Inspirational song: 25 or 6 to 4 (Chicago)
All night long. That’s how long it took me to recreate the segment of blanket that I unraveled and restarted three times. I realized around two am that popcorn for dinner was insufficient, but I didn’t stop to get anything more substantial. My stomach started hurting around three. By four, I was on the verge of crying I was so miserable, but I kept going. At five fifteen I had gone through enough of the mass of loose yarn that I could wrap a yard or two around the end of the remainder, and set it aside. I limped down the hallway for a pre-dawn bathroom break, and all my joints creaked when I finally crawled under the covers. I have no memory of falling asleep. It must have been quick.
I don’t know where to go with the “reboot” of my nervous system, as described by the doctor Friday night. Is it okay to do it while I’m this tired? Or is that when it would matter most? I feel like getting some rest first makes more sense. Or maybe I should just put off all decision making until I’ve slept more than four hours. This up all night nonsense is not for me.
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Multiple Attempts
Inspirational song: Her First Mistake (Lyle Lovett)
Three times now, I have attempted to make a handmade present for my neighbor. Weeks ago I bought a multi-colored yarn, a blend of Chiefs yellow and maroon, plus a little of T's favorite blue and gradient colors between, thinking I'd make another couch blanket like he has on his giant couch in two places. (The current ones are where the dogs have been trained to sit.) I found a cool stitch on the internet, and gave it a try. I think it was sort of right the first time, but inconsistent. I thought at the time it was completely wrong on many levels. I grabbed a second jumbo skein and tried it a slightly different way. Thinking this time it must be right, I unraveled the entire first section and balled it up, setting it aside for later. I worked round two for a while, but knew I couldn't finish in time for Christmas, or rather a few days before it when T left to visit family. I picked it up again a couple of days ago, picked out a pound of cat fur from it, and tried again. It curled horribly, just like it had when I first started it, and I was getting very frustrated. On the way to my appointment yesterday, I brought it to work on in the car. I got a good look at it in the afternoon light. I had been reducing each row by one stitch each time. I swore foully, and stuffed it in my tote bag. This evening I climbed in bed early, exhausted, and set it in my lap. After careful study, I determined that yes, it was smaller by one stitch on each row. I started unraveling it again. I kept imagining that I'd just pull out half, and try to make it look better. I watched the video explaining it again. I swore foully again. It was right the first time, if I had just been putting the base double stitch in the right place every single time. I pulled it out as far as the base row, and started over. Unfortunately, I didn't ball it up this time. I just made sure it didn't overlap itself as I threw it onto my lap. Now I'm stuck. I can't go to sleep until I've remade everything I unstrung. I've been marathoning Game of Thrones and crocheting through the night. I wonder whether I'll sleep before dawn. I've made a terrible mistake.
My foster daughter and I went shopping today. We each got gift cards to the Boulder Bookstore, and we made our first pass through it. Parking was horrible, for all that it was a crisp, cold, sunny day. We ate at a restaurant in a location I haven't entered in decades. (Used to be Tom's Tavern when I was in college. It's a hip spot called Salt now.) Then we wandered through all the levels of the store, up and downstairs. I saw lots of cool things, but nothing I couldn't walk away from on this day. She managed to spend her gift card and then some. I don't know why nothing appealed. Maybe I was still distracted from last night's news.
We made a stop on the way home, and I bought presents for the Pride. I'd been talking about cat beds for a while. Finally followed through on it. We put one in the tiny space between the Mr's chair and the heat register, and we had to coax Rabbit into it. She was grumpy at first. It took her a while to accept it. The other sat, unattended, on my bed until I came in here. Alfred occupied it for hours after that.
Three times now, I have attempted to make a handmade present for my neighbor. Weeks ago I bought a multi-colored yarn, a blend of Chiefs yellow and maroon, plus a little of T's favorite blue and gradient colors between, thinking I'd make another couch blanket like he has on his giant couch in two places. (The current ones are where the dogs have been trained to sit.) I found a cool stitch on the internet, and gave it a try. I think it was sort of right the first time, but inconsistent. I thought at the time it was completely wrong on many levels. I grabbed a second jumbo skein and tried it a slightly different way. Thinking this time it must be right, I unraveled the entire first section and balled it up, setting it aside for later. I worked round two for a while, but knew I couldn't finish in time for Christmas, or rather a few days before it when T left to visit family. I picked it up again a couple of days ago, picked out a pound of cat fur from it, and tried again. It curled horribly, just like it had when I first started it, and I was getting very frustrated. On the way to my appointment yesterday, I brought it to work on in the car. I got a good look at it in the afternoon light. I had been reducing each row by one stitch each time. I swore foully, and stuffed it in my tote bag. This evening I climbed in bed early, exhausted, and set it in my lap. After careful study, I determined that yes, it was smaller by one stitch on each row. I started unraveling it again. I kept imagining that I'd just pull out half, and try to make it look better. I watched the video explaining it again. I swore foully again. It was right the first time, if I had just been putting the base double stitch in the right place every single time. I pulled it out as far as the base row, and started over. Unfortunately, I didn't ball it up this time. I just made sure it didn't overlap itself as I threw it onto my lap. Now I'm stuck. I can't go to sleep until I've remade everything I unstrung. I've been marathoning Game of Thrones and crocheting through the night. I wonder whether I'll sleep before dawn. I've made a terrible mistake.
My foster daughter and I went shopping today. We each got gift cards to the Boulder Bookstore, and we made our first pass through it. Parking was horrible, for all that it was a crisp, cold, sunny day. We ate at a restaurant in a location I haven't entered in decades. (Used to be Tom's Tavern when I was in college. It's a hip spot called Salt now.) Then we wandered through all the levels of the store, up and downstairs. I saw lots of cool things, but nothing I couldn't walk away from on this day. She managed to spend her gift card and then some. I don't know why nothing appealed. Maybe I was still distracted from last night's news.
We made a stop on the way home, and I bought presents for the Pride. I'd been talking about cat beds for a while. Finally followed through on it. We put one in the tiny space between the Mr's chair and the heat register, and we had to coax Rabbit into it. She was grumpy at first. It took her a while to accept it. The other sat, unattended, on my bed until I came in here. Alfred occupied it for hours after that.
Friday, December 28, 2018
FND
Inspirational song: Find Her Finder (Frank Zappa)
That could have turned out much worse. The appointment with the Anschutz movement disorder clinic was this afternoon. I had Mr S-P drive me there, because I didn’t know exactly where it was, other than off towards Aurora. Turns out I have actually been there before, once, before we ever moved away from Colorado, when a woman from our greater circle of friends gave birth at what was then Fitzsimmons Army Medical Center. (I’m struggling with the realization that that baby is now like 23-24 years old. Ow.) I still am not comfortable driving on the highway, because of the very condition that I went to the doctor to discuss. I have a running declaration that being told a condition is all in my head is the worst of all possible answers. I desperately feared hearing that again today. It kind of was where he went with it, but in a totally non-dismissive way. There is no visible damage in my brain, but there is an actual physiological disorder, that has a psychiatric aspect to it. When he says it’s possible that it’s caused by stress, it is for sure a physical manifestation of that stress. There are real things to be done to address it, to heal the affected neural pathways. I don’t have to shut up and leave him alone, like doctors who weren’t interested in my younger undiagnosed lupus self wanted.
I now have a new set of initials: FND, for Functional Neurological Disorder. I have a ton of reading to do to understand it. Doctor was very good at explaining, but he got me as far as “you know how your lupus is unique and everyone experiences it differently? This is like that. You won’t have everything all the time.” They use a lot of computer metaphors with this, as in, the hardware of your brain and nervous system are still intact, but the software running on it is corrupt and needs to be rebooted. He said I’m halfway through the hard part, having done so much to self-analyze what’s happening, and to understand what soothes the problem. He also made me feel good about my research, letting me know (without me admitting that I’d googled and found the term) that what I’m suffering are indeed myoclonic jerks.
I want to read more about FND tonight, but I am not long for this plane of consciousness. I was awake until past 3 am last night, binging on the entire Netflix series about the police in my hometown in Oklahoma. It was disturbing and enlightening, and I want to watch it again. I am aware even more how differently we had it as part of the “establishment,” one of the old families of note, than our life could have been if we had been nameless poor. I’ll write about this later, after a rewatch and deep inner reflection.
That could have turned out much worse. The appointment with the Anschutz movement disorder clinic was this afternoon. I had Mr S-P drive me there, because I didn’t know exactly where it was, other than off towards Aurora. Turns out I have actually been there before, once, before we ever moved away from Colorado, when a woman from our greater circle of friends gave birth at what was then Fitzsimmons Army Medical Center. (I’m struggling with the realization that that baby is now like 23-24 years old. Ow.) I still am not comfortable driving on the highway, because of the very condition that I went to the doctor to discuss. I have a running declaration that being told a condition is all in my head is the worst of all possible answers. I desperately feared hearing that again today. It kind of was where he went with it, but in a totally non-dismissive way. There is no visible damage in my brain, but there is an actual physiological disorder, that has a psychiatric aspect to it. When he says it’s possible that it’s caused by stress, it is for sure a physical manifestation of that stress. There are real things to be done to address it, to heal the affected neural pathways. I don’t have to shut up and leave him alone, like doctors who weren’t interested in my younger undiagnosed lupus self wanted.
I now have a new set of initials: FND, for Functional Neurological Disorder. I have a ton of reading to do to understand it. Doctor was very good at explaining, but he got me as far as “you know how your lupus is unique and everyone experiences it differently? This is like that. You won’t have everything all the time.” They use a lot of computer metaphors with this, as in, the hardware of your brain and nervous system are still intact, but the software running on it is corrupt and needs to be rebooted. He said I’m halfway through the hard part, having done so much to self-analyze what’s happening, and to understand what soothes the problem. He also made me feel good about my research, letting me know (without me admitting that I’d googled and found the term) that what I’m suffering are indeed myoclonic jerks.
I want to read more about FND tonight, but I am not long for this plane of consciousness. I was awake until past 3 am last night, binging on the entire Netflix series about the police in my hometown in Oklahoma. It was disturbing and enlightening, and I want to watch it again. I am aware even more how differently we had it as part of the “establishment,” one of the old families of note, than our life could have been if we had been nameless poor. I’ll write about this later, after a rewatch and deep inner reflection.
Thursday, December 27, 2018
Taking Notes
Inspirational song: The Typewriter (Leroy Anderson)
Over the last couple of months, I've had plenty of time to think about what to tell the next-level specialist I'm supposed to see tomorrow. I've had to decide what's relevant in my medical history, what's tangential but maybe of interest, and whether to note dates of milestones (births, surgeries). Yesterday I finally started putting pen to paper. I filled two and a half sheets of paper, front and back. I'll spend the rest of the night until I sleep typing it out and editing it down. I want to be thorough, but I'm afraid of overwhelming the new doc with superfluous details. If his eyes glaze over and he stops listening, I'll never find out what's actually going on. He'll dismiss it and I'll be stuck. That would be the worst I can imagine, so I need to make this a compelling read.
It would make it all easier, if I had a clue what was causing this latest set of symptoms. Then I could point to medications I took, or accidents I had, or diagnoses as they came along. Unfortunately, I'm guessing about what is related. As I told my brother-in-law at Christmas, I can figure out correlation, but I have no idea about causation. I'll do the best I can.
There will be no photos of the finer details of my history, so I'll take the easy way out. Here are the boys next door, swearing up and down that they already did their business outside, even though I never witnessed it. Whatever. Go to bed, pups. I'm heading that way soon, too.
Over the last couple of months, I've had plenty of time to think about what to tell the next-level specialist I'm supposed to see tomorrow. I've had to decide what's relevant in my medical history, what's tangential but maybe of interest, and whether to note dates of milestones (births, surgeries). Yesterday I finally started putting pen to paper. I filled two and a half sheets of paper, front and back. I'll spend the rest of the night until I sleep typing it out and editing it down. I want to be thorough, but I'm afraid of overwhelming the new doc with superfluous details. If his eyes glaze over and he stops listening, I'll never find out what's actually going on. He'll dismiss it and I'll be stuck. That would be the worst I can imagine, so I need to make this a compelling read.
It would make it all easier, if I had a clue what was causing this latest set of symptoms. Then I could point to medications I took, or accidents I had, or diagnoses as they came along. Unfortunately, I'm guessing about what is related. As I told my brother-in-law at Christmas, I can figure out correlation, but I have no idea about causation. I'll do the best I can.
There will be no photos of the finer details of my history, so I'll take the easy way out. Here are the boys next door, swearing up and down that they already did their business outside, even though I never witnessed it. Whatever. Go to bed, pups. I'm heading that way soon, too.
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Un-Boxing Day
Inspirational song: The Boxer (Simon & Garfunkel)
I admit it upfront. I was obnoxious. Ob.Nox.Ious. I have been nagging the family about wanting an Instapot since late summer. I thought someone would get the hint to get me one for my birthday, but apparently they were better at ignoring me than I was at dropping hints. For Christmas, they banded together and got me one, possibly just to shut me up. Although, it does benefit the group, because I am strongly inclined to feed everyone, usually at least once a week. I told everyone yesterday that I intended to go out and buy a pot roast today, and I followed through on my promise. I had no idea what I was doing, and we had a late-afternoon/early evening trip to Target that delayed my start time, so it was a little stressful when we pulled it out of the box and jumped in with our first recipe before test-firing it. Still, we managed to cook a roast with potatoes and carrots, and a reduction glaze, and it was fantastic. I have a gluten free cornbread mix in the pantry, and a drawer that holds a few varieties of dried beans and peas. I think beans and cornbread are on the menu for tomorrow.
While we are caring for the dogs next door, we had the idea that our regular game night shouldn't be missed, even if it isn't for D&D. With permission, we held our game in T's living room, so the boy dogs could run around and have human companionship. This way Hops doesn't have to spend as much time in the kennel. Barley is doing better, now that the bandage is off of his ear, but Mr S-P took him to a checkup this morning, and they want him to keep wearing the Cone of Shame. Poor guy. He has busted that thing up so badly, trying to tear it off. It's ripped in a couple places. The boys had to go outside while we ate the pot roast over there, but otherwise, they had lots of company. We played a brutal screw-over-your-buddy sort of game, where everyone is a super-powerful wizard with a goofy name, and you create spells to take away as many points as possible to kill all the other wizards. I didn't pay attention to the name, but I'll try to find out and pass it on. It was fun.
Now, when exactly did I go to Target? 5:30 on the day after Christmas. So it's to be expected that this is what I saw there. The retail cycle moves on.
I admit it upfront. I was obnoxious. Ob.Nox.Ious. I have been nagging the family about wanting an Instapot since late summer. I thought someone would get the hint to get me one for my birthday, but apparently they were better at ignoring me than I was at dropping hints. For Christmas, they banded together and got me one, possibly just to shut me up. Although, it does benefit the group, because I am strongly inclined to feed everyone, usually at least once a week. I told everyone yesterday that I intended to go out and buy a pot roast today, and I followed through on my promise. I had no idea what I was doing, and we had a late-afternoon/early evening trip to Target that delayed my start time, so it was a little stressful when we pulled it out of the box and jumped in with our first recipe before test-firing it. Still, we managed to cook a roast with potatoes and carrots, and a reduction glaze, and it was fantastic. I have a gluten free cornbread mix in the pantry, and a drawer that holds a few varieties of dried beans and peas. I think beans and cornbread are on the menu for tomorrow.
While we are caring for the dogs next door, we had the idea that our regular game night shouldn't be missed, even if it isn't for D&D. With permission, we held our game in T's living room, so the boy dogs could run around and have human companionship. This way Hops doesn't have to spend as much time in the kennel. Barley is doing better, now that the bandage is off of his ear, but Mr S-P took him to a checkup this morning, and they want him to keep wearing the Cone of Shame. Poor guy. He has busted that thing up so badly, trying to tear it off. It's ripped in a couple places. The boys had to go outside while we ate the pot roast over there, but otherwise, they had lots of company. We played a brutal screw-over-your-buddy sort of game, where everyone is a super-powerful wizard with a goofy name, and you create spells to take away as many points as possible to kill all the other wizards. I didn't pay attention to the name, but I'll try to find out and pass it on. It was fun.
Now, when exactly did I go to Target? 5:30 on the day after Christmas. So it's to be expected that this is what I saw there. The retail cycle moves on.
Tuesday, December 25, 2018
Gift Exchange
Inspirational song: Santa Claus and His Old Lady (Cheech and Chong)
Merry Christmas, y'all. I had a pretty good day, but man, I'm tired now. We exchanged some fun gifts, we ate some good food, and then we drove to my sister-in-law's house and did it all over again. Great day.
Now that it has been given away, I can finally show you the stuff I made. I'm pretty proud of it.
A couple of months ago, I brought home one of those yogurt sundaes from Costco, and left it on the table. Naturally, Harvey tipped it over, and I didn't notice right away because there was a bunch of stuff piled on the table, including a paper box holding tiles that make up a D&D customizable map. The yogurt glued the box to the table, along with some character sheets, ruining all of them. To apologize for the damage Harvey and I brought, I got a basic wooden box from Michaels, copied a design from the internet, used my wood burning tool to outline it and give it dimension, stained the wood, and then painted and sealed it.. I ran out of time to line it with fabric. That's next week.
Months ago I bought a whole bunch of black yarn to crochet a wrap for myself, using the crochet action to sooth my jangled nerves. It was buy 2 get 1 free, and I got all 8 skeins from the bin. I told my younger daughter to choose the 3rd free one, and she picked this purple and green blend. I didn't ask her what sort of thing she wanted. I had done scarves already, last year. So I found a hat pattern that was kind of early 20th century, and made it all in 24 hours, staying up until 3 am that night. I kind of dig it. I might make one in a different color for myself, later in the winter.
When all the girls were teenagers, I made them thick shapeless wraps to wear around the house, and they all liked them. However, someone stole my foster daughter's wrap a while back. She asked for something she could wear while she played video games, like she used to with the old one. This was the project I took with me on the RV trip, and I absolutely loved the pattern. She says she likes it too.
I was not the only one who made gifts. Foster daughter did too, and the flames on my glass were directly inspired by my D&D character, the cranky gnome Gunda. She is a vindictive spellcaster who loves her fire bolts and, to quote the internet perfection that is Hermione Granger and the God Damn Patriarchy, "she set that bitch on fire."
Someone never got over her teenage love for Sailor Jupiter. And she likes her hat.
Mr S-P's mimosa glass.
They gave him "elf snot," and it was supposed to have a toy hidden inside it. They tried to find it, but all they found was disappointment. And snot.
Stocking detritus.
You know, I'm sort of surprised I didn't capture Momo in one of these pictures. He was in everything, climbing in the gift bags, getting trapped by that wrapping paper organizer lid (the white plastic thing), and generally being a pest. (He's the grey and white cat from the picture Friday night.)
We played a little Quiplash and You Don't Know Jack. If we had had more time, I probably could have talked them into Murder Trivia Party too.
In between nuclear family Christmas and in-laws, I had a Murder Floof break.
There are still some wide open spaces left around here, but only a few. There is construction pretty much everywhere along the route to my in-laws', except this one spot.
And that's it. I hope your holiday has been happy. I have a lot left to do this week, and then I can slide on down to my favorite holiday, New Year's Eve. I haven't figured out how I want to spend it, but I still have time to work that out.
Merry Christmas, y'all. I had a pretty good day, but man, I'm tired now. We exchanged some fun gifts, we ate some good food, and then we drove to my sister-in-law's house and did it all over again. Great day.
Now that it has been given away, I can finally show you the stuff I made. I'm pretty proud of it.
A couple of months ago, I brought home one of those yogurt sundaes from Costco, and left it on the table. Naturally, Harvey tipped it over, and I didn't notice right away because there was a bunch of stuff piled on the table, including a paper box holding tiles that make up a D&D customizable map. The yogurt glued the box to the table, along with some character sheets, ruining all of them. To apologize for the damage Harvey and I brought, I got a basic wooden box from Michaels, copied a design from the internet, used my wood burning tool to outline it and give it dimension, stained the wood, and then painted and sealed it.. I ran out of time to line it with fabric. That's next week.
Months ago I bought a whole bunch of black yarn to crochet a wrap for myself, using the crochet action to sooth my jangled nerves. It was buy 2 get 1 free, and I got all 8 skeins from the bin. I told my younger daughter to choose the 3rd free one, and she picked this purple and green blend. I didn't ask her what sort of thing she wanted. I had done scarves already, last year. So I found a hat pattern that was kind of early 20th century, and made it all in 24 hours, staying up until 3 am that night. I kind of dig it. I might make one in a different color for myself, later in the winter.
When all the girls were teenagers, I made them thick shapeless wraps to wear around the house, and they all liked them. However, someone stole my foster daughter's wrap a while back. She asked for something she could wear while she played video games, like she used to with the old one. This was the project I took with me on the RV trip, and I absolutely loved the pattern. She says she likes it too.
I was not the only one who made gifts. Foster daughter did too, and the flames on my glass were directly inspired by my D&D character, the cranky gnome Gunda. She is a vindictive spellcaster who loves her fire bolts and, to quote the internet perfection that is Hermione Granger and the God Damn Patriarchy, "she set that bitch on fire."
Someone never got over her teenage love for Sailor Jupiter. And she likes her hat.
Mr S-P's mimosa glass.
They gave him "elf snot," and it was supposed to have a toy hidden inside it. They tried to find it, but all they found was disappointment. And snot.
Stocking detritus.
You know, I'm sort of surprised I didn't capture Momo in one of these pictures. He was in everything, climbing in the gift bags, getting trapped by that wrapping paper organizer lid (the white plastic thing), and generally being a pest. (He's the grey and white cat from the picture Friday night.)
We played a little Quiplash and You Don't Know Jack. If we had had more time, I probably could have talked them into Murder Trivia Party too.
In between nuclear family Christmas and in-laws, I had a Murder Floof break.
There are still some wide open spaces left around here, but only a few. There is construction pretty much everywhere along the route to my in-laws', except this one spot.
And that's it. I hope your holiday has been happy. I have a lot left to do this week, and then I can slide on down to my favorite holiday, New Year's Eve. I haven't figured out how I want to spend it, but I still have time to work that out.
Monday, December 24, 2018
Movie Break
Inspirational song: One More Sleep 'Til Christmas (Muppet Christmas Carol)
This morning I watched a movie I've known about forever, but never actually watched. Partly inspired by seeing a trailer for a biopic coming soon, and partly from hearing my whole life how much my mother loved the Laurel and Hardy movie Babes In Toyland, I watched it when it was on AMC. I even backed it up, having initially missed the first 15 minutes of it. I might not have understood it as well as I did, had I not gotten the intro. This is not to say that I really grokked on it. It was just freaking weird. It does not hold up for the modern ethos. Lots of casual violence, lots of sexism. And I don't know what it was about animal costumes from the 1930s, but holy moly, those are the stuff of nightmares. Now I need to re-evaluate what I remember about old Stan and Ollie. Maybe that biopic needs to go on the want-to-see list.
Speaking of movies, we went to the first of what I hope will be a barrage of winter break movies last night. There are tons that I want to see, and we started with Welcome to Marwen. Five stars, would watch again. No, the military man next to me wasn't 100% satisfied, when it started with an airplane with Flying Tigers nose art that didn't fit in what he remembered as their timeline. I ignored him, recognizing immediately that it was starting with an animated sequence. The movie didn't always go in directions I expected, but it was fun being surprised. If you're looking for something to see on the break, this is worth your consideration. (Not necessarily for the youngest of kids, even if it does look like Barbie dolls. Caveat emptor.)
I am completely out of spoons. I spent every minute of today working on my gifts. One has to be punted until later in the week. I finished two of them completely, and two are... um... drying. (I don't think the recipients are reading me lately, but just in case.) I am a little woozy from fumes. I wasn't able to step away long enough to shower until 11 pm. Now that I finally took care of that, I'm barely functioning. I plan on finding a Christmas movie to leave on the TV to fall asleep to. I don't know what it will be. If I'm lucky, one of my favorites will be on somewhere (hello, Muppet Christmas Carol or White Christmas, are you listening?) but at this point I'm not ruling out a Hallmark or Lifetime movie. As long as there are sleigh bells and songs in the background, I'll be fine. I'm going to be sleeping through it anyway.
This morning I watched a movie I've known about forever, but never actually watched. Partly inspired by seeing a trailer for a biopic coming soon, and partly from hearing my whole life how much my mother loved the Laurel and Hardy movie Babes In Toyland, I watched it when it was on AMC. I even backed it up, having initially missed the first 15 minutes of it. I might not have understood it as well as I did, had I not gotten the intro. This is not to say that I really grokked on it. It was just freaking weird. It does not hold up for the modern ethos. Lots of casual violence, lots of sexism. And I don't know what it was about animal costumes from the 1930s, but holy moly, those are the stuff of nightmares. Now I need to re-evaluate what I remember about old Stan and Ollie. Maybe that biopic needs to go on the want-to-see list.
Speaking of movies, we went to the first of what I hope will be a barrage of winter break movies last night. There are tons that I want to see, and we started with Welcome to Marwen. Five stars, would watch again. No, the military man next to me wasn't 100% satisfied, when it started with an airplane with Flying Tigers nose art that didn't fit in what he remembered as their timeline. I ignored him, recognizing immediately that it was starting with an animated sequence. The movie didn't always go in directions I expected, but it was fun being surprised. If you're looking for something to see on the break, this is worth your consideration. (Not necessarily for the youngest of kids, even if it does look like Barbie dolls. Caveat emptor.)
I am completely out of spoons. I spent every minute of today working on my gifts. One has to be punted until later in the week. I finished two of them completely, and two are... um... drying. (I don't think the recipients are reading me lately, but just in case.) I am a little woozy from fumes. I wasn't able to step away long enough to shower until 11 pm. Now that I finally took care of that, I'm barely functioning. I plan on finding a Christmas movie to leave on the TV to fall asleep to. I don't know what it will be. If I'm lucky, one of my favorites will be on somewhere (hello, Muppet Christmas Carol or White Christmas, are you listening?) but at this point I'm not ruling out a Hallmark or Lifetime movie. As long as there are sleigh bells and songs in the background, I'll be fine. I'm going to be sleeping through it anyway.
Sunday, December 23, 2018
By Hook or By Crook
Inspirational song: Slit Skirts (Pete Townshend)
Two nights before Christmas, and I went to Wal-Mart... and lived to tell the tale! Want to know how? I waited to drive up there until 9:30 at night. I got great parking, no one was throwing elbows, and I only had to duck around people and say "pardon me," three times total, in the whole trip. It helped that I knew where I was going, and it wasn't to the toy aisle or anywhere near ugly sweaters. I had to go to the closest place to pick up a zipper and black thread, late on a Sunday before Christmas. Back to crafts I went, and it was easy enough that I spun through the paint section on my way out for a fresh can of Polycrylic. Yeah, I had to wait in line for a bit, but I was okay with it. I left happy, wishing the lady I stood in line with a Merry Christmas. It was a miracle.
My presents are not done yet. No one on earth should be surprised by this. I always bite off more than I can chew, and I already turned to ready-made stuff for three of my gifts. I started one of the homemade things weeks ago, and it just needs the final flourish to be done (and a hefty amount of de-cat furring). I'm well into a quickie project, and I might be done with it before I fall asleep, or at least very close. Tomorrow is going to be nuts. The biggest two are left for last. I'm sure this is a mistake.
Back to it. Creativity waits.
Two nights before Christmas, and I went to Wal-Mart... and lived to tell the tale! Want to know how? I waited to drive up there until 9:30 at night. I got great parking, no one was throwing elbows, and I only had to duck around people and say "pardon me," three times total, in the whole trip. It helped that I knew where I was going, and it wasn't to the toy aisle or anywhere near ugly sweaters. I had to go to the closest place to pick up a zipper and black thread, late on a Sunday before Christmas. Back to crafts I went, and it was easy enough that I spun through the paint section on my way out for a fresh can of Polycrylic. Yeah, I had to wait in line for a bit, but I was okay with it. I left happy, wishing the lady I stood in line with a Merry Christmas. It was a miracle.
My presents are not done yet. No one on earth should be surprised by this. I always bite off more than I can chew, and I already turned to ready-made stuff for three of my gifts. I started one of the homemade things weeks ago, and it just needs the final flourish to be done (and a hefty amount of de-cat furring). I'm well into a quickie project, and I might be done with it before I fall asleep, or at least very close. Tomorrow is going to be nuts. The biggest two are left for last. I'm sure this is a mistake.
Back to it. Creativity waits.
Saturday, December 22, 2018
A Dog’s Life
Inspirational song: Let’s Hear It for the Boy (Deniece Williams)
It’s the time of year for us to babysit the boys next door again. Last year it was just Barley and Harvey’s sister River who was staying there over Christmas. This year it’s Barley and Hops. It’s a bit more work taking care of two dogs, but you won’t catch me complaining. Not after the same neighbor took such good care of our cats and dogs (even Murray) while we took the RV to California. I’m more than happy to take my crochet projects and iPad over and keep the boys company for a few hours a day. This way Hops doesn’t have to spend most of a week in a kennel, and Barley can mope at a human about how he is the most abused dog of all time. At least that’s what he said today. He’s still in the Cone of Shame from getting his ears roughed up two weeks ago (pretty sure that his little brother was playing too aggressively when they had a guest dog), and he hates the cone more than anything. I have never seen such a dramatic display. He has to be forced off the couch to go outside, and every single step involves bashing the cone into something and wiping at it with his front paws. He is desperate to remove it or break it into unusable pieces.
Once the boys had their outside time, Barley sat on my feet while I crocheted, and Hops demonstrated how full he is of puppy energy. He kept bringing me rope toys to play tug, but growling with crazy eyes when I engaged. I’m just not sure I trust him that much, not with Cone Boy sitting on me as an example of how it all can go wrong. Hops still wants to be friends, though. He showed me how cuddly he can be, making sure his butt touched 85% of my crochet piece while he tried to find a comfy position on my lap.
I’ve had a difficult relationship with dogs most of my life. I like them in small doses, and I am adamant that they never put their mouths on my face. I’m learning to handle them more and more, and I’m getting much better about interacting with them. It helped having the greatest dog of all time, for the brief moment in time that he was mine (12 years). I’ve been missing Bump something fierce this week. I hear his voice every time Hops barks (sounds exactly the same), and yesterday there was a handsome fella in the car parked next to mine, waiting for his human to conclude their business in Petco, who looked just like my dearly departed Bumpy. Sometimes I think I’m almost done grieving, to the point where I can consider watching out for the next dog who will live with me. Then days like yesterday remind me of how good I had it, and I stop wanting to move on from the memory.
It’s the time of year for us to babysit the boys next door again. Last year it was just Barley and Harvey’s sister River who was staying there over Christmas. This year it’s Barley and Hops. It’s a bit more work taking care of two dogs, but you won’t catch me complaining. Not after the same neighbor took such good care of our cats and dogs (even Murray) while we took the RV to California. I’m more than happy to take my crochet projects and iPad over and keep the boys company for a few hours a day. This way Hops doesn’t have to spend most of a week in a kennel, and Barley can mope at a human about how he is the most abused dog of all time. At least that’s what he said today. He’s still in the Cone of Shame from getting his ears roughed up two weeks ago (pretty sure that his little brother was playing too aggressively when they had a guest dog), and he hates the cone more than anything. I have never seen such a dramatic display. He has to be forced off the couch to go outside, and every single step involves bashing the cone into something and wiping at it with his front paws. He is desperate to remove it or break it into unusable pieces.
Once the boys had their outside time, Barley sat on my feet while I crocheted, and Hops demonstrated how full he is of puppy energy. He kept bringing me rope toys to play tug, but growling with crazy eyes when I engaged. I’m just not sure I trust him that much, not with Cone Boy sitting on me as an example of how it all can go wrong. Hops still wants to be friends, though. He showed me how cuddly he can be, making sure his butt touched 85% of my crochet piece while he tried to find a comfy position on my lap.
I’ve had a difficult relationship with dogs most of my life. I like them in small doses, and I am adamant that they never put their mouths on my face. I’m learning to handle them more and more, and I’m getting much better about interacting with them. It helped having the greatest dog of all time, for the brief moment in time that he was mine (12 years). I’ve been missing Bump something fierce this week. I hear his voice every time Hops barks (sounds exactly the same), and yesterday there was a handsome fella in the car parked next to mine, waiting for his human to conclude their business in Petco, who looked just like my dearly departed Bumpy. Sometimes I think I’m almost done grieving, to the point where I can consider watching out for the next dog who will live with me. Then days like yesterday remind me of how good I had it, and I stop wanting to move on from the memory.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Crunch Time
Inspirational song: Vincent (Don McLean)
Within five feet of me, there are five art projects in various stages of production. One is my therapy crochet that I started in November, to keep my hands busy and my nerves calm. Three are Christmas presents, and I'm not saying what they are (even though one is for someone who never reads my blog and doesn't have a Facebook account, so he'll never be tipped off, and the other two are for someone who only rarely reads this page). The last one is a test piece that will probably end up a present, if I like how it comes out. Having them all within reach makes me feel like I should be working on all of them at once. Prioritizing is a bit wearying. This also makes me not want to be distracted by writing tonight. I missed a bunch of valuable work time today by shopping and going to a Saturnalia party, for which I had to prepare food to bring. I need to sketch a pattern or two out (for two completely different types of media), and then work until I fall asleep on this stuff. Time is running out.
I feel bad for cutting this short, but I absolutely must do it. To make up for it, I offer instead a photo of Mighty Momo in a gift bag, after tonight's white elephant exchange.
Within five feet of me, there are five art projects in various stages of production. One is my therapy crochet that I started in November, to keep my hands busy and my nerves calm. Three are Christmas presents, and I'm not saying what they are (even though one is for someone who never reads my blog and doesn't have a Facebook account, so he'll never be tipped off, and the other two are for someone who only rarely reads this page). The last one is a test piece that will probably end up a present, if I like how it comes out. Having them all within reach makes me feel like I should be working on all of them at once. Prioritizing is a bit wearying. This also makes me not want to be distracted by writing tonight. I missed a bunch of valuable work time today by shopping and going to a Saturnalia party, for which I had to prepare food to bring. I need to sketch a pattern or two out (for two completely different types of media), and then work until I fall asleep on this stuff. Time is running out.
I feel bad for cutting this short, but I absolutely must do it. To make up for it, I offer instead a photo of Mighty Momo in a gift bag, after tonight's white elephant exchange.
Thursday, December 20, 2018
Gaunt
Inspirational song: Heart of Lothian (Marillion)
When I left the house this morning, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Yeah, I was on the way to the rheumatologist with a list of complaints to report. But I was comfortable in my skin and comfortable in my clothes. I felt Christmasy, with a green flannel-lined jacket over a white shirt, and a Santa Claus necklace. I wasn't wearing makeup, but I felt like I didn't need it. On the way down to the doctor's office in Thornton (north of Denver), it occurred to me that I wanted to take a selfie, an impulse I very rarely experience, much less indulge. I was late to the appointment, so I skipped it. By the time I completed my appointment and ran through Costco on a fruitless attempt to buy a specific kind of canned cat food, I was too tired to remember that I'd ever had the thought.
I spent much of today like I did yesterday, trying to finish making presents while nodding off under the influence of muscle relaxers, but with the added nuance of dyspepsia. By the time I normally start blogging, I realized I had taken no photos today worth sharing, and I remembered the impulse from earlier. I wondered whether it was still worth trying a selfie. I tried no less than twenty times, each one worse than the one before. No matter what angle I held the camera, I looked gaunt and unamused. Now I wish I had done it earlier also, to see if I really collapsed that much from the vibrant person I thought I was at 10 this morning, to the groggy, sore shell I am now.
I have just enough of an ego not to want to put up a lot of really bad pictures of me, and I'm self-conscious enough to think most of them aren't that great. It would probably be healthy for me to stop hiding so much. It will take a lot to take the sting out of seeing pictures I hate, but in the interest of personal growth, here is the least bad one from just now:
When I left the house this morning, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Yeah, I was on the way to the rheumatologist with a list of complaints to report. But I was comfortable in my skin and comfortable in my clothes. I felt Christmasy, with a green flannel-lined jacket over a white shirt, and a Santa Claus necklace. I wasn't wearing makeup, but I felt like I didn't need it. On the way down to the doctor's office in Thornton (north of Denver), it occurred to me that I wanted to take a selfie, an impulse I very rarely experience, much less indulge. I was late to the appointment, so I skipped it. By the time I completed my appointment and ran through Costco on a fruitless attempt to buy a specific kind of canned cat food, I was too tired to remember that I'd ever had the thought.
I spent much of today like I did yesterday, trying to finish making presents while nodding off under the influence of muscle relaxers, but with the added nuance of dyspepsia. By the time I normally start blogging, I realized I had taken no photos today worth sharing, and I remembered the impulse from earlier. I wondered whether it was still worth trying a selfie. I tried no less than twenty times, each one worse than the one before. No matter what angle I held the camera, I looked gaunt and unamused. Now I wish I had done it earlier also, to see if I really collapsed that much from the vibrant person I thought I was at 10 this morning, to the groggy, sore shell I am now.
I have just enough of an ego not to want to put up a lot of really bad pictures of me, and I'm self-conscious enough to think most of them aren't that great. It would probably be healthy for me to stop hiding so much. It will take a lot to take the sting out of seeing pictures I hate, but in the interest of personal growth, here is the least bad one from just now:
Refugee Camp
Inspirational song: I'll Be Home for Christmas (Bing Crosby)
This is the hardest part of the trip review, discussing the evacuee camp and how it made me feel. I promised, and I owe it to all involved to follow through, so ready or not, here are the pictures from the final day and a half of the trip.
The Camp:
This was right after we met our man for the first time. He was pretty quiet at first, assumably because he was overwhelmed. He had been through a lot in the five weeks leading up to this moment. He and his boys had 20 minutes' notice to escape the burning town. Navigating the retreat was beyond difficult. Exit routes were jammed, and not everyone they saw got out alive. Someone had offered them a different RV within a day or two of their escape, but he wasn't in the right head space to accept at that moment. They were all in shock, and had to process and settle before they could move to that step. I'm glad that by the time we were ready to donate our RV, he was there to receive it. He's such a good man, and I felt honored to be able to help him in every way we could.
Washed out picture. There were multiple copies of this sign. It reads: "Red Cross services at this location are intended for those who have lost their homes in the Camp Fire." I took this seriously, and took as little as possible of the resources offered. It wasn't just the gluten that made me refuse when the vans went around with meals. I didn't want to deprive anyone else of food by taking it. I didn't use their showers, and only at the very end did I use a port-a potty. I felt conspicuous just taking up 30 feet of parking lot space in the staging area. I know that part of this warning is aimed at the chronically homeless who showed up at first, who were soon kicked out of camp. I have mixed feelings about that. Maybe someday I'll pick it apart in a blog post.
The Mr always called the RV "Beastie." It was a beast, alright. Maybe it was pretty once upon a time, in 1989 when it rolled off the production line.
Just on the other side of that fence was the "permanent" section. There were RVs and tents, and everyone on this side was waiting for a slot to open up in there. They had electricity and water hookups in there. Once I saw a forklift with a set up tent on the blades, getting moved around. I never passed through the gate. I don't know more than what it looked like from a distance.
Maybe it was shift change, but late in the afternoon on Thursday, half a dozen cop cars parked next to us. We weren't doing anything wrong. Quite the opposite. But I had a lot of anxiety about why they were there in such numbers, right next to my door. I never found out what was happening.
I was glad that we had our own private place to bathe. I don't think I could handle showering in a truck like this. I'm not generally a germaphobe, but this makes me feel like one.
We took a Lyft to dinner Thursday night, and on the way to the entrance to the fairgrounds, I took this picture. It gave me a weird feeling. It felt like "fresh arrival from a disaster scene," even though this was for the volunteers, not the refugees.
Friday morning, we had packed up all of our stuff (red suitcase) by the time our man showed up after work. Mr S-P and he unloaded his car into the RV. It was the first time he'd had a place he could access it all, that he could lock, since the escape.
We started seeing how many organizations and companies had donated. The blankets I made are in the stack next to the window shade. There were plenty of others.
They were given shoes, clothes, dishes, pots and pans, bedding, toiletries, and so much more. I think he actually bought the tarps, and I don't remember what he said he would use them for. Maybe where the sunshade was missing off the RV frame? Dunno.
Every group you could imagine was involved in the volunteer and donation effort. These labels are from the Bay Area Muslim Community and the Taiwan Buddhist Tzu Chi Foundation. Non profits, corporations, individuals... Help came from all directions.
Before we left, we were invited into a restricted area (we had wristbands that allowed access), to tour the dormitories and services. I learned a lot and left feeling even more humbled.
The big trailer Verizon set up had computers, a wall of every charger imaginable, and a shaded courtyard outside with televisions.
When I finally got the nerve to try a port-a-potty, I found them far cleaner than I feared. This was on the inside of the door. I was told that illnesses had been traveling around camp, and they had done a whole lot to tamp down the spread of viruses and to keep conditions sanitary. They had extra large port-a-potties that were reserved for people who were throwing up.
I've lived a sheltered life, I guess. I never thought about how many people would try to bring needles and syringes into a place like this. Some may be diabetics, yes, but there were also drug addicts wanting to shoot up heroin or other IV drugs. Security was a big issue (see the cops cars above). This is part of why they shooed the chronically homeless away, I understand. One man had showed up the week we were there who had a trench coat with a big knife in one inner pocket and a collection of needles and syringes in the other.
More health care volunteers. Just behind me in this picture was a big trailer that had hot water on tap for hand washing. I had used the cold water in a different station to wash after using the toilet, not knowing that the other was there. The things that become luxuries or comfort items--I wouldn't have thought of it.
Creepy mechanical Christmas decorations right outside the family dorm. (No, I'm referring to the hugging bear, not the man it's hugging.)
How difficult it must be to keep clothes clean in a refugee camp. But it would be so necessary to feel normal and positive.
I didn't go inside. Men only in this dorm. But he described what it was like on the cots. Most people sleep with headphones on so the sound of other people doesn't interfere with the ability to sleep. One night, our man left his headphones off, and heard a guy nearby having a seizure. He held his head to keep him from swallowing his tongue while someone else called 911 and when the paramedics arrived, they said that he most likely saved his life.
I saw a school bus once, but I never saw children playing, not a single one. I saw someone pushing a stroller but it was full of stuff, not a baby. The lack of children, and the lack of play, bothered me deeply.
Friday afternoon, we flew home. This dancing rabbit was near the entrance to the Sacramento airport. By this time I was exhausted and so ready to be home with my fur babies, in my own bed, having used my own shower. I was so glad I had a home to go to. I am grateful and I am humbled.
This is the hardest part of the trip review, discussing the evacuee camp and how it made me feel. I promised, and I owe it to all involved to follow through, so ready or not, here are the pictures from the final day and a half of the trip.
The Camp:
This was right after we met our man for the first time. He was pretty quiet at first, assumably because he was overwhelmed. He had been through a lot in the five weeks leading up to this moment. He and his boys had 20 minutes' notice to escape the burning town. Navigating the retreat was beyond difficult. Exit routes were jammed, and not everyone they saw got out alive. Someone had offered them a different RV within a day or two of their escape, but he wasn't in the right head space to accept at that moment. They were all in shock, and had to process and settle before they could move to that step. I'm glad that by the time we were ready to donate our RV, he was there to receive it. He's such a good man, and I felt honored to be able to help him in every way we could.
Washed out picture. There were multiple copies of this sign. It reads: "Red Cross services at this location are intended for those who have lost their homes in the Camp Fire." I took this seriously, and took as little as possible of the resources offered. It wasn't just the gluten that made me refuse when the vans went around with meals. I didn't want to deprive anyone else of food by taking it. I didn't use their showers, and only at the very end did I use a port-a potty. I felt conspicuous just taking up 30 feet of parking lot space in the staging area. I know that part of this warning is aimed at the chronically homeless who showed up at first, who were soon kicked out of camp. I have mixed feelings about that. Maybe someday I'll pick it apart in a blog post.
The Mr always called the RV "Beastie." It was a beast, alright. Maybe it was pretty once upon a time, in 1989 when it rolled off the production line.
Just on the other side of that fence was the "permanent" section. There were RVs and tents, and everyone on this side was waiting for a slot to open up in there. They had electricity and water hookups in there. Once I saw a forklift with a set up tent on the blades, getting moved around. I never passed through the gate. I don't know more than what it looked like from a distance.
Maybe it was shift change, but late in the afternoon on Thursday, half a dozen cop cars parked next to us. We weren't doing anything wrong. Quite the opposite. But I had a lot of anxiety about why they were there in such numbers, right next to my door. I never found out what was happening.
I was glad that we had our own private place to bathe. I don't think I could handle showering in a truck like this. I'm not generally a germaphobe, but this makes me feel like one.
We took a Lyft to dinner Thursday night, and on the way to the entrance to the fairgrounds, I took this picture. It gave me a weird feeling. It felt like "fresh arrival from a disaster scene," even though this was for the volunteers, not the refugees.
Friday morning, we had packed up all of our stuff (red suitcase) by the time our man showed up after work. Mr S-P and he unloaded his car into the RV. It was the first time he'd had a place he could access it all, that he could lock, since the escape.
We started seeing how many organizations and companies had donated. The blankets I made are in the stack next to the window shade. There were plenty of others.
They were given shoes, clothes, dishes, pots and pans, bedding, toiletries, and so much more. I think he actually bought the tarps, and I don't remember what he said he would use them for. Maybe where the sunshade was missing off the RV frame? Dunno.
Every group you could imagine was involved in the volunteer and donation effort. These labels are from the Bay Area Muslim Community and the Taiwan Buddhist Tzu Chi Foundation. Non profits, corporations, individuals... Help came from all directions.
Before we left, we were invited into a restricted area (we had wristbands that allowed access), to tour the dormitories and services. I learned a lot and left feeling even more humbled.
The big trailer Verizon set up had computers, a wall of every charger imaginable, and a shaded courtyard outside with televisions.
When I finally got the nerve to try a port-a-potty, I found them far cleaner than I feared. This was on the inside of the door. I was told that illnesses had been traveling around camp, and they had done a whole lot to tamp down the spread of viruses and to keep conditions sanitary. They had extra large port-a-potties that were reserved for people who were throwing up.
I've lived a sheltered life, I guess. I never thought about how many people would try to bring needles and syringes into a place like this. Some may be diabetics, yes, but there were also drug addicts wanting to shoot up heroin or other IV drugs. Security was a big issue (see the cops cars above). This is part of why they shooed the chronically homeless away, I understand. One man had showed up the week we were there who had a trench coat with a big knife in one inner pocket and a collection of needles and syringes in the other.
More health care volunteers. Just behind me in this picture was a big trailer that had hot water on tap for hand washing. I had used the cold water in a different station to wash after using the toilet, not knowing that the other was there. The things that become luxuries or comfort items--I wouldn't have thought of it.
Creepy mechanical Christmas decorations right outside the family dorm. (No, I'm referring to the hugging bear, not the man it's hugging.)
How difficult it must be to keep clothes clean in a refugee camp. But it would be so necessary to feel normal and positive.
I didn't go inside. Men only in this dorm. But he described what it was like on the cots. Most people sleep with headphones on so the sound of other people doesn't interfere with the ability to sleep. One night, our man left his headphones off, and heard a guy nearby having a seizure. He held his head to keep him from swallowing his tongue while someone else called 911 and when the paramedics arrived, they said that he most likely saved his life.
I saw a school bus once, but I never saw children playing, not a single one. I saw someone pushing a stroller but it was full of stuff, not a baby. The lack of children, and the lack of play, bothered me deeply.
Friday afternoon, we flew home. This dancing rabbit was near the entrance to the Sacramento airport. By this time I was exhausted and so ready to be home with my fur babies, in my own bed, having used my own shower. I was so glad I had a home to go to. I am grateful and I am humbled.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)