Well? Is it?
Is it YOUR fault?
And, in many ways he’s right.
What say you?
I may have mentioned a time or elebenty hunnert that I live with an enormous amount of daily physical pain.
I’m beginning to think I may actually be a reincarnation of the goddess Odyne. Which reminds me, why can’t I be like Athena or even Artemis? I’d like to be able to say I possess badassery or indescribable beauty because I’m a descendant of the goddesses of both, but nooooooooooooooo I have to be Odyne, the goddess of pain. Oh well, at least I’m a goddess, even if I don’t rate more than a mere mention in mythology and lack a Wiki page of my own.
Is there a goddess of sleight? Because I’m pretty sure Odyne has a valid grievance here, and I’d like to talk to someone about that.
And, I have gotten waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay off track.
See, that’s what pain will do to your brain.
So, the sources of my pain are numerous and boring – eight ruptured discs, spinal stenosis, fibromyalgia, arthritis, blah, blah, blah…
Most of the time a liberal application of heat, and the liberal downing of pain medications I take, keep me upright, mobile, and not feeling all stabbity to the world.
This week, though, it’s been different. And by “different” I don’t mean ‘oh joy and happiness, I don’t feel like I’ve been run over by a truck!’ I mean it’s been ‘holyfeckballsoffirebreathingdragons, what.the.feck. is going on?’
My sciatic nerve, heretofore a quiet little dude that I gave nary a thought to, is pissed.
Royally, royally, pissed.
He’s decided to show me how pissed he is by setting my right leg on fire, while simultaneously stabbing me from ass to heel with a hot poker.
This is going on all. the. time.
It’s actually a breathtaking kind of pain. As in, I gasp with each wave of pain, am nauseated most of the time from it, and cannot focus on what anyone is saying to me until the wave subsides and I wait anxiously for the next.
Even upping the pain meds is not dulling it much. And they are strong motherfeckers, let me tell you. Sciatic-Bob (yes, I named him) is stronger.
I know the inflammation will pass, and I really wish I could take anti-inflammatories but they make me pukey, I just wish it would pass sooner rather than later.
This gettin’ old shit? Ain’t for wimps.
Or so I’ve heard, not that I personally have any knowledge of what “drunk” feels like, or even how to spell the word, or that I’ve ever known anyone who got drunk.
But, what is not fun is waking up, getting out of bed, and immediately falling down to your knees.
That. That is not fun. That is painful.
It’s also quite startling for the dog lying beside the bed.
But, it’s what happens when you wake up, stand up, and are suddenly more dizzy than anyone has ever been since the beginning of humanity. And, it’s what happened to me this morning.
The dizziness subsided a bit after I was up a while, but then driving to work I noticed my head was tilted to one side and it was difficult to keep it ‘tween the lines. Good thing I drive a tank, and good luck to everyone around me.
As I sit here, typing at my desk, I feel like I’m on a perpetual roller coaster…or drunk…with much less funnage (it’s a word, now) than I imagine either activity creates.
No, I don’t know what’s wrong, but because OLD I suspect either I’ve got some inner ear fluid thing going on or my rocks ‘er off. And, by “rocks” I mean the inner ear bones that keep the world from going all funhouse (no, that is an effin’ word Mr. SquigglyLine) on me have gotten out of alignment.
It happens, as I said, because OLD. As we age those bones wear down and move out of alignment. When that happens, BAM! drunken old person syndrome (DROPS) ensues. If you do happen to get drunk, you can just tell everyone you have DROPS and because you’re old they will believe you and probably offer to buy you a ham sammich or something.
I just hope the nausea that usually comes with dizziness didn’t come with this funpack, and I hope this shit clears up soon.
Like I said, it’s no fun. And, yes, if it persists or gets even weirder I’ll go see the doc. Another not fun activity I try to avoid.
The other day my son was texting me, gushing on and on about how I’ve helped him recently.
He’s been unemployed for 345 years, and I’ve helped with food, gas, and some minor bills along the way.
He kept telling me what a blessing I was.
It really was sweet.
Then he said he wanted to get in a position to “pay you back…” some day.
Honestly, if he’s been out of work for 345 years already what do you think the chances are that he’ll get a job between now and the revival of “Firefly”? (are you even listening Netflix??)
Yeah, me too.
Anyway, I quickly responded to his text whilst simultaneously doing some work-related task…probably curing cancer, just kidding, when I sent him what I thought was this:
“Don’t worry about it, I want you to just pay it forward some day.”
But actually was this, because Siri knows me all too well:
“Don’t worry about it, I want you to just pay for war some day.”
Because we are all about letting slip the dogs all up in hee-uhh, he didn’t miss a beat when he responded with:
“You bet I will, if the opportunity ever presents itself. BANZAI!”
Boom. (and no, we aren’t Japanese, at least I don’t think we are, but who says only the Japanese warriors can shout “BANZAI”?)
I love music.
No, I mean I really, really love music.
I have two genres that are tops on my list.
#1 – Blues and Swing; from Billie Holiday to Voodoo Daddy
#2 – Celtic; from the Celtic Women to..well, everyone else, it’s not a large pool here in the States
Numbers three through elebenty-hunnert include gospel, classic rock, Rat Pack, and country.
The other day, as I was shopping, I was listening to Pandora radio on my headset. I have one station called “Thumbprint”. It’s fairly new (to me), but I’m sure you kids have seen it. It takes music you’ve “thumbed up” and lumps it all together in one station.
(An aside, you young’uns don’t remember but back in the day radio stations were mostly AM and most of them played a wide variety of music. It wasn’t until electricity came along, and FM was born, that specific stations with specific music were created.)
I was getting my groceries to the crooning voices of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, and tapping my feet to the huge sounds of Voodoo Daddy and Brian Setzer.
I was in the produce aisle when a beautiful hymn called “Down To The River to Pray”, sung by the incomparable Alison Krauss, came on and I stopped and closed my eyes for a second.
Then I started to sing.
You know how when you have headphones on you think you’re being really quiet when, in fact, you’re being exceedingly loud and everyone around you notices only you don’t because you’re so caught up in the moment and sure at any second someone from a major label is going to spring up from the fruit display and offer you a million dollar contract on the spot because you’re the most amazing singer since singing was invented and angels weep every time you use those pipes?
Well, let me tell you, it’s every bit as interesting as finding out you left the house without pants again. Except with fewer recording contracts.
Totally busted while belting out a song in the middle of the produce aisle? Can check that one off my bucket list.
.…uh, Ceasar, this is Imperator Gaius Doofus and I’m lost…
I know the battle is in three days, that’s why I’m calling now!
Yes, yes, I did ask Sirius to find “Germania” , but apparently she doesn’t speak Latin.
Wait, let me get a stilus and tablet to write this down.
Okay, go north from Rome…turn right at…..
I have a
connudd, a conand, uh…I have a problem.
There’s this super-annoying coirker of mine that’s super. annoying.all.the.time.
She’s actually at a site miles from here, but in the power industry we’re all just one big dysfunctional family.
Anyway, she sent out a mass e-mail and from what I can gather she wants all the other secretaries, excuse me, “administrative support professionals” in the region to join her in a hand-holding session when things get “too stressful” for us.
A little background here – I work at a power plant. We make electricity here – not nuclear generated or coal fueled; we use natural gas, so y’all just simmer down out there – and yes, there are times of high stress…like mainly Monday-Friday, but only during work hours.
The rest of the time is an alcohol-induced haze, so it may be stressful, or it may not. Hard to tell. I’m kidding. Maybe.
So, Miss Annoying McAnnoyerson thinks we should “reach out” to one another, via e-mail, for stress relief.
She wants us to share “a funny picture” or an “inspirational quote” with each other as a means of support.
My gag reflex is on overload right now, guys.
I am a girl, no doubt about it, but I’m not a guurrrllll. Apparently, I did not get that gene.
I loathe shopping, mani-pedis, lunching with the ladies, girls nights out, talking on the phone, and inspirational quotes/cutesy picture e-mails.
Which brings me to my original problem.
How do I tell her that not only do I NOT want to be part of her all-girl band, I don’t want to see anyone else’s “inspiration”, nor be a part of the stress-relief program?
No, really, how do I do that without coming off as a total beeyotch, which let’s face it I really am and she should know that by now?
*clears throat, considers what to put out there on the Internets, decides she’s way too boring/paranoid to say anything other than what’s already here*
Well, that got awkward in a hurry.
Here’s a picture of a cute puppy to make up for it.
My family is not normal. Nothing we do is normal. No event is normal. Hell, if we had a “normal” day, that’d be abnormal, so right in line. Even our normal is weird.
Easter egg hunts are not normal at my house. The grandchildren generally get along, the bigger kids help the little ones find eggs, and there is much rejoicing.
The parents, however, are another story. It’s Hunger Games, Easter Egg Hunt at our house. There’s tripping, shoving, misdirection (“Holy shit, you just stepped in pile of dog poo!”), and general foolishness as each parent tries to gain an advantage for their offspring.
In short, they’re a bunch of miscreants. I couldn’t be more proud.
This past Easter’s egg hunt was the same as all the others. The only differences, for me, were 1) for once the yard wasn’t a mudpit as it had been pretty dry all week and 2) I had to watch from afar having smashed the ever-lovin’ shit out of my big toe that morning when I opened the back door to let the dog out and shoved the bottom of the door over the top of my toe. It still hurts like a sonofa….
And then, the Outbreak Monkey arrived.
C’mon, tell me you have seen the scary movie “Outbreak” starring Dustin Hoffman and Renee Russo. If not, get thee to a Red Box or Netflix, or something and watch it.
*builds storage shed*
*cures world hunger*
You back already? Good, now I can finish the story.
So, in my family the first person to get sick with whatever is the one we call the Outbreak Monkey. This time, it was my 8-yr. old granddaughter and our first clue was the text her mother sent as they were driving home:
“Aaaand…we have pukage in the van!! AWESOME!”
At 1:00 a.m. the next morning, the poor baby was still puking in her sleep, no less. My daughter called me asking for the magical potion I keep to stop pukages, so instead of sleeping at 1:00 a.m. I was dispensing wizardry in the hopes my sweet granddaughter would stop the pukies. She did, and there was much rejoicing in the land…
….until this morning, when my daughter texted me again and said her other daughter has it now…
We had FIFTEEN people at our house on Easter Sunday. Two are sick, that makes thirteen more to go…except I think I had it already. I think it’s the nasty new norovirus that has been going around and which I got right after Christmas.
At least I hope that’s what this is.
Or, if my daughter is right – as she said in a follow-up text this morning – it only affects kids 8 and under, or as she put it “the very geriatric, like you Mom”.
Age has its advantages.
I’m big into nostalgia.
Only, not my nostalgia.
I’m big into the nostalgia of times I never encountered, and times when the things that make you go SQUEE! with delight were past me and thoroughly engulfed my children. The latter nostalgic times are embraced, loved, fondled, and homaged by a terrifically gifted writer (and very young man..okay, I added the “very” part because old) by the name of Matt at his blog Dinosaur Dracula.
Matt’s take on everything from movies to food is a reminder that oftentimes things are much sweeter looking back.
For the things that take me back back, to a time I never encountered but wished I had, I read a Reader’s Digest publication called “Reminisce”. It’s full of warm and wonderful recollections of times long gone, often told by the people who lived them. I have always said I was born of the wrong time, and when I read the magazine I feel it’s true.
But, not for the nostalgic way things were when women stayed home and baked bread, or washed clothes in a tub.
No, I’m too lazy to go back to those times.
What I miss is the simplicity of everyday life. The lines between right and wrong were clear and definite. Home, family, children, marriage..these were sacred trusts.
Anymore, I don’t know what’s sacred except maybe the love of self. With twitter pics of a naked Kardashian-West, and the glorifying of things I believe to be so wrong – like Caitlin Jenner – I long for a time when I wasn’t affronted on all fronts by the out in fronts.
Don’t misread…I am not totally judging, okay maybe I am judging a little bit, but mostly I’m saying I don’t care that Kim has “..nothing to wear..” or that Caitlin used to be Bruce.
I DON’T CARE, and I don’t want to celebrate that shit or any of the other piles of shit I’m constantly forced to see. I also don’t want to be confronted with it every time I turn on the television, radio, open up Facebook (and thank the gods I don’t use Twitter other than to auto-send a new post, because I do not understand that at all..not one bit), or simply exist in this world.