Average

Inspirational song: I’m Only Sleeping (The Beatles)

This was such an action packed day. Busy, busy, busy.

No, just kidding. I had two naps and my biggest accomplishment was cleaning my bathroom. I don’t have quite as much acute pain as yesterday (skipping my lupus meds for three days was stupid), but I still feel like a little old lady who just loaded a moving van by herself. I’m tired and sore all the time. Twelve more days of this is going to drag by, waiting to find out what the biopsy reveals. I’ll have good and bad days between now and then, I assume. I still can’t guess whether the fatigue is even related to this problem. If it’s just a cyst, then I have to consider the fatigue may be from stress making autoimmune symptoms worse. I don’t even know whether they do anything for cysts other than aspirate them, so maybe that’s why my doc didn’t suggest antibiotics just in case.

I’m so tired of illness sucking my quality of life away. I don’t need to be superwoman, but it would be cool to have the energy and pain levels of an average middle aged woman. Instead, I feel like I’m dragging down the curve. If that makes you feel above average, you’re welcome.

Must See

Inspirational song: White Russian (Marillion)

How many people called in sick today? Televisions everywhere were tuned in to C-SPAN and cable news, and broadband networks must have been jam-packed with streaming traffic. Today was the broadcast of the year, for all that the year is young yet. Like millions of people around the country, my eyes were glued to the Congressional Oversight Committee hearing. I found it fascinating. It will be, without a doubt, one of those fragments of television that will be replayed for as long as our country is conscious of its own history.

I was a serious-minded child, but not starting until the late 1970s. I was not so interested in grown up issues earlier in that decade, so even if we had had more television access than Armed Forces Network in Germany when I was really little, it is unlikely that I would have watched John Dean testify, and I certainly wouldn't have understood what was happening if I did wander through while my parents watched. (It's possible this happened, but I honestly don't remember. It was that unimportant to me.) Years later, when Iran Contra hearings were buzzing around the nation's televisions, I was busy being a student, but not of current affairs. I was more interested in languages and art history, in both high school and college. In fact, it should say something about how little I cared about Iran Contra that I don't remember exactly when it happened, whether I was in high school or college, and I can't be bothered to look it up. For the Clinton impeachment brouhaha, I was a young mother at our first duty station as an air force family. I knew it was happening, but there were more important things to obsess on, like raising my kids and being the best librarian I could be without that particular masters degree. This is the first big governmental scandal that I've allowed myself to focus this much energy on. I've read and listened to so much, I should get an honorary PhD when it's over. If it were possible to CLEP your way into a doctorate, I'd succeed with both hands tied behind my back.

I won't tell my audience how to feel about what we saw today. There are people I love on wildly divergent points on the political spectrum. They will have viewed today's hearing very differently from each other and from me. I will assert, however, that things will change as a result of things that were said. I realize my song choice for tonight seems on the surface to be a reference to the overarching theme of the scandal. That was secondary. The real reason I chose it was the opening line, a haunting echo of the same lyrics several times over: "Where do we go from here?"

A Look Inside

Inspirational song: Pulling Mussels (Squeeze)

Now that the first round of testing is over, and the wait begins for the second, more invasive test, I've decided to open up about what is going on. If I have to agonize waiting for round two, y'all get to wait with me. There is no way I can do another two weeks of finding euphemisms along the lines of "feeling under the weather" to maintain secrecy. I don't have it in me to lie or hide things. Besides, long ago I accepted my role of serving as a warning to others. So be warned.

It was late summer or early fall 2016 the last time my doctor's office called me and said, "hey, knucklehead, go get a mammogram already." (I'm paraphrasing there.) I'd been thinking since last October that I was probably due again, but I did nothing about it. Around then I started thinking it was the underwire in my bra that was digging into the extra padding I carry under my arms, and that's what was making me sore there off and on. In January I had a recurring itch on one side that I also put far too little thought into. Then around the first of February I found the lump. I am, to put it mildly, a curvy girl. A lump was able to hide in my breast for quite a while. I don't know how long. Possibly up to two years, since just after the last mammogram. From the outside it felt as big as a grape. I went into the doctor a few days after I found it, telling the office manager who booked the appointment that I had no idea whether it was an infection or something scarier.

The doctor made a frowny face when she investigated it. She put in an order for a scan (and I believe I wrote at the time that it took five phone calls to get the appointment) and just in case, she initiated a referral to an oncologist, so that there would be no delay if I have to go to one. I don't think she expected it to take two weeks for the imaging center to see me. She also deleted the note the tech wrote in my chart that said I was theorizing it could be mastitis.

My scans were today. It was the regular squeezy mammogram, which felt decidedly less comfortable on the lump side. Then I went in for an ultrasound, and that also felt kind of icky when she pressed the wand down on me. The mass itself is roughly 7/8 of an inch. That's all I know about it. No dimpling of the skin, no description of the physical features of the lump, no other characterization. The one lymph node they looked at looked normal. So I guess that's mostly good?

I have to wait two whole weeks for a biopsy, and because of where it's located, I've been warned that it will be hard to numb. Hooray. In the meantime, I will continue to be freaked out by every little twinge of pain or discomfort (which is somewhat better now that I bought several bras without underwires). I expect I'll still feel run down, tired, and achy while I wait, if for no other reason than the continuation of stress. I remain optimistic, however, that it could be absolutely no big deal. Even if it is a big deal, the science has come a long way, and I will place my trust in science any day of the week. I got this.

Testing

Inspirational song: Tired of Waiting for You (The Kinks)

There's about 10 hours to go until my next round of tests. I've been feeling absolutely awful for three weeks now, and maybe tomorrow evening I'll have more of an idea what's going on. More likely I'll have just enough info to move on to more tests. That's the way it always goes, isn't it?

I've been hiding from most communications for three days now. I have a voice mail that's been festering since Saturday morning, and I know who it's from. I just don't want to deal with it. I have money waiting for me in an app, and the thought of figuring out how to retrieve it makes my stomach hurt. (Clarification: it makes my stomach hurt worse. It hurts almost all the time lately.) I'm miles behind on emails. As with most days, I crashed hard around 3:30 or 4 this afternoon, and I slept through my honorary congressman getting interviewed on TV. (I say honorary because I miss his district by just a few blocks, I think, and I hope the lines get redrawn after the next census to put me back under his representation.) There's not much reaching me right now.

I'm dreading the tests tomorrow. Normally it's the sort of thing that won't hurt, but I have been so sore and tender all over, I don't want to be messed with at all.  I don't have much choice. Can't skip. Doesn't mean I won't whine about it.

Set Aside

Inspirational song: Shallow (Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper)

For the most part, the Oscars were okay. There were fewer awkward moments. Not none, but fewer. Most of the wins seemed uncontroversial to me. Most, not all. The clothes were more beautiful, and by that, I mean some of the men were far less constrained to wearing only black and white tuxes. That was truly wonderful to me. I declined to watch the red carpet pre-show, so apparently I missed out on some of the more spectacular outfits for the men, but at least two of the presenters came out in mauve and magenta tuxes (one each). I kind of love it that there is more room for creativity.

I've been contemplating getting back into clothing design more seriously lately, and I've talked about it a little bit. It probably wasn't wise to watch the ultimate fashion show (or so I've always considered it) while I was still so tired though. Rather than being inspired, I had to fight the impulse to give up. I always loved imagining myself accepting an Oscar for costume design, but tonight I just looked at the pretty colors and let them go by. I ain't got energy for that now.

I say this often, but this brings it home that I really have too many projects on hold right now. I have a large blanket I'm making for my neighbor that was supposed to be done two months ago. I have a giant crochet shrug that I started last fall that I keep setting aside. I have a sock on a loom that is going well enough for a first-ever try, but I haven't worked a stitch on it this calendar month. I started an actual knitting-needles project over and over and over (seriously, I pulled it apart and knitted the same inch and a half no fewer than twelve times -- TWELVE!), and I forced myself not to mess with it until I've finished a couple of the other things. And then I have my entire craft room half-sorted into plastic shoe-boxes and spread out everywhere. I keep fighting the impulse to paint things (like a new D&D character I have planned for the next 5th edition campaign we will be starting soon) or carve or build or something else new. So looking at it this way, it's a good thing the Oscars didn't send me running for my fabric drawer to see what I could start. Let someone with a studio and staff do that sort of thing now. I'll watch from here.

Oh, Boy

Inspirational song: I’m a Boy (The Who)

I failed to take any photos today, and I’m not just complaining about being too slow whipping out my phone when the large, beautiful magpie landed on the little tree right outside my sister-in-law’s kitchen door. He was only there a few seconds, and I tried to capture him in pixels, but magpies are notoriously capricious and camera-shy. Someday I will encounter a magpie who wants to pose for me. Someday.

My lack of photos bothers me because we were at another baby shower for our daughters’ cousins, and I enjoy documenting a little of this for posterity. This is the third boy joining the next generation in as many years. The house was packed with extended family, many of whom I’d never met before. Our nieces and nephews are proving to be excellent parents, and I have every reason to believe the next pair on deck will be just as good. They have access to so much more information than we did, and child rearing theory has advanced and evolved significantly since we were reading the What to Expect books and crossing our fingers. There’s still a month to go, and we are all very excited to meet the third great-nephew.

We stopped for a few items at Costco on the way home, and just the two short trips across the parking lot in the cold wind that had picked up while we were at the party drained the life out of me. Mr S-P retired for the night just after 8, and my goal is to have all my pills taken and lights out by 9. What party animals we are now. An afternoon with family, and asleep before SNL even starts. See, this is why parenting is best done by young people. There’s no way I could start over from the beginning now. I don’t have those energy reserves anymore.

Jelly

Inspirational song: Hey Jealousy (Gin Blossoms)

It isn't fair, I tell you. The weather gods are taunting me. It kinda snowed today. Lightly all day, and then a little heavier when the kid and I went to Target. There was maybe an inch total, at most. Really, it was just enough to make the parking lot slick when we went back out to the car.

But on the news tonight, the reporter doing the weather remote was in Centennial (south Denver) and he showed the snow up to his ankles. The viewer-submitted photos from the far southwest part of the state were of snowdrifts as tall as men and of humans being stupid enough to walk on their roofs to knock down the knee-deep snow. Mr S-P said Flagstaff, Arizona got shoulder-deep snow.

I can't stand it. I'm so jealous and it's eating me up inside.

I think I'm a little mad, too. I need to snuggle with my cats and wallow in my snow-deprived misery.

Happy Childhood

Inspirational song: Your Auntie Grizelda (The Monkees)

Everyone was right. They warned us all. When/if you watch the documentary about Mr Rogers, have tissues handy. You'll be shredded by the end of it like I was, wondering how we ever deserved to have that man walk among us.

I periodically record a handful of things off of HBO, not knowing whether I'll ever get around to watching them. Earlier this week I set up four or five upcoming shows with the same low expectations. One was "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" and we got around to watching it sooner than I thought we would, thank goodness. This tells a very complete story about Fred Rogers, from his early exposure to television, through his successes and inner fears and opportunities for emotional growth, all the way to his loved ones reflecting quietly about him after he left us. I'm crying inside for how much he cared about all of us when we were tiny, and how he wanted us to continue to care about the small ones once we got big. He was such a fierce defender of innocence. I loved him when I was little, went through a phase where I thought I was too old and sophisticated for him, and came back to understand how much I love him still.

If that poignant trip to my past weren't enough, before I could get the TV turned off, I was reminded that another piece of it is now gone, as of today. The Monkees aired before I was born, but when I was in high school, MTV rebroadcast the series, and I discovered how much I would have enjoyed watching them if I'd been a teenager in the 60s. I remember being nineteen and the older guy I had a huge crush on at CU found that I was still listening to them, and he gave me crap about it. I refused to be shamed. They represented a vivacious innocence I needed to hang onto, and I wasn't about to let it go. Not then. Now that Peter Tork has passed away, I may need to revisit that goofy, wonderful bit of history. It sure was fun.

I had a very quiet day today, on purpose. I am still waiting on a diagnostic test that will hopefully tell me what's going on that is dragging me down so badly. I went to my doctor a week ago, not knowing whether I had an infection of some sort, or something else. She didn't agree with my inflammation theory right away and instead ordered imaging that couldn't be scheduled until next week, and every day I wait I feel worse. I normally hate going on antibiotics for any reason, but the longer I wait for my appointment, the more I wish she had given me a course just in case. I know she had no idea they'd put me off for two weeks, but I feel like she should have assumed it. I'm dealing with a ton of fatigue and soreness, and I look like crap. I look like this is a bad autoimmune flare, or that's what I think when I look at my pale face and unusually flushed mouth in the mirror. (It doesn't help that I am also still in the jammies I wore for D&D last night, having not showered since right before the gang came over yesterday.) I feel so crappy I'm willing to put up a terribly unflattering photo of me from mid-day, when I had three cats holding me down on my chair like turtles on a log (to repeat a description my mom used recently). Maybe tomorrow I'll feel perkier.

Birthday Adjacent

Inspirational song: I Could Be Happy (Altered Images)

It's virtually impossible to keep a surprise party a surprise when the recipient of the party lives on the premises and gets off work in the early afternoon. In this case, I didn't make a big deal out of what I was preparing, but I didn't try to go out of my way to hide it either. I knew preparing for the Mr's early birthday dinner with the gang tonight would be enough work without sneaking around too. I calmly waited until he left for the college to go grocery shopping, and I was in the process of browning beef for the main course when he got home. I enlisted his help in pulling out my heavy stand mixer, and handed him a spatula and the bowl when I was done filling the cake pan. ("Batter? Why do we have batter?" he asked.) On my daughter's suggestion, I made one of his favorite foods from when the kids were little: stewed monkey brains (more accurately known as stuffed peppers), and angel food cake, which his family served at every single birthday gathering as long as his mother was alive, and for quite a few years after she died. I also got him rocky road ice cream, which has an inside-joke reference for three of us who were in attendance tonight. (Suffice it to say that a rocky road beer float is NOT a good idea. We confirmed that when all three of us shared an apartment in Boulder in the 80s.)

He's been working way too hard for months, and admitted he is only vaguely aware of the progression of the calendar year. He really wasn't sure which day of the week his birthday was on, and kept forgetting that it was this week at all. If we hadn't taken the time to acknowledge it tonight, he might not have given us another opportunity.

It seems apparent that all of us wanted him to spend more time playing, as most of our gifts were either games or game-adjacent. Let's all hope that he's able to spend more quality time in leisure pursuits in the coming year. For that matter, I would like that for all of us. It sounds much more appealing than the alternatives.

The Quiet Stretch

Inspirational song: Black Cow (Steely Dan)

Over six years, I have noticed that winters are a very difficult time to keep up with a daily blog. The whole world slows down. Everyone stays inside and activities are repetitive and boring. Nothing is growing, nothing is blooming. We do less construction. At least we’ve gone on a couple of road trips to break things up. The monotony of indoors season is overwhelming. I want to be interesting, I really do. Interesting is just scaled back a bit for a few months.

I may have more to go over in a week, but I don’t want to set any expectations about it. I don’t even want to generalize about what I’m anticipating coming down the pike. If it happens, I’ll go over it in detail. If not, I’ll fill you in on what it was, and why it was a secret. Unfortunately, either way it’s going to be ridiculously expensive, and I have to pay for it.

It’s a bone-chilling night, and cold air is seeping down from under the curtains. I will have to fight for legroom around these sleepy knuckleheads, but at least I’ll be uncomfortably warm on the bottom half of my body to offset the top half being in a cold draft. It's not an ideal trade off.

Snuggle Bunny

Inspirational song: Crying (Roy Orbison)

Quick peek behind the curtains--I've been feeling particularly crummy for a while now, and trying not to talk about it. I say quite enough about my health not to want to whine every time I'm slightly under the weather. But this one is taking a long time to resolve, so I need a night where all I do is say I'm taking a break, and then Rabbit and I will cuddle until one or both of us feels better. So that's what tonight will be. She's already giving me sleepy eyes and purring in my general direction. Catch you tomorrow.

From Grandma's Kitchen

Inspirational song: The Cover Is Not the Book (Mary Poppins Returns)

The 1970s paid a visit this weekend. In my years-long quest to unpack all the boxes I've been moving around the country, every time Uncle Sam pointed his finger at our family and said "GO," I went through one that had not been opened in quite a while. My handwriting on the top said "2008 - Less used serving pieces, Eleanor's kitchen stuff, Glenfiddich water pitcher, Crystal cougar." Ten and a half years ago, I boxed this up in the California desert, and promptly forgot most of this stuff existed. The cougar was a glass piece that the Mr gave me a billion years ago, to match a dog and a cat the girls got one Christmas. I think he might have bought them on a deployment in Germany. I put it on top of a dresser in my room, in the hopes that the cats won't throw it to the floor. It seemed like the safest place. The pitcher came from a tour of the whisky distillery on our second honeymoon to Scotland back in summer of 2000. It was the other stuff that really made me excited though.

There was a large, shallow serving bowl that sort of resembles French white Corningware, and I know I'll be able to put it to use right away with how often we feed the nerd crew here and next door. There was also a large glass piece that didn't survive five moves, six if you count that this ended up in our daughter's garage (why?) and just came over here last week. It was on the bottom of the heavy box, and was probably cheaply made, a bright, decorative, non-food-safe thing from Pier 1. It was pretty, but I won't miss it all that much.

The real treasures were the pieces from my grandmother's house. I found her clear glass lidded pot, the one I can clearly remember being used to make Minute Rice when I was a little girl. The lid has a chip or two now, but maybe that will help vent steam from real rice, if I try to use it just like I remember from childhood. There were three original Cornflower pattern Corningware dishes, the 1 1/2 cup petite square casseroles. I haven't figured out what I'll use them for yet. Maybe artichoke dips or something, to place at either end of a long table on game night. And then there were the Ellinger agatized wood bowls. I'm really excited about those. I remember her serving popcorn in them, back in the days when that small of a serving was customary and plenty for a little kid. I also had countless bowls of cream of celery soup in those (I hated mushrooms, so that was my go-to). I am not sure how, but in my mind, the bowl affected the taste and improved it greatly. I can't use the canned stuff anymore because it has wheat in it, but now that I've found these, I'm going to have to create a more refined, gourmet, gluten-free version of it. I may start experimenting as soon as tomorrow. If I come up with a good recipe, I'll share it.

Autonomy

Inspirational song: He Won’t Go (Adele)

After a long stretch of mild winter, we are once again moving to a more seasonable pattern of solidly cold overnight lows and a slight chance of snow daily for the next two weeks at least. Today took a turn I hadn’t expected, and dumped a thin coat of wet, slushy snow while I was at my monthly massage. You would think it was significantly colder than it really was, or that our (reliable) hot water heat suddenly shut off. Once I was home, I was swarmed by animals, acting like they needed extra body heat to survive. They won’t leave me alone, and lately, I kinda want them to. When they are fighting for prime real estate on my lap, and when the oldest starts growling at the youngest for daring to share space on my shins, it starts to get old. It’s nice that they are all such cuddlers, but it would be nice to have a say in how often I’m allowed to stand up. They give me such guilt, whining and hanging like they are being mistreated if I pick them up so I can move at all.

I’m in a cranky phase right now, not feeling well, and not wanting to be pressed against by nuclear reactors in fur coats. How does one chase them away while still reserving the ability to bring them back when I feel better? I’m achy and sore and not controlling my own temperature well. And I’m also tired of being shoved off the edge of the bed by a little old lady who probably doesn’t even weigh ten pounds anymore, who takes up an entire king sized bed by herself. I can’t push her around, because she’s old and fragile. I don’t want to yell at her, because we have a lifetime agreement for being besties. Am I going to have to learn to sleep with a door closed? Is that allowed?

Berfday

Inspirational song: My Old School (Steely Dan)

What year is this? Are we sure it isn't still the last quintile of the 20th century, and I'm still in college? It sure felt like hanging out in the dorm common room again tonight. The only difference was the age range of the "kids" draped around a giant sectional sofa, playing videogames. T's living room might as well be the dorm hangout, for how we behave and how often we are all there.

Our foster daughter's birthday is this weekend. So that she can have her actual birthday to herself and her husband, we lured her to T's for "game night," and we teamed up for burgers, salad, and cake without tipping her off ahead of time. I think she had a good night. There was an awful lot of laughing, trash-talking, and swearing over the games. Food was good and plentiful, and libations flowed. Even T's dogs were well-behaved all night.

For years we had sort of let birthdays creep into barely more than a blip on the calendar, an excuse for a restaurant meal and little more. In the last couple cycles, we've been making more of a big deal out of them, and it's somewhat refreshing. We still aren't going overboard on presents (and I'm fine with this), but we are doing better about all showing up and acknowledging the passing of the calendar. It helps that our neighbor is very focused on remembering everyone's birthdays and making sure the birthday girl or boy gets all available attention. Of all the traditions to re-establish, this is a good one.

Betrayed

Inspirational song: Don't Do Me Like That (Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers)

It's another "woe is me" time. I'm fond of using nutritional remedies for simple ailments. When I have an upset tummy, as I often do, I'm more comfortable reaching for a ginger ale or peppermint tea, especially when that's easy and available. (Full disclosure, sometimes I like Coca Cola for an upset stomach too, mostly because that's what my parents let me have when I was barfing and feverish in elementary school.) In the last year or two, I discovered peppermint capsules are a little more powerful, although they make burps more interesting. And then for the last two months, I have been drinking golden milk almost every day, and as long as I used lactose-free milk, it was doing all right by me.

I had a late dinner, of greasy (GF) pizza. I two-fisted my beverages, setting myself up with both a can of ginger ale and a tall mug of golden milk for dessert. And now that it's all gone, I'm thinking that more is not necessarily better. I think someone cranked a vice around my stomach. I am betrayed. My favorite comfort foods did not provide comfort!

Why you do me like this, large quantity of ginger?

Dworc

Inspirational song: The Bear and the Maiden Fair (Game of Thrones)

Wednesday nights are dork nights. We went next door and wallowed in the nerdiness of D&D for hours. As usual, intoxicating beverages flowed, and we stayed long enough to be exhausted by the time we got home. Or at least I am, and I got the message I wasn't the only one who was tired by the end of the night. I'm wiped and ready to turn out the lights.

This campaign for the 5th edition of D&D is nearly wrapped up. The Mr has been planning his own, to come soon. He has given us a vague notion of what is coming next. I had planned on making my character totally random, a roll of dice determining whether I'd play male or female, old, young, tough, canny, whatever. Then through conversation I had an epiphany, and decided I had to play an Amazon. No way I can change now. My mind is made up. It was only after I had announced it to the group, setting it in stone, that I realized what I had done. For my foster-son-in-law's campaign, I'm playing my own version of The Hound from Game of Thrones. He's big, ugly, a good fighter, and a little leery of fire. For the new campaign my husband will run, I'm going to be Brienne of Tarth. Everyone talked me into making her super tall (over six feet), and she's going to be all about fighting skills. I didn't do it on purpose, but I find myself comfortable with these choices.

In tonight's big battle, we fought reanimated skeletons of a hybrid of dwarves and orcs. We were told to call them "dworcs." I liked the word, for all that it sounds like "dorks." Yeah. It fits the group. We are nerds, really. Giant nerds. And I like it.

Squirrel Nuggets

Inspirational song: Let 'em In (Paul McCartney)

If only we were faster with a camera.

In the recent past, I've mentioned our "trained" squirrel. He/she (I tend to think she) is brave. She comes up between the dogs to the back steps, and looks in the sliding glass door, unafraid of the cat faces staring back at her with murder in their eyes. She stands on her hind legs when one of us humans appears, and it sure looks like her paws are in a supplicant's pose. She has even been known to accept treats from a crack in the door (open only two inches, so that Harvey stays on the warm side of it.)

Mr S-P and neighbor T brewed a beer with ground hazelnuts that were pulled out of the wort and reserved after the boil. The Mr baked a couple of batches of hard tack from them, to set out for the squirrels (in general, not just our brave warrior). They usually get put inside the wire cages (heavier than tomato cages, good for peonies and roses) that we keep around the birdfeeders so the dogs don't graze on dropped seeds. The squirrels can sit safely inside the perimeter and eat them.

This morning, we were laughing at Elsa's desperation to poke her nose in through the cage, to steal the squirrel nuggets. She couldn't get them. Mr S-P took a video and sent it to me and the kids in a message. While I was giggling over that, I looked up through the front window. Hanging on the brick next to my house numbers, at about five and a half feet off the top step of the porch, was my brave little squirrel. I sucked in a breath and held it, as if she could hear me, as if it would have scared her anyway. But unfortunately, before I could get my phone awake (it runs slowly these days), both boys came running up out of nowhere, climbing into the windowsill, knocking plants over, scaring off the beggar.

I had never seen her in the front of the house before. Now I'm worried about her. She's brave enough to be foolhardy. Tell me she's smart enough to stay out of the road? I live on a very busy street. I know the dogs were rude to her this morning, going after what was supposed to be her breakfast. I would much prefer she stays in the back yard, dogs or no.

A Shot in the Arm

Inspirational song: Seasons in the Sun (Terry Jacks)

It wasn't quite how I'd expected the day to work out. I didn't plan on getting a second pneumonia vaccine while at the doctor's office today. Between that and staying up until 3 am (as discussed in the last post), I was wiped out. I came home from the doc, tried and failed to schedule an imaging appointment (the fax from my doctor hadn't been sorted and filed yet--yeah, that's efficient). I then dumped an easy chicken soup in the Instant Pot, and dozed for the rest of the afternoon. I choose to blame the shot, really. As soon as she told me I was getting it, I thought, I'll feel like I have the flu. Yeah, kinda.

I did manage to find the picture I spent hours looking for online, until 3 this morning. It wasn't where I thought I'd seen it. It was in the photo album my mom brought me for my birthday a while back. It also wasn't the exact composition I thought it was. But it was the same skinny little dress, worn by the same skinny girl who ate a small handful of food a day. I paged back in the book, and went back in time. To my senior pictures, when I was sixteen (taken the summer before senior year in high school), when my middle was so little, but my arms were chubby enough to make me miserable. Another page back, and it was a picture from when I was fifteen, and had come off of a week of bronchitis that dropped me down to a size I actually liked, for the first time I could remember. It might have been those very jeans in the picture that I found and held up yesterday, making me feel so weirded out. I wonder how things might have been different if I'd gotten help for these eating and body image disorders back then.

Opening Up Boxes Better Left Closed

Inspirational song: Living in the Past (Jethro Tull)

I was back at it today, emptying cardboard boxes that have moved with us from Oklahoma to North Dakota, California to New Mexico, then to South Carolina, only to end up here, some of them unmolested for most of those journeys, other than to open, note, and rebox with a new year written on the cardboard. I found a ridiculously heavy "vase" I made when I first learned to throw pottery on a wheel. I set it outside, and said we can store gardening tools in it. It's only a foot tall, but it's so solid that I could stand a rake in it and it would never tip over. It was packed with a soup tureen that came from my grandparents' house. It had an electric component that is long since gone, an odd vestigial plug the only sign of its former usefulness. I've never used it, but I don't feel like I can give it away. I put it in the highest reaches of my kitchen, in the cabinets far above the sink, where I can only reach it with a stepladder. I have no idea whether it will be used in my lifetime.

I tried to focus on the tangle of my craft room. I unpacked a few bags of fabric, utilizing a vintage dresser that I'd left alone until now. (I can't reserve good storage space for no reason, when I have needs...) I found a few pieces I'd wondered about, and hope to use soon, once everything is organized. I tried to clean and straighten my sewing kit, and spent more than an hour just picking out the scattered pins and black beads that were dumped in the top tray years ago. I tried to file away the mound of embroidery floss I found, and ended up overflowing the large container where I already held more than I expect to use in the next decade. I have so much in this room, I'm starting to think my only way to make it all worthwhile is to open an Etsy store and make a new thing every day to sell. Maybe if there's money involved, I'll actually use this three-generations'-worth of doo-dads.

I still don't know how to process the other box I emptied. I had a giant pile of "sentimental clothing" that included some of the costumes I made when we were in a Renaissance LARP group, a couple pieces of kid clothes that the girls wore, and some of my clothes. The costumes were weird enough. I can still sort of get one or two things on, but man, they look goofy to me now. The jeans from my college and young adulthood--that's a whole different story. Holy shit they were small. I know I don't swear a lot here, but you have to understand, I thought I was a monster. I thought I was so fat. Yet when I shook out jeans I wore even after I had kids, making them look like a person was standing in them, and realized how small a thirty inch waist looks now, that made my heart hurt. I've spent about eight hours brooding over it. I punished myself for being fat. I avoided social situations. I refused compliments. I stayed home. I didn't let myself do fun things that "skinny" people did, like dancing or horseback riding, or whatever. When I was a teenager, especially between sixteen and nineteen, I starved myself, and often. I'd go days barely eating anything. The longest was five days. Sophomore year in college, I convinced myself that eating nothing but a tablespoon of Grape Nuts in a day was okay, because it provided enough protein to keep me running. I can still look at pictures from that time and see the self-hate on my face. Eating disorders are very real, and very complex. One does not lose them simply because one gets older and fatter. Many of those same emotions and hangups are still with me, to this day. I don't know how much energy I can divert to dealing with it, what with everything else that is going on with my health. This is why it has taken until nearly three in the morning for me to finish writing tonight. That, and searching through my parents' Facebook photos trying to find a specific photo that I never could find, from that Grape Nuts period of my life. Instead, I found one I don't recall ever seeing before. I recognize the sweater and the sunglasses, so I can date it, but I don't know why it exists. I can see everything that girl is thinking about herself, though.

Confrontation

Inspirational song: White Trash Wedding (Dixie Chicks)

So it appears that admitting I have a few seriously trashy events in my history is funny to some people. Last night, as we played the game "Hot Seat," and I provided the nugget that I once had a semi-public slap fight with a neighbor as the trashiest thing I'd ever done, everyone at the game night party demanded to hear the whole story. My daughter helped me fill in the gaps in my memory. And then reporting briefly about it here led to my mother insisting on hearing it all. Okay. I suppose in for a penny, in for a pound. Here goes:

When my daughter was in third grade, there were some kids on the bus who were awful to her, calling her "cat girl," in a non-friendly way. I was a little sensitive to any hints of her being bullied, so when I looked out into the cul-de-sac one day, and saw some of these neighbor kids taunting her and throwing something at her as she rode her bicycle, I got angry and charged outside. I told the other girls to back off and stop harassing my daughter. Suddenly another woman appeared on my right, telling me not to tell her kid what to do. I can't remember the "conversation" exactly, but I'm sure that one way or another, I told her at high volume to stop her daughter from bullying mine. The other woman slapped me hard across the face, knocking my glasses askew. By this point, all the kids were just standing there, aghast, watching wide-eyed at this confrontation. When she hit me, I turned to my kid and said in that freaky, too-quiet angry voice, "Call 911." I turned back and told her (still in the deceptively calm voice) that I would have her up on assault.

I don't remember how things broke up from there. We each went to our own houses. Naturally, the kids did not make any phone calls to authorities. They were too stunned to do anything like that, and I was actually relieved once I calmed down a little. Later that evening, there was a knock on our door. It was the neighbor woman, in tears. She had been replaying what happened in her head over and over, and was so embarrassed and ashamed that she was actually throwing up. Her daughter convinced her to come over and apologize.

The ironic part was our daughters eventually became super close friends, spending nights with each other at least once a month. After a fashion, the neighbor and I developed a friendship too. She even came to me for advice several times (this was during my reference librarian period, so I was used to people doing this even when I wasn't at work). I lost touch with her once we moved away from North Carolina, and hadn't thought about the incident for many years, until last night. I was trying to remember her name, and once I said that I thought it was something like "Crystal," that got stuck in my head and I couldn't make any more guesses after that, right or wrong.

Last night's party was too fun, and I mean that literally. I laughed so much and so loudly that I wore myself out. All day I felt like I had screamed myself hoarse at a football game. My lungs were tired, my throat was sore, and I fell asleep in my chair no less than three times. I spent the entire day in pajamas, with one to three cats sleeping on top of me at any given time. My big accomplishments were making crepes for breakfast, and managing to shower and put on fresh pajamas after dark. Even as worn out as I was today, I would go back and play the same games again in a heartbeat. I can't recommend them highly enough. Hot Seat is a physical game, in a box, with a deck of prompt cards and 10 pads of note paper for everyone to submit guesses. Quiplash is on Jackbox.tv, and you download games to play on consoles like XBox, and up to 8 people all play in a virtual room on their own devices. These are excellent party games. Try them.

Jimbo’s Jumbos

Inspirational Song: The Jimbo Song (Rev Horton Heat)

Three and a half years ago, I set up my spare room. It was part closet, part dressing room, part spare bed, part craft room. The closet was stuffed to the gills, full of my clothes, purses, and scarves, but also stacks of cardboard moving boxes of random things and miscellaneous craft items (purchased and inherited). I had made my day bed myself, building in three storage bays underneath, and they were full of shoe bins and bags of fabrics that never ended up becoming clothing or upholstery. I had a full craft cabinet, with every sort of glue, glitter, ribbon, or sketch pad one could want, and bins of paint and brushes (separately) on top of it. The desk for the sewing machine is packed with notions and fabrics. And I had a giant tackle box that was my sewing kit for decades, always taking up awkward floor space. With all of these storage opportunities, I still had double the craft supplies than I had space to store them. Boxes were stacked in the middle of the floor and Hobby Lobby bags gathered dust on the periphery.

I’ve been psyching myself up for months to sort all this junk. A few months ago I cleaned out the closet and sorted everything by size, so only the things that currently fit were hanging up and accessible. I moved some of the boxes out and glanced through them, but never finished emptying them. There were two stacks in the way, no matter where I needed to be in the room. It became such an emotional drag that I stopped policing up after my crafts, making it infinitely worse. Today I went to Walmart to load up on plastic storage options, and I set into sorting. I got a pack of eight identical shoebox tubs and put like with like: beads, embroidery floss, glitter and glue, ribbons, wood tools, yarn crafts, and so on. There is so much, and just this afternoon I got a new box marked “2011 craft drawer” from my daughter’s garage. This is a huge job. If it is done in a week, I am gonna want a medal. Heck, I will probably make myself the medal, covered in sequins and Swarovski crystals.

Thank goodness I took a break from it to go have dinner and game night with the kids. The mental break was welcome. We played my favorite game, Quiplash, with the breathtakingly funny results. But first we played a new one called Hot Seat that started with me telling the story about me getting in a slap fight in the middle of the cul-de-sac with a neighbor I hadn’t met before that moment. (The point was no one was supposed to know which one was the one I wrote, to my prompt of “what’s the trashiest thing you’ve ever done,” but the daughter I was defending instantly started laughing, forcing me to tell the whole story.)

Say What?

Inspirational song: Master of the House (Les Miserables)

I've been of two minds about the evolution of language. I like being an early adopter of some slang phrases, feeling artificially young and hip when I do that. However, for some words and some grammar rules, I have been rigid in my determination that they remain forever immutable. For example, I hated the use of the word "impact" as a verb. It drove me crazy. Also, I fought against the use of the pronoun "they" in a singular application, considering it lazy. I resisted that one longer than I should have, to be honest. I have come around to accept that in the absence of a neutral third person pronoun that is not dehumanizing (as the word "it" is in basically every application regarding a living being), they singular is as good a word as any. Knowing someone who prefers that as their pronoun of choice sped up my evolution.

Today we had our monthly roundtable, and learned that a few new twists on language are on the horizon. One of our agents alerted us that, according to her wedding photographer friend, not only has Ms triumphed over Mrs/Miss, but now even Mr and Ms are falling out of usage in some circles, in favor of Mx. This one didn't surprise me all that much, even though I hadn't heard it before, as I was already used to the transition from identifiers like Latino/Latina to Lantinx. This seems like a natural offshoot of that progression. But this was just a tangent off the discussion that I'm still amused by, twelve hours later.

In our annual updates class last month, we were told to be conscious of outdated gender stereotypes in our listing descriptions. The boss did some searches and found actual examples in the MLS of agents writing things like "the man of the house will love the garage, and the woman will love the kitchen." We were steered away from "man cave" and "she shed," towards neutral, inclusive language. Today we caught wind of the next descriptor to fall: the Master Bedroom. Not one of us saw this coming, but one of our agents still does business in Portland, and warned that the change was already happening there. It was interesting, not everyone at the table identified the same problem in the term. Me, I heard it as a sexist holdover, as Master not Mistress. My boss, sitting next to me, heard it as a racist term, Master versus Slave. I supposed there was a third option rooted in classism. Whatever the impetus, expect to see a move to "Main bedroom" or "En Suite" or other neutral terms.

Little Snow

Inspirational song: Visions in Blue (Ultravox)

I've been waiting years for a good snowpocalypse. When does that finally arrive? I think the biggest snow we've had since we moved back was about eight inches deep, maybe. I had hopes for a decent snow event when I saw the pictures coming out of California a couple of days ago. They said it was going to suck up moisture from the southwest on its way up, and dump on our mountains. I didn't want the meteorologists to be right when they said it was only going to be a few inches here. After all, it was supposed to snow all day long, and be brutally cold. I'll be darned if they weren't right on all counts. I went out to shovel at about two thirty this afternoon, and the snow wasn't deep enough to get into the tops of my shoes. It was fluffy and light, and the shoveling was easy enough. I made it through the sidewalk, and nearly finished the driveway, before I became acutely aware of how insufficient were my gloves. My fingers were ugly and deformed by the time I came in, red and lumpy in weird ways, and I couldn't bend them. (They're fine now.)

Friends who actually went out and were productive today said the roads were awful. I expected to go to Boulder tonight, but we called off our weekly game for weather. I'll be testing the roads tomorrow, and with zero chance of snow melt by the time I'm on the highway, I'll know whether it was dumb of me not to swap out for my snow tires this year. I suspect I'll be late to the meeting, unless the plows are really busy overnight.

There are only minimal chances for snow for the next two weeks. The predictions keep going up and down. Currently, they're only giving us 10% chance of moisture for most of the next week. There is still time in the snowy season to get my snowpocalypse, but the clock is counting down. Is there a special dance I can do for the snow gods to favor me with knee-deep snow, just once this year? I've waited so long.

She Persisted

Inspirational song: Don't Give Up (Peter Gabriel ft Kate Bush)

First and foremost, I'm glad I vented a little last night. I had bottled up a lot of "why am I still doing this?" and it needed to get out before it burned me on the inside. I got a little feedback to keep plugging away, and that helped too.

I had another moment of weakness, but of the self-indulgent kind. I had to go to Petco for crickets to feed to Bruno and Dahlia, and Michael's is in that same stretch of a strip mall. I made sure I had a decent coupon (40% met that threshold), and then went back to look at more knitting looms. I like the little sock loom I bought last month, but it's so tiny, I wanted to try a bigger one, preferably for a sweater. I'm really good at crochet, but that craft is very thirsty when it comes to how much yarn it requires per project. I get the idea that knit crafts require much less yarn to cover the same amount of inches. I went to the craft store in search of a big loom, large enough to make a sweater to hang loose on my sizable backside. I considered a fancy adjustable kit that reminded me of model train track, but instead I cheaped out and bought the "infinity loop" style, big enough to make a five foot wide afghan.

I dug through old stores of yarn to practice on. I have bunches of things left over from projects that were never finished, and some that were never started. Eventually I settled on a dark brown, of which I only had one skein. I watched videos on YouTube, and found a pattern I liked. I started making a smaller version of the afghan from the video, and discovered almost immediately that this loom was designed for a chunky yarn, and I mean CHONKY. My medium weight yarn looked awful all stretched out on it. I gave up after four rows. But once I had gotten it in my head that I was going to make a new sweater for Elsa from this brown yarn, I was determined to find a way to accomplish it.

It's been five years since I bought a teach-yourself-knitting kit. I practiced in two different colors, making less than two inches of knit combined. I felt like it never became smooth and natural, and I shoved it in the craft cabinet within a week, never to be touched again. It took a lot of digging to find all the pieces (and tomorrow I have a giant mess to clean from my craft room), but I gave it one more chance. I translated the pattern from loom to needles, and watched more videos to relearn the stitches when the book just confused me all over again. Over about three hours, I think I have finally gotten the hang of this knitting business. I used markers to count out the pattern, and a hook to pull out cables. I have made two full sets so far, about two inches in length (and wide enough for newly-slender Elsa). It's going faster now, and it actually feels good to do. Once a few more of my pieces are finished (this plus the shrug I'm making for me and the afghan for my neighbor), I'll buy some fat yarn and make a blanket or poncho on the loom. It won't go to waste.

Having this activity gave me something to do while I watched the spectacle on TV tonight. I debated skipping the speech, but I talked myself into it. I mostly wanted to see all the ladies dressed in their pretty white pantsuits, but I also listened to the call and the response. Leaving the TV on into the commentary afterward paid dividends. I learned live that the woman I most want to enter the 2020 race is expected to make her announcement on Sunday. There are so many good women candidates who have caught my eye, but I have a strong favorite. I cannot wait until Sunday.

Daily Grind

Inspirational song: The End (The Doors)

At what point should one decide a task is complete, a quest is accomplished? After nearly six years of writing every night, the struggle to find fresh topics has begun to feel less like a challenge and more like drudgery. The quality of my work product is diminished on those nights when topics are elusive. My readership is declining, even on good nights when I have a lot to say and am enthusiastic about it. How much longer should I keep going? Until the point where no one is interested? I’ve said for years that this writing is for me, not dependent on anyone else’s opinion. If I stop doing it every single night, or even if I just tell myself I’ll go to once a week, how long before I miss weeks entirely? Forget that it’s writing day; tell myself I’ll make it up tomorrow. It wouldn’t take a month before I stopped altogether. My audience would be completely gone, and I wouldn’t have the energy to restart and rebuild.

I’m not giving up yet. I’m just having a little crisis of confidence. I don’t know how long it will last.

Kick That Ball

Inspirational song: I'm Tired (Blazing Saddles)

This is hardly a unique opinion, but man, was that a crappy Superbowl. It didn't help that I couldn't give a flying fig about either team, other than desperately wanting one of them to lose, even though I had no affection for the other. After a while, the most fun we had at our game-watching party was when one guest who I'd never met before chanted "Kick that ball!!" at every fourth down. So many punts, so little offense. Yawn. Even the ads were only mildly entertaining. Maybe they came across better if you were comfortable with AI running every second of your life. (Me, I have no interest in a voice-activated listening device controlling my lights, unlocking my doors, starting my car, etc. Maybe I just never recovered from that Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode with Pierce Brosnan.) I'm pretty sure that those of us who stayed through the whole game (2 left early) had picked up our phones and stopped watching the game entirely by the fourth quarter. The shade thrown by Twitter was much more interesting to me. This is how I am sure we weren't the only ones who were bored by the lowest scoring Superbowl of all time.

We started the afternoon with a short D&D encounter, with three of our players missing. We ate way too much early in the day, and something I touched was contaminated with gluten. (Could have been anything from the outside of the barbecue sauce bottle to a crumb in the silverware drawer. I'll never know. I asked everyone who brought food what they provided, and couldn't find a culprit.) My stomach swelled up and hurt so badly that I couldn't even attempt a tiny bowl of the green chile I brought. More's the pity. After the game, we finally showed Blazing Saddles to three of our friends who had never seen it. Once they got over being astonished that it was ever made, they laughed openly and often. Now those young'uns understand some more of our pop culture references.

We tried having all the dogs play together in the back yard. There were five at one point, but the impromptu dog park didn't last long. Elsa doesn't want to play with a bunch of juveniles. Murray flipped over in the excitement. They went home early to have dinner and retire to their beds. Hops and Barley have learned to be good hosts, and they are getting comfortable with a standard poodle named Jasper who comes over a lot. Jasper is the most chill dog I've ever met. And he's a jokester who likes to steal seats and walk across laps. He will most likely appear in future posts, so get to know this face. It's a cute one.

83 Percent

Inspirational song: Pleasant Valley Sunday (The Monkees)

The smoky back rooms called, and I came running, once again. It was time for our biennial reorganization meeting, to elect new party chairs, approve by-laws changes, and recruit volunteers to be delegates to other committees and conventions. I had no interest in holding office in the county party, but I enjoyed meeting up with other political activists who I know well or at least by sight, and rubbing elbows with our elected officials. There was a rumor that the new governor would show up, since he came up through our group, representing all but a sliver of the county in the US Congress. He didn't but that's okay, he was at the last big meeting we had last spring, and his replacement did show up. I missed out on being in that congressional district by just a few blocks. I'd have to check the map to be sure how many. My neighborhood was part of a carve-out in the last gerrymandering attempt, and I'm really not sure what the intent was there. All I know is that my US representative does not represent me or my values, and he's not interested in doing so. I have decided that I'm going to pretend I live a few blocks over, and the new guy is my guy, at least in my heart. If future lines are drawn that put me back in that district, I will be proud to vote to keep him around. I've been following him on Twitter, and I can say that he, like many of the freshman class, showed up to work. They hit the ground running, and it makes me happy.

The first thing they mentioned in the meeting today was the most important number: 83%. That's our voter turnout for Boulder county in last year's congressional election. Second highest in the nation. Someone a few rows behind me called out, "going for first next time!" Our youth turnout was 71%. That is a staggeringly high number. It's exciting living in a place where civic engagement is so high. There were a lot of young people standing for office in the party, too. Several were in their twenties and thirties. My co-precinct leader may swear that the party runs on the backs of little old ladies, and she's not wrong, but around here we've made plenty of room for the kids to work alongside us.

For most of my life, I've wondered how people ended up going to the national conventions. Who is it, exactly, who ends up as a delegate there? Well, I have decided from here on out, I have a goal. I'm going to get myself to the national convention as soon as I can. Next year, if possible. I've taken the first steps to get there. Three years ago I stepped up to be the precinct leader. I went to training sessions, and I showed up to vote in every central committee meeting they asked me to attend. I was a delegate to the county and CD caucuses last year. I volunteered to paper my neighborhood with voter guides and vote notes. I showed up to the vacancy committee in December, making sure we flew home from donating the RV in time for me to attend. And today I put my name on two lists as a delegate and an alternate (one each). I saw a lady walk in early this afternoon with a straw hat with red, white, and blue ribbon bows, and I said to myself, that's gonna be me next year. I'm going to wear the goofy stuff to a national convention sooner than later.

Distraction

Inspirational song: Can You Picture That (The Muppet Movie)

The news has been full of stories I just don't want to obsess over. Apparently I'm the only one. My feed is the same photo for days, with every single person I follow sharing the same things that make me uncomfortable. If there is anything that can break my addiction to cable news and Twitter, the saturation of stories of racism, active or casual, may be enough to drive me away. I've kept the TV off more often lately, and I'm more interested in crochet or housecleaning than Twitter of late. This is probably to my benefit, but it doesn't mean I'm feeling good about hiding.

To that end, I'm crocheting until my wrists hurt and my right shoulder is on fire. (I'm left handed, but I crochet right handed, as is more traditional. The muscles on that side are less developed.) I had set aside the first project I started back in November, the one that was meant to calm my nerves. I had a bunch of presents to work on in the meantime. Now I'm ready to finish the one that is for me. It's close. Well, more than halfway there. And it's more fun to look at than the world falling apart.

And it's absolutely covered in white cat hair. I wonder why.