The Sandman Hates Me

Inspirational song: I Can't Wake Up to Save My Life (Richard Thompson)

I can't say my relationship with sleep has been an easy one over my lifetime. We have a love/hate relationship, honestly. I love to sleep more than just about anything, but I find it such an elusive tease when I want it, and a clingy nuisance when I don't. I feel a mix of awe and bad-natured jealousy when I witness people who can fall asleep in a blink, when they only have time for a twenty minute nap, and then they pop up feeling completely refreshed. What is that like? Really? I have to budget more than an hour for a nap every time that I attempt one, thirty to forty minutes to fall asleep, and twenty minutes or so to gain any real rest. And the night time is the worst. I can lie in bed for hours, waiting for my brain to shut off, even when I am utterly exhausted. On the back side of that, once I do fall asleep, I could happily stay there for days. Is there anything more satisfying than that deep sleep from about five in the morning until about nine, as long as it's on a day when no human has to move around the bedroom to get ready for work, no dog has to be let out, or no bladder demands to be emptied? When I was a child, I swore my father liked to torture me, waking me up early in the morning, even on holidays and during the summer. I do not understand morning people. I can get up when I have to, but it always hurts so much, especially when I have an early flight or appointment and wake up three or four times before my alarm, in a panic. I always feel like I'm cheating myself.

I probably failed as a parent, raising an insomniac child, and not being able to pass along good coping methods for how to manage the same problem I had. Like her mama, child number one would rather stay up until the wee hours every night, and stay in bed until noon, and she has been like that since she was a toddler. Of course, neither of us could get away with that for most of our lives, but the best advice I could give her was to "suck it up and deal with it; go to bed and try." I don't think I used those exact words, but it might as well have been what I said. That's how she heard it. She worked with it by taking a night job, and I've been slipping back into that schedule so I can communicate with my traveling man. But it's wearing me out, and I hope that she finds a better job with more standard hours.

I was supposed to go help out at the Bonfire house today, when they built the new deck for the hot tub. Instead I dragged my tail around, helpless against the lethargy built by a week of digestive upset. I finally had to admit defeat mid-afternoon, and I canceled and took a four hour nap. Apparently I really was that tired. Now I'm stuck, feeling groggy but unable to sleep again so soon, well past midnight. And the cycle continues, for yet another day. Does there ever come a time when sleep is regular and easy? I've never experienced it. I wonder what it's like.

Feeling Contrary

Inspirational song: Just for the Record (Marillion)

I've had a lot of "I don't want to" creeping into my life lately. I don't want to venture outside in the heat and spiders. I don't want to do the onerous jobs like laundry, vacuuming, or catbox duty. I'd like to go show my support at the Pride Parade tomorrow morning, but I don't want to drive into town, pay to park, stand around outside, or deal with big crowds of people, now that both of my bestest buddies have scheduling conflicts and aren't going. I can't tell whether it's spilling over from or to the big decisions we have on deck for next year. I'm starting to push back against some of the key elements of the plan, like how much downsizing I'm willing to do in the long run. I can picture myself traveling light for a few months in the gypsy caravan, but once the rolling catbox comes to a final stop, I don't think I can tolerate as small a forever house as the man wants to build. As I mentioned a day or two ago, the inside of a shipping container, once it has insulation and drywall installed, is a snug seven feet wide, maybe a hairsbreadth wider. My laundry room, where I always feel a wave of claustrophobia, is six feet wide. There is nothing that could convince me that just three containers, even the forty footers arranged in a U shape around a courtyard, will be enough to make a home. The bedrooms and kitchen around the edges of the courtyard would be too narrow to fit in furniture. The man's response is that this is intended to be a remote mountain location, and the idea is to live outside (he writes in all caps) most of the time. There is no part of that sentence that I find acceptable. I don't even know where to begin to express how horrifying that is to me. I'm an inside cat. I like being outside for short bursts, but the wind and the bugs and the sun and the feeling of being exposed all get to me very quickly. I'm lucky to make it two hours outside. He wants me to just have a tiny house where we mostly store our stuff, and spend the rest of my life outside in the woods? This man has been to the beach with me. He knows I lose my mind after 90 minutes. What on earth possessed him to think I would go along with that plan? He almost divorced me a decade ago because I flat out refused to go camping in a tent ever again (back before the physical therapy to fix my dysfunctional S-I joint and gluten-free living to fix the other issues I had with camping). I even dislike big family or company picnics with a passion that would surprise most people.

I am starting to reach a stress level that is branching out and affecting all aspects of my life. It took me four or five tries to get enough of a head of steam to go to the mailbox and take the trash can back from the curb today (it was supposed to be done last night). I think it is possible to unwind from this awful knot that is raising my blood pressure and spilling anxiety on everything I touch, if I were just to win a couple of the negotiating points. The difference between building a U shaped shipping container house of a twenty foot base and two forty foot arms (of the U), and an IUI with double containers on the arms is minimal in materials cost, but it would make a world of difference in livability. Realize I'm talking about creating rooms that are about fourteen feet wide instead of seven. The room I'm sitting in right now is a fifteen by fifteen square, and I've always considered it a bit snug. I am not unreasonable. I'm just not willing to spend the rest of my life tense and worrying that cabin fever and claustrophobia will send me running for an ax and a gallon of bleach. Sure that sounds extreme, but so does being stuck in the remote mountains in the winter with a choice of freezing in the snow or being cramped in a tiny bunker with a herd of animals and a man who thinks television is only for the weak.

I think it's time to pour a glass of wine and close the night with a little celebration of what the internet told me was world cat day, or something like that. Around my house, it's always cat day. A certain obese huntress is very happy with me right now. I had a fine toothed rat tail comb in the pile of junk I leave on my footrest (from putting more blonde highlights in my hair yesterday), and on a lark I started working on the mats on her back that she is too fat to groom properly. Big girl has the thickest coat of any short-haired cat I've ever met. (The vet had a tough time piercing her thick skin one year for vaccinations, too.) While that makes her well-prepared for our potential cold weather home, it makes her decidedly less fun to pet, when her fur gets gross. I discovered that she absolutely loves that comb, with a passion I never would have guessed existed in her. I was her valet for the entirety of the night, and she is now glossy black and relaxed, and as happy as a little kid on her birthday. If only I could persuade Athena to sit close to me for that long, so I could straighten out her hairy mess. That would just end in a band-aid moment if I tried.

My mother spent the evening scanning in some more old photographs, like one of herself looking stunningly gorgeous at 25, and she sent me one of my favorites that I knew existed, but haven't seen in years. So prepare yourself, I'm actually going to put in a photograph Of Myself, showing early promise as a fair-weather gardener. I also have a picture of the handsome devil who started it all, my first cat, who was the love of my life from when I was three until his tragic early death when I was eight or nine. How could anyone have lived with a cat like that, and not ended up believing that they were the vastly superior species?

Unsatisfactory

Inspirational song: Haven't Got Time for the Pain (Carly Simon)

I don't want to think about the implications of the kind of night I am having. Obviously, I ate something that does not agree with me. The only slightly unusual thing I had was a chocolate milkshake. I've already given up all wheat, barley, and oats. If this hints that I may have to give up dairy as well, there may be no point in living. I have never hoped to have picked up a bug as much as I do right now. I know that I didn't, though.

All of my staring at and study of shipping containers has led me to uncover a few potential problems. Primary among them is how narrow the standard width is, and how difficult it would be to make a functional house in those dimensions. Most containers are just over seven and a half feet inside. Once they are framed and insulated, and a drywall skin is in place, you would be hard pressed to squeeze a king size mattress in that space, much less be able to put sheets on one without skinning your knuckles. A seven foot width makes for an awkward layout for a conversation group of chairs also, unless you like putting your knees in someone else's personal space when sitting across from each other. I'm starting to think the idea of a shipping container house needs a whole lot more brainstorming to be feasible. Right now, it isn't making much sense.

My angry belly is demanding all of my attention for the rest of the night. Here, have some cat pictures while I draw my knees up to my chest and curse my genetics. (My mother can't legitimately get offended. She was just the middle man. This predates her.)

PSA

Inspirational song: I Hope You Die (Bloodhound Gang)

Being a woman "of a certain age," I have reached the time in my life when I must submit to much more routine medical testing than I had to as a younger woman. Although, to be fair, I do have one post-surgical advantage I didn't have when I was in my twenties and thirties, that allows me to skip the worst of all routine tests. But this beautiful summer day was all about soaking in the rays. X-rays, that is. I know you have heard the over-the-top stories about mammography, with older women trying to scare the younguns about getting grabbed and squeezed in the plates, and oh, it's so awful. Ladies, stop trying to use these melodramatic exaggerations to compete with our old horror stories of childbirth. You just sound desperate for attention. It really isn't that bad, and if you go to the right place, it's actually easier than any other medical procedure on the planet. I went to a medical complex that has a giant breast care center, and they have their core efficiencies down pat. You sign in, are escorted by one person to a locker room where you change into a kimono-top, and are immediately whisked from the second waiting room to the imaging room. Two tiny metal beads on pasties and four quick poses later, and you're already back in the changing room, ready to leave. I parked in the South Carolina sun in August, and my car didn't even have time to heat up before I was back in it. I am not lying. The worst part about the whole experience was peeling the stickers off. This was even the tightest anyone has ever cranked down the apparatus, but it's a softly curving acrylic, and it still didn't actually hurt. If any of you are approaching the age of your first mammogram, and dreading it, or trying to convince yourself you don't want to go back because you got one years ago in a place that didn't specialize in something like this, don't listen to writers who are trying to make you laugh and cringe when they tell you it's such a trial. No fear, ladies. Plus, with digital imaging, it was only four hours later when I got the phone call that said yep, they're still there. All good. See you in a year.

To piggyback on this, something that will eventually apply to us all, not just the 51% of the population with a double X: people, stop letting people tell you colonoscopies are horrible too. The worst part is trying to swallow the worst-tasting concoction on earth (that is supposedly an improvement? oh, how bad could it have been before?) to prepare for the cleanse. The fasting isn't so bad. If you have games on an iPad, even hanging out in the bathroom for hours goes by quickly. Nothing will help the taste of that horrid liquid, but if you can choke it down quickly you're allowed lots of water to wash it down. By the time I was in the room for my procedure last year, I was nervous, but had the presence of mind to thank the anaesthesiologist in advance for the milky white miracle she was starting to push in my IV. I think I got the whole sentence out before they were waking me up in the recovery room, but I can't be sure of that. Sure, we can all get embarrassed and act like thirteen year olds over the the topic, but let's be honest with ourselves. You sleep through the procedure, and as long as you have a nice loose pair of yoga pants (or sweats) to wear home, you only need a couple hours to shake it off, tops. Bring a snack for the ride home, plan on lying around watching television, and set aside the fear. It's no big thing.

A word about the song for today. No, I most assuredly do NOT hope you die. Quite the opposite. I hope you stay on top of your health care, eat right, exercise, and live long, comfortable lives. But that song is the first off of the "Hooray for Boobies" album, and well, that's what today was all about, wasn't it? Mine are still here, and they are still healthy. Hooray!

Waiting for the Leaves to Turn Brown

Inspirational song: Clock Moves Sideways (Fish)

I just can't do it anymore. I can't stand waiting for summer to be over. I survived July, just barely, and there's still most of August to go. Will it ever end? This week will heat up and be hell-adjacent by Thursday. The rest of the country got to have a second shot at the polar vortex, some places seeing record low temps in July. But for my moist little home, we considered it nice when the high temperatures were only in the mid-80s. I don't think it has rained as much as last year, but it has still rained enough that every inch of the Park is soggy and moldy and smells like swamp. I'm desperate for dryer air, soft or even brisk breezes, and nights cool enough that I can both leave windows open at night and say good riddance to the mosquitoes and spiders. When it's March, I can't wait for the growing season. When it's August I can't wait to see the annuals turn brown and stop demanding attention. I'm so fickle.

I get like this every year. It's never a surprise when I refuse to set foot outside, and spend all my waking hours grousing about the heat. But there's always so much to look forward to in the fall, how could I not be in the habit of wanting summer to end? This was always the time of year when marching band practice started, and I loved that. I promised myself last year I'd go lurk where I could watch the local high school band practice, but I never did. If I can find a way for it not to be creepy, I'm going to do it. I've admitted that I was enough of a nerd that I liked it when school started up again. And now that I don't have any classes of my own, and I no longer have kids in school, I'm going to need to figure out how to live without buying school supplies. I rarely actually need more spiral bound notebooks, but that has never stopped me from getting them before. They're an addiction. Luckily they are an exceptionally cheap habit. I'm trying to be strong, and avoid going near that part of the stores. Maybe I can just buy a little, and then find a charity to donate them to after I get the high of picking out packs of crayons and erasers and loose leaf paper. I'm getting a little shaky just thinking about them.

I made a solid move towards autumn last night. I put the call out to the gang, to see who was ready for another round of fantasy football, and I reactivated the league for what I believe is our tenth go-round. We aren't super competitive, and there hasn't been a prize other than pride. But that doesn't mean we don't love having the excuse to watch all the games. I think as league commissioner, it's time for me to see what I can do to step up the possible reward. I don't think any of us want to pay to have a league, but there must be some kind of prize we can come up with.

Autumn has to come soon. I've started looking longingly at my favorite colors (see "Plum, Rust, and Mustard" blog post from this time last year), and I'm ready to start wearing the greatest fabric of all time: lightweight rib knit. I pulled out the spiced berries scented wax for the warmer, and I have started cooking with cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg again. I am counting the days, but I'm losing patience with waiting, and I'm just indulging in some of my favorite fall activities. Can't Starbucks just go ahead and bring out the pumpkin spice lattes? The clocks aren't moving forward fast enough. I swear they're just going sideways, to spite me.

Brave

Inspirational song: Red Barchetta (Rush)

How does fear develop? Are we born with fear, or as we grow up and start cataloging how many things can kill us, is that where we start learning to approach the world with caution? My fears generally are less to do with being afraid of the external world, like plane crashes or criminals, and more with personal failures and loss of control. When last I was with my mother, reminiscing about the past over a couple of bottles of wine, it was revealed that as a very young girl, two or three years old, I was absolutely fearless on my tricycle. It was hinted that I was downright reckless. I only have the vaguest memories about that time, and while my mother remembers me flying hell bent for leather down the hills in our little corner of Fort Worth, my only memories of my tricycle are the time I finished that hill by going over the curb. I still have the visual of my front wheel hitting a manhole cover, and the handlebars of the trike disappearing under me as I went flying over them. I retained a fear of going off a curb on a bike for the rest of my life after that, even at slow speeds.

I still hadn't learned to live as a fearful child years later. When my family moved to Germany, and as a six year old I learned to ski, I thought it was terrific. I remember clearly grabbing the little plastic banana-shaped handle and getting tugged up the little kids' hill. I can still feel the heartache driving away from my first Austrian ski instructor, named Zepp (he wrote it in the snow when the tip of his ski pole), who I was just sure was my true love. I was the weird little girl who carried her rental skis in to the pro shop to get waxed for the slalom race at the end of the instruction week, even though I was destined to snowplow every turn on the whole way down. How is it now, with a tendency toward vertigo and tight muscles in my hips and low back, I positively inch down snowy slopes, and rarely set foot on anything bigger than a driveway in snow? Skiing has been relegated to my past, permanently. I definitely don't get myself in situations where I can fall great distances, unlike the top of that mountain in Austria, when I graduated from the bunny slope.

I can't decide whether I qualify as fearful or fearless. I'll march with my head held high into a neighborhood where I don't belong, or across a dark parking lot by myself. I get right up on top of those giant spiders with the painful bites, so that I can get good pictures, and I keep looking for the snakes I have been told live somewhere in or near my Park. I recognize danger, but I decide it won't touch me if I don't let it. But at the same time, I am utterly terrified of using the telephone, even just to make a doctor's appointment, and it's all I can do to ride in a car when I'm not the one behind the wheel. Sometimes I think I'm a worthless chicken, and sometimes I feel like Superwoman. If I get to choose, I am going to go with fearless, yet smart enough to be conscious of my limitations.

My Very Favorite

Inspirational song: Tarzan Boy (Baltimora)

So I have a question. If I agree to go full gypsy with my man, to store all my material goods and travel around the country for many months in a row, to cut back on our big financial obligations like mortgages and maybe some of the little ones like satellite radio, so we don't end up dipping deeply into savings to do this, does it mean that we have to give up our monthly membership for massages? It's a national chain. We could drop in just about anywhere to get our pre-paid sessions. Don't you think that living in a cramped RV space would mean those massages are more important than ever? I would. That's going to have to factor in to my negotiations for this potential trip.

I went to my regular appointment today, and told my masseur that I needed special attention on my forearms that have been strained for a week, and my super-tense shoulders. But as he went along, every time he switched focus, I was silently thinking, "This. This is my favorite part." I thought that about the mid-back. And then I thought it as he worked on my shoulder blades. And then the calves, feet, ankles, hands, scalp... Do I really have to choose a favorite? I think my true favorite part was the part he was working on at that exact moment. I am that way with colors too. My favorite color is the one that fits my mood and works for the application. A color I love for sweaters would not necessarily be the color I choose for a couch or a car. I love all colors, and I don't ever want to limit myself to one small palette. I wouldn't want to but stuck with one or two favorite colors any more than I would want to be stuck with one or two flavors of food forever.

I don't think my refusal to declare a favorite makes me indecisive, or even greedy. I think it makes me happy. I am able to live in a moment, to appreciate what is available to me right then. I see no reason we all couldn't have a little of this in our lives. It's not going to solve all the global problems, but it's sure going to calm each of us down just a little to stop sometimes and think this, this right now is my favorite moment.