I am apparently in a fibro flare. I had stopped having symptoms and almost figured I didn’t even really ever actually have firbo asshole in the first place. But this is how it goes. And I am flaring. And my right hip and all the hippy sons and daughters within it hate me utterly. I cannot sit for very long. At least not in my formerly awesomely comfortably divinely paternal in its hugging technique recliner. I am able to sit a while on my orange pillow and use my desk, but not for long. I can also sit at the dining table for a while. I can do these things if I am medicated. So today I kept moving. A lot of which involved shopping. Which made me feel fat, made my feet hurt, made my back hurt, but made my hip stop hurting. The good thing is I got an orangeish purse and a yellow purse. I suppose I should say bag as this is the fashion now. And the yellow bag is a Coach. Which is both embarrassing and delightful. And as any fashionista knows, nobody pays full price for bags. A wild stupid wild sale at Dillard’s. The sign on the counter said ONLY SIX ON SALE BAGS PER CUSTOMER. Yes. That kind of sale.
In spite of this flare I know that I am much better overall and will continue to keep the house clean and will cook and cook and cook. I purchased the fabulous Test Kitchen Cooking for Two. Our fab 3 in 1 cooker will be here Sunday. We have a guest coming Tuesday night. I purchased the Test Kitchen School Cookbook. I do not know why I am suddenly interested in cooking. But I am. I used to cook. A LOT. And entertain a lot. I want to cook for people, instead of going out to eat with people. At this point I have no desire to host large parties, but I feel certain that I will.
I have taken photos of the interior of my house. I love my house. This is what you realize when you take photos of your house. That your house is cool and so are you. Dale and I have a very comfortable old house. Homey. I will keep this house clean.
This is about all the typing I can stand at the moment. So I will go now. And do something useful that may involve standing up.
Or lying down.
Hip pain. Because I did so much Monday? Do not know. And do not know what to do about it. It usually just runs its course. Any sort of massage or vigorous rubbing and kneading makes it worse. So I will move around a lot today, which helps, and sit on hard surfaces. And lie down. And use lots of ice packs/heating pads/salves and ointments/a little oxy. I went to bed sometime about midnight, I think, and woke up in pain at five o’clock. So I got up, took oxy, and I’v_e been cleaning and fixing and doing.
I have decided to never leave my kitchen or my dining table a wreck when I go to bed. We have let this house go. It is always mussed up, dirty. We don’t vacuum often. The dining table is always covered with crap of all sorts. There are magazines and papers and clutter everywhere. The corners of the dining room and usually stuffed with boxes of things or packages. I never even go in the basement it’s so bad. The office is often a pile of junk. I go through the junk and get rid of the junk and then it fills up with junk again. The upstairs is so cluttered it’s a shame. Because it is such an awesome space. Today I will figure out some solutions. As long as my body cooperates.
Part of the problem is my impulse compulsion to keep everything. Something I learned from my mother. I am slowly learning how to change, but it is very hard. Because often I get rid of things and regret it later. Because you may need these things. Because you wish you had your graffiti jeans. The incredibly awesome dress from the eighties. The vintage pinstripe suit.
I will continue to keep all the memorabilia. Because I do find it later and say ah. Oh yes. But I just don’t have room for other things. Like copies of papers. Gifts that I neither want nor need. And I don’t have to recycle every single thing. Sometimes I just need to throw things away and be done. I do not have to donate every single thing. Sometimes I just need to throw things away. I do not have to keep food past the expiration date. And I do not have to buy more food than we need. I do not have to horde and packrat. Really.
Yesterday I didn’t do anything I’d planned to do. And I have no idea what I did. Until the evening when I watched Major Crimes with Dale. And then cleaned until the kitchen was clean and the dining table cleared.
I have a post-op appointment this afternoon. And I need to go to Chatt State so they can copy my SS card. I had to get a new one. Because they have to have an actual copy. I also have the Chatt State online training to do. Pronto. And then all that other stuff.
I have to figure out how to cook for two. We never eat leftovers. Our intentions are good, but we just do not eat them. For years I would cook a big pot of chili or pottage and we would eat on it all week. Dale doesn’t like to do that anymore. I also need to follow some recipes because my cooking sucks ass now. And there’s also the issue that I I would rather graze than eat a real supper. But that needs to change.
I am babbling. We will see what happens today. Whether I get things done or not. I really intend to. But you know that thing about that road.
Yesterday I busted it. Cleaning. Heavy Lifting. Heavy boxes of dishes to the car for Good Will. My never-used Kitchenaid mixer to the top of the new fridge what a heavy Blowhard the thing is. I opened up the cabinets above the fridge which I have not opened for years and threw out jars and cans of things unused things I threw them out whilly nilly I did not recycle them. I did not feel guilty about it. I moved my bundt pan and angel cake pan and sifter up to those shelves.
At Tuesday Morning I bought a basket for bread and realized that oh my, I once again have a basket on my wire shelves. At least this one is shallow and holds bread only. I also bought more storage containers.
I now have neatly arranged containers, plastic and glass, filled with grains, cereals, crackers, and pastas, on the top shelf of my wire shelving unit. I took all my brown rice and bulgar and barley and lentils to Terri when we went for supper with her and Jackson last night. I may be able to eat them one day, but certainly not now. (I had lentils last week and was in so much pain the next morning that I am convinced.)
Now I do not need to buy any Rubbermaid or whatnot for leftovers because I had stored the beans and brown grains in those things.
I for honest to God vacuumed, including the sofas. I dusted a little. All this kept me moving pretty much all day long. I am tired today, but not too hard. I don’t think. Because I slept well again last night. Am I a bit manic? Yes. But I don’t feel dangerous near tippy top. I just feel very energetic. I did spend a butt load on the art supplies, but those are lasting things and useful no end in sight I have plenty of things to do to make to create to listen.
However, I did not sketch or paint yesterday. But I think I will today. I have some online training stuff I need to do for Chatt State. I need to talk with my insurance. And possibly my financial adviser. But I will fool around with the quiet spaces in my head. Where the fingers swirl and dot rather than type type type.
So here’s to another good day of doing things. And even more things than that.
I have music on. Punch Brothers. The Phosphorescent Blues. My custom is to blog while the TV is on, usually House or Law and Order SVU. But I’ve been thinking realizing theorizing that my brain does not like this distraction, that it might run more smoothly without it. Of course music is also a distraction. But a different language. And a mood changer/determiner. Lifter upper or drop downer. In any case I’ma try music instead.
So yesterday I did indeed get out my paints. And discovered that they are still good though I haven’t used them in ten years. Got to love acrylics. And discovered also that I had no canvases. So I went to Michael’s and dropped over three hundred dollars on canvases and supplies. Then I came home and organized a bit which always leads to looking into boxes and finding things I hadn’t thought of hadn’t remembered in ages. I keep everything. And I’m very glad I do. Each box is filled with little surprises. And joys. Like the old keychain with Alex’s school photo with the lizard on it all orange hues.
This all led to looking into my old sketches. Which are mostly from nineteen-ninety-one to nineteen-ninety-three. I have painted since then, I’ve done charcoals, but no dedicated sketching. I’d forgotten that I’d ever done these things. Except one. The rest were a rediscovering. The picturing painting sketching brain gave over to the wordy louder one. Which is fine of course but I have been thinking a long long ever so long a time about getting back into that brain mind its softer voice it does not shout it does not slam into me with such desperation as the writing. It doesn’t have a voice at all really.
I am the most un-visual person. I do not write a lot of description into my stories. I cannot conjure a face, even of someone I love dearly. Sometimes a face will float up to me but I cannot close my eyes and see you. Or my boys. Or Dale. It's as though Dale is always moving in front of me. Because he is. None of us live still lives.
When I was growing up, I was always drawing girls. My girls. Their eyes and lips. Finally their noses. My mother painted and drew. My brother crocheted. And made swords and these nail figures with string strung between to create a picture. We decoupaged. My father built things with wood, metal. Turned the lathe to create the newel post on the new stairs. And the banister. We all sang. My brother and I played the piano. My father played guitar. Later in her life my mother wrote. And built things with wood. And she made quilts, just whipped them up so fast. And collected arrowheads and shark’s teeth and stones which she tumbled smooth. In the rock building outside the old house. I loved the sound of the tumbler turning.
I do think I can conjure a smell. They say that you cannot do this, in that you cannot actually smell it. But I can bring up the smell of my mother’s sweet rolls. It’s misty but it’s there.
So today I will work around the house and I will paint a thing. And sketch. In spite of all my study of art history, I only know really understand what a “study” is. I will study what to do before I paint the thing. And then I will dedicate myself to working on the thing and not expect it to be done as quickly as a story. Or essay. Or poem.
I certainly will not sit her and piddle about on the computer on Face Book and Twitter. And check emails constantly. These are foolish pursuits.
So onto the day. Of doing.
Your wife was in the shower/and you wanted to step inside/and soap her up like you did in college when she said
“I’ll shower with you, but I’m leaving
my underwear on,” and you enjoyed her
in every way you could enjoy a person with soap.
Last evening, we took Dale’s mom, Linda Sue, out for a belated birthday dinner. Long Horn. Which has some things I can eat. And boy did I eat. Which defeats the purpose in so many ways because it’s not just about what I eat, it’s about how much. It is about too much fiber, but also about too much fat. But I am okay today. So far.
This is what happens when you all agree to eat only a few bites of that dessert. That 8,000 calorie monstrosity. Apples. Ice cream. Crust. And raspberry sauce which wasn't needed and diminished the mouth feel of the thing. One must love everything always about your own mouth feel when completely fulfilled.
I went to church today. I made it all the way through. First time in at least a couple of months. I sang and sang and almost cried joyful full of song a couple of times. And I participated in the whole moving moving moving ritual that is an Episcopal service.
I watched a really good movie on Friday. Words and Pictures. It is predictable. It is cliché. It is pat. But I didn’t even care and you won’t either because Juliette Binoche and Clive Owen. Because art and literature. Because teaching. Because prep school with a soul heart I want to go there please. Because constant quotes. Because paintings. Because poetry. Because pain. Because painting with a mop. Because the art studio. Because Binoche actually did all of the art for the movie. Because sometimes it’s okay to be sweet. Just because. Just because you can.
I’ve gone a little Face Book nuts. I’ve dipped a toe back into Twitter. I would like for my toe to stay in. But it makes me squirrely stupid white girl fifty years old jumping bug it may make me stupid dumb.
But really, I must get out my paints. TODAY. I must see if they are dried up to nothing impossible to open. I must see what I have in the way of canvases. I must set up my easel in the sunroom. I must needs have a mind of painting.
Would also like to take basket of things to Good Will. Also, cook an actual supper. Also find an excellent poem. And move more than I’ve been moving. And eat less than I’ve been eating.
Would like to be well. The peace that passeth understanding. Also, an orange purse the getting of which seems especially increasingly urgent. Also, would just like to rise up from recliner and move about on the face of the Earth.
felt quite like ass this morning not so early but just owie my tummy my chest did i even need this stupid operation but then again the bowels seem to be better either that or the peppermints which i cannot buy bags of because they spike my sugar up but god and all that’s holy bless us these candies which turn out to be sugar and trans fat with a bit of peppermint sprinkled on hickory farms are crack crack the point at which you don’t care about body or brain nothing but this this thing in your mouth mouth mouth
we gave a tranquilizer to Lulu for thunderstorms Wednesday night, per vet’s orders. she had a profound reaction and it took over twenty-four hours for it to clear her system and she is still sleepy head this morning. i found out that this ACE is basically THORAZINE for dogs. i am a bad mother, once again. i should have looked the drug up. i always look my own drugs up. for shame. and i wonder if i should change vets. again. two years ago they cleaned her teeth and she had a weird reaction to the anesthesia. they should have never given me these pills for her. the vet said that he recommended that lulu receive thyroid testing at that time, but I refused it. which is true. but that doesn’t excuse them from giving these pills.
have become maven on face book have gotten a couple of great acceptances have decided i couldn’t handle teaching on two campuses so have let the utc class go am still bit unsteady nausea ridden pain too from surgery good gods and all the divine committee did I even need this surgery
i am supposed to take lulu to vet for testing this morning do not know if i am up to it for shame shame but really moving around the face of the earth such spinning never again a tilt a whirl for me but please theme park gods let me ride rollercoasters forever
too sleepy too many candies must search for sugar-free peppermints also ginger candies must just go ahead and buy the other rachael ray covered casserole also return the broken thing they sent me also maybe hit tuesday morning for sheets as we are low as cheap sheets are not a bargain.
I feel like a girl. With a cycle. Because the Gyno RX-ed me a bit of estrogen. Which makes a girl a girl. Which maybe makes a woman crazy. This is my theory. Which is altogether unfounded. There is plenty to explain my crying jag.
Like a girl becomes a non-working non-money-earning girl. Maybe a more-like-a-real-writer girl. And same girl decides to make money to pay for her extravagances. Which means teaching. The thinking about of which may also possibly make a woman a crazy girl.
However as is almost always the case the girl has found herself with good hair. And in spite of numerous worries that exist in the facts the things that comprise a life the girl has maybe enough god in her or dried apples or memories of her mother’s sweet rolls that she is going to be okay.
The sweet rolls were for a time, and then were not. As also the cherry ice cream. The pineapple orange ice cream. And dried fried apple pies for breakfast. But the eggs were always as was the bacon and for a time that seemed for always at the time was the mother with very fine teeth was the father’s blue eyes was the pasture rolling down to a wet place we called the swamp. For a time. For the swamp is no more. Or the mother. But the father does not even now have rheumy eyes. It is the rheumy in the eyes that gives us away.
In my book there is water everywhere. The water comes back and back. There is never enough water. The water is the father throwing the girl up and up in the air above the sea. The water is in the mouth always never enough water to drink. Cold. The temperature of the room. Almost hot in the bottle in the summer car because there is nothing else at hand.
The water was the thing we didn’t have the night the house burned. We had ice instead. Which is also a true love of the girl. To live without ice would be to live without TV only much worse. Of course the girl does not know this having never lived without either.
(There were also cigarettes and they, too, appear to have disappeared. This may be that the girl cannot drive her car. And has not hung with cigarette-stocked friends and sat in plastic chairs all white trash on the street in the front yard in front of the house with canned beer and witty repartee.)
Oh most obvious. Oh most abundantly clear. The girl is a stream a poem about it. Because water is really a mirror. You step through. You’re born again. Hence the baptism. Hence the water that breaks. And dumps us onto the dry land of the doula’s hands doctors mothers wise women kitchen tables stainless steel and most lucky of us who pass from water into water. What would heal us all. What would be all of us still swimming.
so the Fasta Pasta is a hit with Dale, which is a big thing. he says that you can pull out perfect servings with your fork. i was not there for this process, but i trust him. however i am confused as to why this works better than say, a plastic container of the same size and shape. because you cook the noodles without the lid. ??? in any case, if you have a microwave and you need to make pasta for four people or less, then by all means buy this thing. and it says you can cook other things like rice, but i will have to look that up online.
i am tired. and sore. feeling rough. i woke up really early feeling fine, had breakfast, then drooped. just really drooped and crashed and just woke up now feeling pretty bad. so i took a pain pill cause that's just the type of girl i am, and am settling in for another long day.
yesterday was the day that WOULD NOT END. i kept waiting for sundown and sundown would not come the day would not wind down. i watched a thousand fifty-five episodes of Sex and the City. i tried to read but couldn't stay awake to read. i slept a while. then got up and watched Sex and the City some more. then slept some more. then got up and did it again. and again. until it really was dark and i slid under the lip of the night and slept rather well in fact.
when i woke up earlier i thought i was completely cured. and i have this idea that my bowels will be completely cured now. no gastroparesis. no nothing. just smooth sailing. and i feel like i can and should take on everything. and make some money and cook some casseroles and ask folks over for dinner and make a big ta do over what's left of my life and just go on and buy the Colonial Williamsburg flatware.
utc just emailed me and offered me another section. and i'm wondering if i should take it. or if that would be setting myself up for failure. because the money would be nice. because i have been feeling so much better and feel ready to take on the world that big bite and hold it in my mouth and see what happens. which leaves me wondering what the hell i've been doing the last year. what in the merry fuck has been going on?
i haven't read a lot of books.
i haven't cooked.
i haven't cleaned.
i haven't started a new business.
i haven't painted.
i haven't scrubbed.
i haven't drunk a lot.
i have watched a lot of TV. i have rewatched a lot of TV. i have smoked a bit and sometimes that's a lot and i have sat in plastic chairs and shot the breeze a lot. i have been to Helen, GA with my husband which was a trip we took all by ourselves. i was in the EFM class with Dale which is another thing we did together that we've never done before. and i got into God a lot and Jesus a little. and i finished writing a book. and i published some stuff. and i led a new workshop that was very special. i made new friends. i lost some weight. i developed yet another health disorder bullshit thing. and sometimes i blogged a lot. and i learned to be a little kinder. sort of. and i felt better. and then betterer. and i moved my body more. and then a little more than that. and i obsessed about a fridge. and about some dishes.
and i think i've learned to not obsess over being famous. or rich. a household name. which must mean that i've become somewhat more grown up. or something.
because i turned 50. and i am no longer afraid of dying. i don't think.
and i hope that i'm speaking deep into the mouth of wood. of a god who is holding a lot of luck in his hands. and that he gives me some of that luck. maybe a lot. so i can live long enough for more good things to happen. and to have the strength to face carry balance the bad things that are surely coming. and that i'll be okay. and okay. and even okayer than that. for a long time.
unless it's a short time. and right now that seems okay too. because i just put on a crock pot lasagna. which i've never done before.
surgery. done. first b.m. done. thank the gods. online shopping therapy. done. fall in love with fridge. done. lose some weight. done.
but will not go to church. too sore. too near nausea. too much pain in solar plexus. this is from the gas they blow in to puff up your abdomen. it takes time for it to remove itself. but i very much want to go to church. but not enough to take pain medicine to do it. must keep bowels open please stop by the gift shop on your way out.
based on how i feel right now, i don't think i'll have any difficulty going back to work. i just need to take it easy. i just need to be kind. to myself. to others. i need to attend the body.
i am eager to get well eager to see if this surgery makes a difference in how i feel. eager to get back on the road the horse the girl who sells potions in the traveling show. i know you don't mind.
So, it’s almost six-thirty and I have to be at the hospital at 8:00. They have assured me that I am to receive the extra pain medicine and hydration that I discussed with my doctor. I hope they do a better job with special services than Delta. I showered last night with the special “soap” and I will shower again shortly. This special soap is pretty standard. I wonder why no one told me to use it for my hysterectomy? Which is pretty much around the same area—abdominal.
I am vicious thirsty. Smoking significantly increase your likelihood of complications from surgery, even death. If they can’t do this thing through the little holes they drill, they will have to cut me open. It happened to Dale.
Other than my fear of a long, terrible recovery, I worry that this surgery, like the hysterectomy, won’t take care of my pain. That there is nothing wrong with my gallbladder. That I actually have hysteria. Which should have gone away when they yanked out my womb. But did not. Because they actually yanked out something else and left her inside and she is traveling to and fro throughout my body. Hence the pain in my wrists then my neck then my bikini line then the infected purple dot on my arm or wherever. She stays a while in one part, then moves on to my elbow, taking the pain with her. Unless she is especially angry and knocks me down with oh my god I have the flu.
I worry also that I won’t be able to go back to work this fall. Something I very much want to do. Or that I will die, before my book is loved as it should be because it is such a beautiful feisty girl with her own horse. I sent it to the agent last night. It needs another edit, possibly another overhaul, but you see, I may die.
However if I do die, it will not be before stocking my new fridge and realizing what my new fridge actually is. Which is a new fridge stuffed with food. I am destined to have a fridge stuffed with food. This would be true if I lived alone. This was true when Dale and I were in Tuscany and the little knee-high fridge was STUFFED with food. This is because of my mother.
I think I thought the fridge would somehow be a fridge so neat and tidy with just a jar of mayonnaise and Champagne on the shelf. Maybe a can of Diet Coke, a carton of eggs. I thought it would be carefully staged, just as I think if I had the white kitchen in all the TV commercials it would be just as clean and perfect two studious children a mom with perfect hair a dad stirring the marinara. But this is not who we are. My new fridge is a new fridge, much larger than the old fridge, but it is a new fridge stuffed with food. Without water and ice through the door which I am already missing. Dale has to fix the water filter on the kitchen sink I SWEAR. I cannot, CANNOT not drink water, lots of it, all day. It is my favorite drink.
However, the Rachael Ray casserole is quite lovely. I am eager for the others to arrive. I hope this will turn me into a woman who cooks often and entertains constantly. Who maybe wears an apron. And has mad knife skills.
I actually would have been much more excited about the fridge if I hadn’t gotten so worked up, when will we they be here when will they be here why aren’t they here. If I hadn’t felt so bad because of this stupid summer cold and a bout with my irritable bladder. Which is always very painful. Just did not feel was not in the proper frame of mind to receive a new fridge. But really, the crisper drawers do seem smaller. I must add to my book that it is impossible for me not to complain for I am a princess and there is always a pea. Unless I’m unconscious. Unless I die. Well, no. There will be plenty of peas when I die. I suspect I will pick rows and rows entire fields of them and not allowed to eat any. We always had field peas, or crowder peas when I was growing up. I didn’t have a black-eyed pea until I grew up and that was because I couldn’t find field peas.
So the worst possible thing will be them giving up on the holes and plowing a big furrow into me and rooting around like pigs and pulling this thing out with their teeth. It happened to Dale. Also, I could die.
I have to go shower scrub in now. And wash my hair. Be ready for a hospital stay. Be ready for my likely confinement to the upper chamber of my house little thing I love it so.
Also, if I do die, you will not be reading these posts anymore. But I will be sure to tell Dale to alert all my Face Book friends and loyal fans of my untimely death.
There isn't much in the