Da Goddess

There is sadness in beauty, yes. But there’s also beauty in sadness. One simply cannot escape beauty unless you close your heart and your mind to it.

The same goes for kindness, love, compassion, and honor.

Fuck donald trump. Without Medicaid and SNAP, I’m not going to be able to afford groceries or the proper nutrition for my diabetes and heart disease. I won’t be able to afford the medication necessary to maintain my current health status. And I’ve been doing well because I take my meds, I exercise, and I eat the right foods. I work to maintain my numbers.

trump eliminating programs I paid into for years is not okay. He wants to penalize people like you and me so the people with far more resources can line their coffers.

Nope. I am not about to accept this bullshit. Especially when they try to steal Social Security benefits from all of us who have paid into for decades.

But, hey! What does it matter to people who have all the money they need AND THEN SOME? They don’t care if any of us lives or dies.

Am I to be just another statistic?

“Oh, no! She died. If only she had lived a healthier lifestyle back when she was younger. It doesn’t matter that she was genetically predisposed for those things. Preexisting conditions! Now, I have to go take my Aricept.” ~ donald fucking trump

I’m not going to be quiet and pray that someone stops this shit show. I’ve spent hours on the phone calling every single person who is supposed to represent me, my needs, the needs of my family, my neighbors, even people I don’t like. If they’re drawing a check as a public servant, then they’re going to hear what the public has to say.

When I say I make around 180 calls a day, it’s not an exaggeration. If the line is busy (as it has been since trump took office), I hang up and try again. 180 calls on a busy day. If I get through, I can stop calling that person for the day. I’ll call them again tomorrow and the day after that, then day after that one, and I’ll continue to call until every elected official is hearing what the public is saying.

I didn’t suffer for 18 years without support to finally qualify for SSI, only to have it stripped away because a billionaire who makes $8 million a day in government contracts wants even more.

The average person on Social Security earns $65 a day. Cut one day of Lone Skum’s $8mil and you can pay over 1200 people their SSA benefits. Funny how something that simple could save people from eating pet food or simply starving to death.

But, who cares what I think? I’m just one of millions who desperately despises avarice and straight up corruption. The wealthy — excuse me, the ULTRA WEALTHY — stealing from you, me, our kids, our siblings, our parents, and everyone else who has paid into these essential programs is ludicrous. The wealthy have enough. They have enough to coast until they die, until their kids and grandchildren die. They are literally that rich. They sure as fuck don’t need to take our money, our benefits.

I’m angry. I’m fucking pissed. I’m at 🤬🤯👿 levels of pissed-offedness. Yes, that’s a word. If it’s not, who’s going to tell me otherwise? We’re all lawless anymore, aren’t we?

Call all your representatives today and demand this bullshit end NOW.
———
202-224-3121

Hi, I’m a constituent calling from [zip code]. My name is ______.

I’m calling because donald trump and Elon Musk are stripping away the rights and benefits of citizens –including “birthright” citizens (14th Amendment: if you are born in the United States, you are a citizen and are entitled to all the rights and responsibilities of citizenship in the United States of America.).

Musk is about to do to the federal government what he did to X — a company that has lost 75% of its value since he took over. Unless Congress gets him out of our government now, holds Trump accountable for his actions in allowing this (and encouraging it), our country will meet the same fate and every member of Congress who failed to act will bear the blame for it.

Act now to save your constituents and yourselves (no money from taxpayers = no paycheck for you). You are meant to be working for us. Do your sworn duty.

I hate coconut and refuse to ingest it voluntarily. The texture and taste are off-putting. I don’t mind the smell most of the time. That said, if I read 728 peer reviewed studies touting coconut’s health benefits, I would understand the information, synthesize it, share it with others in my own fashion, and continue to eschew it for myself. That’s part of my experience throughout the k-12 educational system. I also learned how to read studies in their most technical aspects as a nurse. I can share the information whilst knowing it’s still not something I can ingest personally unless the taste and texture are completely masked.

The Coke v Pepsi argument? One is sweeter than the other. One is more carbonated than the other. I prefer one, but would not turn down the other if it was the only option available. Or, I would go without. I could easily spend 20 minutes discussing the pros and cons with someone, although I choose to spend that time discussing topics of much greater interest to me and the person with whom I’m conversing.

If I’m talking with someone who has greater knowledge and experience about a topic, I’ll listen, ask questions, and then research more on my own time to educate myself further. I may or may not reach the same conclusions as my conversation partner, but I will have sought to educate myself further. That’s what learning is all about!

One of the greatest advantages of being human is the gift of obtaining knowledge, processing it through the complex computer network we call the brain, and being able to use that information to improve our lives and the lives of those around us. Unfortunately, there are entire swaths of people who opt out of the onboarding of information, choosing to merely parrot the words of others because they feel someone else has already done the hard work for them. They have denied themselves, their families, their friends, and their communities of the opportunity to grow. They’ll choose to amplify misinformation, regardless of how insane it sounds. They’ll prop up the ignorant. And they’ll worship at the feet of the inept, corrupt, and the cruel. That’s why it’s imperative for us to seek out a wiiiide range of sources, find studies that are backed by peer review, and take the time to think critically for ourselves. Otherwise we’re all just chanting the same nonsense before we drink the special Kool-Aid.

Critical thinking is essential to growth. Read from a variety of sources, including those with views that challenge what you have learned thus far. Compare and contrast the information you’ve gathered. Seek out the source material. Dig into the peer reviews. Challenge yourself to get to the basis of the information you’ve found. And THEN formulate your opinion.

Like all of us, I have had my share of experiences where I’ve allowed others to think for me. I have chosen to go along with what I’ve heard without bothering to look into it. That was always to my detriment. I made a concerted effort to break myself of employing that shortcut because I no longer wished to perpetuate the spread of misinformation. It’s still tempting to want to take that route, but I look at the note I’ve saved to my welcome message on my phone: “Did you verify it?”*

That simple question is part of a process. There are other questions I ask along the way: “Does it make sense when you examine it from every angle? Is there any information that you could receive that would change your perspective? Is this something you feel comfortable standing by 100%? How does this sound when you speak it out loud? Does it ring true?”

If I have even one piece of information that doesn’t fit, I go back to the drawing board. I have to. I do it because there are some topics that are far too important to allow incorrect and/or incomplete information to be shared.

Critical thinking is a specialized skill that we humans need to use.

Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk. There will be no further questions at this time. (Yes, there will. But be specific, and be prepared for a well-researched response.)

* Verifying, for me, requires at least three unrelated sources. Peer reviewed. Published by respected medical, technical, academic, industrial journals. Everything needs to be based on the latest studies. I don’t want white papers, either. I don’t want white paper “experts” using their limited scope in a subject (they’re considered an “expert” while lacking the license and actual experience in a particular field) clouding or biasing their position. I want full studies from the people who ran the experiments, have used the methods, and have verified the results are repeatable. I’m a picky bitch, but I know how easy it is to get caught in the excitement of a solution, a cure, a revolutionary new way to do something, or a new product that will change lives forever. It’s little things like these that keep me feeling more confident in the future. And so now you know.

I’ve been MIA for a long time, obviously. My excuse? Dealing with crazy ass people, moving (three times in less than three months), dealing with nice people, trying to get some semblance of normalcy (quit laughing!) in my life, dealing with grief throughout all of this insanity, etc., etc., etc.

Currently looking for a new place to live and actually call home for at least a year. At this point, I don’t care where it is. I just want to be somewhere drama-free, affordable, and comfortable.

Adventures in house hunting: -30/10. Do NOT recommend. Ever. Particularly, and this is the least crazy, the man who showed me around the place (it was nice) and offered to knock off $300 if I would fuck him whenever he wanted. Oh, and it might not always be him. He might send a friend to have some fun. As I slowly backed out of the house, I thanked him, told him I wasn’t interested, and, as I closed the door, said he was fucking insane.

My head feels all ‘splodey. Good times.

I have until the 1st to find somewhere. I’m trying to find someplace sooner because I’m living with three other people (one of whom requires total care), two dogs, and four cats. It’s a two bedroom house. (Quit laughing!) I actually don’t mind most of it, except for the dogs jumping all over me while I’m trying to sleep, the cats fighting as they try to work out the rules (one human, one dog, two cats are recent additions), and sweeping up enough enough fur to assemble another giant dog every six hours. Today? We added two kids to the mix. Chaos. Good chaos. But, honestly, I would like a little quiet. A little. Just a smidgen.

I would also like to sleep for approximately three weeks. Sigh.

Other than that, life is bordering on Dullsville. What’s up with you?

It’s that time of year again! I’m commemorating the years I’ve been blogging while also celebrating my years on this planet.

These are not insignificant numbers. 22: how many people do you know who are still involved with something they started on a whim over twenty years ago? 58: there are people who predicted I’d never see this age. My, but I bet they’re surprised! Well, not all of them are still living. Hey, I had absolutely NOTHING TO DO WITH THEIR DEPARTURES!!! Life (and death) happens. No spells or curses were utter, purchased, or distributed. Not by me.

It feels a little funny to continue blogging despite no longer having a large readership. Hell, I’d be stretching to call what I have a small readership. Micro. I have a micro readership. And that’s all thanks to Pam. Love you, girlfriend! The thing is, I stopped writing for anyone else years ago. I write for me. If I bother to write, that is. This is just one of the places I call home. (Ah, yes. The pretense of having multiple homes. It’s my fantasy, I can have as many homes as I like. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)

So, here I am. Pretty much writing to myself and one or two others. I’m surprisingly okay with it. It’s a far cry from where I was twenty years ago, but things change. Funny how age can either drive you nuts or make you contented. Sometimes all in the same hour. That’s just life.

The truth is, I really like my life right now. I like where I am. I like where I live. I like who I live with (GmaB is truly an amazing lady who exudes goodness and love). I like who I am here. I like all the things I do. I’m taking care of someone. I’m in a home that was built with lots of love. If it weren’t for the major heat in the summer, it would be perfect. Actually, it is perfect. I don’t have to go outside in the heat except to take out the trash. There’s good air conditioning. See? I can’t even complain about the weather. Who am I anymore?

Having found this new wonderful state of mind, I feel like an idiot for not finding it sooner. It was always there for the taking. I just couldn’t see it. Now, I do.

And with that, I’ll bid you adieu for now and go have a birthday donut. Raspberry filled.

Here’s to whatever adventures come next!

To revisit the tale of my head injury, well, why not?

On that fateful early February morn, I was feeding the bison an apple. It wasn’t the bison I normally feed as he was in a different corral. No, this was a younger male who was taking his role as a novice — and temporary — alpha male quite seriously. Not in an aggressive manner, just in a “I’m going to eat everything you offer before anyone else and you’ll have to throw the food on the ground for them while I’ll eat from your hand” kinda way. Had the actual alpha bull been around, this is what he’d have done.

There I was, feeding Dos (my nickname for this young bull) an apple. He knocked it from my hand, so I bent down to retrieve it. He ate from my hand again and promptly knocked it out once more. I retrieved it. Again. Then a third time. As I bent down to get it (on my side of the fence, mind you), apparently, he felt challenged and struck out at me. My mistake was bending forward in front of him at the part of the fence that was merely steel cable instead of the steel bars.

His head smashed into me (OMG! Holy fuck, it hurt!) and I was slammed onto my back. His horn had ripped into my scalp, which I realized almost immediately because I felt the warm gush of blood pouring down my head. I used my least muddy hand to try to stanch the flow. I also had to find my glasses. Surprisingly, I hadn’t lost consciousness nor had my glasses been broken. I saw the apple next to me, flipped it into the corral, and told Dos he was fine. He snorted in agreement.

I was able to stand without wobbling or falling over (maybe I wobbled a bit, hard to recall every little detail). Yay! I was able to bend down and retrieve my glasses without falling. Yay! Walking back to the house, all I could think was I needed to find someone to stay with GmaB that night. I called her son and told him this. After explaining what happened and saying I was going to call 911, he told me to hold off calling them and he’d be right over. I asked him to bring a clean towel.

Blood was pouring through my fingers, down my face, down the back of my head, everywhere. I went to the dining room window and knocked on it to get the attention of the caregiver who was on duty. Her absolute surprise was evident the very second she saw me. I asked her to grab my towel from the bathroom. Once my head was wrapped, I attempted to wash my free hand. She helped. GmaB’s son arrived, agreed I needed the hospital, and helped me into his vehicle.

At this point, I had no idea if my skull was split open or what, but the pain was beginning to really hit. Funny how shock delays the worst of it. I made stupid jokes to try to keep from crying because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop if I started.

We weren’t at the hospital hospital. The hospital runs like an urgent care center that’s also kind of like a hospital emergency room. I can’t explain it better than that. Anyhow, once there, I had quite a few people checking on me. I think they were shocked I was walking and talking and joking around. Believe me when I say I was doing my best to keep the tears in check. Panic was just below the surface. Only just. At some point, my wound was slightly cleaned, a pressure dressing applied, and I was sent for a CT scan. Once it was determined I didn’t have any skull fractures, the next step was determining if I required a trauma surgeon to take care of the cleaning, suturing, and whatever else was needed. The answer: yes. This meant I had to have at least one IV and an ambulance. One nurse came in with a young woman who was obviously a student and I told her her she was going to do just fine, there was no way she was going to cause me more pain than I was already experiencing, and even if she wasn’t able to get the IV started, any practice is good practice. The relief on her face was priceless! She initially got the IV, but the vein (my very bestestest vein!) collapsed, rendering that access point useless. The RN tried and couldn’t get it. Another RN came to try. He had some luck, but then that vein collapsed. One of the paramedics finally got it and we were off.

At the *actual* hospital, I waited and waited and waited, then asked for assistance to the bathroom because I was ready to burst. Once back from the loo, everyone was ready for me. Things went quickly from that point on. I was taken to surgery, got one of the nurses to take a couple photos of my head before, during, and after surgery, and I woke up with an adult-sized bang-a-roo* of a headache. The meds from surgery wore off far too quickly and I…

Something Something Something…blah blah blah. I had more of the story written here, but in a fog of exhaustion, I erased it. I don’t recall what I was writing, either.

Needless to say, I survived the entire ordeal. My scar is large, my hair is short, and I’m impatiently awaiting hair to return to its former glory.

* I miss you, Robert Urich.

All this to say, “I didn’t die. Yay.”

The doctor survived the suture and drain removal!

Don’t laugh. It was a close one.

I won’t lie. The drain removal hurt like a mofo. I cried a tiny bit. Then I swore…just a wee bit. Times three. I hyperventilated a big bit. I clenched up my entire body a huge bit. And I spontaneously blathered odd animal facts an enormous bit. So, the doctor survived. As did I.

My incision looks good. The drain area will close in a day or two. And I shall never Never NEVER need a trauma surgeon ever again. I hope.

Good God, I’m glad that’s over.

I now have proof of it. If I could post the pictures, I would. I’m currently the new favorite story for the trauma team at the local hospital.

No broken skull, thank God. But I do have 14cm (I think they said centimeters) of stitches, a drain, and half a head shaved. 24 hours later, I’m home and sporting a lovely dressing and am excited at the prospect of donning a shower cap so I can get cleaned up. Mud and some bison manure, plus lots of blood, need to go.

It’s been a very surreal 36 hours.

Still here, though! Still laughing. Gently. Too painful to do otherwise.

Signed,

Buffalo Gal

I did it! Finally!

I lost my virginity.

Silly thing for a mom of two to write, but hear me out.

Craig Ferguson took my virginity. True. Fucking. Story.

October 7, 2023, is a day that will live in infamy for it was the day I finally got to go see Craig Ferguson on tour with his stand-up act. Not only that, but I met him, got a hug, he touched one of my tattoos (neener neener, wouldn’t you like to know which one!), and…and…and…it was all perfection. Mostly.

Yes, I’d been to tapings of his show many times over his ten year run as host of The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Yes, I’d been mere feet away from him. Yes, I laughed myself silly. But I hadn’t seen his stand-up show before.

I’d envied those I knew who had been many, Many, MANY times. They had met him. They got their picture taken with him. They…touched…him. I was happy for those people. But I stewed in my own bitter juices of jealousy in private. I feared I’d never get my moment with THE GREATEST, FUNNIEST, AND MOST HANDSOME SCOTTISH LATE NIGHT TALK SHOW HOST AND COMEDIAN IN THE WORLD. But I did. It happened. And now my life is (mostly) complete. I say “(mostly) complete” because there was just one teeny weeny little problem with our conversation (okay, two teeny weeny little problems) (maybe three teeny weeny little problems, but definitely not more than three). Main problem the first: I’d forgotten to ask if he remembered a sketch from the show where a particular name was used. Why would it matter almost 20 years later? Because I was author of that name! Well, the author of half the name. And I wanted him to sign one of his books for me using that name. Big problem the second: I forgot to bring the book. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice! I know what I did and I know how stupid that was. Look, it’d already been a very long, hot day full of emotion* before I even left to make the journey out to the middle of nowhere to see him. I couldn’t possibly be expected to remember VERY IMPORTANT items I almost desperately wanted signed by THE GREATEST, FUNNIEST, AND MOST HANDSOME SCOTTISH LATE NIGHT TALK SHOW HOST AND COMEDIAN IN THE WORLD! It’s like you don’t know me at all, people! Have you fallen so out of love with me your blog reading that you’ve forgotten all my (very) charming (and occasionally frustrating) quirks?

Le sigh.

I’m disappointed enough in myself, I don’t need your help in that department.

Problem the third: I also forgot to ask about his kids. Oh, the stories he told about his kids! So funny! So absolutely charming! So clever! The only kids I knew who were as funny and charming and clever as his kids were mine. Truly. I wanted to know if they continued to be funny, charming, and clever…like mine. Because: parents. IYKYK, right? Right.

All said and done, it was a beautiful day punctuated with the most magical evening of laughter and absolute joy. If I ever figure out how to post photos here again, I’ll post the pic of me beside THE GREATEST, FUNNIEST, AND MOST HANDSOME SCOTTISH LATE NIGHT TALK SHOW HOST AND COMEDIAN IN THE WORLD. And you will once more envy my glamorous life. (Glamorous in that I had one night away from GmaB and the farm, but it still counts!)

And that’s the story of how Craig Ferguson took my virginity.

* My best friend got married and I photographed her wedding. She was completely stunning! She looked so happy! And the latter part is and was the most important part of the equation. I really want her to be happy.

I don’t like this day. I don’t like the memories of the many deaths, some of which were caught on camera. I don’t like thinking of the horror of the events this day 22 years ago.

I hate the fact far too many lost an important part of their family. I hate that it was hate which denied these people a chance at a future.

But, I remember, too, how neighbors came to the aid of those they didn’t know. How we turned to one another to comfort and be comforted. How untold numbers of men and women ran toward danger to help others, to help strangers.

We’ll never forget what happened 22 years ago, nor should we. We must remember the gut-wrenching terror and heartbreaking sorrow, the astonishing heroism and tender outpouring of love, and the tragedy that forever changed the world.

#NeverForget

Dragonflies have always fascinated me. They’re so dainty and delicate in appearance, but they’re tough and rid the world of pests. Dragonflies symbolize good luck, prosperity, and new beginnings. Funny that. When I got my first tattoo, I chose dragonflies and got the tattoo as I was starting divorce proceedings. I must’ve sussed the meaning before I actually learned this bit of trivia.

Today, GmaB and I watched dragonflies flit about and then, miraculously, watched as one began to lay eggs. Sadly, those eggs will come to nought as the chosen site isn’t next to water. I may have to find a way to put water just below the eggs and then relocate the nymphs once they emerge. (I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m just winging it…hehee…winging it. Wing-ing. Wing. Dragonfly. And…)

I needed beauty in my life today. I’ve been feeling rather emotional the last couple days and our dragonflies brought me beauty by the bushel. Now, I must go so I can weep silently in the kitchen.

Today, my mom would’ve been 88 years-old. I miss her ever so.

Mom was the kind of person who could and would talk with pretty much anyone and everyone. Part of it was her genuine interest in other people. Part was a bit of a persona she cultivated for sales. Either way, you essentially got a woman who was willing and able to talk for hours and you’d never be bored.

Taking care of Crackerjack’s grandma, it feels a little like I’m taking care of Mom. Sure, Gma B has dementia, but she’s vibrant and kind and has so many stories to tell. That reminds me of my mom. And Gma B is an artist, like Mom. Her paintings are pretty amazing. I keep thinking I should rank them in order of my love for them. There’s just one teeny problem: I have multiple favorites for different moods and moons. Same as I’ve felt for Mom’s art.

I wish Mom could be here to meet with Gma B, talk with her about art, life, kids, etc. They’d have gotten on like a house afire.

So, while it seems strange that I might enjoy spending long hours with a 90yo who has dementia, the truth is that she helps me through the grief when it rears its ugly head. Not that grief is “ugly”. In fact, I believe grief is really kind of beautiful. It says you loved the person who’s gone. It says you have a heart. It says you can survive without them, you just wish you didn’t have to. That’s the clearest, purest definition of love I’ve ever come across. You miss them and you grieve them because you loved them deeply.

In a terrible bit of horrible timing and dark irony, Gma B was admitted to the hospital the other night after reacting badly to some antibiotics and becoming dehydrated, which, in turn, caused her to collapse as we were trying to walk her out to her youngest son’s vehicle. One 911 call later, we’re at the hospital with her and the doctors say her lungs were looking poorly. Yes, just as Mom’s birthday and anniversary of her death from lung cancer were approaching, my new charge is struck with pneumonia. (Thank God, it’s that and not cancer!) You better believe I asked God to help Gma B through this illness. I don’t think I could handle the alternative.

It’s made me miss Mom more than ever. It’s made me appreciate the time I had with her and appreciate how she was able to determine her own life and death. Mom was not one to linger or try to prolong the inevitable. She didn’t want to spend her last months sick from chemo or radiation. She decided against feeling awful just to spend a little more time here. Even if it meant we’d have to say goodbye sooner than we’d like, Mom knew she’d be living on borrowed time and she’d be miserable throughout. None of us wanted that for her. I certainly wouldn’t want her to suffer. And thus, she decided to make the most of the time she did have left. That’s a fortunate choice she was able to make and one I respect.

I thought of her yesterday as I discovered a hummingbird trapped in the garage. I happened to go out to look for a painting Mom had done of — a hummingbird, of all things! — in one of my boxes out there and found the bird buzzing about. It was hot. There was nothing in the garage that would’ve helped it survive for long. At one point, it landed on the ground in front of me, almost as if it was asking me for help. I opened the side door and then one of the garage doors. It took a minute or two for the bird to realize there was a way out of the hot concrete box, but once it saw the big door was open, it zipped on out, back to the world with nectar and water and others of its kind. I felt so elated watching it find freedom. It was as if Mom had been that bird and suddenly she was free. I took this as a sign that Mom’s okay where she is, that she wants me to release her from the this world, that it’s okay to move forward. I have been moving forward. It’s good, though, to have a reminder like that to push me towards the next thing in life. I work at that every day. Now I feel certain it’s time to open up my heart to whatever comes next, even if I can’t share it with her. Well, not directly. She’s still here in my heart and I believe she’ll always be there, cheering for me whatever comes my way. So, sharing with her, but not being able to talk with her about it all.

I miss you, Mom! I love you and miss you and I’m so glad we had many years of fun and sadness and joy and sorrow and good health, bad health, years of contemplation and action, years of making memories, telling stories, sharing in the wonders of this world, reminding each other how lucky we were to experience it. I hope you’re visiting with all the people you’ve loved and lost. And I hope you’ve saved me a seat at your table for when it’s my turn.

Love you! Happy birthday!

P.S. please forgive me for not wanting to write something tomorrow. I think I’ve covered it all here. <3 <3 <3

P.P.S. how do I get rid of the acrid smell of really burnt food* in the house? It won’t go away no matter what I do! It’s times like these that I desperately want to ask your helpful advice. You always knew what to do!

* I had chicken tenders in the microwave that decided to not only cook in record time, but to burn into tiny hockey pucks in record time. Smoke BILLOWED out of the microwave. It was awful. It’s still awful. Mom would’ve known what to do about the lingering stench. She always had solutions to problems like this.

I’ve been busy. It’s my only excuse for not posting lately. Well, that and I’ve been lazy. And sick.

We were all sick last month. I was projectile vomiting as I tried to get from bedroom to bathroom at one point. Couldn’t hold down food or water. Coughing. Sore throat. Diarrhea. Aforementioned vomiting. Fever. Headache. Painful ears. Everything. All at once. And we all had it. Including Buckaroo Nugget. Poor baby.

It came in two waves. In other words, as soon as you started feeling better, BAM! It started all over again.

I lost 6 pounds.

I wasn’t mad about the weightloss, just mad at the method.

For the first time ever, I weighed less than Crackerjack. I’ve undone that progress in the last few days as I’ve been ravenous and seemingly eaten whatever I could get my hands on. Oh well, it wasn’t going to last anyway as Crackerjack is still losing baby weight. For that one brief moment, though…

Speaking of weightloss! I don’t recall whether or not I mentioned it, but I’ve lost a bit of it. If I could post pics, I’d do so and give you side-by-side images to illustrate the change. It’s…noticeable.

I had to get rid of a lot of clothes. I’ve never been so happy to say adios to garments as I was at that point. I wish I could say it’s been easy to replace what I donated to Goodwill, but that’s not the case. So I’ve bought exactly one pair of jeans and one shirt. Go figure.

Oh! I just had labs/tests done and I am so chuffed with the results. My HgA1C is 5. Considering I started out at 14 in October, 2020, and my last labs had me at 8. Woo hoo! Meds, diet, and exercise have paid off. My cholesterol — the LDL (think L = lousy/bad cholesterol) — wasn’t measurable back in 2020 because it was so high. At three months, I was at 150. At six, 95. At a year, 80-something. 18 months, 73. Now? 50. Squee!

I knew I was doing well, but these numbers blew my mind.

The other good news is that my kidney and liver function tests are remarkably improved post-Covid. Aaaaand, my heart seems to be working like it should, or at least, mostly. Pulmonary function has also improved a great deal. Overall, I’m pleased with this trend.

Slow and steady is the ticket.

I only wish I’d started down this road sooner.

What else?

I’ve heard incredible music, caught up with old friends, traveled a lot more in the past two months than I have in the last ten years (for doc appointments and for picking up/dropping off Crackerjack’s girls), seen beautiful things, and laughed a whole bunch. That’s pretty damn awesome, if you ask me.

My goal is to stay on my weightloss journey, find a doctor who will remove all the excess skin I suddenly find myself lugging around, and I want to continue seeing people I adore and go out for more live music. I’m also endeavoring to avoid any further bouts of illness that involves puking.

I am currently filled with hate. I’m not proud of this; it’s just a fact. A painful, loathesome fact.

We have mice.

We had mice in Texas. For the most part, they were never seen. Arizona mice, however, are everywhere. They rarely even run when they see us now. We’ve become their bitches.

I hate them.

We’ve released 7 into the wild, including a pinkie*. We’ve opted for humane traps, though I’m beginning to resent this as what they’re doing to us is akin to torture. I can’t even sit on the toilet in peace without the occasional mouse running over my slippered foot and then hiding on a shelf behind supplies. This is one of the only times these mice run upon contact with us. Apparently, they’re shocked to see us and get so discombobulated they scurry about. To that I say, “what the fuck did you expect? You’re in a HOUSE! People live in houses. Don’t like us? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

We don’t set the cats or the snake out after the mice. 1.) The cats are healthy, well-fed, lazy, and don’t need to pick up anything that would be detrimental to Crackerjack’s or the baby’s health, and 2.) live rodents and captive snakes aren’t really a match made in heaven. In fact, live rodents can be dangerous for captive snakes. They can scratch or bite the snakes and that can lead to infections. Plus, I don’t know how we’d get Sneaky Snek back after she went on her rodent-seeking mission.

I’d post pics of the little shits, but I’m still experiencing issues with the “how” of it. Just trust me when I say the mice aren’t as cute as those found in children’s books or even those you see in the wild. To me, when I see mice indoors, all I see are vectors of disease and destruction. Hence, Get. Out.

*Pinkies are babies without fur.

Marshall Tucker keeps playing in my head these days.

“Can’t you see?
Whoa, can’t you see?
What that woman, Lord, been doin’ to me…”

It’s been on a near constant loop in my brain for the past 7 to 10 days. It’s been about that long since I basically lost all but the blurriest vision in my right eye.

It’s just a worsening of the cataract that I needed to have surgery on last year, but didn’t because I had nowhere to stay during the surgery and recovery time.

Everything was fine until about 10 days ago. I woke up and my eye was a little sore, a little itchy, but nothing major…until I started to get on with my day and realized my right eye felt “off”. I did the whole close one eye to test my vision thing and BAM! All I had was colorful blurry blobs in my right eye.

Well, that’s not great news. Natch. But I’m left-eyed. So, it could be a lot worse. A LOT WORSE. Of course, I need to make a special appointment with my ophthalmologist in San Diego very soon. I’d try to squeeze it in on Monday while I’m there, but that’s not optimal as far as timing and such. I’ll be there for a very short time. Essentially there two days. Then it’s back to Phoenix with my friend J. We’re doing a quick trip to get as much of my belongings as we can fit in a van and also for a bladder/kidney scan (one of the more exciting exams one can ever schedule). It’s necessary since I’ve had intermittent bouts of urinating bright red blood.

While chances are this is another health problem related to Covid, I opted out of the study here because it ended up too far away from where I live. The study would have covered the scan and whatever treatment is necessary. However, this particular study did NOT include transportation for 2-3 appointments a week for the first month and I most certainly can’t afford to Uber 70 miles round trip that often. Thus, my San Diego doctor was kind enough to set up the test I needed. I’m also supposed to have a pain management appointment after, but there’s a problem with authorization (of course!). So I’m taking what I can get this time around and will schedule more for September when I go back to get the remainder of my stuff.

Very exciting, right?

This past Tuesday, J and I drove her kids up to Vegas to be with their dad. Two chatty little ones and two chatty grown-ups. Four and a half hours or so there. Just over four hours back. It was a good trip. And honestly, I’m in awe that J does this trip frequently. Alone.
———
Fast forward to today’s trip. We made great time, dumped our meager belongings at the hotel (a $200 room for $35 because J works for the hotel chain and this is one of the perks), then headed over to my sister’s. I got to see Fletch! OMG! He’s so stinkin’ sweet. I love that cat more than life itself. While I’d take him back in a heartbeat, he’s settled there and C&D have become accustomed to having him in their lives. No way I’m breaking up that power trio even if I could. For now, I will enjoy the cats at J’s and get kitty loves when I can.

Anyhow, we loaded up the minivan with quite a bit of my belongings and hit up In & Out Burgers for dinner. We’re now settled into our room and are trying to get comfortable. We’re exhausted. Sweaty and exhausted. Sweaty, exhausted, and feeling oddly accomplished. It’s a good, satisfying sensation.

Tests in the morning. Off to sleep.

Photos of the storm were encountered on our drive and a very melty version of me.

I can’t post photos because the new version of WordPress doesn’t have the option to upload that I can easily discern. *facepalm* Oy.