outside.
Where I rarely go.
Pain is such an inhibitor.
Fear also.
The breeze is incredibly enticing and windows are open wide.
I share what I can.
I am grateful.
Yes.
I am grateful.
A week on the blasted cell phone.
Trying to make contact.
Trying to understand.
Trying for answers.
Trying.
Trying is exhausting.
Especially when there is nothing to show for it.
This state of affairs masquerades as laziness or lassitude.
The fight begins before I am out of bed.
That doesn't count.
No space on the score card.
Get over it.
Go on.
Go.

Birds Are Morons

Birds are morons and I want them all to die.  May they all come down with avian flu or swine flu or pony flu or whatever disease is most newsworthy at the moment.  Anything!  Just to shut them the fuck up at four in the morning!

I thought when the Loud Mouth Lady and her Yappy Dog and "possibly criminal" Husband finally left we would have some peace and quiet here at Elder House.  Oh, she of the leather lungs and boomingly inappropriate laugh would hold conferences in the long and very echoey hallway day after day after day.  Had they not left when they did I think I would have looked into having them pecked to death by birds and buried in the back yard.  And now I hear through the curmudgeon grapevine that this couple is notorious for moving in and out of the building as they become discontent with their living arrangements.

Hasn't research shown that what some folks think of delightful bird song is really a feathered call for sex?  "I'm a bird!  I'm a bird!  I'm a bird! Let's do it!  Let's do it!"  Guys!  If it didn't work yesterday it most likely will not capture the lady birds' mojo today either!  Take the show on the road already!  Or at least out of earshot of this building.  Please.

Just For Today

This is probably a result of watching too many doctor shows online.

But why couldn't it be a giant, honkin' tumor?  Rip me open and scoop the damn thing out and chuck it in the trash.  Huh?

Or why can't I just get the damn leg chopped off at the hip?  Let somebody experiment on it.  Bonus weight loss for me,eh?

Maybe the bloodwork will show a new disease that necessitates massive painkillers or injections of some kind.  And then the doctor will get me into a fancy, schmancy clinical study somewhere.  Or an up and coming medical reasearcher will want to glom onto my case to advance knowledge and save people.

But the truth is...

The actuality is that none of those options will occur.

This pain will go on forever and I will keep missing the good parts of life outside these walls.  I used to be afraid of becoming one of those huge, bed bound freaks who can't leave their house because of their weight.  I didn't ever suspect that I'd be locked in by the inability to walk.  Well, I am not quite the hugest of freaks; but I am certainly bound.  This leg.  This pain.  I am a prisoner.

And I doubt I can tolerate it much longer.

Fling Open Those Windows!

This mini-season of unlocking can be tricky here in the Midwest.  The temptation to open glass surfaces as far as possible is strong.  The rewards can be great. Tantalizing aromas of other people's dinner preparations.  Yum.  Someday I will figure out all the spice-meat-potato combinations and duplicate them for myself.  Or I may simply go door to door clutching a fork and spoon and begging for a taste.

The giddy sounds of the Kid Parade every weekday afternoon.  Boys have shed their parkas for hoodies alone.  One young chap has actually shed his shoes!  Yup!  Walks home in his stocking feet.  These children seem very good natured.  I've never witnessed a fight or teasing or bullying of any kind.  And, this delights me, they all look both ways before crossing the street.  I guess at least one of those early parental lessons has stuck.  No girls in flip flops yet, however.  Dancing Daughter informs me that's the only sure proof of springtime.

Breezy breezes.  Not the howling shrieks through every uncaulked crack endured the past months, but rather lilting, drifty, pleasant air movements that waft.  Damp evergreen and muddy earth fragrance.  Even faithful Cigarette Man having his 3pm smoke is a welcome addition.  The trees haven't been bamboozled; there are no buds yet.

And then there is, of course, the one sour note.  A new dog has moved in somewhere upstairs.  This dog is left alone for hours and hours every single day.  It is loud.  It is obnoxious.  It is unrelenting in its noise.  I know it is only doing what dogs do.  I don't care.  Do you know what cranky old farts do when faced with a public nuisance?  Even one with fur?  We contemplate slitting its little throat; that's what we do.  Then we can all enjoy this pretend respite from winter.

Please...

makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting
makeitstophurting

just enough to sit on the love seat and crochet for one hour
just enough to sit on the love seat and read a magazine
just enough to sit on the love seat and call one of my daughters

please

Scary Dream

Darling Eldest Daughter in a violet print mini-dress and knee high, lace up fur boots is walking in a park with Angry Sister.  They are both carrying flowers and champagne and they don't know I am watching.  They sit on a wooden bench and I see that their faces are smudged with mascara tears all down their cheeks.  But I know they are not sad.

Then I'm like Ben in the Graduate where he is at the church pounding on the big glass windows.  I want them to see me.  I want them to stop.

Then the scene switches and I'm in a house I don't recognise.  A girl I don't know holds up a platter of cupcakes.  They are arranged as a wreath and there is a spun sugar gold bow tied at one side.  The cupcakes are shaped like Hostess Snowballs but they are coconut and smoothly covered in white fondant. They are very precious and one entire side of the wreath has been crushed, like somebody sat on it.  I am accused of destroying them.

I look up and peer into the faces smirking at me.  "I didn't do it,"  I say, "I've never seen these before.  I didn't do it."  But nobody listens and they don't believe me.  Angry Sister puts her arm around my Eldest Daughter's shoulder and escorts her from the room. Eldest Daughter glances back at me for a moment.  Then they are gone.

Adios!

Wakened today by the big old garbage truck and I immediately thought, "Yup!  So fucking appropriate!"  The serenade to begin the decade of my 60's.  Ah, well.  Then I noticed the time.  What's he so late for?  It wasn't five and it was already light.  Foggy as hell, but light.  Okey Dokey.   Shower time.

My 50's pretty much sucked.  They started out all hopeful and balmy.  I was newly bald, happy, and surrounded by loved ones.  And there WERE some good moments.  Successful surgeries,  blissful, mind expanding college classes, a long postponed divorce, marriages, birth, and hard won graduations.  Other times, the not so good times, included betrayal, hypocrisy, lies, financial ruin, more pain than I ever imagined, and despair so great I feared for my sanity.  C+?  B-?  At best.

The sitch has leveled out somewhat.  Financial woes are horrendous, but manageable.  Emotional woes are inexplicable and, apparently never ending.  The pain is unendurable and must be endured. 

SO.  I take my meds.  Whenever a new symptom arises I google it in an attempt to figure it out.  I'm grateful for every day my leg does not crumble like paper and I manage to stay on my feet long enough to literally fall into bed at night.  I pray in my own fashion.  I am trying to accept my status as crippled and crazy.  This is hard and I'm not very good at it.

Today I am awaiting a birthday visit from a very dear friend.  Instead of feeling joyous I am petrified that I will not be able to stay awake and that the pain will slam me sooner than usual.  But each of my daughters phoned this morning; today is already better than yesterday.

But this new decade of my life is on very strict probation.  I will not, I cannot endure pain like what I have already experienced.  Any new emotional betrayal will be met with the most profound and profane response.  And financial crap is...well, crap.  You have been warned.

Pajimba?

I really want the snowstorm post to stand on its own.  I am livid right now, but not surprised, and wanted to get this in while it's hot.  If this is considered plus size -which is PC for

FATDISGUSTINGGETOUTOFMYSIGHTBIGBERTHAPIGFACECOWDOG

-then I volunteer to host the pre-suicide party for all us non-anorexic gals!

Eat shit and die, Skinny Bitches!