Actually, what I just said out loud, to an empty house, was: “If I don’t get some chocolate soon I’m going to start drinking.”

It’s one of those days. Weeks. Too much to do, not enough hours. Everything hurts, which makes me feel like Grandma Moses’ older, uglier sister. With warts.

Cleaning sucks, but the one bright spot? Saturday O.D. and I will finally take YsD her furniture! That weight will be lifted. The older I become, the less I care about being responsible for other peoples things. And the more I want to divest myself of my own stuff. Most of my books are going; I just can’t take clutter anymore.

Liz was equipped with a hitch yesterday to facilitate the aforementioned furniture adventure. Since when did having a hitch installed cost over 300? Bloody pirates!

Oh, and this dog?

Yes, that’s the one. Don’t be fooled by her seemingly nonchalant attitude; she is a cranky, highhanded bitch. I told her to get off the sofa so I could put the cover back after laundering. ["You might be a redneck if you use $6 WalMart sheets as sofa covers."]
She simply moved to another spot. I demanded her removal again. Same thing. So I bent over to pick her up and put her off the damn thing.

She braced herself and that little snake like head whipped around as soon as my hands touched her ribcage… but she stopped short of actually biting me. Her mouth was on my hand. Then my hand was on her throat, while I disabused her of the notion. I’m not afraid of being bitten and she will not pull that crap on me like she does on Mike.

She got off the sofa. Then I called her and made sure she came to me and all was well again. I’d rather not have dominant dogs. We had dominance problems with Bree in her infancy [I'm sure some of you will remember!] but she’s grown into a very sweet girl.
Daisy, on the other hand… well, we’ll just call her ‘cranky’, shall we?

And today, I feel her pain. I’m just not going to bite anyone over it… unless I don’t get some chocolate…

Not metaphorical, not at all.

I’ve had it. Been to three doctors, had CT scans, ultrasounds, blood and urine tests. The upshot? Going to the GI doc next week because I’m still pissing blood but nobody knows why and oh! – I’m now on thyroid meds, thank you very much. I’m hypo, not hyper.

My back went out Saturday morning, but it’s getting better, thanks to the inversion table.

And of course… of course! This morning my sinuses hurt like a bitch. WTF is going on?! Am I a plague magnet?

It’s frustrating enough when something is wrong with your body, but you just want to get it fixed and go on with your life, right? This long, drug out shit is pissing me off. There’s so much to do… everywhere. The yard, the house… and I’ve neglected the blog because I’ve felt so hideous. I finally have to say… I’m OVER IT.

God bless people with chronic conditions -and I very selfishly hope I’m not one of them- because dealing with illness is one of the most frustrating, irritating things in life.

And the doctors! What has happened to the doctors? They only do the barest minimum -unless they’re covering their ass- and then are loathe to take responsibility for the treatment.
I actually had one ask “what do you want me to do?” after I’d described my symptoms… I very nearly started crying out of frustration. A couple of appointments later, while discussing my thyroid, she asked “who do you want to take responsibility for this?” Both question floored me, but maybe they’re the natural effect of obamacare.

Sorry for the rant, but it was a long time coming.

My dear Bonna just sent this email, which made me cry. I hate crying alone, so I’ll share it with you. You’re welcome. Heh…

And yes, I feel like a self involved bint for moaning about my little problems when so many people are suffering the world over, not to mention those here in the country that have fallen victim to tornadoes and flooding.

It is what it is.

I have this thing about remembering rooms. It’s usually related to how I felt in the room, not what happened within. And overwhelmingly the emotion experienced is comfort. Peace. A sense of being completely satisfied. Apparently the moment is frozen in time and filed away, just waiting to be re-felt. Maybe that’s one of the mind’s ways of coping with stress.

The rooms have been popping up in my conscious mind a lot lately, so since two of my three readers are gone right now, I thought I’d share a couple. This is different from places you choose to return to time and again, like I do the beach house or a well loved pasture. You do this, too, right? Right??

Room #1
We hit the road shortly after a round of pre-dawn chores one fresh Saturday in March. Daddy drove the ’53 Chrysler wagon and Mama rode shotgun while I took up my usual place sprawled in the rear. I stopped counting telephone poles when they began to blur. Our destination, an old farmhouse somewhere between Hearne and Kosse, Texas. The particulars are all but gone; I’ve no idea why we needed to go see the woman who lived there, but a need it was nonetheless.

There’s only a vague recollection of the farmhouse itself, old even then, sitting alone in the vast expanse of nearly treeless pastureland. It looked at once lonely and optimistic to my fertile imagination and I fully expected to see Heathcliff stalking the moors/pastures. Egad.
The lady ushered us straight through the house and into the kitchen, where she proceeded to cook breakfast for us all. She was one of those people who, once they’ve met you, take you to their bosom as if you’re family. Her homemade biscuits were fantastic.

I was charmed by her, the house and most of all, the kitchen. I can’t tell you why, since our kitchen was so like it in age and construction. I vividly remember two things: standing at the window over the sink, looking out on a vista God tailor-made for cattle… and sitting at the kitchen table eating the breakfast she’d cooked. Both times I thought it would be fine if I could just stay there in that room for the rest of my life. Which is silly, but that’s how 10 year old kids think. I hope.

Room #2
Another Texas farmhouse, this time many years later. Good friends, old furniture and complete quiet. Peace, except for the wonderful ticking of the Big Ben on the bedside table. A bedspread, instead of those ubiquitous comforters that are never quite large enough to cover my ass if the dog is sleeping with us.
I may be confusing two different places in my mind, but I can see the bed and remember how it felt to lie between the cool sheets, pulling them up to my chin.

And that, Mike, is why I still want a Big Ben. Not that I’d be able to hear it here…

Do you have rooms or am I as looney as some people think? Or do I simply have too much free time?

I spot watered a patchwork quilt of rice paddies into the yard this morning, though rain was already falling. If ten years in Florida has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t count on the weather. Sure enough, it was a light smattering and those beautiful dark blue-gray clouds were soon gone. Too bad; those soft drops felt right. Nurturing, replenishing.

There’s nothing like mornings outside; the humid smell of earth, the peaceful noise of things like birds calling to each other and the far off sound of children running for the bus, leaving laughter in their wake. Toss in a bit of friendly falling stuff, sun bursting through the dark clouds as though it’s won a battle to get there… and the old ‘God is in His Heaven and all is right with the world’ feeling steals through the system like a healing zephyr.

Palm trees. I’m not a huge fan. But I like this one. It doesn’t constantly shed crap that needs to be collected, for one thing. And because of its location it’s also a ready indicator of wind speed and direction.

Ah, the pineapple. Joe, another quarter of our sorry Garden club, told me that it’s starving for water. Apparently it’s in the bromeliad family. Who knew?

What would a post be without a damn duck? I haven’t seen Gladys lately; she’s most probably sitting on a nest.

I wish you a happy Wednesday and a soft drop of rain on your cheek.

This is something of a sad video and I apologize for inflicting it upon you. ‘Gun Shop’ sketch from the Richard Pryor show, 1977. Richard, aside from being a brilliant comedian, also had a way of acting that always drew me in and made me want to believe whatever story he was crafting.

Yes, I know it’s an anti-gun message. Unfortunately, firearms are primarily used to cause pain and death. To stop the opposition. Doesn’t mean they’re bad in and of themselves… or that they come to life and act independently of the user. Hardly.

Sometimes I need to remember that this is why I own guns. It’s a serious business, arming yourself to possibly take another life. But, if I or another human were in danger, I’d pull the trigger. Took me awhile to get there, actually… to come to grips with the reality, the consequences of such a serious action that once made, cannot be undone.

But there it is. I didn’t buy my Sig because it’s beautiful or even for target shooting. I bought it to protect life.

Regardless of my leaning neither to the fatalistic nor pessimistic persuasions, I’m usually at my best when things aren’t going well or I have very little. Always up for a fight. Keep calm and carry on. But when all is going well I start looking over my shoulder, sure the devil’s dogging my heels. Mustn’t live too well, shouldn’t be too happy; there are people starving in this world.

I just channeled my mother. She never said those exact words, but it was implied.

We are now courting danger – after 5 long years I just paid off the Wrangler this morning. We have no car payments. Of course instead of doing a happy dance my stomach flattened out. I look for the thing to totally disintegrate within the week… just in time for the clear title to show in the mail.

Just what the hell is that? Why am I slightly disgusted with myself for owning overpriced automobiles that I don’t need, for instance. Or should I just not care? Logically, I must have absorbed this anomalous thinking in my youth. Raised by capitalists, they were nonetheless dirt poor capitalists at times. We mainly had what we needed, not what we wanted. And it wasn’t always easy getting that.

Frankly, the thought that children today are awash in technologically advanced toys scares and annoys me. But I’m as guilty as anyone else; every time an occasion rolls around the grandkids get whatever they want. Is it wise for children to get whatever they want, even if you can afford it? Not for me to say… but maybe if they do, they won’t end up like me, wary of success, however small.

So, the upshot is, the truck is paid off and I’m a psychological mess. Huzzah!

There is a definite limit to how much fish and skinless white meat chicken I can consume before I crave red meat like a caged lioness dreaming of a fat wildebeest over a bowl of kibble. So I went out on a limb with a hamburger last night. Made with extra lean beef, the assumption was that blotting the thing with paper towels and smothering it with lettuce, tomato and a water roll would somehow absorb the fat molecules.

All that paper towel action Didn’t Work. But the sucker sure did taste good.

So this morning I had my cranky pants on, as Joanie would say. Had a minor meltdown and deleted Farmville. Then took it one step further and deleted my entire Facebook account. Neither made me feel any better.
Autumn is rising, but only in my bones. As deeply rooted as the need for red meat, I feel like getting behind the wheel and going in any direction Liz is pointed.
Obviously, I’ve been feeling sorry for myself over my wonky bits, but only off and on. Mostly off.

The Italian woman’s son has Lou Gehrig disease. That’s how it was put to us this week, right after we’d voted in the primary and stepped outside to talk to a neighbor. Another neighbor drove up to the door of the clubhouse, which also happens to be our polling place, and said “the Italian woman’s son fell and can’t get up”. We went to look, but he’d managed to rise and was making his way home, falling two more times on the way.

When we first moved to the neighborhood nine years ago he was a common sight on our sidewalks. Though it was obvious that something was wrong, he walked almost normally. Throughout the years he has deteriorated to the point where he cannot stand up straight and can barely walk; it was heart rending to watch him, his body now mostly beyond his control, tenaciously battling the disease that will kill him. Sooner than later.

There’s nothing can make your problems feel small like a man courageously fighting for his life.

Well, I’m burning daylight.

I’ve come upon many things while cleaning out the filing cabinets… and shredded most of it. Some stuff they’ll just have to toss when I’m gone, like my grade school report cards. Kindergarten and 1st grade are missing, probably lost in the move from California to Texas – but 2nd through 8th are here, carefully ensconced in these sweet blue holders, throwbacks to a simpler time.

It was painfully apparent as early as the 2nd grade that numbers and I are not boon companions. I ‘tried hard’ but there it is. Must be terribly frustrating for parents as well as teachers when a child just doesn’t ‘get it’.

The entire ‘poor Pam can’t do math’ ordeal was incredibly discouraging for me; I not only had math homework to fight my way through but tutors employed by my Mom, who only had the best intentions. It’s not easy to watch your child struggle with anything.

I still have nightmares about those sessions and the people who presided over my after-school time. Some were kind, some were as frustrated as I, others didn’t care and droned on as I wished for an afternoon snack. My stomach growled a lot during tutor meetings. It’s funny what you remember.

Mrs. Who has a post up about teachers and it covers the correlation between parents involvement with their children and the child’s performance at school. Teachers are some of the most underpaid, under-appreciated people on earth. But a parent has the first responsibility. I could read before Kindergarten because my Mom worked with me – and she and my father were always available for homework help. It matters.

I just wish someone had explained math to me a bit better. Only two people have truly helped me put numbers in perspective: hubby and Teresa of Technicalities, who told me about visual-spatial learning. There have been glimmers of light since, so thanks to both of those wonderful people.

But binary is out, Mike, my dear. I have enough trouble with the regular stuff.