Updates and such...

So, there are new things and new old things going on in my world. Some I can speak freely about, and some I would love to speak freely about if I felt right about crossing the line between sharing stuff that’s mine and stuff that really belongs to someone else.

I recently quit following a fibromyalgia blog that I had subscribed to. I also removed it on facebook. Initially, I had stumbled across the blog while in the midst of the worst of the worst flares this past year. I remember thinking, “Aha, someone who gets it! There is someone who may be able to give me some coping mechanisms to work with, someone who will understand me!”

Instead, what I realized was that I was constantly inundated with all the negative aspects of fibromyalgia. It became my sole focus in life. I started every day with a status update from her that mentioned her pain or a blog update that showed up on my newsfeed mentioning her pain. My entire world began to revolve around how badly I felt and I couldn’t dig out of the hole. It makes sense, really. If you spend all of your waking hours thinking about pain and being miserable, of course you’re going to be in pain and miserable. Now, she’s gone and I feel better. Wonder if I should tell her all of that?

Over the last few weeks I’ve begun to notice just how much I’ve alienated myself. I’ve been sequestered at home, leaving only to go to work and run an errand here and there. I haven’t talked to the few friends I have in weeks, some for even months.

So, I made the nudge and scheduled some time for me. The plan is to see a movie and have dinner with my lifelong friend Friday night. Saturday I’m getting some salon time and having my hair done. I will also try and spend some time with my mom, maybe take her to run her errands. Saturday night I’m spending much needed quality time with my husband. Sunday is family day. I’m taking my husband and my kiddos and we’re finding something fun to do together.

After being off unpaid all week last week to help my mother out while she was sick, I probably shouldn’t spend the extra little bit to indulge myself and the family. However, in my defense, the bills are paid and there’s food to eat. No one is going to do without.

The “Birth-aversary” is coming up in a few weeks. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, Don and I were married on his birthday. We use the term because it’s so much simpler than saying “Don’s birthday slash our anniversary”.  No plans yet. But, if I had my way I’d just find a quiet corner to snuggle up with him and enjoy his company for a little while. Working opposite schedules wears on me sometimes and I miss him.

I’ve had a lot of disappointments lately.  I lost my little Lola a few weeks ago. She was playing in the yard with the kids and ran out into the street. Thankfully, it was instant and she didn’t suffer. We buried her in the yard underneath a big pine tree. She would have liked that.

People that I felt secure about have made some major life changes that have slightly shaken what I thought I knew about the people in my world. It’s not me being judgmental. Far from it. It’s more like me having trouble absorbing that what I thought “was” really “isn’t”.  You can never really know enough about what someone is thinking or feeling to judge them for their choices. Wish everyone knew that. All you can do is try your best to understand their point of view and be there in whatever way you can.

So, aside from discovering I was a little lonesome for some adult company, I guess I’m actually doing much better. Little by little, I’m slowly crawling out of my hole and looking around to see what I’ve missed.

If you happen to see me give me a wave…

Shame on you Lifetouch (and the school)...My letter ('cause that's what I do..)

DISCLAIMER: This is strictly my OPINION based on my PERSONAL EXPERIENCE with Lifetouch. You make your determinations based on your own experiences, not mine. :)

Dear Lifetouch,

My son is in the 4^th grade at (deleted because I'm a smart Mama who is looking out for her kiddo). Since his first year of school when he started Pre-K five years ago, I do not have a single school photo of him.  I remember picture days as a child always being given a personal little black comb to make sure your hair was ok, and teachers and photographers making time to ensure that you were presentable prior to having a picture taken.

I emailed you about this same issue in October of 2010. I wish I had saved your response. I vaguely remember being told that it was the first year for Lifetouch to do photos at (that school) and that your photographers did everything possible to make sure photos were good. However, I did post a copy of the email I sent to you to Facebook and found overwhelming agreement regarding the quality of Lifetouch photos. I will be posting this letter on Facebook too. I will also be posting it on my blog. Again, overwhelming agreement when I mentioned it on my status update this morning.

Since Lifetouch has taken over, I have only bought a school portrait ONCE because his hair is a mess or, in the case of last year, he was wearing a hoodie over his nice shirt that I sent him to be photographed in and his hair was a mess or, because shirts are twisted, facial expressions are off, etc. The list goes on.

In fairness, I’ve bought pictures of my other children. However, they are much older and, unlike "J" (because I don't post kiddo's name on the blog), do not have special needs so they can be counted on to check their own appearance.

My question to you, in this digital age when a photo is instantly viewable after being taken, how in the world do you expect to sell portraits that look like this?

Is the ultimate goal to sell a portrait, or are you just trying to find something for budding photographers to do during the day and forking out money to pay them with no return on your investment?

Sincerely,

Well, it's not an Earthship....

So, I told you I would tell you about this picture. I had a few interesting guesses when I posted the photo on Facebook. But, in this case, fact is so much more amusing than fiction.

We spent this weekend with my in-laws in Bastrop, Louisiana. We drove an hour and a half on a little state highway, through small town southern Arkansas, where outbuildings are better tended than the mobile homes and yards that line the roads. There were stray dogs, old campers in yards, and several residences that left one to wonder if people lived there or it was, in fact, a salvage yard, before finally crossing Bayou Bartholomew into Louisiana and hitting that little gravel road. (for those of you unfamiliar with the rules of grammar, I'm pretty sure that was what you call a "run on sentence")

On day two of our trip Don and I made our way back out to the bayou to see his cousin, Alan. As we approached Alan’s driveway, we notice his neighbor’s home. My husband, the eternal optimist, begins to dance in his seat, convinced that these incredibly cool people are not just redneck Cajuns, but rather redneck Cajuns who have seen the light of the earthship movement and are building a self sustainable home. (feel free to click the linky dink to read about earthships. cool stuff!)

Surrounding this home is a beautiful piece of property. It is well maintained with a garden spot, a field with cows, a very clean chicken yard, rain cisterns and stocked fishing ponds.

It is also a fortress for a family of conspiracy theorists who believe that the US economy will collapse soon and we will find ourselves in the midst of a civil war with every man for himself.

They are also gun dealers who travel the weekly circuit across the country from gun show to gun show.

The little openings along the bottom of the sandbags are so they can lie on the ground and shoot at you as you approach their property. There are even some of those at eye level along the front of the trailer.

It’s really quite creepy if you ask me.

And funny in its own southern way.

And creepy….

And did I mention creepy?

Apple Butter at Grandma's

The last time I saw my grandmother alive was twenty one years ago. No longer the sturdy red haired woman I knew. She was now rail thin, sitting slumped on her sofa watching Young and the Restless. Her once perfectly combed hair was now twisting this way and that upon her head, briefly reminding me of one of those troll dolls with the brightly colored hair that stood on end. A stroke had left this once outspoken woman barely able to speak an intelligible word. I wept inside. 

Twenty one years ago I was eighteen. Today I am thirty nine. 

But, this morning, I was ten and she was as strong as ever and telling me stories over breakfast. I moved the buttermilk biscuits that I had generously smeared with the homemade apple butter my friend Steph gave me for Christmas to the side of my plate. I wanted to save them for last. I wanted to savor them. I wanted to remember.

I watched the melting butter run down the sides of my biscuit as I finished my eggs and sipped my coffee. Finally, I was ready. It seemed as I took the first bite that I was transported back to that little country kitchen. I felt the tingle of cinnamon as the smooth puree of apples silked its way across my tongue. I was ten. I had homemade biscuits and her homemade apple butter. I had my mug of milk, just enough coffee added to make me feel like one of the grown ups as I ate my breakfast. My legs dangled over the side of my chair swinging cheerily in response to the sunshine glittering through her lace curtains, mocking the curls of cigarette smoke that snaked through the beams of light.

I closed my eyes, recalling her voice as she told one of her tall tales. Her boisterous laugh as I ooed and ahhed at her yarns. How we were certainly related to anyone named Hayes in the encyclopedia, that Jesse James was some long lost cousin, that we were all descendants of greatness. No, we weren't always rednecks and drunkards. And, while our own lives were unremarkable, we had tales to tell of glories that were never really ours.

This morning I was ten. This morning was indescribable joy. All because someone gave me apple butter for Christmas.

I Don't Know Why I Remember ~ A writing prompt

Here are the instructions:

Writing Exercise from The Making of a Story:  A Norton Guide to Creative Writing

Goal:  To pinpoint some previously unexplored material that remains “hot” for you in some important emotional way.

What to do: 

1.       Scan back over your life and think of things that have stuck in your mind, but for no obvious reason.  (No births or deaths, or other “important” moments, please. Go for the small ones.)

2.       Render them precisely on the page using concrete details, beginning each one with the phrase, “I don’t know why I remember.”

3.       Don’t try to explain why they stuck with you, or interpret the meaning of them. Just put your reader there.

I don’t know why I remember him so clearly. I remember the deep lines set firmly around brown eyes, the whites both blood shot and jaundiced, assuring me that, most likely, any money he acquired was spent on liquor. The leathery black skin of his face was framed by the M shape of his receding hariline and the peppered gray stubble along his jaw that centered chapped lips the color of bruised plums, all together making it seem as if the rows of perfect white teeth were somehow out of place.

 Regardless of the season he wore navy blue coveralls blackened with the grime of the city streets and gooey with the stench of unwashed body and stale urine; the odor an independently tangible presence that clung to the air around him. They were of the insulated sort, the coveralls, like one might see on a mechanic. Only his face and hands were left exposed and the coveralls had zippered pockets here and there. Over his arms and legs, one on each of the upper and lower portions of his extremities, were t-shirts wrapped and tied like tourniquets with their frayed ends swaying to and fro as he moved. Their purpose was perplexing, at best, and yet one was left with the assurance that the various shirts were somehow as necessary to him as the unseasonable coveralls he insisted upon wearing.

A homeless Katrina evacuee who often sat quietly on the corner near the smoking area, watching with anticipation those who passed by in hopes they would leave the still smoldering remains of their cigarettes for him to pick up. Sometimes, from his position perched on the stoop, he would violently wave his arms in a style much like martial arts. Making those little sounds often heard from little boys playing, the expelling of air between the upper teeth and lower lip.

Pfft, pfft, pfft.

Some days, if he was lucid enough, he would gingerly approach, his jaundiced eyes averted, and mumble his desire for a whole cigarette.  Again, if lucid enough, he might even tell you his name, or that he was a Katrina evacuee, or that he was the administrator of a space station and only waiting for them to retrieve him.

It's been so long since he last held court on our little corner of the street. Other faces of other shiftless sorts, who are unable, both by choice or uncontrollable circumstance, have since come and gone. Their faces are blurred by the passing of days and years.

But his face, I remember.

I'm a grumpy old troll...

I often wonder what I would do if I didn’t have friends who understood my need to lean towards anti-social behaviors. I don’t really know why I’m such a hermit like person. Given the opportunity to socialize, I tend to thoroughly enjoy those moments, drinking them up as if I thirsted for them during the time I chose to hide. When finished, I retreat silently back into my shell, my little haven at home where I am freed from the conformities of social circumstance and obligation.

I’m left to speculate what occurrences have left me to be such a solitarian that I do not seem to react to the lack of social stimuli, regularly finding myself quite content to abstain from the typical social requirements of making phone calls, inviting others into my home, or even asking someone to go to lunch.  Instead, I ensconce myself into my reclusive world and watch as others go on with all the things they think they are required to do as “normal” human beings.

However, were you to call, I would talk to you. If you were to ask me to lunch, I would go. And, in those moments I am there, I would be most happy to share those glimpses of my time with you.

My friends, who could all be so easily offended if they were to choose that path, all seem to take my quirks in stride and patiently await my emergence from my hidey hole. They enjoy their time with me, hug me tightly when we part ways and tell me not to be a stranger, comfortable with knowing that it may be a while before we cross paths again.

I wonder sometimes what makes them ok with who I am. Perhaps, do they too posses just enough of that hermit quality to give them a sense of understanding?

At any rate, I guess it’s all neither here nor there. I just wanted to take that moment to acknowledge that you, my friends, are appreciated. To let those of you I care about know, that your patience and loyalty don’t go unrecognized.

Much love,

SD

A Girl With Public Restroom Issues...

They did it! They finally installed those fancy toilet seat cover dispenser things at work.

Yeah, laugh if you want. You’ve obviously never seen me stress over how to get in and out of a public restroom without touching anything. It’s an absolutely ridiculous process. I know this.  Problem is, I just can’t stop myself from going through all the silly machinations I’ve created to get in and out of a public restroom without picking up any more foreign bacteria than absolutely necessary.

It would probably help if I didn’t read every single “dirtiest parts of public restrooms” article I come across. You know what I’ve learned from reading those articles in addition to all my self- acquired knowledge? Well, I’m gonna tell ya…

1.       Lady’s restrooms are much dirtier than men’s restrooms. It still baffles me that an adult female can find a way to pee on the BACK of a toilet seat and on the FLOOR! Seriously? How hard is it to aim for the center as you hover over the seat? It’s not like you’re trying to pee through a straw. It’s a big frickin’ hole!

2.       Those air dryer things are NOT more sanitary than good ole’ fashioned paper towels. The air dryer things simply re-circulate bacteria laden air, heat it, and then blow it back onto your hands and in your face.

3.       If you choose to touch the paper towel lever, the counter, the doorknob, or anything else after applying soap to your hands…you’ve completely negated the fact that you just washed your hands. Do you have any idea how many people use a public restroom and then leave without washing their hands at all? I hope you like having germs from their nether regions on your hands. Additionally, I hope you’re not a nail biter, or a thumb sucker, or….Yeah, ick…huh?

4.       For a public restroom with no trashcan by the door, and likewise a door that opens in instead of out – you can expect one of two things from me. I am either going to a) carry the paper towel out of the restroom and try to find another trash can to put it in.  Or, I will b) open the door using my paper towel and attempt to throw said paper towel into the trash can on the other side of the room. If I miss that’s too bad. This is one of my very rare “trashy” behaviors but I will not sacrifice my need for sanitation for your lack of it and it is, generally, something I only do in a restaurant. There’s something disgusting about taking a dirty paper towel back to a table where I’m eating. Agreed?

Flash forward....

I actually started this post on Friday of last week. I didn’t have time to finish it at lunch and just figured it would have to wait until I came back on Tuesday. Well, it’s Friday again and I’m just now finishing it.

Why? Well, because my very worst public restroom nightmare came true on Tuesday. I was sitting at my desk Tuesday morning and was suddenly overwhelmed by nausea. The knot in my belly, the room spinning, and the lump in my throat, all were screaming that the plumbing between my stomach and my esophagus were about to start running in reverse. I tried closing my eyes and breathing deep, all the while reciting to myself that it would go away. I simply was not going to get sick at work.

Suddenly, the amount of saliva I was producing multiplied ten-fold. The metallic taste that always forewarns the calling of Ralph reared its ugly head. I could almost hear the maniacal laughter mocking me from within my little brain.

Oh no! I simply cannot do this! I can’t even pee in a public restroom without a panic attack. How am I going to hover my face over a public toilet to vomit?

 I panicked. I nearly cried. I debated how fast I could get from the fourth floor to the first floor and into the back alley without leaving my breakfast on the floor somewhere in between. I wondered at the probability that I could puke in the trashcan at my desk, in an office cubicle environment, without anyone knowing what I was doing. Then, I ran. I nearly took out a woman coming the opposite way around the corner as I made a mad dash for the women’s restroom while muttering out loud, “Don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything.”

I barely had time to close the stall door before losing everything and, when I finally regained my composure, I had no recollection of whether or not I did, indeed, touch anything. As a precautionary measure, I made my way to the sink, took note of the lovely shade of green tint my face had taken on, and proceeded to wash both face and hands. Then, I realized I didn’t even bother to use one of the new fancy toilet seat cover thingies.

I made it home, thanks to my mother, and slept the rest of the day and on to the next morning.

Wednesday morning, I got up, forced myself into clothes, went to work and repeated the entire series of events from Tuesday morning. This time, I drove myself home and stopped once on the side of the interstate. Again, I went home and slept.

By yesterday morning, Thursday, I was so traumatized from the two preceding day’s events, that I just rolled over and went back to sleep after the alarm went off. I was NOT going to put myself through that again.

I guess the bonus is that, twice, I hovered my face over a public toilet to vomit without the benefit of fancy toilet seat cover thingies, and I’m not dead and the world hasn’t ended.

However, that may have something to do with the fact that I choose to remain in complete denial regarding those events.

Please don’t tell me any different.

Woot!

Oh, Lord have mercy! I am happy dancin’ all over the dang place. I know ya’ll remember that Why I Don’t Sleep At Night post I did a while back.

After tomorrow, no more elbows in my back, no more husband who creates his own heat wave in his sleep heating up my space.

No more!

No more!

No more!

Now wait a minute! Don’t jump the gun.

I ain’t gettin’ a divorce. That’s what Tammy Wynette does….

What am I getting?

I’m getting a KING SIZED BED!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you to my awesomest BFF, Sheryl.

Ok. Sorry. I’m a little excited.

I’ll go take a valium and sleep it off.

IN MY FRICKIN’ KING SIZED BED BABY!

Um…yeah….still too excited….valium…right.  I’m on it….

Wednesday's Musings or Finding Myself?

Things I’m thinking today:

Women who wear 3 inch heels and can’t walk in them are really amusing. I enjoy watching their careful steps as their ankles wobble and the heels of their feet slide sideways off the backs of their shoes. For the sake of not sounding sexist, I will also say that I find men who wear 3 inch heels and can’t walk in them equally amusing.

Sometimes, something as simple as a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast makes me really, really happy. Of course, I love peanut butter. I’ve been known to dip a spoonful right out of the jar and sit down and eat it in front of the TV.

I find it really frustrating when I can’t figure out the next direction to go with my book. I have a beginning and I have an end result. The middle is really stressing me though. I like instant gratification so I find it difficult to weave through all the places between point A and point B. It’s a good thing I’m not making a living off this, huh?

People who say they’re all about their kids when they really aren’t completely piss me off. If your kids were first, you wouldn’t be dumping them off for someone else to deal with while you go out and party several times a week. You also wouldn’t be exposing them to thieves, drunks, and drug addicts on a regular basis. Get a clue. If you need help finding a clue, come see me. I’ll give you one…. Or ten…

For a few weeks now, I’ve been tossing around the idea of a Facebook page for Sapphire Dragonflies; one separate from my personal Facebook. However, after almost four years, I sometimes find myself thinking I’m totally over Facebook and not sure I want to keep up with more than one page.

I am never randomly violent. However, this morning I found myself walking behind a woman who, for a reason that escapes me, I found myself wanting to punch in the back of the head. I felt like I would take great satisfaction in beating the crap out of her. Am I the only one who thinks like this at times?

Based on the first paragraph, the third paragraph, and the previous two paragraphs, in which I mentioned five times that “I found myself” doing something, one would think I spend a lot of time “finding myself”. Interesting, since I’m one of the most totally lost people I know. Some days I wonder if I might hurt myself trying to decide which end of the toothbrush to put the toothpaste on. Really...

A Goat Named Lucy(fer)

As many of you know, I milk goats and feed chickens for the neighbors when they’re out of town. Usually, it goes without incident and I have the option of keeping the day’s milk and eggs for my trouble. Lately though, I’ve chosen not to keep the spoils—but that’s not really the point here.

Lucy used to be the easy one. She likes to eat. That means she doesn’t have a problem in the world with hopping up on that stanchion to be milked. Until this weekend when she was suddenly overtaken by whatever demons overtake milk goats when they don’t want to be milked.

I had tethered Carmella and she was patiently waiting for Lucy to cooperate so that she too could be milked and have an opportunity to eat. But Lucy had other plans.

It took half an hour to finally lure Lucy up onto the stanchion and she continued to be a pain in my nether regions. Three times she kicked the milk pail over and I had to start over again. Finally, I decided to tether her foot so she couldn’t kick. Her response? She managed to get her head out of the stanchion and just jumped down, kicking the milk pail into my lap on her way down.

I was so frustrated at this point that I took away her food and just put her out into the other gated area. I figured if she wanted to be that way, she just wouldn’t get grain for that morning. Don’t milk? Then you don’t get grain. She was left to graze for the day.

Carmella was my ever cooperative sweetheart, as usual. She hopped up there on her own, let me lock her in, and stayed completely still for the duration of the milking. I didn’t tether her foot because she’s so good about standing there without incident. I was almost done, with a full pail of milk, when a possessed chicken decided to jump up into Carmella’s face and scare her half to death. The result? She kicked her foot and it landed square in the milk pail. Another batch of milk that I had to pour out on the ground.

And that was just Saturday. Sunday was worse. Way worse.

This time, they were both acting weird. It took me ten minutes in awful heat and humidity to catch Carmella so that I could even attempt to worry about Lucy. (Thank goodness all the goats wear collars or I never would have caught her.)

So, there’s Carmella, tethered and patiently waiting for Lucy to cooperate (again) so that she could have her turn for milking and eating. But Lucy was seriously not going to be caught this time. After forty-five minutes of attempting to lure with food, begging, pleading, praying, crying, sighing, nearly giving up, and then crying again, we were at a stand-off. She stood there looking at me, challenging me, and laughing at me while waterfalls of sweat and tears rolled off my body.

Then, I hear the gate at the far end of the yard squeak open and turn to see my super hero husband headed down to check on me. He came in the yard to help. It took us another 20 minutes to catch the demon goat and then she still wouldn’t get on the stanchion. It finally took Don picking her up and putting her on there for me. Then he held her leg so she couldn’t kick or get down and I got a full pail of milk.

On to Carmella. The easy one. Right?

Not this day. She wasn’t getting up there either. In fact, when I led her to the stanchion, she just completely buckled her legs and tried to go to the ground. Again, Don just picked up the darn goat and put her up there so I could milk. Full pail. No problems. But, she wouldn’t eat. She just stood there completely traumatized while I handled my business…err….her business….or….Well, you know….the business at hand.

Now I hate goats. Now I’m not sure I want to be a good neighbor anymore and tend the animals while they’re out of town.

Goats are evil and I think I understand why some people eat them.
But, I'm sure I'll milk them again. Because I really don't hate them. They just hurt my feelings for a minute.

Remembering High School...

High school was strange for me. My recollections are surreal. Like maybe, it might be something that actually happened, but I can’t be too sure. I think of the sights, the sounds, and my distorted view of the world at the time and I wonder if MY reality was actually THE reality.

The high school I attended was smallish. My graduating class was 101 students. Most of us weren’t overly cliquish. Sure, we all had our regular group we kept company with, but, except for one or two, I don’t recall bullies or people who acted like they were too good to talk to you. For the most part, you were you and they were them, and that was okay.

We had kids whose families had money and kids whose families didn’t. We had headbangers, stoners, nerds, jocks, cheerleaders and kids who were just trying to get by. But, overall they didn’t give one another a hard time. In fact, I recall seeing more meanness in the local Baptist church than I ever saw at school, and those church kids were downright ugly and bordered on cruel. But, that’s another story entirely and this post ain’t about church.

But now, thinking on it, I remember kids who were different, kids who didn’t seem to have as much of a crowd as the rest of us, kids who seemed to keep to themselves. Maybe I don’t recall the teasing because I wasn’t a part of it. I wasn’t on the giving end and I wasn’t on the receiving end. I question my perception of the reality I chose to see at the time.

Is that just my ability to go back and look at it with adult eyes, rather than the eyes of an idealistic and naïve teenager? Because it didn’t happen to me, does that mean it didn’t happen? Are there some out there who now look back and think of hell on earth when they think of high school?

I don’t know why all this suddenly seems to matter now or why I suddenly chose to think on it. I can’t change it. I can’t fix it. Besides, I’m not even really sure what version of “it” is even real. Maybe it’s wondering what mark I left on the world back then, or if I made any mark at all.

Holy Cow!!!

Do you ever have one of those really awesome and unexpected things happen that just make you so excited you could dang near pee your pants? I had one of them this morning.

In high school I had a friend. He was my favorite person to talk to and he always made me laugh. He has the best laugh I’ve ever heard. I told him pretty much everything. He laughed with me and at me when I needed it. He told me I was acting stupid when I needed it. He commiserated with me when I needed it. He ticked my mom off when he wrote a raunchy poem in my yearbook. *snicker* (I thought it was funny) I remember she’d frown at me when he called and then I’d roll my eyes as I took the phone.

And then, this morning, I log in to my email to find a message from him! I look like the cat that ate the canary. Or maybe it’s the Cheshire cat, or some other kind of weird widely grinning feline, I don’t know. I was so excited to hear from him after all these years that I couldn’t form an intelligent response to his message. I must have sounded like one of those silly prattling teenage girls gushing all over the place. Seriously, I started the message with, “OMG! OMG! OMG!” I should have finished with, “Like totally, wow!”

You know what else? Dude has read the blog! *waves at S*

So like, I’m gonna take a deep breath here, and be all mature and stuff, you know?

I missed you! Thanks for taking the time to look me up. Thank you, Google. *smiles*

Note: Sorry HS pals. I ain't telling who he is. You know, respecting privacy and stuff.

Asperger's it is....

I'm sharing pictures today. Pictures of my baby. My baby who was diagnosed with Asperger's recently. I've blogged about this before -- here

It doesn't really mean anything to me. Not in the way you'd think it would. I'm not sad, or disappointed, or even angry. I'm relieved.

I always knew he was different. Even as a newborn he was different than any other baby I'd ever encountered. He didn't cry. Not often anyway. When he did, it was because he wanted to be left alone. I'd put him in his crib and he'd lay there for an hour or two, just cooing and gurgling at his

mobil.

It doesn't mean anything because it doesn't change anything. He is who  he's always been. He just has a new label. A label, by the way, that doesn't define him.

Just like he always has, he will be sad sometimes because his peers don't understand him. They don't understand when he misses important social cues -- like facial expressions, body language, sarcasm, or teasing that's taken literally, even when it's just typical kid fun.

He will still get excited about his accomplishments. He will still laugh and play and be silly. He will still make me laugh like no one else can.

He will still get angry when people don't understand what he's trying to communicate. Because he sometimes has difficulty finding the right words and using them appropriately. Because sometimes he doesn't have words for how he's feeling.

He will still need to hide from the world when he can't process what's going on around him. When people are angry, or the environment is disorganized. Just a short break to regroup and identify his emotions. Then he'll still come back and try again.

He will still make silly faces when I want him to smile at the camera. He will still be my sunshine. He will still hug me and tell me I'm the best mom in the whole world. 

Nothing has changed. Our world is still the same as it's always been. He's my baby. And that, is all that really matters.

Writers Block

I want to blog.

Every day that goes by I want to post. But I don’t. No matter how hard I try, the words won’t come. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve composed two or three sentences, made my way to the computer, and suddenly found my mind completely blank.

It hurts. It rakes at my soul. It laughs at me.

There’s all this stuff inside my brain, stuff that’s entirely unique to me, stuff that makes me who I am, and I can’t get it out. It’s stuck. I close my eyes and see words, hear the jumbled whispers of my thoughts, and when I try to express them, like a playful puppy daring you to catch it they evade me at the last minute.

So I sit and think in my black hole of nothing-- too frustrated and tired to even attempt to find the door out and wonder what to do next. Wanting so badly to blog about all the things going on in my life. Raising kids, J being tested for Autism tomorrow, annoyances about family, how I'm coping with health issues about family, health issues about me, why I don't want to be in my house anymore, why I think I need a new job, etc.

But I'm blank. I've got nothing to give. I'm chasing words that continue to elude me.

As writers, do you ever experience this? Do you ever find your thought process so disorganized that you can’t pinpoint a cognitive thought to put on paper? What do you do when this happens?

Skittles

I’ve stopped writing.

I have a new camera and I’m not taking pictures.

I’m not knitting or crocheting.

I don’t leave my room when I’m at home.

I leave my home only to a) go to the doctor, b) go to the grocery store c) go to my mom’s for a bit d) go to work.

I don’t call friends and family.

Cooking has become a chore rather than something I enjoy.

I don’t remember the last time I read a book.

I did the unthinkable Tuesday and went to see a therapist.

I avoid making plans with people.

I’m sitting in bed, legs folded “criss cross applesauce”. I’m ready for sleep, wearing my standard tank top and a little pair of athletic shorts. I love those shorts. The little grey ones, super short, loose fitting and made out of the same fabric as a sweatshirt. You girls know what I’m talking about. You probably have some too, and if you do I know you love them as much as I do.

The evening is winding down, kids are going to bed, Don is in the shower and Lola is trying to nip at my toes because she wants to play.

In my hand rests a daily dose of what I call “Skittles”. Except they’re not little fruity bites of sugar, they’re my meds. Every night before I go to bed there’s a palm full of pills and an injection. Anti-inflammatories,  a little something to help me sleep, a muscle relaxer so I don’t cramp up, three for the diabetes, and a couple more for things I don’t want to talk about.

I’m sitting there looking at my Skittles and thinking about the fact that I finally decided to see a therapist the other day. Of course, she recommends an anti depressant. Suddenly the tears threatened to spill over and I was just….. well….. pissed.

Why was I so darn mad? It was because despite the fortune I spend on prescriptions every month, despite the small pharmacy I ingest every day, I was still sitting there in terrible pain and I already knew the likelihood that I would be awake repeatedly throughout the night, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.

As I started taking the meds, I came to the one I always hate to take; the frickin’ horse pill that usually manages to stick in my throat and leave me thinking, “How’s that for ‘tasting the rainbow’? Thanks Skittles.” Then I took it and, of course, it stuck.

I gave myself my daily injection, hit a small vein and groaned because I knew that was another bruise to go with the map of little purple islands on my belly. Connect the dots anyone?

At that point I realized Don was getting out of the shower so, I cleaned up my face and adjusted my expression so he wouldn’t see that I’d had a brief breakdown and a small pity party. He has enough to worry about. He doesn’t need to know that I’m falling apart too.

It’s funny to me that he doesn’t notice but, at the same time, it doesn’t hurt my feelings that he doesn’t.  He does so much already that I’ve convinced myself that I’m somehow protecting him by not letting him help me.

He climbed into bed next to me, and in his usual fashion, very slowly attempts to cuddle, making sure he’s not hurting me.

Maybe he knows more than I give him credit for. Maybe he feels as helpless as I do to fix it.

What’s next?

I don’t know. But, it can’t be more of “this”.

For now, I’ll just commit myself to seeing the therapist weekly.

Baby steps.

That’s the best I can come up with.

Hiatus....

I'm taking a break.

Just didn't want you all to think I'd given up on the blog. I'm currently caught up in a huge fibromyalgia flare and I just can't seem to shake it. It's been going strong for about two weeks.

Sitting creates pain. Pain makes it difficult to think. Inability to think is inability to write.

In the meantime, I'll keep jotting down ideas as I can and when I'm able to post again you'll be the first to know.

I do want to share though that I finally got a new camera, so expect to be seeing pics on the blog again. Good pics. Not crappy cell phone pics. This makes me very happy.

I'll catch up soon. I have a date with a muscle relaxer and an anti-infammatory....

I'm afraid to ask.....

So, what do the things in this picture have in common?



They all came out of J's pockets in the laundry.

Usually, I just get rocks left in the washer from J's pockets. But this, I find disturbing.

Someone please explain the significance of a frog, an exam glove, a ribbon, a cupcake pick, and two small pieces of what I believe to be laffy taffy.

What can a nine year old do with all of these items together?

Why does a nine year old need an exam glove?

Where does a nine year old get an exam glove?

Do I really want the answers to these questions?

A guest post by Princess Lola McFluffy

My name is Princess Lola McFluffy. But, you can call me “Her most amazing, cute, and smart Highness, Princess Lola McFluffy”.

You WISH you were as cute as I am. But, you’re not, and you can’t be. Please don’t hurt yourself trying.

Honestly, my name should be Queen Lola McFluffy, but I let Mommy have the Queen moniker. It makes her feel better about herself. When Mommy feels good about herself it makes her pamper me a little extra. But, (whispers) don’t tell her that. We don’t want to hurt her feelings.

There’s another dog that lives in our house. She’s Daddy’s dog. No one calls her “queen” or “princess” of anything though. In fact, Mommy and I call Sky an old hag. This is Sky.

She’s alright, I guess. She’s old and grumpy though, and not NEAR as cute as I am. And, since I don’t roll on dead animals, Mommy lets me on the bed and tells Sky to go away because she stinks.

REALLY Sky should try a little harder to impress Mommy. She isn’t really that bright, so it’s not much trouble to impress her.

For instance, when Mommy wasn’t looking, I decided to play in some of her extra special and extra expensive yarn. I picked a really good one so she would be extra impressed. I knit myself a sweater, see?

At first, I wasn’t sure Mommy WAS impressed. She made a REALLY scary face and she screamed. But then, she decided it was so funny that she had to show the neighbors how amazing I am.

Really, how many princess dogs do YOU know that can knit a sweater?

Hmph, that’s what I thought.

After that, Mommy put me down in the neighbor’s yard so I could play with their Great Pyrenees puppy. Her name is Yaffa. Mommy doesn’t have a picture of her though. I REALLY should teach Yaffa how to pose for the camera.

Have you ever SEEN a Great Pyrenees puppy? This crazy dog is only 3 months old and she’s already the size of a beagle. Without a second thought to how gorgeous my silky white fur is, or the fact that I only weigh 2 ½ pounds, do you know what that crazy dog did? She pushed me down in the mud!

And Mommy, well, she had the nerve to laugh. I thought, “Well, I’ll show her not to laugh at me.” Then, I rolled, and rolled, and rolled in the mud.  

Just between you and me, it was SO much fun! I think though, if Mommy knew I thought that she would never let me down in the yard again. So, let’s just keep that one quiet so I can store it in my arsenal for later use.

But, I’m so cute that even covered in mud I was STILL the cutest dog ever! See? This is right before Mommy gave me a bath.

It’s all in the eyes you know. See how I did that? Those sad little black orbs – hold them just right, give a little quiver and a whine, and you’ll have Mommy in the palm of your paw.

Hmm, I see it’s almost time for my pedicure. I believe I heard Mommy say she was going to use pink polish to match my bow. I’ve almost got her talked into buying me this gorgeous sundress I spotted at the doggie boutique. But every time we mention it Daddy rolls his eyes and says it’s ridiculous to spend $9.99 on a dress for a dog.

I’ll have to groom his beard again tonight and remind him of how cute and deserving The Princess is.

Toodles….

My Obvious vs. His Oblivious/I’m a Brat

I really didn’t want to go fishing.

Don’t get me wrong. I like to fish. I just didn’t want to go yesterday. Which is why I also suggested a walk or going to the park, all while secretly hoping he’d ignore the fact that I said fishing. But, he’s oblivious to what I think should be obvious.

Besides, I was moody.

And irritable.

And tired.

But, I wanted to get out of the house, and I wanted to get out of the house with my husband. How do you do that? You say the magic word.

Fishing

For once, in all the time I’ve known this man, he was the first one ready to walk out the door. Probably because he didn’t have to fix his hair.

And me? Well, I was still moody. And irritable. And tired.

On the way to the truck one of those annoying child people that live in my house informed me that I would have to use the crappie pole – the fourteen foot long monstrosity with the reel that won’t lock.

So, I pouted.

“Why are you such a grumpy pants?” he said.

“You’re clueless,” I said.

“I’m doing what you wanted me to do. I’m out of the house.”

“Can we just go, please?”

He rolled his eyes at me. I folded my arms and stared out the window. I sighed…. Loudly.

Fishing spot number one was too crowded.

Fishing spot number two was too windy. Never mind the freak show out on the dock. Some twenty something couple who were half making out, half doing some weird sensual couple yoga in front of my nine year old.

 Weirdos.

Fishing spot number three was deserted, shady, and totally non windy. I had nothing to complain about. So, I kept my mouth shut and let him fish.

That’s when I saw this:

Isn’t that awesome? Unfortunately, all I had was my camera phone. I sooo wanted a quality picture of this little guy.

Suddenly, because I could chase dragonflies, fishing wasn’t such a bad idea. So, I took the crappy crappie pole back to the truck.

Then, he assumed I was done and he packed up and came back to the truck while I was posting my dragonfly find to my facebook page.

Then he just drove around. Going nowhere. You know, one of those let’s see where this road ends up kind of things?

And, I was happy.

And not tired.

Or moody.

Or even irritable.

It was a good day.