I have nothing to say...

I apologized to a friend today. Perhaps I didn’t need to. Perhaps I did.

But, it’s this little act, and my friend’s response to it, that seems to be breaking my silence.

I haven’t blogged this week. Not really anyway. I’m experiencing one of those rare times in my life when I actually feel as though I have nothing to say. What multitude of explanations I could give to this phenomenon…

Anyone ever watch the Muppets? Phenomenon…makes me think of those odd little creatures that sing “Mahna Mahna, Doo Doo Doo Doo-Doo”… “Phenomenon, Doo Doo Doo Doo-Doo”…

Uh, Yeah…back on topic.

*taps fingers* Not blogging, speechless, multitudes of explanation….

My ability to put brain to fingers to keyboard seems to be occluded by stress, frustration, illness and exhaustion. The latter three, I’m sure, are most likely being fueled by the stress.  I spend a majority of my time hobbling around in a fog. I walk into rooms and forget why I’m there.  I begin a task and can’t remember what goal I was seeking to accomplish. I put a package of hot dog buns in the grocery cart, head for the hot dogs, and walk right past them to get my other groceries, while never giving the hot dogs a second thought until I get home and realize I don’t have them.

I’ve fallen three times in the past week – two of them while at work. I’m avoiding stairs and …. stares.

I’m watching the calendar expectantly, as if it will make my neurology appointment come faster.

I’m fielding questions from peers.

Questions asked out of nosiness rather than concern.

I wonder why then, me being aware of their intent, I initially felt as though I must explain when they were brazen enough to inquire. My first impulse was to answer their rudeness with rudeness of my own, “It’s none of your damn business!”

Instead, I just sigh and say, “I’ll be fine.” When most people ask what’s going on with you they really don’t want the answer anyway.

Besides, how do you explain feeling as though your body is turning against you? How do you explain something you don’t understand yourself? Clearly, I haven’t figured this out yet, as those I do try to explain it to just look confused.

My body rebels, and me, who has always been a fighter, can’t do anything but sit here and take it; all the while wishing someone could put all the pieces together and come up with an answer.

Every year there is a new diagnosis, a new autoimmune response, to add to the list of ones I already have, and it seems no one but me sees that there must be some common denominator that isn’t being factored into the equation.  How else do you, over the course of time, find yourself diagnosed with seven different autoimmune disorders?

One or two? Sure, no problem. But seven? Seriously? Seven different, and completely unrelated, disorders that cause my body to turn against itself and attack healthy tissue?

I’m not buying it. Not for a minute.

And I’m mad.

Not just a little mad. I’m really stinking angry.

I’m really stinking angry and I’m too tired to do anything about it. I want to kick something but I’m afraid if I lift my foot off the floor to try it that I’m gonna fall flat on my face. Because now, the newest thing to turn on me is my legs.

There’s nothing so humbling as being angry and not having a way to direct it outward.

I’m stuck.

I have no sense of direction.

I’m angry.

And, for someone who felt they had nothing to say, I think I may have said too much today….

How you know you're from Arkansas...

I’ve cracked a few jokes about Arkansas this week, so I thought it would be appropriate to pose the following question to my fellow Arkansans on Facebook, and then post their responses.

--for my fellow AR friends, comment on this post with a statement that answers the question, "How do you know you're from AR?" I'll use your statements, and a few of my own, for my blog post tomorrow. :)

Here are their responses:

From Jana:

You know when you’re from AR when you know of, or have eaten, Poke Salad.

Have any of you non-Arkansas folks ever had this little bit of southern goodness? Poke is a leafy green plant that grows wild. It’s not salad, as in Hidden Valley and croutons; it’s cooked down like you would collard or turnip greens. We just choose to call it salad. It’s a southern thing. Don’t ask.

Also, from Jana:

When you can step outside and get soaking wet when it’s not raining!! Really, you need to be donning scuba gear before you step outside because the humidity is sooo thick you can actually see the water hanging in the air!!

Arkansas summers are crazy. Seriously, 100% humidity! Sometimes the air is so thick you can hardly breathe. We actually pray in August that it DOESN’T rain! Rain in August only makes it hotter. You can see the steam rising off the pavement. No kidding!!

Two from Jenifer:

 You know you are from Arkansas when you’ve had to switch from heat to air conditioning in the same day!!

Ain’t that the truth! I’ve done that three times already this week. It’ll be forty five degrees in the morning and eighty degrees at lunch. Craziest darn thing I’ve ever seen.

You know you are from Arkansas if you have ever driven home with a lawn mower tied to the top of your car to get the grass cut...

Ok, so I’ve never done this. Well, not exactly anyway. I have had a lawnmower in the backseat of my car and in my trunk. I have also driven a not so close neighbor’s riding mower down the road to my house.

From Cindy:

When you have to tie a rock to the leg of small children to keep the mosquitoes from carrying them off.

Hee hee, she said mosquitos. She must not be from AR. Round here everyone knows they’re skeeters.And them bugs that look like giant skeeters? Thems skeeter hawks. You don’t kill those. They eat skeeters.

Brianna:

I car pool with this chick every day. She has some of the best one liners and she only utters them when I’m driving, so I can’t write them down. Course, the morning trip she drives, and I’ve often question the safety of that. She’s a little slow in the morning. Really Bri…you should have coffee before you leave the house. Just sayin’.

You know you're from Arkansas when "Bubba" is your uncle, brother, cousin, and neighbor all at once.

Yep. There’s so many Bubbas around here I think they should all be assigned a number. Bubba 1, Bubba 2, Bubba 3, Bubba 1,657,984….  There are also grown men called Biscuit and Twinkie. It’s just odd….

All this inspired the following conversation.

From my momma:

if your front porch falls in and more than 3 dogs die.

I think I actually know people this has happened to.

From me:

If a fellow Arkansan is elected president and they choose to commemorate the event with a library that looks like a mobile home!

Thanks Bill

If the headline of your personal ad says, "Must have teeth"

To which my momma said:

must have teeth and must brush them!

This was actually one of my dating pre-requisites. Followed by must have at least one car that runs and must have job.

From Regina:

You know you're from Arkansas when you see a man wear overalls to church and you just grin b/c it's your father-in-law.

Arkansas has a large number of men whose entire wardrobe actually consists of 4 pair of overalls, 1 pair of Carhardt coveralls, one pair of cowboy boots, a pair of work boots, six flannel shirts and a camouflage ball cap.

Then, my sister in law chimed in. You have to forgive her, she’s from Texas and can’t follow the rules. That conversation proceeded as follows:

Amanda:

WOW!!!!!!! im so glad im from TEXAS.

Me:

Have mercy! Don't get me started on TEXAS!!

Amanda:

Ok now there is nothing wrong with Texas. Dont get me wrong i love it here and wouldnt move back for a million dollars

Mom:

Ya know why Oklahoma is so windy??? Cuz Kansas blows and Texas sucks!

Lol That shut the sister in law up. Sorry Amanda, you know I love you.

Kathleen:

You know you're from Arkansas if you know what "Toad Suck" means.

Andrew:

You know you’re from Arkansas when your cousins are also your stepsisters (true story by the way my step-mom was once my aunt and her and my uncle had a few kids together)

Really darlin’, you shouldn’t advertise this. But, if it makes you feel any better I have cousins whose sister is also their Aunt which makes some of their cousins also their nieces and nephews. Kinda bizarre and hard to explain. But that’s them…

Chicken on a stick and Toadsuck

I love spring and summer in Arkansas. Like most states, Arkansas has dozens of wonderful festivals. We have a watermelon festival, daffodil festivals, they used to have a pickle one in Atkins, there’s Wildflower Weekend in West Fork, and the list goes on.

My favorite though, is one in Conway called Toadsuck Daze. Yeah, you read that right. Toadsuck….

If you want to know more about Toadsuck – like how it got its name, for example, click here.

Maybe it’s just the name, maybe it’s watching the joy on kid’s faces as they participate in the Toad Races, or watching the video of the Stuck on a Truck competition. It could also be the crafts, the rides or the music.

Nah…forget all of that. It’s chicken on a stick.

Every year I make my way to this festival for one reason. I must have chicken on a stick and a funnel cake.

Now, you must be wondering, why this festival? Lots of festivals have chicken on a stick and funnel cakes. That’s true, but where else can I take my toadally awesome fried goodies and make my trek down to the Toad Dome to watch the kiddies race toads while a Toadmaster officiates? Where else can I stand in a place called Toadsuck Square and listen to live bands play? Where else can I shop at a place called The Toad Store?

Ok, back to chicken on a stick…

I love chicken on a stick. You gotta be careful though and find the right vendor. Not all chicken on a stick is created equal.

Some chicken on a stick is just that….

Chicken…

On a stick….

But other chicken on a stick?

It’s marinated chicken, onions, potatoes, and pickles skewered on a stick, dipped in batter and deep fried to golden greasy yumminess.

I keep telling myself that one day I’ll figure out how to make this stuff so I’ll never again have to brave the crowds and traffic to pay 6 dollars for five tiny bites of chicken on a stick that I’m limited to experiencing once a year.

I’m sure there should have been commas in that sentence, but it hurt my head to try and figure it out.

Chicken on a stick…. 

And now I've lost my train of thought.

Because I lost my cell phone.

Which, after 15 minutes, I finally found sitting on top of the files inside the file cabinet.

Which was probably Karma for yesterday's post.

Filing for dummies (and Nurses too)....Yeah, that's the book I'll write....

I am utilizing my lunch break to gather my thoughts today. Unfortunately, for those of you reading my blog, that equals a rant. A somewhat humorous rant, but it’s a rant just the same.

I work in an office where medical claims are reviewed and processed by registered nurses. I am the assistant to the Nurse Supervisor and provide clerical support to the remaining nurses. Today, in an effort to keep my eyes off the computer screen for a bit, I assigned myself the daunting task of thinning and purging our files.

It should be simple really. The filing system is not complicated.

Let’s say you have a file for ABC Medical Group that you’ve reviewed and made a decision on. You would take that file, locate the drawer labeled “A”, locate the first expandable folder in that drawer, also labeled “A” and labeled 2011, because that’s the year we’re in, and you would place your claim in the front of that first folder. It doesn’t even have to be alphabetized within the A’s, it just has to be in the A folder with newest claims first. How hard is that?

Anyway, the result is, I should be able to open up the file drawer labeled “A”, go to the back of the files and pull out everything for the year 2009 by removing a single folder.

This didn’t work today. Their method of filing this year has been “Pick A Folder, Any Folder Labeled A and Stick It In There”. Now I’m mad and I swear after a moment resembling Linda Blair in The Exorcist, spinning head and all, I think I shot laser beams from my eyes.

After lunch I’m going to attempt to shoot fireballs from my fingertips.

I’ll let you know how that goes.

How ‘bout this one? Let’s say they want me to locate a folder for The ABC Medical Group. I should still be able to locate it in “A”. But no, not with these college educated girls. You know where I’ll find that one? It will be filed under “T” for THE!

Or, what about….

Yesterday, I walked into the office to find five women scrambling around their desks in complete panic. It looked something like a scene from Chicken Little, except they were women in heels and not chickens.

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

You know what the problem was? The IT people changed Office Communicator to something called Lync, and when they logged on a box popped up on their computer screen offering to give them a tutorial for the new program.

“Oh no! Erica, what is this? Have you seen this? Is this supposed to be here? What should I do? Is this a ‘security incident’? Should I report it?”

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?

I wanted to tell them to step back, as their computer screen would self destruct in five seconds. They probably would have believed me.

But that would be wrong.

Except I really would have enjoyed the chaos that followed…

And one of them would probably have pulled the fire alarm and evacuated the building…

And then a bunch of red neck Arkansans would have been featured on the national news and portrayed for the dumb hillbillies the rest of the country already thinks we are.

(Have you seen the Clinton Library? Even Jay Leno and David Letterman have had a good golly time referencing that big trailer in the sky.)

Someone please tell me how people like these ladies get a college degree? Is this why they’re “paper nurses” and not “clinical nurses”?

Am I supposed to be amused and not annoyed?

Is filing really that difficult?

Do you think Chicken Little is offended by the comparison?

I saw the first dragonfly this weekend...

I was sitting on the front porch Saturday afternoon, talking to my dad and soaking up some much needed vitamin D, while Lola playfully nipped at my toes. J was inside watching a movie, Jr. was with his momma and Don was still working out of town.

I love my conversations with my dad. We had just finished talking about him moving closer to us, which thrilled me, and had moved on to discuss my Aunt K and how we wished my cousin Jamie (her son)  could get his life together.

Some insect was buzzing around my head and it wasn’t until it finally settled in front of me that I realized it was a baby dragonfly. It was tiny, no more than two inches in length, one of those plain little black ones with the yellowish specks. I was excited to see it. It was after all, the first indication of spring for me. We sat there, that little dragonfly and me, and looked at each other until Dad and I wrapped up our conversation, then I bid it farewell and headed into the house.

I piddled around the house a little, checked out facebook and went to find my phone so I could make a call. I noticed a missed call from my dad. I thought it odd that he would call right back. We talk only a couple times a month, as neither of us likes to spend much time sitting around chatting. But, I called him back, just the same.

“Your Aunt K called right after I got off the phone with you,” he said. “Jamie is gone.” Then he proceeded to explain what had happened. It hasn’t even been a year since she lost her husband.

It’s not my story to tell but, I wish I could.

My dad’s side of the family scares me. Men and women, all living hard and dying young; my brother and I seeming to be two of the few of our generation who were able to break the vicious cycle that has plagued our lineage. I’m thankful every day for my mother. Without her we couldn’t have done that.

 My grandfather was my age when he died. He was driving home from his baby sister’s funeral when he wrecked his car. He was thirty-eight. She was thirty-four. Of their siblings, only two remain. Hard living, car wrecks, heart attacks and strokes killed them all.

My great-grandfather outlived his wife and all but three of his eight children. But he spent the last 20 something years of his life confined to a chair due to stroke, and couldn’t speak except to say three phrases. Wanna know what they were?

1.       Now woman! (To my Aunt Dot when she wasn’t giving him what he wanted--usually his eggs at breakfast)

2.       By God listen! (When “now woman” didn’t work)

3.       Shit (when 1 or 2 wasn’t working and he realized he was defeated)

He died in August of 1987. He was 82. I’m not sure if he was a great guy. I wouldn’t dare ask my older relatives if he was, but something tells me, from small bits of family conversation, that he most likely wasn’t. And maybe because he was a man who couldn’t find anything to say except three ugly phrases to the one daughter who was willing and able to care for him.

There are fonder things I remember though. He was a funny old man who always wore denim coveralls; a man whose face would light up and he’d get a big grin every time I walked into the room. I’d always make some time to sit with him, even if it was just to sit in silence and watch The Young and the Restless.

*sigh* I seem to have gotten off topic but, after dad relayed the news to me, these are the things I thought about. These things, and my oldest son who seems to be trying to carry on the family tradition. Then I wondered if the cycle would ever be broken.

I managed to hold it together until J went to bed that night and then, somewhere around 9 o’clock, when the house was quiet, I remembered that little dragonfly that sat on the porch looking at me and I lost it. I felt the walls close in on me and grief and fear wrapped its angry fist around my heart as I began to cry.

I don’t do this very often and, even now, I’m not sure who I cried more for.  Was it my Aunt? Maybe my cousin? Was it my oldest son, D? He and Jamie aren’t so different. Or, was it me?

Perhaps I won’t ever be able to answer that.

What I do know is that I really haven’t been in a good place since then. I’m kinda quiet and reserved, and  I had a hard time leaving my children and my husband to go to work this morning, as if I need constant reassurance that my family is OK, that I’m OK.

For the remainder of the weekend I felt like one of those needy women I abhor. Every time I was in the vicinity of my husband or children I had to reach out and touch them to make sure they were really there. All through church yesterday morning, gripping Don’s hand like I thought God might swoop down and whisk him away then and there.

I think I need a little time to get my mind right before I post again. So, if you don’t hear from me much this week, I’m still here and will post again soon. I’ve just got to find some perspective. Who knows, I might find it tomorrow. It might not be until next week. Either way, it’s just a quick mental/emotional walkabout, and I’ll be back.

It sucks dried meatloaf...

I don't usually blog on the weekends, so I'll assume ya'll are surprised to see me post today. I'm not quite sure I even have anything interesting to say. But, I'm home alone. Jr. is with his momma for the weekend, J is doing his own thing, and Don is working out of town. That leaves me, Lola and Sky, and they aren't talking to me today either. I've had a shower and brushed my teeth. I don't get it.

I watched Burlesque with my mother last night. The acting isn't really that great but, just the same, it was still a decent movie. Perhaps though, that has more to do with my fascination with burlesque. In another time, and certainly a younger  pre-child birth body, I think I probably would have been a burlesque girl.

The business is still sucking dried meatloaf. (Thanks Tom, for that fantastic description.) Today is one of those days when I'd love to tell Don that I'm sick of it and to go get a reliable job. He's the optimist to my pessimist on this one though, and he's convinced that eventually it will all come together. I've never seen a man work or try harder to take care of a family. Have I mentioned lately how much I love that man? He's the cheese to my macaroni.

Why didn't I blog yesterday? Well, there's another good one that sucks dried meatloaf. I've basically spent the last two days nearly flat on my back. It's hard to explain fibromyalgia to someone who doesn't have it. They look at you and think you don't look sick. They don't see that every nerve and muscle in your body is screaming; that the act of putting one foot in front of the other is just plain agony sometimes, that sitting, laying, or standing, it doesn't matter, it just plain hurts.

Truthfully, I did have a post for yesterday. I had it composed in Word and ready to go. My prompt for the Red Dress Club.  I was working on the last few details and trying to edit it into the 600 word limit, thankful I was almost done because I couldn't stand to sit there much longer, when the power went off. It wasn't saved. No prompt or link for me this week, and now I suddenly remember why it's a good idea to save periodically. But, who the heck expects the power to go off on a beautiful eighty degree day, right? That sucks dried meatloaf too. It was a dang good story. I do have good notes though, so I guess I could always re-type it and post it just because.

For the rest of today I'll be hiding, trying to ignore the fact that the weather is gorgeous and I'd rather be outside, cuddling with my heating pad and a prescription for muscle relaxers.

See ya'll Monday...

I hate women...

"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." — Marilyn Monroe

What is wrong with teenage girls these days?

No, forget that. It’s not just teenage girls. It’s women in general.

As a whole, the lot of you makes me want to puke. I think this is why my group of female friends is so darn small. I can’t stand the frickin’ drama you ladies create. Ladies…hmph….how’s that for using a term loosely?

"If you're gonna be two-faced at least make one of them pretty." — Marilyn Monroe

In all fairness, I guess I should fill my readers in on what inspired this particular rant.

It was Jr’s girlfriend. He went to church with her last night and he was no sooner in the door and the girl calls him, squalling like a baby, because she’s afraid he’s going to decide he likes that other girl more and dump her.

Where the heck did that crap come from? It’s the kind of stuff that makes me want to regress and say something stupid like, “Dude! Seriously?”  Or “WTF?”I hate it when my kids call me dude and use chat and text speak outside of chat and text. That’s another rant for another day though.

"Ever notice how 'What the hell' is always the right answer?" — Marilyn Monroe

It’s this kind of stuff that makes me wonder what it is that we’re doing to our generations of daughters that they need someone else’s opinion to reassure them that they’re a worthwhile person. How does whether or not you’re in a relationship define who you are? Are you really that much in need of some daddy attention that you’re content to let a man determine your value? Are you really that inept at self evaluation that you can’t determine what makes you a valuable asset to a man?

You know, I ain’t the prettiest girl out there. I’m definitely not the skinniest…Hell, I got more curves than Daytona and Talledega combined, and not all them curves are in the right places. And, my husband? Well, he’s frickin’ hot, if you ask me.

See? Tell me this ain’t purty….

 Something about that mixture of American Indian and Portuguese makes a beautiful combination.

"When it comes down to it, I let them think what they want. If they care enough to bother with what I do, then I'm already better than them." — Marilyn Monroe

You know what? It doesn’t worry me one bit that he rates higher than me on the hotness scale, and I’ll tell you why.

It’s because I know, without any uncertainty, what makes me a valuable asset to a spouse. I know that he’s going to love me because I’m all the things I am.

Notice here I didn’t say, “All the things he needs me to be.” That doesn’t work folks. When you run around trying to be what you think someone wants you to be, eventually you’re gonna get tired and you’re gonna resent that person for expecting things that you can’t deliver.

He loves me because I am nothing more than what I am.

"It's better to be unhappy alone than unhappy with someone." — Marilyn Monroe

He loves me because  --

I’m independent.

I’m honest.

I’m loyal.

I stand by him, even when I think he’s wrong.

I’m a team player.

I don’t need to be rescued.

His children are my children too.

I know when to lead and when to follow.

I don’t judge him.

I know that sexy and appealing isn’t how you look, but what you believe yourself to be.

I respect him.

I don’t take him for granted. I always let him know he’s appreciated.

I inspire him rather than try and change him.

I exude confidence, even though some might think I shouldn’t.

It’s that stuff right there girls that makes him want you. Do you honestly think that you’re going to be appealing to him because you’re calling him every five minutes and whining silly phrases like:

You don’t love me enough.

Are you sure you want to be with me?

Is she prettier than me?

Why do you love me?

I must not be good enough for you.

Whoever coined that phrase about repeating something often enough makes you believe it was spot on.

You want a guy to think that you’re worthless and not good enough for him? Then, by all means, keep up with your insecure damsel in distress act, and eventually he’ll start to believe it too.

I don’t care how you try to color it, needy, whiny, dependent and insecure doesn’t equal cute. It equals desperate and pathetic. It makes you look like a loser.

If you’re a teenage girl reading this, grow up and get over it. Figure out who you are and find someone who will take you “as is”.

If you’re an adult female and you’re reading this and you’re still acting this way…see teenage girl advice above and stop being emotionally and socially crippled.

If you’re a parent raising daughters PLEASE for the sake of my four boys, and all remaining teens unfortunate enough to have been born male, teach those girls their value. Because, if your daughter calls my son and talks the kind of crap we heard last night, I might find I can’t restrain myself any longer and I’m going to take the phone and tell her what I think. And thank you Lord, for not giving me girls that I’ll have to console after that kind of tongue lashing!