Da Goddess

A reminiscence, if you will. Throwback Thursday, but on a Wednesday.

I was digging through some old emails in search of photos buried deep within the recesses of gmail archives. I ended up reading every exchange from beginning to end and had such a good laugh at most of it. Some friends really bring out the funny in me and I wish I could bottle that up and confidently uncork it at an open mic night somewhere…soonish.

But I digress.

Within those emails is a copy of the post that got me my first real boost of blog traffic. I wish I could remember the blogger’s name. I can see his original blog in detail, right down to the color, and then there’s just nothing at the header. Like someone went in and erased that specific part of the memory. He was military. He eventually had Sgt. Mom post on the site, too. And then he disappeared. Lots of bloggers did back then, didn’t they. Back before Facebook, Google Plus, The Tweety, Instagram, and the rest, there would just suddenly be a void where previously there’d been a very prolific writer. One a week. Then 1.5 a week. After Facebook, the exodus was more pronounced. So, yes, there was a blogger (Sgt. Stryker???) who read this post and loved it so much he shared it. I got a lot of new readers. And that may have been the reason I went into full-on naughty blogger mode for a while.

Here’s the post in all its (mostly) unedited (I took out the excessive periods I once used in ellipses and shortened the “aarrggghhh” to have roughly one fifth of the original number of letters — nobody has time for such nonsense) appallingness (I can’t even come up with the word I would prefer to use because of the mind erasure thing, though I’m almost now 95% certain it was Stryker).

July 21, 2002

Nipple Blog

My nipples aren’t on the same horizontal plane.

Now, most people wouldn’t notice this nor would they care. Even if they did they probably wouldn’t write about it. Not me. I noticed and I’m posting!

I noticed that my nipples were out of alignment when I walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light and saw myself in the mirror. I’ve noticed it before but it held me riveted tonight for some reason. My shirt and bra allowed for this assessment in a way that I hadn’t readily anticipated. Light blue shirt, lacy bra, hugged the upper body just the right way. And, I was a little chilled. Oh hell. I was poppin’ a boober, okay? (Poppin’ a Boober is the female equivalent of the pubescent boy’s erection…..it happens whether you want it to or not.) Yep. The headlights were on.

And, as I stood there I saw that the left side was lower than the right. It wasn’t merely something that required a boob-in-bra adjustment. I tried that and it didn’t stay. So, I did my girly bra-off move and stood there looking at my naked breasts and decided that, indeed, my nipples just don’t fall in a symmetrical fashion. Both my boobs seem to sag to the same level. Not the nips though. They aren’t wildly off. Not like one is in North Dakota and the other somewhere around Kansas. Just off a fraction too much to be a comfortable quirk.

I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t know why it suddenly concerned me. Like I said, I’ve observed this before. It just didn’t strike me as anything to ponder or worry about. But it does now. I feel very self-conscious about my breasts at the moment. I’m sitting here alone. Worried about my nipples. How sad is that?

I started to imagine myself going to the store, walking through the frozen food section, poppin’ a boober, and feeling all eyes upon my unlevel nubbins. Should I readjust? Ignore? Pride dictates that I at least attempt a brastrap adjustment as a means to hopefully bring about a level playing field. Homeostasis. But, wouldn’t that be acknowledging to the store that I KNOW my breasts are less than perfect? (Pretend they are!) Or would my nipple oglers think that it was a flaw in the bra that caused that temporary bust unsightliness? If I ignore, my erect and obvious misalignment could cause more stares. Conceivably, I could be at fault for nasty shopping cart accidents as my fellow shoppers stare at the unnatural state of my breastesses. I don’t have insurance for that!

This leads to more worry. Imagine the courtroom scene as a man (who was trapped under the 400lb display of canned yellow waxed beans that collapsed after ramming his shopping cart into them) describes the terror of becoming distracted by my unsightly bosom. And, the judge, being of reasonably sound mind, would wonder how such a thing could possibly create that much havoc. He’d summon Rusty the Bailiff to bring in a walk-in fridge, order me in, and then, when my nipples were at the peak of hardness request us to reenact the debacle.The plaintiff, distracted by the nipples that naggingly nixed his normal shopping habits, would jump up and shout, “Look! Aren’t they frightening? Ohhhhhhhh, my eyes! Aarrrrggggggggghhhh! Make her warm up, please!” And he’d collapse in sobs as his broken leg and arm twitch in painful spasms from the sudden movement. The judge would have no choice but to award damages to the injured. I’d have no way to pay up.

Should I be forced to wear a heavily padded bra? With my breasts…that’s really not a very good idea. They’re big enough already. A padded minimizer bra? Nooooo! That’s cruel and unusual punishment. Those things hurt. They scrunch the boobs to no end. And, they invariably give you the double cleavage that’s even more unsightly than the misaligned milk pumps. You know what I mean. The way that the cup of the bra cuts into the upper portion of the breast that isn’t completely encased in lycra and lace. I can’t afford to send someone out to shop for me either. That’s out of the question. I mean, I live alone at the moment. Even when my kids are here they’re too young to go to the store alone. And, I refuse to have nipple realigning surgery! UGH! That’s just gross.

Why is this bothering me right now? WHY? What should I do? I don’t have any answers to those questions and I’m too flummoxed to think. I guess I’ll just go try putting my boobs in different bras and see if I can’t come up with an idea. If all else fails…duct tape. Seems to work for everything else in the Universe. Wait…upon reflection, even that is too harsh a penalty. Oh man. I’m destined for therapy. Dr. Phil? Are you available?

I was tempted to remove the name of the blight on the “psychology” field he professes to be part of, but had no other name to substitute. Dr. Joyce Brothers? I don’t even know any more. My brain is mush these days.

Okay. There you have it. I throwback to 2002. Nineteen years ago.

We’re just about 40 days shy of the halfway point in 2021 and it doesn’t seem like that’s real or even possible. And that last sentence had a question mark at the end of it in my head. Most things do these days. Have question marks at the end, that is. I’m just not sure what anything means or where anyone stands any more. I’m not even sure when I can use “anymore” or it it’s always been “any more”. I used to know these things and now I know nothing.

My own life and in my own head, I’m Sgt Schultz. Is that not the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard? At the very least, one should be Hogan or — should things take a weird turn — even Colonel Klink or Carter. No one should be the Schultzie of their own life. No one.

And yet, here I am.

I guess it’s better than being General Burkhalter, eh? He was never on the right side of anything and wasn’t lovable like Schultz.

Huh, maybe I am Schultz. And maybe I am okay with it.

Nah. If I can’t be Hogan or Newkirk or Kinchloe, I don’t think I want to be in this sitcom at all. I mean, would you?

I can’t drive; I’m 55.

I made it! I made it. I made it? No, yeah. I MADE IT! I almost said “I made it, motherfuckers!” but that seems unnecessarily profane, especially as I’m saying this to you, my friends. You are not motherfuckers. For the most part. I mean, technically, some of you are literally fucking mothers, though I’d hope not your own because that would be, uh, erm, different and unexpected. Definitely unexpected. And very different. Not that I’m judging you. I have so many other things for which to judge you. I don’t want or need to know that part of your life and I’m totally good with n.e.v.e.r. knowing that part. Not that I’d judge you for it.

Back to this day. This momentous day. This day on which I hit a milestone of fifty-fucking-five years of age!

Mr. Andruski, wherever you are, fuck you. You said I’d never make it. Hell, you didn’t even think I’d be alive long enough to graduate high school. Well, I did graduate high school, college, and while I didn’t realize my dreams as I’d dreamt them high school, I most certainly realize many others I’d conjured along the way. All without your “valuable insight and guidance.”

Can you believe the vice principal of a high school would say such things to a teenager and to her mother? Those words — and “you’re gonna wind up a wasted slut lying face down in the gutter if you don’t watch yourself, missy!” — actually led to one of the worst moments of my life: my dad slapping me across the face and my nose pouring out blood by the bucketsful! To be fair, my dad didn’t intend for it to happen. I don’t think he’d ever would’ve done it if not for my mom and I yelling VP Andruski’s words at each other. My dad only heard me screaming those words and thought I was saying those about, and to, my mom. He stormed into my bedroom and smacked me, just as I was turning my head, which is what led to the spurting of blood from my nose (all over the bedroom, which included the white chenille bedspread and the yellow and orange medium shag carpeting). I was 14, I was angsty, I hadn’t been the most well-behaved teenager (is there such a thing? Has there ever been such a thing in the history of the world?), and I was mouthy as fuck. And yet, despite the fact that I’d been ditching school and had run away at least twice at that point, this was the only time I can recall my dad raising his hand at any of us kids. Definitely the only time he’d ever done so with me. And I was the problem child of the family.

This is where I feel it necessary to tell you a couple of important facts:

1. My dad was a yeller and had a horrible temper. But he wasn’t violent. No beatings for us! He’d just scream and throw vile words our way.

2. My dad did NOT like blood. The very sight of blood made him woozy. Even the mention or, rather, the description of blood was enough to make him go green or ghostly pale.

With these two factors in mind, imagine him raising a hand to one of his daughters, actually going through with the impulse, his hand making contact with my nose instead of my cheek, and a profusion of blood issuing forth from my proboscis. The shock of the violence and the sight of all that vivid red against the white bedspread and yellow carpet caused my dad such agita that he yelled louder, stammering and sputtering, all while going green and turning quite pale. He stomped out of the room, as much as one who is close to fainting can stomp, that is, slammed the master bedroom door, and left my mom and I staring at one another.

Forget our argument (for the time being). I was shaking, crying, and holding my hands over my nose while the blood seeped through my fingers. My mom went into full parental mode. She wrapped her arms around me, doing her best to calm and comfort me. At some point, I don’t remember her doing it (maybe she used some form of maternal magic I never learned), she’d grabbed a t-shirt or dustcloth and had me wipe the blood from my nose and mouth and chin while holding it gently but firmly to my nose to stanch the bleeding. I think she was just as shocked as my dad was, as I was! And I know she was as concerned for him as she was for me. She sent me in to the bathroom to clean my face while she went to check on him.

Long story not-so-much-shorter, we all survived that incident, no thanks to Andruski. It never would have occurred had he not spoken that way to me and my mom. Regardless, we made it through that and many other incidents over the years. Years that asshole predicted I’d never see.

But I have. So, take that and shove it, Mr Vice principal! (I’m sure he’s dead by now, but I feel so much better having said this!)

So, yeah. I’ve made it to 55 and I’m proud of it!

My life has been full of extremely interesting moments. Some were terrifying, some exhilarating, some dull as dishwater, many unexpected, but all mine. And that’s more than many people get. To be cavalier about or take for granted any of these moments would be disrespectful to those gave me life, to those who never got to experience what I have, or even to myself.

To quote from my favorite conversation on getting old (from the movie ‘The Guardian’): “Hell, I’ve always been old, Ben. You know what, though? I don’t mind. I mean, if my muscles ache, it just means I’ve used them. If it hurts to walk up them steps now, it’s just ’cause I’ve done it a hundred times to lay down next to a man who loved me. I got a few wrinkles here and there, but I’ve laid under thousands of skies on sunny days. I look and feel like this, well, because I drank and I smoked and I lived and I loved, I danced, sang, sweat, and screwed my way through a pretty damn good life, if you ask me. Getting old ain’t bad, Ben. Getting old, that’s earned.”

I’ve earned this. I’ve been annoyed, tormented, pestered, plagued, molested, worried, badgered, harried, harassed, heckled, persecuted, irked, bullyragged, vexed, disquieted, grated, bested, bothered, teased, nettled, tantalized, ruffled, bent, broken, spindled, and I’ve lived, damnit! I’ve earned all this.

So, hey there, 55. Nice to see ya.

Are we who we think we are? Or are we who others think we are? Can both these perceptions exist simultaneously and both be equally true? If you know how others see you — and it gives you pause to reflect — does that invalidate what you thought of yourself? Or, if it changes how you see yourself, does THAT invalidate your previous view of who you thought you were? Should it? Should we then reconsider everything we thought we knew?

Is it possible for our actions to be purely received as we intended them, or is everything we do — regardless of our intent — completely at the mercy of how others perceive them?

These are the things running around my head at the moment.

I’ve been blogging for 19 years as of today. I guess I somehow thought I’d have a better idea of who I am and who I was at this point, but I feel I may never have any answers and I’m not sure if I want them any more.

Of course, I didn’t have any idea when I started this blog back in 2002 that I’d still be at it almost 20 years later. Hell, I didn’t have any idea I’d still be at it even two or three years ago. It makes me wonder if I should continue on; if I should make it a full 20 years of blogging; if I should take it up to May 16, 2023, which would be the end of my 20th year and call it quits then; or do I just keep on plugging away until my fingers seize up or fall off? I won’t make any decisions for now. I’m not in what anyone would call a prime decision making frame of mind at the moment. Have I ever truly been in that frame of mind?

Sometimes I don’t know if the me who started this blog is the same person who is currently writing this entry. I know both of us have inhabited the same body, but is that really all it takes to be the same person? I have no clue.

As I say almost every year, the only thing I know for sure is how much I value the people I’ve met through blogging. Each of you have left an imprint on my heart. Some have taken a bite of said organ, some have helped it grow, some have tried to rip it out and stomp it in to oblivion, and some have returned time and time again to help patch up what’s been bitten, beaten, torn, and bruised. You who have helped me grow, who have nursed me back from the brink of disaster, you are the ones I like best. Obviously. Feel free to tell the others. I won’t deny it. (If you were my children, this would be an entirely different conversation.)

Speaking of nursing, can you believe I was still a nurse when I started blogging? That seems a lifetime ago! It definitely seems like it’s, at least, been half a lifetime ago.

Little Dude was just four or five, and Mojo was eight or nine. Now? They’re grown and off on their own journeys of self-discovery, exploration, adventure, mundanity, heartache, heartbreak, recovery, triumph, and, hopefully, fulfillment and contentment. Instead of the precious, fragile little beings I once held close and fussed over every breath or cry or sigh or laugh, I have to remind myself they’re now capable of wiping their own bums, fixing their own meals (and mistakes, for that matter – steaks and mistakes, anyone?), determining their own lives. In the time since starting this blog, they’ve become fully formed people who no longer need me for, well, anything. It’s both sad and wonderful.

It’s the way the world works. Time passes; living things grow; living things die; we change; we do our best to get from one day to the next.

Using that particular lens, I can see I’m still me, just the older version of me; the me who has seen fire and seen rain (literally, at times); the me who has loved and lost and cried and laughed and LIVED. I don’t think I’d want to be the same exact person I was when I started blogging. Sure, there are some parts of this strange trip I might wish had gone differently, but I can’t say I’d want to have come through all of it and to not have changed in some way or another. I’d be crazy to not want to learn and grow along the way.

And so, with that in mind, I think I’m going to be okay with not knowing if I’m the me I think I am or if I’m the me you think I am or if I’m some mashup of the two. We can revisit this a year from now and see if I’ve miraculously found the answer. See you then?

Show this to some young person in your life. Tell them this was a big hit when you were a kid. In the comments, post a link to the pic you took of them as they listen to it.

And then you can tell them this was another big hit. But nobody ever knew why. Or how.

“And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed
Singin’ and jingin’ the jango
Floatin’ like the heavens above”

That’s a beautiful bit of writing, isn’t it? It has no right being in this song.

If you want to fall down a weird ass rabbit hole, go to YouTube and listen to all the covers of this song. From America to Todd Rundgren and countless others. It’s insaane! But, whatever. At least I didn’t include “Disco Duck” here. I love you too much for that.

Dad’s been gone three years now. I’m 100% aware of this, yet I still have moments when I almost forget. Almost. Just before I reach for the phone or think “he’d love this!”, I remember. Or the memory becomes less foggy. Either way, I have that incredible split second moment of him being alive again.

I know I’ll never stop grieving the loss. I know the edges of it will dull and the corners round off with time. I know this. I’ve done this before. Just never lost a parent before. Grandparents, sure. But they were old and th…oh yes. That’s right. I remember now. Dad was old, too. It just doesn’t feel like he was old in my heart and my heart calls a lot of the shots on such things.

I miss you, Dad! I love you and miss you and wish I had even five minutes more with you. Even if those five minutes were you yelling. I’d take it.

I’d meant to post this other news sooner, but I somehow managed to forget each time.

Jan from the Cascade Exposures blog, who also occasionally posted here, passed away in March. At the beginning of April, I texted her a link to a place I knew she’d want to explore. I didn’t hear back right away as I normally would. Odd. And then I woke up Easter morning to “This is Jan’s mom…” and I knew. I said a quick prayer that maybe she was just in hospital or something, but I knew. I just did.

I didn’t ask for details. I don’t know the exact day she died or the cause. I’ve just felt blessed to have known her and for her mom taking the time out of her grief to let me know her daughter was gone.

Jan had just retired after 30yrs at the same job. She’d loved it. But she finally had the chance to retire and she took it. With the pandemic, work was becoming a hassle with rotating team shifts and such. So, she was excited to retire, hang out with her sweet Lily cat, and she and her mom were planning some trips for the moment they had the okay to safely travel. Jan was going to show her mom Death Valley, which I guess she hadn’t stopped talking about since she and I had gone. I completely get that. It’s a special place for so many reasons.

I wish I could say it gets easier to say goodbye to people as I get older. The simple truth is it gets harder for me. Of the bloggers I’ve lost (Rob, Mikey, Scott, and now Jan), it just seems to me that the world keeps losing bright lights and big hearts. There will always be a place in my heart for these special souls, but especially for Jan. I consider myself fortunate to call her my friend and deeply honored that she called me one, too.

Okay. That’s it. I’m going to spend the rest of my day tending to my body and soul with some TLC and a warm shower to wash away the sadness.

Please promise me you’ll be here when I get back.

There’s one place on earth I don’t like to visit. It’s a “goddess temple” in the middle of nowhere in Nevada. What bothers me most about this place is not that there are bad vibes or negative energy there, but that there’s nothing there. It’s a void. It’s as though someone took a great cosmic vacuum to this plot of land and pulled up every last mote of emotion, of energy, of soul. I end up feeling physically ill and injured every time I’ve visited (the 1st time for a photowalk, the 2nd & 3rd times with others to see if they felt the same as I had). When I walked beyond the border of the property, I would suddenly feel a burst of fresh, cool air in my lungs and my body would straighten, my mood would brighten, and I felt as though as veil lifted from my vision. I would wander around, my camera to the eye and I’d want to photograph everything, from the sky to the gnarled exposed roots of a plant that had forgotten what it had once been. I’d walk and walk until my travel companion would have to come looking for me, having called out for the past hour and getting no response. Then came the agonizing walk back through the void. I’d approach it full of hope that I’d just had a momentary lapse of health or mood, only to suddenly feel ill once more the very instant my foot crossed some unseen but very real plane. At that point, I’d hurry as quickly as my now hobbled body and soul could toward the car and drive as swiftly as possible away from the wretched place.

I’ve never been able to figure out how a location could feel so absolutely empty while surrounded by glorious mountains, hills, skies, flora, and fauna. Oh, and that reminds me of the lack of animal life in that space. No insects, lizards, birds, or any other sort of creature was ever spotted on that property. Beyond it, life was practically teeming in the air, on every surface. How could that be?

It’s been over ten years since I last visited the site and I’ve considered a trip out there again to see if anything has changed. But then I wonder if I really need to experience it again and think of several other locations I’d much prefer to see once more.

I think I’d like to try Jay’s Grave* instead. At least I would be able to identify the sensations and give them reason to exist. Plus, fog! And apparitions!

* Word for word the comment I’d left for Tom Cox’s “GHOST” entry.

Please consider adding Tom to your list of regular online visits. He’s a marvelously evocative writer and his podcasts are lovely.

There is another post I started a week or two ago explaining my absence, but this was more important. Shall post that one soon.

Getting your medical information from a political source is like getting groceries from a guy living in his van down by the river.

Sure, you’ll get something; but is it a safe something, though?

Keep researching. Keep reading. But, also be mindful of the source. When it comes to coronavirus, make sure your sources are using current data from medical resources. Anything else is not going to reflect our situation and the needs that must be addressed at this time.

I’m still tip-tapping away. My internet connection is intermittent and fleeting at best. I will post more soon.

In the meantime, please enjoy this:

I heard this song while being transported to physical therapy and dug it. I’m not much of a big Christian music fan, but a good song is a good song is a good song. This is catchy and it’s simply a great bit of music.

There’s a post from yesterday (which I couldn’t publish due to connectivity issues) on another device I can’t access at the moment. In that post, I mention I’m working on something about the coronavirus and basic health concerns. It ties in with the discussion happening in the comments from this post.

As someone who spent a lot of money and time on education to become a registered nurse, and who spent a great deal of time continuing my education in the pursuit of practicing the best care possible (I still do this even though I’m no longer licensed because I want to stay informed and I like to learn), I value the wisdom that comes from those who are on the forefront of medical care — through research and clinical practice — and I have to take care to approach new information with an open mind free of personal or political bias. To be frank, disease doesn’t give a flying fuck what party you belong to or who you vote for. Disease just happens. And we fight disease with science, with fact, and with the knowledge that addresses the disease. Politics may decide funding and dissemination of information to the public, but the actual fight against the disease isn’t political for medical professionals on the frontline. It can’t afford to be.

Anyhow, I have thoughts. So many thoughts. About Covid and healthcare in general. About how information is spread. About how people want to believe in practices other than that based on scientific and medical facts. I’m all for complementary medicine — homeopathy and holistic approaches — when they’re used in conjunction with that of conventional medicine. Together, that’s where the best stuff happens. I have a few too many friends who rely on homeopathic remedies and/or supplements as their own personal shields against disease and who then are surprised when they discover they’re ill.

Basically, my thoughts cover all of this and more and it’s coming. I just want to say it right.

So, please feel free to join the conversation in this other post and I can address topics of concern directly.

My goal isn’t to make anyone feel bad, but to open minds and hope that logic and common sense win out over what feels to be self-interest (even when it’s not intended as such).

I love you all and value our conversations, whether here on the blog or via email or text or phone calls. So, don’t be afraid to join in. I won’t bite. I promise. It’s not hygienic and it’s difficult to do while masked.

Zeugma

Word of the day.

I’m not giving you the definition because I hope you’ll be curious enough to seek it yourself.

I’m all about learning new words lately.

I’m also all about wanting to quiet my brain. There’s a lot of shit happening in there and I’m afraid it’s making its way into my life physically. Must. Quiet. Brain.

Go on, now. Look up zeugma. Enjoy!

I see the folly in my new title system. It’s not a flaw, just a folly. I’m going to have to keep count of the days…as in today is number 32 of 365. This may get confusing. This will get confusing.

I’m ready for the challenge. Possibly.

P.S. I hate the new Chrome tab layout.

I should probably wait to post this as a Two-fer Tuesday selection, but I’m not gonna wait. And, technically, these aren’t a two-fer pair. Different artists, different vibes, but both called to me yesterday and I’ve been listening to them repeatedly ever since.

Before I let you get into the videos, I wanted to share a thought with you: we may not have time machines, but as long as we have music, we can travel anywhere and to any time.

Song number one is a song I know you’ve heard hundreds if not thousands of times and probably never knew the title. Boy does this take me back! I can picture the setting so clearly in my mind, too. I was seven and we’d just moved to California. The song had been out for a year at this point, but the warm SoCal sunshine made it feel fresh and new. This song became one of THE SONGS on which I based every romantic notion I had up until I actually had boyfriends.

Suavecito

The second song is a cover of one of my favorite Waterboys’ songs — The Whole of the Moon. I love the original and I now also love this version by Fiona Apple.

Oh, hell’s bells! Here’s a third song for your listening pleasure. Jon Batiste with I Need You, an upbeat and good kind of infectious song.

I’m still (mentally) on Day 28, but it’s officially the 29th, so blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Health update: first, my sister seems to think she’ll be “better” on Sunday, as if Covid is predictable. I’ve told her to not worry about the timeline as it’s arbitrary and the most important thing is for her to just get healthy again. My friend who had it over the summer is still struggling with respiratory symptoms (diminished lung capacity is the biggest problem) and everyone seems to recover differently from this virus. What tends to be true for the majority of people who’ve been infected is that it takes a while to feel like yourself again.

More than anything, I really just want my sister to feel better. I want her to be as fully recovered as possible so that she can get back to doing the things she wants to do. I know it’s difficult for her to accept such a passive role at the moment, but it’s the best course for her.

I have found I really really really miss our Saturday outings to the grocery store. I miss her giving me the rundown on Mom and her various health problems. I miss just being able to hear her voice and spending those few minutes in the car with her. Our relationship has had its share of speedbumps over the years, but since Dad’s death and then Covid, well, it’s meant we’ve found a new rhythm for interacting that’s been quite lovely. Go figure — it only took a parent’s death and a pandemic for us to hit the right notes of sisterhood!

But again, as much as I miss her and our time together, I just want her healthy. She’s had enough bullshit in terms of health problems the past few years. She really doesn’t deserve this. Nobody does. And I mean NOBODY.

Secondly, Mom’s finally been given some meds to relieve her intractable pain. It’s been emotional torture to hear her physical pain over the phone. I mean, it killed me to not be able to do anything to help her and to know her fucking doctor wasn’t going to give her anything more than Extra Strength Tylenol for the pain that was making her weep all day and all night for over a month. Well, enter Lil Sis and yet another trip to urgent care for help. Mom was finally put on steroids and a low, temporary dose of Percocet. Halle-fucking-lujah! I’ve now had several calls with Mom where she was able to actively participate in the conversation. There are no tears. There’s no distress in her voice. She has actual relief from the pain!

I can’t stress enough how important pain management is. Even if it’s just temporary relief, breaking the pain cycle for any length of time is HUGE when you’re dealing with chronic pain or even an extremely acute flare-up. Mom has relief for now. The pain isn’t completely gone, but it’s been reduced to something livable. Mom’s physical distress is no longer psychic distress as well. Especially in older patients, especially when they’re isolated (as we’ve all been for waaaay too long [but necessarily]). There’s a level of emotional pain that comes with unaddressed physical pain (as I’ve said in my previous post and many others before it) that only becomes more debilitating with loneliness and age and loss of autonomy. To have a doctor refuse to address the problem is a slap in the face and is cruel beyond reason. People don’t let animals suffer like that! At least now Mom is feeling better and, hopefully, this flare-up can just become a distant memory for a good long while.

Thirdly, I had my three months follow up to my diabetes diagnosis. And cholesterol problem. And…blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. My labs were fantastic and my doctor declared me his most improved patient for the quarter. I went from extreme danger zone heart disease-wise to “this is what I call healthy and normal” range. My blood glucose levels are more in line with what they should be (there’s still room for improvement) and the doc was impressed with my reduction of my A1C. I went from “so far out of range to somewhere close to acceptable” according to him and that’s good enough for me for the moment. No changes in meds. No changes in anything else, although I asked again for an appointment with a nutritionist. I know that’ll do me a world of good.

I also got referrals to physical therapy for my neck and back (work comp won’t approve/cover it, but MediCal will) and to dermatology for multiple skin concerns. First and foremost, the two areas on my nose that are suspiciously awful from time to time. One lesion has finally stopped scabbing over (never did anything to it to make it get scabby in the first place) and the other has become the current problem. I know 100% that this is the result of unfettered access to copious amounts of warm California sun exposure in my youth. The endless sunburns. The endless exposure without sunscreen (remember when you bought Coppertone because it was a suntan lotion and not a sunscreen?). The years and years of carefree days spent browning like a holiday turkey or ham. Yep. It’s finally caught up with me. I knew it would. And the time is now. I’ll let you know how this plays out.

So, despite the need for referrals, my health has taken a turn for the better. In three months, I managed to undo however many years of unchecked nasty cholesterol and diabetes and am hanging out in a much better health neighborhood. I’m proud of myself. I wish I could say my glucose numbers were better, but that’s a necessary gradual change. Still, I’m regularly under 200 and that’s a major accomplishment for someone who started out over 400! I’m no longer drinking two gallons (+) a day. I’m not feeling the need to sleep all the time (or at least now it’s because I’m tired for other reasons). I don’t feel like I would rather curl up and die. I have real, actual days of not wanting to nap! This is a big deal for me. The last several years were awful and I didn’t know why. Then, BAM! The truth of the matter was made painfully evident via lab work. Now, I’m like a real person again. I’m thrilled!

I don’t know how I managed to ramble on for so long. I guess there’s just that moment between semi-awake and total sleep where the brain can somehow form complete thoughts and demand to let them out. Lucky you! And now you know more about me than you did yesterday, probably more than you ever wanted to know (and I didn’t even get into the embarrassing stuff). But there it is.

Now it’s time to crawl into bed. The Dick Van Dyke Show will wait. I’m going to take full advantage of the sound of rain on the roof to get in some quality zzzzzzzzzs. Fingers crossed!

Here’s a quick phone snap of the late afternoon sky before the storm came in. Sheesh! SoCal has such awful, ugly skies, right? XOXO

Each night as I head to bed, I turn off the lights in the living room and key my phone to bring up a blank note page so the light from it gets me to the bedroom without me tripping over anything (like the cat). If you don’t move your finger across the screen, it goes out fairly quickly, so I’ve taken to scribbling away with my thumb. Well, that got me thinking about the single line contour drawings I used to do in my art classes as a warm-up exercise. Now, I challenge myself to complete at least one quick little character every few days.

Below is one that wasn’t meant to resemble anyone known to me. I rather like this guy. He has no name yet. Feel free to suggest one or ten.

I’ll post more in the future, I think. I’m having a lot of fun with this and it’s sort of opened my mind to a more creative headspace.

Basic technique used: a single line (I’ve been using my left thumb), while looking at the drawing or without. If using a reference subject (person, photo, fruit, etc.), try drawing looking at the subject only. Then try another while glancing back and forth from subject to your drawing. After you do this several times, you’ll discover your blind drawings improve a great deal as you become more confident in your ability to control your hand/drawing tool.

I’ve been doing this on my phone and in a sketch pad. I’m amassing quite a collection of doodles. It’s fun and it’s a really wonderful way to engage your brain in something other than television. It’s a bit of art therapy.

A bit of advice: Don’t judge your drawings. They’re not meant to be the Mona Lisa or Venus on the Half-Shell. They’re just a way to let your brain have a bit of a rest.

Another tip: if you’re using a reference subject, try to get your paper or phone or whatever you’re using as close to the same level and angle of the subject. By not moving your head up and down so much, your brain and hand better translate what you see to what you capture in your drawing. There’s less distortion in the translation, if you will.

Reminder: don’t judge your efforts! Just let go and have a little fun!

More like “Night 12” because I’m all over the place right now. I meant to post yesterday and I couldn’t keep a signal to save my life.

Well, to make up for that, please go watch this. My heart is now full.

The kittens are kind of like Odie. Especially Tiger Lily. Cats. So fucking funny.