a happy ending

Nobody linked to see a bear in dire straights, unless perhaps it's trying to eat you. It's nice to see people go out on a limb for a bear... or a bridge, as the case may be.

today

Today I woke up sad and mopey, thinking about my grandpa, no doubt due in part to my post last night.

Today I became more depressed watching my shitty mood affecting my son and husband, wanting to just snap out of it but feeling utterly unable to do so.

Today I realized that a huge part of my gloom and doom perspective comes from, what I would call, background pain. Meaning, I'm in a shitload of pain but I'm trying to ignore it. My husband offered to massage the owwiest parts for a little while, and that was actually more horrifying. I didn't realize how MUCH stuff hurt. I told him later that it's confusing, because I think I know what hurts and then he starts rubbing and I picture a little me inside my head, madly scribbling away on a sheet of paper, taking an inventory of what muscles are screwed up and becoming more frightened by the moment. I told him it's got to suck to massage me, because I'm not like a normal person that you can massage and they feel better. I usually cry and hurt worse for a little while, but it helps later. I can't help but wonder if he did it more often, maybe it would have a more positive effect. He asks me why I don't ask him more often. The fact is, I hate to. I really do. I know he doesn't like to do it, so I just feel worse asking for help that is begrudgingly given. As he pointed out today right before he started, "This isn't my most favorite thing to do..." I just wanted to jump up and say, "Fine! Then don't fucking do it! Whatever! I don't need your damn pity!" but the fact is, I think I do. It's hard not to be resentful about it. He added afterwards the amount of time that he spent rubbing me, and "joked" that it would get him bonus points or something. All I could think of was, "Fine, yes, I get it. I'm a pain in the ass, you've made that quite clear." I tried to say something nice, but I don't know if I managed to convey it. It's hard to sound positive when your body is screaming in pain.

Today my husband pointed out that I don't answer his questions directly, and that I do it frequently, and that I get really pissed off when my son does the same thing. I was face down and being massaged at the time, so luckily he didn't see the look on my face, which might have turned him to stone. He added something about how he wasn't saying that I was a bad parent, he was just trying to point out the inconsistency or something. I thought, "No, that's exactly what you're pointing out. I'm a bad parent and my bad parenting has adversely affected my child, way to go, me. Thank you for pointing this out while I'm already in agony. Wow." Like I said, it's damn hard to see a positive spin on anything when in pain.

Today I opened my inbox to see the e-mail at the top that was from my mom. The beginning subject line was, "Dad's burial today" and I sat here and tried not to cry. The rest of the family is there, gathering right now, as a matter of fact, and my mom mentioned that they would throw three extra handfuls of dirt for the three of us, since we're, you know, seven hundred miles away. She's doing it for us? For me? Why? I should be there for HER. And I didn't respond, because I didn't know what to say. Besides, I thought she might think it bizarre if I asked her to instead throw a handful of rainbow sprinkles. That's what I would want to do, if I was there. He used to take me and my brother to go get ice cream, and laugh that I always got the exact same thing: a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles.

Today... I really want to save what's left of today. I don't want the whole day to just suck. And I know what could easily make today better: taking a Darvocet. Ta-da! Pain goes away, and I magically transform into a Not Bitch. But I resent that, too, although there is no one to resent, just a fact. How can you resent a fact?

Today. I keep looking up at the clock, knowing when the service is about to begin. I want to go buy a dozen flowers, since that is what my grandfather's ashes are being buried next to: his beloved roses. He had such beautiful roses.

Today.

(long pause)

I wish it wasn't today. And I feel like a total fucking jerk for not enjoying the day, every day, each possible day that my grandfather tried so hard to get to enjoy. That kind of thinking isn't getting me anywhere, yah, I know... I wanted to go down to the Neptune Festival and be...festive. But I hurt so badly...

*sigh*

Why is my redemption currently only available in a narcotic pill?

(another long pause)

Fuck it. I'll go take one. Because today is today and it's all we really have, now isn't it?

Today.

perspective, AKA What Am I Whining About?

I've had a bizarre conundrum lately.

There's something wrong with my hips.

The doctors are now discussing some new (to me, anyway) idea called prolotherapy. It seems to involve sticking needles into the loose ligaments or tendons or whatever it is in my hips that make them wobbly and unstable. I've been meaning to write about this, but in light of my conundrum, I don't know what to say.

Apparently prolotherapy involves sticking aforementioned needles deep into my hip sockets. That in and of itself is enough to send me shrieking out of the doctors office. Then they inject some combination of a numbing agent (that wears off within hours, I think) and something else, in some places I've read it's castor oil or something that's not poisonous, but irritating. The idea is to CAUSE inflammation. That, in turn, is meant to cause the body to build up tissue around the loose and wobbly joint, thus tightening it, in effect. Um. I've read various accounts, some saying it's a little painful, some saying it feels like a toothache.

A toothache? How relative is THAT? Like, a little toothache? Or one of those Please Pull It Out Of My Head With Pliers, I Don't Care kind of toothaches? There's a big difference. A migraine and a headache are NOT the same thing, as an idiot boyfriend of mine once clarified for me when I told him I had a migraine and he replied disdainfully, "So? I've had a headache before..." while refusing to turn down the TV. Jerk. As if. The same boyfriend got strep throat and I had to take him to the emergency room in his freaking pajamas because he was sooooooooo sick. I reminded him that I had had strep throat three times that winter and still got up and went to work each day, thank you very much you theatrical bitch, but he proclaimed that HIS strep throat wasn't the same, his was some MUTANT version, and proceeded to lay on the couch and drool on everything that I then had to sterilize for the next week.

I'm just saying... pain is in the body of the beholder. So... how painful are these shots?

Then there's the part about them taking weeks to heal from, and the fact that I will need approximately six to twelve sessions of these shots...add that up and that's a really long ass time to feel like both my hips have "toothaches". Add in the fact that it may or may not fix my hip problems, and you have one baffled and anxious me.

To add to my utter confusion, the doctor handed me some paperwork about the procedure and then told me I should talk to my shrink about it to decide how I feel about it.

Huh?

I mean, when does a doctor tell you something that could help you, but ask you to talk to your shrink before you decide? What in the hell does THAT mean? She also ordered that I have some blood work done, wrote out the tests I needed to have done, and was very evasive when I repeatedly asked her what they were for.

(insert image of Bugs Bunny saying, "He don't know me too well...." and cackling)

Well, I googled them both, of course. One test is for Celiac disease, which would mean I couldn't eat anything with gluten in it, forever and ever Amen. Or suffer wretched bowel problems. That test is almost a joke. I explained to her that all of my anxiety related symptoms were only evident when I was ANXIOUS, so gluten be damned, I don't think that's the problem.

The other test is for various and rather nebulous sounding versions of cancer of the endocrine system. THAT makes for some great late night reading, I tell ya. Awesome. But again, the symptoms have been around since I started having panic attacks, and if I've had endocrine cancer since I was twelve, I'm pretty sure I'd be dead by now. I mean, I'm all for ruling out everything, but come on.

Why the tests for bowel complaints and anxiety issues? Ah, yes Because I went there to talk to her about Fibromyalgia. At least, that was what I thought. The other docs said, "Yes, that's what you have, off you go to a specialist..." and set me up with her. I had to cancel my first appointment, much to my dismay, because it was the day after my grandfather's surgery, and I wasn't going to miss that for anything. After waiting another month to get in to see this specialist, the girls at the front counter said, "So... you're back about your neck?"

I just blinked at them and took a deep breath. It was the same place I had gone to that referred me to physical therapy last year. No. No, I am NOT here about my neck. I'm here about fybromyalgia....and wait a second. How can I be seeing a specialist if you don't even know why I'm here? Oh bloody hell...

The appointment itself was both optimistic and abysmal. The doctor rushed through the plethora of problems and focused in on the hips. I led her to it, really, since I had suffered through physical therapy last year and my neck got better, my back got better, but what the hell, now my hips hurt like total hell and then my back and neck eventually went wonky again, too. Granted, my neck is worlds better than it was, but it's still VERY painful, it's just not bent forward anymore. So, my thinking goes, might the problem be with my wobbly hips? I mean, that kind of imbalance has got to radiate upwards, right? I told the doctor that I felt like physical therapy was backwards. We were working down and I hurt more and more. I felt like maybe that was a good clue, right?

She agreed.

She asked a million questions and then had me stand up, bend over, lay on the table and pushed my legs this way and that, to the point that I was holding back tears. She informed me that I was able to hyperextend parts, and that's not right. She told me that part when I held my arms out straight. We hadn't even gotten to my hips yet. When she saw what they were capable (and incapable) of, her eyes widened. Of all the things to make me feel better, oddly enough, that did. Like, Yah! I saw that look you tried to hide! That's some fucked up shit my legs can do, isn't it!? You were shocked! It's not all in my freaking HEAD! Yes!

But then she also said, "I'm not convinced you have fibromyalgia." I told her I'd been reading endless books about it and fit it to a freaking T. That was when she mentioned the blood work. Still... ok. She's ruling everything else out, first. Deadly things. That's a good doctor. Ok. Right?

Suddenly, it seemed, our appointment was over. Don't get me wrong, it was quite lengthy, but as she was obviously getting ready to say goodbye I told her, "Wait! But... I don't know what to DO yet!" She looked at me, perplexed. "Just get the blood work done and come back in four weeks," she said, "The blood work takes about three weeks to process so get it done right away. And I'll see you then." She started to turn but I wasn't about to let her go. "No," I said, "You don't understand. What am I supposed to DO? I came in here thinking you were going to at least give me some exercise program or stretches or something, something that can help me get better! I don't know what to do, I mean, I hurt myself doing so MANY things, I don't know what to DO. What do I do?"

She just looked at me, with a slightly more compassionate expression, realizing that I wasn't just an asshole wanting painkillers or some quick fix, that I had really done my homework and wanted to do something proactive, at least, I hope she recognized what I was implying. She just softly said, "Get your blood work done. I will see you in four weeks. We can't fix everything all at once, and right now we need to work on your hips." And with that she left.

I didn't know what to think. I wanted to cry out of sheer frustration. Here I thought the doctors had a diagnoses and although it isn't curable, it is manageable, right? Now the doctor I was sent to is telling me it might not be that at all but some other mysterious crap and I feel farther from an answer than I did when I walked in. On the other hand, if the problem with my hips could actually be (dare I say it?) cured, well howdy freaking doody, the other shit might be downright bearable with that under control.

I left, hobbling out from her bending me this way and that, and just felt confused and upset and hopeful all at once.

I got the blood tests done.

And now I wait for my next appointment.

In the meantime, I still have ups and downs throughout each day, and some days are just fucking awful. I've had a few of those in a row now, and broke down to take a Darvocet yesterday. I took one sometime in the last week, too, one night when I had been in so much pain I found myself lying behind the computer chair while my husband was working on some project, just laying on the floor and thinking, "I'm like a paraplegic back here. Oh my god. I can't sit up, I can't lie down, I'm useless, utterly useless. I'm a burden."

I should explain that I CAN sit up, I CAN lie down, but I can't (or couldn't that day) without groaning in horrible pain. Some days it feels like my hips are just... well, it's not like they're grinding in to the sockets, but like they're getting mangled and twisted and pinched and... hell, kind of like a raging toothache, come to think of it. At moments like that it doesn't matter what position I'm in, I can't even focus on a full sentence, everything is kind of muted by a dull roar of pain, and it's shifting and doesn't stop, no matter what position I'm in.

As much as it sucks for me, I feel even worse because I know how hard it is on my family. My husband and son try to help, but sometimes they can't tell if I'm angry as hell or in pain; I try to hide it, not successfully, it seems. And hell, I don't want them to have to live out their lives with my sometimes ok and sometimes suddenly handicapped ass! They do so much to try to accommodate me, and it hurts me to see them do it. I mean, I want it to be sweet and for me to be gracious, but so many times I'm just so depressed that they have to do it at all. My poor kid- I want him to have a normal life, damn it! Not some weird mom who is bright and chipper one day and looks like she got run over by a truck the next. What will his friends think? Will I embarrass him? And what about all the things that I SHOULD do with him, the things that my step dad pointed out to me while we were just up in Michigan, "He doesn't know how to be a real kid." I didn't understand what he meant at first until he explained, "I've been asking him what he does, does he play baseball? Does he go bike riding? What does he do with his friends? He just looks at me and tells me he hasn't done much this summer, you've all been so busy..."

I tried to play it off as best as I could, but it broke my heart. He's right. My son isn't a normal kid. And he's having so many weird adjustment issues we've started taking him to a shrink. I know I should take him to the park or just shoot hoops, or whatever, but always I think, "And then what, Jill?" and I think of the pain.

The worst of the pain started after I fell down the steps, but it didn't get really bad until the morning after I had spent a good hour or two with my son at the pool, just tossing a Nerf football back and forth. I was having a good day, feeling proud of being a good mom and being active with my son out in the good old outdoors. All was fine. And the next day I got up and couldn't move my head. AT ALL.

You don't forget a thing like that.

And so, I talk myself out of a lot of the things we could do because, bottom line, I am afraid. At least now I can get the housework done. I can mostly keep up the appearance of a normal (well, sort of) mom. But what if I play Frisbee and can't lift one arm up for weeks? How can I do laundry? Pack my son's lunch? Hug him, for god's sake?

But I can't just live in fear...

I haven't had the appointment with my shrink yet to discuss this prolotherapy. I see her in a few days, but unless I find some compelling medical reason as to why it's not a good idea, I want to try it. Of course I do: I'd do anything to have a more normal life. Even if it means having needles jammed into the most painful spots on my body, just to cause more pain (which, I forgot to mention, cannot be eased with painkillers- they interfere with the process, ha). I tend to faint with needles, did I mention that part? And doctors are going to be damn close to my privates, both sides, with these needles and me trying my damnedest not to flinch and end up with permanent nerve damage instead. (sigh) One of the possible drawbacks, I hear.

So what is my conundrum?

My state of mind.

You see, although I haven't had the courage to sit down and write about my grandfather's death, this is very pivotal in my... feelings about the matter.

My grandfather needed a hip transplant. The doctors did not want to do the surgery. I will go into more detail when I actually write the full tale, but suffice to say that the doctors told him he was going to die if he tried for the surgery. He said he knew that, but his life was worth nothing without it. He couldn't walk and could barely do anything at all anymore, and the pain was so great he was on morphine patches for months before the surgery. He'd been trapped in a wheelchair for two years at that point and told me himself that he couldn't bear being a burden to his wife and daughter. Either he would be a contributing member of society, or he didn't want to... BE... anymore. The surgeon agreed to do it, and he lived through the surgery, the rest is a tale for another day. He died over a week later. But he wanted to walk.

I understand. And I held his hands so many days and tried not to sob in front of him, because good god almighty, I so completely understood what he meant.

And I'm merely thirty three.

On my worst days, I am overwhelmed, but I think of my grandpa and how he would have given anything, he DID give everything, to have even the painful mobility I have. I think of the needles that I am so utterly terrified of and then feel ashamed because I know if my grandpa had had that choice he wouldn't have thought twice. He went into surgery, knowing not only were the doctors going to take apart his hip and replace it with titanium "bones" or whatever they are, but he was utterly sure he wasn't going to make it off of the table.

In my worst moments, I feel sorry for myself, and then I think of my grandpa and I feel like such a pitiful asshole. What am I complaining about, really? The man was willing to give his life for the chance to walk from the bedroom to the couch. I'm freaking out about some needles?

I suppose it's no more helpful to beat myself up by making such comparisons, but some days it seems to keep me motivated. There have been quite a few more occasions as of late, where I would normally have been too frightened to go somewhere, do something, but I think of my grandpa and how he wanted to feel the water slosh over his skin again while he was swimming, or the grass beneath his feet while he walked and listened to the birds singing.

Despite the pain, I am so incredibly aware of the things I can experience that he can't, and it helps me get perspective.

I just like to think maybe he can loan me some of that courage.

shit sticks

I'm going on a couple-days-already flare with the fibromyalgia thing, and in too much pain to sit and write, although I'm ready to write finally. But it's hard to make coherent sentences and I end up sounding like an ass. It irritates me. I spend half my time rewriting and spell checking and hunched over the desk groaning.

It sucks, is my point.

What's worse to me is the effect it has on the people around me. I didn't fully realize how even my best actress skills (I jest, I'm a terrible actress) aren't cutting it: my son and husband are endlessly worried that I'm pissed off, but apparently the closest happy face I can make is some sort of grimace. Damn. Still, I think it's better than letting them see the expression of pain that is plastered across my face when they turn around or leave the room, or blessedly leave for hours during the day.

Tonight is a school function sort of deal. It's important, so I'm going to try to make with the happy. I don't know how in the bloody hell I'm going to pull it off, but I've got to. I don't want people to think my kid's mom is a bitch, or look like I'm handicapped.

These are the days when I turn off the phone and hide in my house.

*deep sigh*

But now I have to go find a smile somewhere. Dude. I can at least do my hair and get gussied up a little. I can LOOK good, even if I feel like shit. It's actually kind of a priority. It's much harder to fake feeling ok when I look like I haven't bathed in a few days.

Onward.

get your boots on

This blog is going down under, too. Meaning, if you don't have an account, you won't see it much longer.

I'm tired of sitting down to write and feeling overwhelmed by spambots and ads for porn and all the stupid shit that gets in the way of my writing. Maybe it's the death of my grandpa, and me still not writing about it, causing this move. Somehow, the thought of writing about something so incredibly personal and close to my heart, and then seeing some asshat leave a "comment" that's really a link to a porn site might just send me into a bloody rage. I can't stand the thought. I can't.

In the meantime, I'm totally blogstipated. Meaning, I have stuff I want to write about, but I really have to get the experience of my grandfather's death off my proverbial chest first. Everything else is backing up behind it. And I don't want to write about it until I know it can't be... defiled.

My blogs got too big. Notoriety is fabulous and all when you want to be a writer, but blogging has always been a sort of self therapy for me, and there's too much crap in the Blogosphere to just let any old person wander by and leave their thought droppings.

So.

If you want in, click on the side bar and create an account. And leave me a note, something so I know you're a real human and not an asshat or a spambot, please.

Of course, many of you already have accounts. Mom, I'll make you one myself, not to worry. And anyone worried about their e-mail need not bother; I won't sell it or tell it.

For those of you with accounts at the other blog, sorry, you have to go through the process here, too. They are only linked by name and server... the accounts don't pass through.

The winds of change are about to blow.

that song in your head

I woke up feeling sick and puny this morning, but despite that, I can't get a song out of my head. You know the song. It doesn't matter what song it is, but for some reason, it runs like an endless track in the back of your brain for days sometimes, just appearing and then disappearing to the recesses of your consciousness.

This morning the song is, "You Light Up My Life". Yah. That dates me. In my age defying defense, I sang it in an elementary school... thingy. (Told you I'm sick...) One of those events that your parents are supposed to come to and ooh and aah over what precious little angels all the little kiddies are, while the music teacher leads the whole grade through a dopey song, twelve kids are singing off key, at least another twelve are just mouthing aimlessly along because they never bothered to learn it, and a kid like me is singing quite well in the back, stationed there because she is tall and must stand on the top bleacher but is really, and I mean REALLY hoping she doesn't lose her balance and fall off the rickety assed thing.

And the song has been stuck in my head forevermore.

A few days ago I was in the bedroom, playing various albums (yes, those archaic black vinyl disks) for my husband while I sang along. I was grieving, and listening to The Beatles crooning, "Dear Prudence" just made everything sad and glorious. But that's not the song that got stuck in my head. Technically, the song that ended up there was because it got stuck in my husband's head, who said to me a few days later, "What's this song?" and started humming part of it, singing another, "I know it's The Beatles..."

I laughed and sang, "Have you see the bigger piggies, in their starched white shirts?" I went on, but I'll spare you. Instead, I'll show you the picture I sent him on his phone later with the message attached, "Have you seen the little piggies?"



I figured all is fair in love and getting-songs-stuck-in-someone-else's-head, right?

Also on the shuffle play list in my brain lately are Rocky Raccoon and Martha, My Dear (also Beatles) and some other childhood goofy song that is blessedly unavailable for me to dredge up with now.

Let's all be thankful for that, shall we?

I've never been a fan of Phil Collins...

...although I found this the most moving performance of his music, to date:

lately:

I've seen many bizarre, beautiful, hilarious, and horrifying things lately. I mean to write about them, but grieving is a strange place to be in.

Of note:

A girl walking into Target had some rather gazombulous breasts. Yah, I had to make up a word for them. And she had one arm up to her head, talking on her cell phone, so her arm was covering part of her shirt. Because of her gazombulous breasts, her shirt was stretched out to the point where you couldn't really make out what was written on it anymore, as it stretched around the sides of her. I thought it probably said, "BITCH", because that seemed fitting for her angry expression, her stomping stride, and her general air of "You Are All Ants For My Magnifying Glass, I Merely Await The Sun To Smite You" attitude. But since her arm was covering the side, all I could see was "ITCH" and that made me start laughing. As she got closer, she dropped her arm and I realized what her shirt said was "FITCH" as in, Abercrombie and Fitch, and I thought that was all the funnier. She was obviously quite proud in her taste in clothing styles, so proud she wanted it emblazoned across the front of her shirt, but her taste in sizes and grumpiness didn't impress me at all, just make her the butt of multiple jokes in my head. Go figure.


I've had my phones turned silent or off for days, only really talking to my family and just trying to process the death of my Grandfather. It's strange, people want to call and say they're sorry, but I can't bear the conversations about it yet. I don't know if that's a weird reaction or not, but my mom informs me that she and my Grandmother have been doing the same thing I have: cleaning. Organizing. I told her today, at least I come by it honestly, eh?

I spent some time just sitting by the pool yesterday. There were two other people out there, two very brown and leathery people, laying on chairs across the pool from me. I noticed that I finally didn't care that I was the pale skinned fishgirl by comparison; I thought they both looked gruesome. Like, really, REALLY gross. There's a healthy looking tan, and then there's just gross. It's the end of the summer here at the beach, and there's a lot of gross tanned people by this point. Melanoma, people. Or just wrinkles? (shakes head) Argh.

I have found a new appreciation for cows, and it's not in any way that will win me love from PETA: we got a leather couch. A biiiig leather couch. We've been debating it for years, having just a goofy futon before, but with the dust allergies we all suffer from, a regular fabric sofa has never been an option. You can slipcover them, yes, but that's not dust mite proof. How is a futon, you ask? You cover it with an allergy cover like any regular mattress, or in my anal retentive case, two of them. Then you cover THAT with another zip up cover, that being the pretty futon cover that people see. And WAAALAAA, no itchy, sneezy couch. Our mattresses have them on them, our box springs, our pillows, and I clean the hell out of everything else. A cloth sofa, to me, is a giant condominium of dust mites (and their feces, which is what people with dust allergies are actually allergic to. Isn't that awesome?), sorry fabric sofa people of the world. And I'm sorry cows, too. Once we found out I have fibromyalgia and chronic myofascial pain syndrome, we were decided. That's it. We need furniture I can relax on without endless pain. And so the endless sofa shopping began... because it wasn't just about looks, I had to be able to sit, to lie down, and that involved lounging in a lot of show rooms in which time I discovered that most sofas seem to be made for looks only. But finally we found one, costing only a small fortune, and it has given me endless joy to relax upon it. I spend many times a day cuddling up to the Cows That Used To Be and wholeheartedly thanking them for their unwilling sacrifice. No. Really. I'm not kidding. I have never felt as much love and gratitude for cows as I do now. Thank you, cows. You made my life so much more wonderful. And now my eyes water from gratitude, not allergies. As my vegetarian and not-cool-with-the-leather son put it, "Well...yeah. Cows don't get dust inside." On a side note, I was very surprised when my beloved vegan friend actually sounded begrudgingly impressed when I told her about the couch. "It's a Natuzzi? Wow. They're designer." I don't know squat about that, but they make a hell of a couch. Once I checked out their website I felt more guilty for being all bourgeois and what not than my guilt about sacrificing cows for my pain tolerance and allergies. Seems a little backwards, but that's how it is. I'm just saying. (The link, by the way, is not my couch exactly, but it's pretty close. Mine is comfier than that stiff armed thing, but the general shape and color are right.)

My camera's been broken for some time now. It works in every way except for that horrible whirring/grinding noise it makes when it tries to open. Sometimes it can open just enough to take very blurry pictures, but that's it. So, if I want to become an abstract artist who specializes in blob photography, I am like, SO ready. Since that is not my goal, however, it's time to just give it up and look at new cameras. I don't know why I resist. They just seem so frivolous and expensive. I say that, sitting ten feet away from my giant leather sofa... (rolls eyes) I do realize, though, that the amount of joy I get from photography is well worth it, and I sorely missed having a camera this weekend during the air show at Oceana. No matter how much I bitch about the sound of the jets at times, watching them cruise over and doing tricks just all around kicks major ass. It's undeniable. And trying to catch shots of them shooting in and out of the clouds with a camera phone became an exercise in how to drive myself batshit in the blazing sun. I finally had to give up and just sit inside and look out the window. I even tried to hook up a web cam to my sons computer to try to get video... nothing. Hmph. There's just something about having a camera that makes me see the world differently... I see the potential, I see the beauty, I see the irony, too, but the most important point is that I become a much more active person because I actively seek out things to take pictures of. It's like having an excuse to just wander around and look and beautiful things. Not that I need an excuse... but it's a lot more fun to come home, upload them, and say, "LOOK! Look what I found!" I'm like a four year old with a wriggling toad in her packet. Isn't it awesome, Mom? Can I keep it? Oh. It's a picture, right. I totally CAN! Yay!

More soon. I was thinking of writing a "What I Did Over My Summer Vacation", but I realized that would be altogether morbid and decided not to. In the meantime, my husband's eyeballing a new desk chair, which goes with the whole "find comfortable furniture" idea. This chair is a pain in my everything. I've finally adjusted to the ergonomic keyboard, mostly, and realize it's benefits. And now... now this chair has got to be taken out back and shot. And not with a new camera.

R.I.P.

My grandpa died on Friday. I had spent most of the day trying to achieve a calm meditative state. My mother told me the doctors said there was nothing left they could do (details some other time about all of that) and it was the end. I am seven hundred miles away, so I did what I could do:

I went swimming.

Floating, to be precise. One of the biggest things my Grandpa had been looking forward to was to walk, but also, to swim. Knowing that he would not achieve that again, not in this life, I went to the place I thought I could best commune with his nearly crossed over self: the water.

Nobody was in the pool, a strange blessing in itself. And so I got in, stretched out, and stared up at the sky. I felt the water on my skin, the wind blowing over my wet fingertips that were just out of the water. The sun shone down upon my skin and I luxuriated in the strange buoyancy of the water. No wonder he wanted to be in a pool...

The birds flew over, the wind rustled the leaves in the trees nearby, and I floated and thought of my Grandpa. I wanted him to feel what I felt, to share with him the peace and serenity he needed to find to make his transition. I felt like him, a younger him, and thought of boats and lakes and romping about with his with friends. I saw how gorgeous and sexy he thought my Grandma was in those old fashioned bathing suits (very unlike the bikini I was wearing), I felt the overwhelming love he had for her, and what surprised me most was that I didn't feel afraid. That is to say, I am normally a very anxious person. Floating by myself, with my eyes closed, in a pool, alone... normally that isn't something I could do without experiencing a great deal of anxiety. But I didn't feel that. I felt... his joy. His exuberance. His love of life.

I realized earlier that day how much of life I take for granted, and how my anxiety blinds me from so much of the joy that is possible. I felt like, floating there, that somehow he and I were exchanging something. I was transmitting my serenity to him, but it was his serenity that was emanating throughout me. I'm not sure I can explain it. I don't care if I can.

He died a few hours later.

I can't say I'm dealing with it well. I... can't really say I'm dealing with it badly, either. Every time I get really down about it, I think to myself, it's a beautiful day... let's go outside.

And I do.



For now, that's where I'll be. I don't really want to talk. I don't have much to say. I miss my Grandpa.

WHITE FLOWER!!!

I do so love it when people manage to convey the absolute absurdity of something absurd is such a magnificently absurd manner.

Do not fear clowns. Clowns are awesome.

Dear Spam,

I don't need a new watch. My "bling" is sufficient, thank you. Also sufficient is my cock, which I don't have, nor do I wish to have a bigger one. I sense that might cause problems with my marriage, quite frankly. I'm thrilled you approved my imaginary loan, thank you. But for the record, there are not tons of local girls dying to meet me. I'm fairly certain I would have heard of such an epidemic, and would gladly have met them if merely to save their meaningless pseudo-lives.

Now shut your damn pie hole,
Jill