Lots of Little Things

Inspirational song: Give Blood (Pete Townshend)

I've allowed myself to complain a lot lately, about how sick I am of being geographically separated, or about how crummy I feel about one thing or another. Perhaps I ought to direct my focus to some of the little things that are starting to fall into place, little improvements that I might not notice individually, but in aggregate make me feel pretty good. This morning, I had to do a fasting blood test. They took four large vials from me. Based on past experience of my entire adult life (starting with the first pregnancy - I didn't have many blood tests before that), I expected to lose this entire day. For more than twenty years, vein sticks meant lightheadedness, to the point of nausea and being so sleepy I couldn't function for easily eight or ten hours following the tests. I kept waiting for that feeling to hit me today, and it never did. I went on as usual, or nearly so, all day. I would love to know what to credit for this sudden jump to normalcy. Is it my improved diet? Is it hormonal changes associated with aging? Whatever it is, I greatly appreciate it. It would have been nice for this to be my reaction back when I had little kids to take care of even on blood test days, but I'll just accept the improvement and let the past go.

I've had pain in my low back (S-I, specifically) since I was a little girl. I can't remember a time when I could lie on the floor on my back, without sudden, shocking pain shooting down one or both legs. I used to feel trapped, any time I threw caution to the wind and tried to lie flat on my back, until I could get someone to roll me over like a helpless turtle. By the time I was fully an adult, I couldn't even sleep on a hard mattress, for the dysfunction in my sacro-ilial joint. This has gone on for so long, I really wasn't sure that even my magically brilliant physical therapist could make a difference. And I assumed that if he could help me at all, it would take all of the couple months of visits that insurance allows. Yet here I am, just a couple weeks into the new routines, and tonight, I progressed from running through my stretches and exercises on my soft, supportive bed to doing all of them on the floor, with nothing between me and the hard wood but a thin Persian rug, and no padding. The pinching I expected never came. And when I was done, I popped right up, not needing a helping hand, or even a slow transition as I worked my way into a sitting position. I've gone from feeling (physically) like a worthless sack of meat to feeling like a superhero. I'm invincible!

I'm even having a good week dealing with some of my more stupid hangups. I'm very non-confrontational, generally sort of shy, and I absolutely break down in a panic when I have to make a phone call. I even used to hyperventilate over the prospect of using the phone to order a pizza. (The age of text-based communication revolutionized my life.) Yet in the last week, I conquered enough of my fears to drop in to the auto body shop who seems to have forgotten to restore my man's project Jeep (although they remembered to cash the check), and I spent an hour or so taking care of a laundry list of concerns for all of our cell phones. Sure, most people would read that, and think, "And??" But to me, this is progress. A lot of little things add up.

I've taken very few photos in the last couple weeks, compared to my usual average. I have an updated portrait of Carlotta the seven-legged spider. She now has a Mr Carlotta, and she is about three and a half inches from toe to toe. She seems to like hanging on her web backwards compared to all of her fellow banana spiders. I think maybe she watches my television through the window. I should ask her if there's anything in particular she wants to watch. I'm in a good mood. I can share my screen time with her.

Dog Days

Inspirational song: Jumpin' at the Woodside (Count Basie)

I tend to have some sort of noise playing at all times in this house. It's usually the television, or sometimes I set one of the computers going with all of my music library playing on an endless shuffle. Silence is difficult for me to tolerate right now. During the past, it wasn't a problem. There were enough humans in the house for me to appreciate my calm, quiet times, when I could read or simply lose myself in my thoughts. But now, when all I hear is the hum of electronics, an occasional throaty sigh of a bored dog sleeping on the floor, and maybe the scratching of a cat paw against the litter box, silence is no longer my friend. It makes the seconds tick more slowly. Yes, I taught myself a year ago to slow down, and pay attention to the moments in the day, so I wouldn't throw away the year while I waited for my man to come home. But now, with him already two months overdue, and no official return date in the immediate future, I'm tired of slowing down time. I'm getting very excited about our possibilities for the next few years. I don't want to wait for it anymore. Four seasons are already under my belt, living alone. Perhaps if this summer could hurry up and move along, I could start making active plans for what comes next.

I paused my noise-making machine this evening, as the house grew dark, and I wandered around my kitchen, making what passed for supper. My heart clenched when I heard a soft gong, its note resonating for several seconds in my quiet room. It definitely originated inside the house, and I knew I was alone, or at least I hoped I was. Two panicked breaths later, I realized the sound was my favorite white cat lifting and dropping the empty metal water dish, announcing that she would like it to be filled. Once my heart slowed down, I started chuckling at myself for being gonged by a cranky judge, and I wondered whether I should start dancing like Gene Gene the Dancing Machine as I brought her a new pitcher full of water. She didn't seem to be in a joking mood, so I just poured and walked away.

Digest

Inspirational song: I Want a New Drug (Huey Lewis and the News)

Oh, right. I'm not twenty-five years old anymore. I should have remembered that when I spent the last week getting too little sleep and perhaps a little too much alcohol. This morning, I felt every one of my over-twenty-five years. I sure hope I appreciated that young body when I had it. I know I was cocky about not being prone to hangovers. I also thought I had an iron stomach, and could eat anything I wanted without consequence. Ah, the arrogance of youth. Why can't it go backwards? The older you get, the more things you can eat and drink, and the easier your body takes it - that's how it ought to be. Then we could enjoy it more, as we grow into our indulgences.

I'm afraid the denizen of Cricketstan is quickly approaching the point of no return. I've been trying to medicate her, to soothe her ravaged digestive system. Nothing is helping. She's wasting away in front of my eyes, and she's living in a constant state of agitation. Sometimes when I bring one or two of the other cats in, to visit elderly Aunt Cricket in her assisted living facility, she acts like she barely recognizes them. That's especially hard on my white cat, who had a very special bond with her, up until last year, when something in Cricket's mind snapped, and she started hating everyone. On good days, all she does is stare when the white cat comes in to her private room. I can't believe that on the heels of losing Torden, I'm facing the very real possibility that Cricket may not last the summer. If only her small intestine could hold on to some of the meds long enough to absorb them. I don't think anything is getting through at all. Today I added in calorie-dense food paste. It's a last-ditch effort, but I honestly don't think it's going to help.

I don't like ending on such a low note. But I'm not sure I can pull myself back up now that I've let myself fall into gloom and doom. Perhaps tomorrow's topic will be less of a drag.

Shoots Flaming Balls and Reports

Inspirational song: Independence Day (Martina McBride)

Been thinking about family a lot today. I was fortunate enough to visit with several of my by-blood family members last month, so it was nice to switch it up on today's holiday, and spend the day with my by-choice family. The biggest drawback to living our nomadic life is how often we move away from friends, and how hard it is to maintain relationships while in near-constant motion. It's even harder, considering the line of work that supports us, also supports many of our friends, who are nomadic like we are. This morning, I had to say goodbye to some of my very favorite work friends, including my darling girl that I have called "my practice grandbaby" since she was a year old. They fly away tomorrow, and I am so sad I can't stand it. They will be out of reach for me under normal circumstances for quite some time. The mom of this family said they'll probably be back on the east coast at Christmas time, and I decided I will have to drive up and meet them then. My girl will be so changed in six months. She'll go from a charming, precocious four year old, to being a jaded almost-teenager in that amount of time. They all do it.

For most of my life, I've had serious hangups about fireworks. When I was a little kid, in Germany, we were at a fireworks display, seated a bit too close for comfort. One of the giant aerials didn't burn sufficiently, and a hot cinder landed directly on the top of my head, burning me. I freaked out, and became distrustful of all fireworks. Even as I grew into an adult, I could never quite kick the fear that it would happen again, if I was too close. But I still liked watching them from afar. Home fireworks are a whole different story though. To this day, I really don't trust them at all. The spinning, jumping flower ones are the worst. Those things take off after people. They're mean. It's only been in the last four years or so that I've learned to control my fears, and stay calm around them when my friends are lighting them in the street.

After a laid-back cookout with most of my Bonfire family, we were surrounded on all sides by a constant show of booming aerials. It was fun to see big sparkly lights peeking through the trees, but the boys had bought a bunch of fireworks of their own, so we marched out to the cul-de-sac to set them off. I was so proud of myself. I didn't get panicky, and chatter inanely like I do when I'm nervous, because of the proximity of my friends to things that blow up. I sat the whole time, relaxed, trying to hear the 1812 Overture playing way too quietly on my phone (turned up all the way, even), and I took pictures of all the beautiful colored lights that launched right in front of me. You can't imagine what progress this is. The real test will be next year, when we find out whether I can remain calm and rational when it's my man directly next to the burning fuses. I have a vested interest in keeping him whole and healthy. He, on the other hand, is completely fearless, and will be putting on a hell of a show for our friend-family.

Unheeded Warnings

Inspirational song: Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do) (Christopher Cross)

I woke at quarter to five this morning, on top of the covers, twisted in the oddest shape (as if I had just landed at the bottom of a cliff), trying to get as much of my body as possible facing the ceiling fan at once. It wasn't working. I straightened back up, and before I could fall asleep again, I heard a heavy rain band suddenly blow over the Park. For a few minutes, the wind was strong, the rain was heavy, and lying there in the dark, I realized how little I prepared for what was at that moment becoming a hurricane gently grazing my home. I never brought inside any of the lanterns that decorate the deck. I didn't police the yard for debris that could cause problems. And best of all, I didn't put the lawn mower away, but instead left it parked just outside the shed, with the door open. Oh, balls.

A couple days ago, the folks at physical therapy (docs and patients) and I were talking about the storm that was then just developing off the Florida coast, as well as reminiscing of past hurricanes. It was sort of fun, having a functional memory of some of the bigger named storms that have come through this area, even though for most of the ones I experienced, I was a little farther north of here. I remember massive hurricane Floyd, staying up all night watching the Weather Channel as it approached, and being childishly amused by its big pink signature on Doppler radar. I think (pink) Floyd might have been the one responsible for shutting down my town for a few days. That or it was Dennis, the one that swirled off the Outer Banks for days, stuck in a weird, giant coastal eddy, making a menace of itself until it had completely drowned the town of New Bern. People around here have a long memory for hurricanes, and Hugo has its own legendary lore. I was off in my own world in the middle of the country that year, so I have to rely on the stories told by locals. The little tropical storm that rolled over the land just west of me last year was almost a disappointment, compared to those famous disasters. Yeah, I said it. I can't help it. When a natural disaster hits, I'm fascinated by the destruction, even knowing what a horrible pain in the ass it is dealing with insurance companies and home restoration for months afterward. It's just so much more exciting, seeing a Category 5 storm, compared to a 2 or 3. It's my kind of thrill-seeking.

For all my big talk about riding out storms, I'm really not all that calm in scary situations. Like tonight, when I brought in the last half-bag of potting soil in from the garage, so I could pot up the Persian shield, echinacea, and Meyer lemon I bought last week. The two black cats were fascinated while I was scooping soil out to pack around the new plants. I thought they were just watching the undulations of the plastic bag, as I dug deep with my hands and the empty nursery container. And then I felt something on my bare upper arm. A giant palmetto bug had hitched a ride in from outside, and was climbing up my arm. I shrieked like a maniac, throwing a full container of potting soil around the kitchen, and swiping the bug down on the floor, where I immediately stomped on him. I'm getting creeped out again just thinking about it. I should have picked up on the warnings the girls were giving me, that something ooky was moving around the soil, and it wasn't me. Next time, I will listen to them.

Thinking About Thinking

Inspirational song: Drift Away (Dobie Gray)

I told myself I was going to spend the day making notes for one of the writing projects, and I did spend hours thinking about what anecdotes paired nicely with others. But once I grabbed a pen and paper, I got exactly two words written before I got invited to drop everything and hang out in a pool. It doesn't take much to lead me astray. Of course I ran away to dunk myself in warm water. Not that the pool was heated. It has been so stinking hot here for months, the water was almost unpleasantly warm. No, I take that back. There's no such thing. When your neighbor says to come relax in her pool, no part of it is unpleasant. It was wonderful. Even her overly silly dog is starting to come to terms with the deep water in her territory. They've been coaching her to get in the water, and by the end of our swim, she had managed to get her front paws down to the second step, and her back feet nearly slipped off the top step twice. It was an adorable victory. And it was a welcome distraction from my declared purpose.

The man and I have been scheming again. I don't know how far in the future it might be (here's hoping for sooner than later), but we both seem to think building a shipping container house sounds like fun. Is that too horribly trendy? Do we really care? I'm just so pleased that we are both on the same page with this. That never happens. We even agreed on the number of containers and the configuration. I sent him my rough outline yesterday, and the one he sent back that was his floor plan was eerily similar. I don't think anywhere in two and a half decades of us as a couple have we been so closely aligned on a theoretical building scheme for the Forever House. I keep being stunned by that over and over - we want the same thing. The. Same. Thing. Now that the miracle has happened, the next step is making it a reality. I might even change my format of the blog for this monumental alignment if it becomes real, and start showing people. I think the only thing that sounds like more fun right now than building a shipping container house on the top of a mountain, is building it while taking a zillion photos of progress and of my man (on a ladder, with power tools...) to share. It might actually be enough to convince me to move away from the Park. But not immediately. It's still in the thinking stage right now. Like most of my life.

The Story of Our Lives

Inspirational song: The Story in Your Eyes (Moody Blues)

I have to believe that things often do work out for the best. I thought a couple months ago that I was going to have a paying job, but there were some glitches, and now I consider the deal dead. I was just a little upset at first, but I'm finding that I'm not actually angry or even all that disappointed now. I would have been working more hours than I really wanted to, far away from home (too far to get the dogs outside for a midday potty break), and it just seemed logistically awkward for me. Since then, I have finally come up with a direction I want to take to turn these tiny little blog posts into a real full length book, and have had two more people request that I help tell the stories of their lives (that brings the total to three, but one I need to re-engage, because we haven't spoken in months, and I think her story would be wonderful to write).

Now that I have direction and inspiration, I need someone to come here and remove temptation. It's much harder to write when there are flashy lights everywhere I look, from the big rectangle on the wall, and on the little warm pads I hold in my lap and tap for hours. Without television and repetitive games, I could probably be much more productive. It's the writer's curse. I know we all do it. Well, nearly all. There are a handful who actually seem to put thousands of words into print, and still have lives. I want to be one of those. I can pretend that I would announce my progress here, in order to use my readers to hold me accountable. But I know that I would either find excuses or just stop talking about it as I wandered off to other projects, like I do. Or both. Most likely both.

Since I was a middle school kid, I've known that I wanted to be a writer. I allowed self doubt and economic realities to hollow out that dream, but it has always been there waiting for me. I've tried to go back to it more times than I could ever count. I told myself I wanted to write fiction, but it never seems to flow out of me. I never imagined, even as recently as last year, that I would be so excited by the prospect of being a biographer. I might have convinced myself that someday my autobiography would be interesting to someone, if I managed to do something else first to make my life have meaning. I'm discovering that my life already had meaning, and I think I know now how to write it down to show all of you. What's more, the idea that three people have come to me and asked me to tell their own stories is the greatest honor I have ever been given. Think about the level of trust that takes, believing that I could do justice to document their lives. It's exciting beyond belief. I'm ready to go. Let's light this candle.