Tag Archives: sad

Flu sucks.

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So I am currently hosting some kind of convention for crappy viruses and the upshot of this is that I feel really, really crummy.  This has been going on since Sunday afternoon when instead of running a few errands, doing a little housework, and settling in to a few carefree hours of masters-level homework, I found myself paralyzed by fatigue in my Really Big Kinda Ugly Leather Recliner.

I failed to really seize on the importance of this until bedtime when I began to shiver uncontrollably.  This is when the whining began.  The Lovely Rhonda can attest:  “Man, I feel crappy.  This is like tuberculosis crappy.  Nobody said I would feel this crappy.  I don’t know if I can go on feeling this crappy.”  I spent the rest of the night alternately sweating and mourning the loss of virtually all of the strength in my entire body.

Yesterday (Monday) I spent laying in bed.

Those of you who know me, even only through FB or similar, may note that this is unusual for me.  While I am admittedly lazy, there is also a limit to the amount of idleness I can stand, so eventually, even when afflicted with pneumonia or the actual bona-fide flu, I will still do laundry or alphabetize the bookshelf or something.

Oh, not yesterday.  I laid in bed so long that my back hurts.  I did shower and had grandiose plans of going to a store to purchase soap and root beer, more out of needing a small errand to get me out of the house than any urgent need for either item.  But then I sat down to put my shoes on.

I wear orthotics in my shoes and transferring them to a different pair of shoes (because motorcycle boots don’t really go with shorts) was more complication than I was prepared to handle.  I went back to bed.

I have virtually nothing to show for yesterday, and that for me is pretty impressive.

Today is slightly better in that I actually emerged from bed and then made coffee and toast, and sat watching Carol Burnett DVDs for a little while.

Now I’m going to go lay down and gather strength for showering and looking at work email.

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Many frustrate, such sad

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So the past few weeks have been fraught with turmoil.

We moved, and that’s good.  But stressful.

Rhonda’s ex-mother-in-law passed away rather suddenly.  She was not someone I knew well, but she was family to Rhonda for many years and was her girls’ grandmother.  That was sad, and stressful.

A good friend was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.  That was really stressful, especially for her and her family.

I grow weary of having to remind grown people how to behave.  That’s all I want to say about that, aside from the fact that it’s frustrating and stressful.

On the other hand, we watched two people whom I love dearly finally get to marry one another, and that was perhaps one of the most awesome things I’ll ever see.

I’m finishing my BSN in a month and that’s pretty great.  (but stressful)

My practicum is actually about something that interests me and I’ve met some neat people (and a few nuts) in the process, so that’s cool.

There’s still a shiny motorcycle in my garage and that’s pretty neat.

Right now life is a lot like eating bridge mix.

I don’t like bridge mix except when it’s raisins.

This bridge mix doesn’t have quite enough raisins, but the raisins it has are pretty great raisins.

More raisins, please.

 

 

 

That time I unfriended someone

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So the other day one of my FB friends posted this:

food stamp ecard

And they captioned the post with something about nail salons, tanning beds, maxed out credit cards and financed BMWs, indicating that they felt that a lot of people who receive food stamps are somehow able to afford a rich lifestyle.

And I chose not to get excited about it.  I mean, I could have been offended on a few counts.  For starters, Coach isn’t properly capitalized and neither is iPhone5.

Oh, and also the vast majority of people receiving assistance are not soulless jerks just taking advantage of the sheeple taxpayers.

The person who posted it got a few responses; I myself related how I was on food stamps in nursing school.  When I graduated, my mother gave me a Coach purse as a graduation gift.  I left it at home when I shopped for food.  A few months after graduation I got a good job and stopped the food assistance.  I remember calling them and telling them I didn’t need it anymore.  They sounded surprised that I called.  I guess some people would have just let the assistance keep coming until the yearly re-application process.

Anyway, the next person who commented was very angry and said that this was an insult to poor people and other things like that.  I really do agree and so I commented back that I had chosen not to get excited about it, I feel that this sentiment applies to a gazillionth of a percent of those who receive aid of whatever type, and so while I wouldn’t perpetuate it, neither would I get excited about it either because life is too damn short.

Then the poster commented that we were missing the point, and in the course of further back-and-forth comments it became apparent that this person feels themselves to be an expert on the subject of the sort of people receiving food aid due to information gathered while “people watching” at the grocery store.

I commented again that it is impossible to know what someone’s situation is just by what can be observed.  I related how I currently hold a temporary disabled parking permit due to foot pain.  No one looking at me would know that every step I take is at best uncomfortable and at worst quite painful, because I don’t show it.  I look like anyone else.  But my feet hurt all the time, often to the point that I dread stopping at the store on the way home because it will involve walking.

I also pointed out that it is impossible to know a person’s situation based on what the person is carrying around because when they ran into trouble, lost their job or got sick or whatever, their Coach purse didn’t magically convert to a Walmart bag.

Also?  Knockoffs can be quite convincing.  Fauxch anyone?

The poster’s next comment is what caused me to withdraw from the conversation and abruptly unfriend:  Wish I could get a parking permit and some benefits!  Thanks taxpayers!

Except that I added the punctuation and capitalization etc. because yeah.

So, here’s the deal.  I work with people who have serious mental illness.  They survive on state and federal benefits.  Without those, they would be on the streets or in prison or the hospital.  None of these options are particularly pleasant.  We house them and feed them and care for them with food stamps and financial assistance.  They don’t own Coach purses and iPhone5s unless someone gives them one, and frankly nobody does.

And?  I’m a taxpayer and have been since I was 18 years old.  I pay into the system and therefore if I need assistance during a rough patch, whether it’s for food to feed my kid and myself with while I finish school so I can get a better job, or whether it’s to reserve the privilege of parking closer to the store so I don’t hurt any more than I have to (when I can find a damn space, and when there aren’t other spaces nearby that are nearly as good which I take so the old ladies can have the disabled spots because old ladies) — having paid into the system, I can tap it for a little help when needed.

The poster, it should be noted, is trying to start a business using one of those annoying “sell things to your friends” schemes — perhaps the most obnoxious and notorious one, but I’m not going to identify the poster or the scheme here — and often posts about how they are building their business by having meals at restaurants and coffee at Starbucks with other like-minded individuals, i.e. shallow people who think it’s okay to make their friends and families uncomfortable by shilling crappy goods at them without provocation.

And drives an Audi.

And is a soulless jerk.

I chose not to engage any further because I’m not great at arguing, and because this person was not so important to me that I felt I needed to continue.  I’m not going to change this person’s mind.  This person will not grow compassion via a conversation on Facebook.

I also chose to end the whole thing because I have recently become acquainted with the Fuck-Off Fairy, and she has made my life so much better.  I don’t have to absorb the toxic bullshit of every unimportant little worm that comes along with an opinion.  I can walk away and know that the uninformed, absolute sewage spewing from this person’s mouth just defines them as someone I don’t want to know at all, and that’s perfectly okay.

I recently had a discussion with my daughter about this fairy, although I named her the Bug-Off Fairy because my daughter is nine years old.  I want her to get acquainted with this fairy at a MUCH younger age than I did.  It will make her life so much better.

 

 

The Grandma from Kalama

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Okay, technically she wasn’t from there, but she did live there for a time.

Tonight I had occasion to dig out some little odds and ends that I inherited when my grandmother passed away.  This happened when my daughter was five months old.  She is now 9 and a half years old.

It’s really true that although you may get past someone’s death, you don’t really get over it.  It feels the same today as it did then.  There is not a day that goes by that she does not cross my mind.

I had not brought out these things in some time and at first I could not find them; this caused a small panic, that I could have let them somehow slip away from me.  I rummaged around in all the disused spaces of our house several times before the suggestion that might they be among my craft supplies?  jogged my memory a bit and so I found them, in a pasteboard box, down in the glass-fronted hutch cupboard.  I was relieved that I had not left them in the garage, which is relatively dry but cold in winter and hot in summer and smells like damp concrete and grass clippings.  It would be no place for an old lady’s trinkets.

It’s hard for me to handle these little items, physically I mean to touch them and have them out, because they still smell like her house smelled and that will cause the sharp little pang of stinging sadness like no other thing will.  But I needed something from the little cache, and when I couldn’t find it it suddenly became vitally important that I lay my hands on it, right now, tonight.

I feel better and worse, happier and sadder, for this little trip down memory lane.   These days as I find myself caring less and less for what anyone thinks of me I am reminded of her more and more.  She had her faults and her foibles but by God she was who she was.

And I miss who she was, tonight and every other day of my life.

Goodnight, Mrs. Norris, wherever you are.

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So last summer we took in a tiny cat who had been abandoned in an empty apartment.  She was all of six pounds, and striped, and we named her Mrs. Norris after Filch’s cat.  Because Harry Potter.

She did not care to be held, nor petted overmuch, but would allow for some cuddling now and again.  If you sat on the couch she would sit on your lap if there wasn’t too much fussing about by dogs or children nearby.

She loved to sit on my desk so much that I had to create a little bed for her to keep her from sitting directly in front of my screens.  This became her haunt, and she and Our Hermione occasionally skirmished over it.

She was an odd little thing, keeping mainly to herself except when there was food to be had.  When I crate-trained Dobby using lunch meat, the demon hellspawn cat within was awakened.  She preceded me across the dining room toward the crates, yowling loudly and launching herself from surface to surface.  When the lunchmeat was offered she would snatch it away and devour it nearby with a zeal that was frankly terrifying, or would be in an animal weighing more than a small bag of sugar.  She was nearly as enthusiastic about Cheez-Its.  More than once she was caught making off with chicken bones left on dinner plates.  She was voracious and extremely focused.

In retrospect it was probably a couple of weeks ago that she started slowing down.  She was never terribly playful or active, so it wasn’t that noticeable until a couple of days ago.  Then it became apparent that she was losing weight.  She still wanted the lunchmeat, but today when I got home, the lunchmeat was still on the table with just a few chew marks on it.

Not, as they say, a good sign.

I took her to the vet this afternoon, which I had already decided to do in any case.  She had lost two of her precious six pounds, two that she could not really afford to lose, and was dehydrated.  The vet warned me, gently, that she was terribly sick.  They wanted to do labs.

Her labs were terrible.  BUN was off the charts.  Like a normal value is around 30… hers was 239.  This is an indicator of kidney trouble.  Essentially, her kidneys were failing.

She was only two years old or so.  We don’t know why they failed.  Maybe she got into something outside… we don’t know.  But the road to recovery was looking long, hard and expensive.

We made the decision to put her down, because it seemed like the compassionate thing to do.  Poor sick little thing.

Goodbye, Mrs. Norris.  We hardly knew ye.

Say goodnight, 2012.

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So it’s New Year’s Eve.

Shortly I’m going to log off and make fudge and take it over to some friends’ house and sit and play games and talk to people and eat things dipped into other things and drink things mixed with more things (but not very many things because I want to come home tonight safe and sound, so really it’ll be mostly soda) and aside from the fact that The Lovely Rhonda won’t be there, it’ll be a) lovely and b) essentially a repeat of last New Year’s Eve, except I drank more things that time.

I won’t be sorry to see the end of this year in some respects, because some Difficult Things happened, but there were other things that happened that were nicer.  So it’s not like it was the worst year ever.

We lost an ebullient backyard Lothario of a cat who mercilessly slaughtered every small animal that crossed his path.

We gained a petite girl cat who loves food in almost all forms and sleeps curled up in an impossibly small ball.

We lost the friendliest, most unassuming fetch-obsessed dog in the world, and with him the, um, fragrant clouds with which he liberally salted the house.

We gained a small black bundle of energy, part terrier, part wiener dog, whose only real fault so far is that he cannot resist the siren call of the hallway carpet if left alone too long.

We endured many discomforts that cannot be discussed here, and we were not always nice to each other.

We always made up and learned from our mistakes.  Mostly.

Okay, maybe just Rhonda did that part.

We did millions of loads of laundry, paid many bills, washed many dishes, and sent many text messages.

A few days from now we will stand in front of a bunch of weirdos our friends and family and pledge to keep doing what we already do, only now with certain legal benefits previously unavailable to us.   And we will eat cake and high-five each other, or something, and life will continue as it has but more so.

Come on in, 2013.  Stay a while.  Maybe about a year?

 

Good Boy, Otto.

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So the other night I was back in one of the kids’ rooms “helping” them wrap some gifts for The Lovely Rhonda.  And TLR came home, knowing where I and the kids were, yet still called to me from the other room.  I was slightly annoyed, but eventually came out of the bedroom to find her with Otto.

Otto who greeted everyone with a hearty bark and a tail wag like the lash of a springy steel cable but was now splayed awkwardly on the floor with a blank expression on his face.  Otto who was clearly not right.

We had to call someone to stay with the kids while we whisked him off to the vet.  I think we both knew Otto wouldn’t be coming home from this trip.  He’d had to be carried to the car.  He was panting and he couldn’t stand up.

The vet told us he probably had a hemangioma — a tumor.  His spleen, he said, was huge and had sharp, defined edges.  His gums were pale and his temperature was dropping.  He wasn’t in any pain but there wasn’t anything anyone could do.  He was thirteen, a gray old man whose enthusiasm for The Ball had never faded.  Yesterday he seemed fine, maybe a little less energetic, but up and moving around and eating.  Today he was leaving us.

We went back to the inner recesses of the vet office to say goodbye to him.  He was already mostly gone and when he heard Rhonda’s voice, he let go completely.  The vet gave him the medicine just to be sure he didn’t linger, but he didn’t charge for it.  He had been Otto’s vet since he was six weeks old.  Everyone there was so nice to us.  I’m sure they see this kind of thing every week, but they were all so nice to us.

His bed and his crate are gone from the house.  There is more floor space and fewer noxious clouds without him here.

We would have it all as it was before if we could.

He was a good boy.

The very good dog