Well, so much for today being my first full day back on the farm.
My uncle's tantrums and unstable mental state led to us turning around and driving all the way back. It just isn't safe there. I'll have to go back this weekend to pick up the previous loads and take them to a rented storage unit, where I can at least be sure they're safe from his fits of pique.
From that point, I have to discuss with my mother what's to be done. I can't live out there while he's living there, I can't afford the rent on a house in the same town, and I feel pretty damn put out that HE is preventing me from living on my grandfather's and son's property.
For now, I'm done fighting it. I spent money I didn't want to part with buying myself new clothes, new work boots, and a new haircut for my new life. I should have waited. I'm not taking the clothes or boots back, my hair is still going to Locks of Love, but I'm through planning and scheduling. Until I know that property is safe for me to live on, I'm not going back.
Showing posts with label plans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label plans. Show all posts
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Moving..
Moving is like a mission in a weird game; but you aren't just collecting things, you're collecting things and putting them in various sized boxes. Then, you put the smaller boxes into bigger boxes, until you're nauseous at the mere sight of a piece of cardboard.
Then, you find out all those BOXES have to go in a CAR and be DRIVEN to a new place, where you aren't sure you'll have power, and you KNOW you won't have internet, and you start looking at your iPhone like it is The Holy Grail of Life Giving Connectivity and realize you're soon going to have to take things to a whole new level of Boxdom. Why?
Well...
You still haven't bought a toaster. Or a plug-in counter top burner. Or a microwave. Or a tea kettle. Or important things like one of every single thing that belongs in a kitchen. Also, you still don't have pans yet, and the whole of your dining capabilities rest in the hands of a fistful of forks you nabbed from your soon-to-be-former housemates (because how awesome is it to have a fork with tines THAT LONG?) and a partial set of dishes from said housemates. You also don't have a cat crate to house the soon-to-be-neurotic cat that's only just gotten over the fact that you disappeared for a week and left him to watch furniture move and his little friend die.
You sit in a corner for a while, babbling incessantly to yourself about Lists and Boxes and Panic Attacks and Where Are The Meds, Again, and Why Did I Ever Decide It'd Be Easier To Wait Another Month.
Then you find out the trip you were going to take to get the bulk of the stuff to New Place is canceled. Just when you organized your brain enough to throw Panic in a dark cell with a ball gag and straight jacket on.
Suddenly, like The Joker, there it is again, cackling at you.
So you walk around high-strung, which starts a fight about how your part of Moving is "easy" and all you can think is "What the fuck EASY. YOU get to leave me there and go home to a house that has everything right where you left it and people are happy and there's internet and cable and a working, clean kitchen and people who aren't entirely CRAZY. I have to deal with unpacking all these damn BOXXEN and try to keep a cat from dying of a heart attack and find out at three a.m. that I FORGOT TO BUY MUSTARD AND DAMMIT I NEED MUSTARD RIGHT NOW and there's no handy person with a car right there saying 'hey, it's right down the street, let's go pick some up and maybe a little drive-thru food, too since we're passing eleven hundred places that sell hot food convenience' because there's only an aunt and crazy uncle and I can't drive and the nearest store that's open after midnight is FIVE TOWNS OVER and there isn't even a goddamn TOWN for thirty fucking miles!"
Pretty soon, you've got high enough stress levels that you're sure you've lost at least a dozen years from your optimal parts usage and you've cleaned most of the kitchen.
So, hours later, we've moved all but one giant box and a few small boxes (plus one cat and one suitcase) in one load, dealt with several bouts of crying, , deposited BOXXEN, drove most of the way back, stopped for a drink, and came home to a cranky mama that was supposed to be asleep for all the hours it took to drive out. Silly opens the door and out bursts a massive smile and streak of curls, who dances on seeing Daddy is home, but is NOT coming inside till she sees Lala is home, too. And all you can think is... it's going to break her heart when Daddy drives off for all day again in a week and comes home alone.
As important as it is... I find myself wanting to say "Nevermind, I don't want to go, I want to go back to having my safe space and playing with my girl and watching her grow up and never missing a minute of it and god dammit, why did I choose to move so far away?"
Then, you find out all those BOXES have to go in a CAR and be DRIVEN to a new place, where you aren't sure you'll have power, and you KNOW you won't have internet, and you start looking at your iPhone like it is The Holy Grail of Life Giving Connectivity and realize you're soon going to have to take things to a whole new level of Boxdom. Why?
Well...
You still haven't bought a toaster. Or a plug-in counter top burner. Or a microwave. Or a tea kettle. Or important things like one of every single thing that belongs in a kitchen. Also, you still don't have pans yet, and the whole of your dining capabilities rest in the hands of a fistful of forks you nabbed from your soon-to-be-former housemates (because how awesome is it to have a fork with tines THAT LONG?) and a partial set of dishes from said housemates. You also don't have a cat crate to house the soon-to-be-neurotic cat that's only just gotten over the fact that you disappeared for a week and left him to watch furniture move and his little friend die.
You sit in a corner for a while, babbling incessantly to yourself about Lists and Boxes and Panic Attacks and Where Are The Meds, Again, and Why Did I Ever Decide It'd Be Easier To Wait Another Month.
Then you find out the trip you were going to take to get the bulk of the stuff to New Place is canceled. Just when you organized your brain enough to throw Panic in a dark cell with a ball gag and straight jacket on.
Suddenly, like The Joker, there it is again, cackling at you.
So you walk around high-strung, which starts a fight about how your part of Moving is "easy" and all you can think is "What the fuck EASY. YOU get to leave me there and go home to a house that has everything right where you left it and people are happy and there's internet and cable and a working, clean kitchen and people who aren't entirely CRAZY. I have to deal with unpacking all these damn BOXXEN and try to keep a cat from dying of a heart attack and find out at three a.m. that I FORGOT TO BUY MUSTARD AND DAMMIT I NEED MUSTARD RIGHT NOW and there's no handy person with a car right there saying 'hey, it's right down the street, let's go pick some up and maybe a little drive-thru food, too since we're passing eleven hundred places that sell hot food convenience' because there's only an aunt and crazy uncle and I can't drive and the nearest store that's open after midnight is FIVE TOWNS OVER and there isn't even a goddamn TOWN for thirty fucking miles!"
Pretty soon, you've got high enough stress levels that you're sure you've lost at least a dozen years from your optimal parts usage and you've cleaned most of the kitchen.
So, hours later, we've moved all but one giant box and a few small boxes (plus one cat and one suitcase) in one load, dealt with several bouts of crying, , deposited BOXXEN, drove most of the way back, stopped for a drink, and came home to a cranky mama that was supposed to be asleep for all the hours it took to drive out. Silly opens the door and out bursts a massive smile and streak of curls, who dances on seeing Daddy is home, but is NOT coming inside till she sees Lala is home, too. And all you can think is... it's going to break her heart when Daddy drives off for all day again in a week and comes home alone.
As important as it is... I find myself wanting to say "Nevermind, I don't want to go, I want to go back to having my safe space and playing with my girl and watching her grow up and never missing a minute of it and god dammit, why did I choose to move so far away?"
Monday, September 27, 2010
Yay! Surgery! -frets-
Yep. I've officially been torn between running around chaotically and sitting in a numbed fear. Thursday, 7:30 AM, I go under for gallbladder removal. I have high hopes that this surgery will mean an end to the constant "toxic" feeling and the marked decrease in mobility.
In Fate's usual sense of humor, I received the phone call to set up the requisite appointments while I was on the way to the emergency room to deal with the damage done to psyche and body by the passing of a stone from gallbladder to intestine via a very thin tube that seemed unnecessarily long. I was astonished to realise how LONG I've had gallstones! Several times in the past, oh, fifteen years, I've experienced this pain. Due to the way the human body reacts to it, you don't generally go "Oooo.. I hurt right where my gallbladder is." I've been told it was a pinched nerve in my back or arm, bursitis in my shoulder, even that I slept in the wrong position.
To find your gallbladder, feel the right half of your ribcage, starting at the chest. When you hit the peak, where your ribs curve to the bottom point. Your gallbladder should be right below, possibly to the right, of that curve. When a stone is lodged or passing, you feel ill. Then (in my case) my shoulder starts to ache. The ache builds until I could swear there's a ping-pong ball wedged between my shoulder blade and my ribs, forcing the scapula out and away from my back. The pain radiates clear down to my fingers, and in an odd transference, even the slightest jostling of my right arm causes me to want to scream. Eventually (if you already know something is wrong with the gallbladder) you realise that your back is inflamed, but only in one clear, red, raised band. This is a strip of the back that matches exactly where the gallbladder can be felt in the front (if it's abnormal or filled with stones).
After a short trip through the emergency room, an IV of morphine and fluids, and a scan of my blood to confirm the organ hadn't burst or otherwise become dastardly dangerous, I was sent home. The pain wasn't gone, mind you, but I was far too happy to care.
Now, about two weeks later, I'm finishing up a "recovery ward" nest, obsessively vacuuming every square inch of floor (and kickboard), and writing out letters to my family. The letters are meant to be a Just In Case item. Should something go wrong Thursday, they will reach relevant members. Mostly, they're a preemptive good-bye. The hope is, having written them, I will find I don't need them. Of course, there is the realisation that hit today that none of this will matter to me if something does go wrong.
As a last hurrah, I joined friends on a trip to the Northern California Renaissance Faire. A day or two before we were due to leave, The Box (our car) was stolen. Stolen from a busy parking lot at a mall. Inside were several personal items, including GRIM's most beloved Donald Duck snuggle. We were all gutted. We loved that car. GRIM loved that doll. Who knew what else was in there? How many times had we said "Let's clean out the car today" and failed to do it? Why didn't I go with my gut that I go along? We were fortunate to be able to borrow a car, since the trip was not only a fun time but also a catering job for Blue.
I bought a fancy new fox tail and wandered around in street-clothes with a vintage black parasol - a dearly loved gift from The Gypsy in happier times. I had been thinking quite a bit about The Gypsy. Debating whether to break the silence between us with a call or a letter, wondering if he would understand. The last he knew of me, I was planning to have moved out by month's end. That was in late April. Now, my prospective date is to be out by the first of the year.
While out roving the Faire, I found I had a text message. The Gypsy. "Are you ok?"
...Our first contact in months and I have to bite the bullet and give him the honest answer. Surgery upcoming, and still living here.
He didn't text another word.
He was hurt, I knew. The four of us have an old, long, and painful history; together and apart.
So that was a lovely night. Blue and I hurting on the drive home, while Silly dozed in the back seat. We talked a lot, but everything still felt unresolved by the time we pulled into town and went to pick up GRIM.
Once we had her tucked into her carseat beside Silly, she railed at us for leaving her behind. So, we did what any parents do.. we drove. Took freeways, quiet streets, lazed around in wide tracks. And then.. Silly saw something. In the parking lot across the street from where the car was taken, a car identical to The Box. We pulled closer. I immediately flipped out, recognising part of the license plate. OH. My. God. The Beloved Box had returned to us. I felt kind of bad for griping every time I got in and out of the low-slung sedan we'd borrowed. "I hate this car. I hate this car!" became my constant refrain. And, though I never said it, I was afraid of trying to lower myself into that car right after surgery.
This post is... well.. kind of all over the place. Mostly because my mind - right now - is all over the place.
I want to go back. I want to change some spending choices I made while we were out of town. I want to not have let the missing car so taint my last kicking up of heels before the surgery. And I really.. really.. want to be called "kitten", just once more, by that beautiful voice.
In Fate's usual sense of humor, I received the phone call to set up the requisite appointments while I was on the way to the emergency room to deal with the damage done to psyche and body by the passing of a stone from gallbladder to intestine via a very thin tube that seemed unnecessarily long. I was astonished to realise how LONG I've had gallstones! Several times in the past, oh, fifteen years, I've experienced this pain. Due to the way the human body reacts to it, you don't generally go "Oooo.. I hurt right where my gallbladder is." I've been told it was a pinched nerve in my back or arm, bursitis in my shoulder, even that I slept in the wrong position.
To find your gallbladder, feel the right half of your ribcage, starting at the chest. When you hit the peak, where your ribs curve to the bottom point. Your gallbladder should be right below, possibly to the right, of that curve. When a stone is lodged or passing, you feel ill. Then (in my case) my shoulder starts to ache. The ache builds until I could swear there's a ping-pong ball wedged between my shoulder blade and my ribs, forcing the scapula out and away from my back. The pain radiates clear down to my fingers, and in an odd transference, even the slightest jostling of my right arm causes me to want to scream. Eventually (if you already know something is wrong with the gallbladder) you realise that your back is inflamed, but only in one clear, red, raised band. This is a strip of the back that matches exactly where the gallbladder can be felt in the front (if it's abnormal or filled with stones).
After a short trip through the emergency room, an IV of morphine and fluids, and a scan of my blood to confirm the organ hadn't burst or otherwise become dastardly dangerous, I was sent home. The pain wasn't gone, mind you, but I was far too happy to care.
Now, about two weeks later, I'm finishing up a "recovery ward" nest, obsessively vacuuming every square inch of floor (and kickboard), and writing out letters to my family. The letters are meant to be a Just In Case item. Should something go wrong Thursday, they will reach relevant members. Mostly, they're a preemptive good-bye. The hope is, having written them, I will find I don't need them. Of course, there is the realisation that hit today that none of this will matter to me if something does go wrong.
As a last hurrah, I joined friends on a trip to the Northern California Renaissance Faire. A day or two before we were due to leave, The Box (our car) was stolen. Stolen from a busy parking lot at a mall. Inside were several personal items, including GRIM's most beloved Donald Duck snuggle. We were all gutted. We loved that car. GRIM loved that doll. Who knew what else was in there? How many times had we said "Let's clean out the car today" and failed to do it? Why didn't I go with my gut that I go along? We were fortunate to be able to borrow a car, since the trip was not only a fun time but also a catering job for Blue.
I bought a fancy new fox tail and wandered around in street-clothes with a vintage black parasol - a dearly loved gift from The Gypsy in happier times. I had been thinking quite a bit about The Gypsy. Debating whether to break the silence between us with a call or a letter, wondering if he would understand. The last he knew of me, I was planning to have moved out by month's end. That was in late April. Now, my prospective date is to be out by the first of the year.
While out roving the Faire, I found I had a text message. The Gypsy. "Are you ok?"
...Our first contact in months and I have to bite the bullet and give him the honest answer. Surgery upcoming, and still living here.
He didn't text another word.
He was hurt, I knew. The four of us have an old, long, and painful history; together and apart.
So that was a lovely night. Blue and I hurting on the drive home, while Silly dozed in the back seat. We talked a lot, but everything still felt unresolved by the time we pulled into town and went to pick up GRIM.
Once we had her tucked into her carseat beside Silly, she railed at us for leaving her behind. So, we did what any parents do.. we drove. Took freeways, quiet streets, lazed around in wide tracks. And then.. Silly saw something. In the parking lot across the street from where the car was taken, a car identical to The Box. We pulled closer. I immediately flipped out, recognising part of the license plate. OH. My. God. The Beloved Box had returned to us. I felt kind of bad for griping every time I got in and out of the low-slung sedan we'd borrowed. "I hate this car. I hate this car!" became my constant refrain. And, though I never said it, I was afraid of trying to lower myself into that car right after surgery.
This post is... well.. kind of all over the place. Mostly because my mind - right now - is all over the place.
I want to go back. I want to change some spending choices I made while we were out of town. I want to not have let the missing car so taint my last kicking up of heels before the surgery. And I really.. really.. want to be called "kitten", just once more, by that beautiful voice.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
A Somewhat Eventful Week
So. Proudfoot came by bus, stayed with me a couple days, went to the surgeon consult with me. Blue paid her train ticket so she could go see Houdini, take him a present from me, and explain (with a brochure from the surgeon, even) why I haven't been out to see him.
We discussed property plans, my trailer, a Bill Paying account, and sharing the cost of a car. Despite having had to hit the brakes on moving forward, I am ever eager to participate in whatever limited aspects I can manage.
I hate the surgeon, however. She went beyond having a bad bedside manner. I have new-found respect for the animals I eat. Nothing like being treated like a piece of meat to remind you of how your food is treated when it's alive. She essentially entered the room irritated. Demanded to know what "we" are doing about "all this weight". No questioning about my dietary habits, nor about what I am prone to gravitate to. After a brusque prod-and-jab on my abdomen, she declared the incision will have to be larger than usual. I said I was fine with that. I know my weight can cause problems with ANY surgery, let alone one that happens in the abdomen. I mentioned worries about the prominent, high riding bulge on the front of my belly, thinking this in particular would likely be why she was considering either a larger incision or an old-fashioned "direct" incision and surgery (rather than laparoscopic). Oh, she said flippantly, that's either a fatty deposit or a hernia. A hernia?! And that's all you're going to say? Are you expecting maybe you'll just go inside, poke around, and maybe/maybe not find out that cutting into that specific area was a bad idea?
Anyhow, as she gave me an extremely shortened version of the surgery, she said I'd be "in and out, same day". Wow. Every site I've seen says under the BEST circumstances, you should expect a stay of one to three days with the lap procedure. And that's with someone of average weight. Also, it will (not could, will) take Medi-Cal 6 to 8 weeks to allow the surgery. Then, I get the appointment for when I go in. Then I have - at the least - another 6 to 8 weeks recovery time before I am given the okay to do more than go for very careful walks. Oh, yes, and I was commanded to walk every day after the operation. Again, this flies in the face of everything I've found, that says you should not do much movement at all for the first few days, lest you pull loose a clamp or a clip. And she forgot to tell me that there may be a drainage tube left in when I wake up.
So, why am I so irked with her? Well.. She chose - again, without a single question about who I am or what I do - to believe that I'm a fatty-fat-fat that sits around eating cookies and drinking oil. I'm not kidding about the cookies. As we were gathering ourselves to leave, she harassed me with a verbal tirade about diet and exercise, including: "NO cookies, NO sweets, HIGH protein, LOW carbohydrate, NO SODA, lots of vegetables, and START EXERCISING!"
By the time we were downstairs, Proudfoot was spitting nails. She sees, now, a big part of why every doctor I go to aside from Mia says that I have high blood pressure.
I eat several small meals throughout the day. I'm not a big one for sweets - least of all cookies - and I vastly prefer my very slightly sweetened, very weak tea to any soda. I eat lean meats (generally thin to paper sliced and on sandwiches), love veges and fruits, rarely have a reason for a carbohydrate beyond bread for a sandwich, and I much prefer whole foods to fast foods. The meals I post up photos on are special and not terribly often. When I am given a steak or any other large bit of meat, I eat a portion of it and put the rest away to graze on throughout the day.
When taken out, I am ALWAYS the last one still eating, and without fail am taking home a fairly hefty take-home bag. I eat slow. I take my time to enjoy my meal, talk, and drink. I tend to gravitate towards tea (iced or hot) with my meals, or lemonade if it's available. I drink quite a bit with all meals, and in between. Drinking with meals, I've found, slows me down and fills me up faster. If I have a sweet, it's something small and occasional. Yes, I am capable of the occasional snarf-down of chocolates when a craving hits, but those don't come often and if there's nothing readily available, the urge passes. After all, I don't drive - yet - and I couldn't make the walk to the nearest store. Call it laziness, but I'm more than willing to keep sweets/fatty snacks out of the house and make it a non-issue than I am to ask for a ride to the store to pick some up. On the rare case that I DO bring home a canister of Pringles or a pack of mini candy bars, I put them on the highest shelf in the farthest room. Again, call it laziness, but if I have to go hunt them down and climb on a chair to have a handful of chips, I'm just fine with letting the urge pass.
It doesn't help that I don't seem to be processing most foods and as a result, whatever calories I AM getting my body seems to be stockpiling in fat as a response to its sensation of being starved of nutrients.
We discussed property plans, my trailer, a Bill Paying account, and sharing the cost of a car. Despite having had to hit the brakes on moving forward, I am ever eager to participate in whatever limited aspects I can manage.
I hate the surgeon, however. She went beyond having a bad bedside manner. I have new-found respect for the animals I eat. Nothing like being treated like a piece of meat to remind you of how your food is treated when it's alive. She essentially entered the room irritated. Demanded to know what "we" are doing about "all this weight". No questioning about my dietary habits, nor about what I am prone to gravitate to. After a brusque prod-and-jab on my abdomen, she declared the incision will have to be larger than usual. I said I was fine with that. I know my weight can cause problems with ANY surgery, let alone one that happens in the abdomen. I mentioned worries about the prominent, high riding bulge on the front of my belly, thinking this in particular would likely be why she was considering either a larger incision or an old-fashioned "direct" incision and surgery (rather than laparoscopic). Oh, she said flippantly, that's either a fatty deposit or a hernia. A hernia?! And that's all you're going to say? Are you expecting maybe you'll just go inside, poke around, and maybe/maybe not find out that cutting into that specific area was a bad idea?
Anyhow, as she gave me an extremely shortened version of the surgery, she said I'd be "in and out, same day". Wow. Every site I've seen says under the BEST circumstances, you should expect a stay of one to three days with the lap procedure. And that's with someone of average weight. Also, it will (not could, will) take Medi-Cal 6 to 8 weeks to allow the surgery. Then, I get the appointment for when I go in. Then I have - at the least - another 6 to 8 weeks recovery time before I am given the okay to do more than go for very careful walks. Oh, yes, and I was commanded to walk every day after the operation. Again, this flies in the face of everything I've found, that says you should not do much movement at all for the first few days, lest you pull loose a clamp or a clip. And she forgot to tell me that there may be a drainage tube left in when I wake up.
So, why am I so irked with her? Well.. She chose - again, without a single question about who I am or what I do - to believe that I'm a fatty-fat-fat that sits around eating cookies and drinking oil. I'm not kidding about the cookies. As we were gathering ourselves to leave, she harassed me with a verbal tirade about diet and exercise, including: "NO cookies, NO sweets, HIGH protein, LOW carbohydrate, NO SODA, lots of vegetables, and START EXERCISING!"
By the time we were downstairs, Proudfoot was spitting nails. She sees, now, a big part of why every doctor I go to aside from Mia says that I have high blood pressure.
I eat several small meals throughout the day. I'm not a big one for sweets - least of all cookies - and I vastly prefer my very slightly sweetened, very weak tea to any soda. I eat lean meats (generally thin to paper sliced and on sandwiches), love veges and fruits, rarely have a reason for a carbohydrate beyond bread for a sandwich, and I much prefer whole foods to fast foods. The meals I post up photos on are special and not terribly often. When I am given a steak or any other large bit of meat, I eat a portion of it and put the rest away to graze on throughout the day.
When taken out, I am ALWAYS the last one still eating, and without fail am taking home a fairly hefty take-home bag. I eat slow. I take my time to enjoy my meal, talk, and drink. I tend to gravitate towards tea (iced or hot) with my meals, or lemonade if it's available. I drink quite a bit with all meals, and in between. Drinking with meals, I've found, slows me down and fills me up faster. If I have a sweet, it's something small and occasional. Yes, I am capable of the occasional snarf-down of chocolates when a craving hits, but those don't come often and if there's nothing readily available, the urge passes. After all, I don't drive - yet - and I couldn't make the walk to the nearest store. Call it laziness, but I'm more than willing to keep sweets/fatty snacks out of the house and make it a non-issue than I am to ask for a ride to the store to pick some up. On the rare case that I DO bring home a canister of Pringles or a pack of mini candy bars, I put them on the highest shelf in the farthest room. Again, call it laziness, but if I have to go hunt them down and climb on a chair to have a handful of chips, I'm just fine with letting the urge pass.
It doesn't help that I don't seem to be processing most foods and as a result, whatever calories I AM getting my body seems to be stockpiling in fat as a response to its sensation of being starved of nutrients.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Corn Husks and Potato Peels and Ozone On My Tongue
I can taste the ozone on my tongue when he sprays the quietly flaming coals. He was calling me over to see the vortex the heat had made, but I took too long. All that remained was a few small tongues. I ran for the camera, nearly begging him to tempt the fates.
"Just one time, please? I want to get a shot of it!"
Saner, survivalistic minds were not available, and I readied the camera as he went out with the bottle of fluid.
A short, pounding stream. A WHUFF of heat that rolled in the door, buffeting against my skin.
"It's there!" he shouted. "Do you see it?!"
Several fast clicks, muttered curses, and a valiant squeal.
"It's AWESOME! Look look!"
I hurried off to dump the picture to the computer, and minutes later, heard my name called.
"Could you shuck the corn while I peel the potatoes?"
Out again, still smelling burnt fuel and toasted air with every breath. Quiet, laughing talk over our jobs; me marveling at how quickly your body falls back into old strides. I thought nothing of asking for the husks and peels to be left for me to scatter on the Back Forty (The Sandbox), where I once imagined garden plans for hours.
Once we were done, I pulled out from under the sink a tray of coffee grounds, several potsworth that I'd never gotten around to taking out. They dry quickly, so it was never a concern to me that they remained down there, and now I had other things to take out with them.
The grounds, husks, and peels I scattered, flinging from rocks to fence, and sprinkling small amounts of each under The Citrus (now thought to be a Citron). For a moment, it felt like it should have. I was stepping out from the cool air and controlled environment, the armoring walls and blocking roof. It felt like walking out into an oven, but flinging the offal felt like the true me.
I don't have any lofty reasonings, or any smug bitterness regarding choices others have made in their lives, with their lives. I know simply that I must return to who I am, who I was, and live my ways for my reasons. Cynics are aplenty, that doesn't concern me. No matter what the future holds, I feel free in one small, insignificant act. I gave back to the earth and in doing, thanked the Mother for all she gave that we might revel in the excess grace and circumstance has allowed us.
And then.. it was time to eat.
As if the Mother were having a moment of laughing nudge, we decided to watch Avatar (the blue people movie) after dinner. More than ever, I was grateful. In simple, unspoken, wordless ways. Tonight, I have been reborn.
Welcome, then, to The American Gothic.
Dinner was lovely.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Midnight Phonecalls [ominous music]
I changed our land line's ring tone. heehee.
Now, it plays the opening bars of..
It sounds epic. xD
I forgot to tell Blue and Silly... Both said, the first time the phone rang while they were home, they "nearly had a heart attack". I thought it was a far cry better than our usual 'LEE LEE LEE ... LEE LEE LEE', one of the standard, ear splitting out-of-the-box rings most cordless phones have.
I say it fits with our future plans to turn the boot room (tiny, tiny foyer) into a Haunted Mansion styled space. They say I'm going "a bit far" with the whole thing. In the end, though, we've kept it. I think it grows on you.
...besides, if they made me change it, I'd pick the William Tell Overture. LOL
ON TO THE PHONE CALL!
This is why I'm making a post, after all, to write about a phone call. Rather, what the phone call stirred in me.
I think a lot about the garden. When the realization first sank in, I was all gung-ho, ordering scads of seed catalogues and talking "garden" nonstop while visions of our back yard transformed danced through my head. As time marches on, however, my excitement dims. I'm holding onto the hope that it'll happen, that I'll make it happen, but every idea... every effort that goes nowhere leaves me more and more despondent. I've accepted that it won't look the way I want, that I'll likely be gardening out of containers for the foreseeable future. I've accepted that we simply, honestly, cannot work out there right now. We're all getting over this virus and the weather has been peaking steadily at 115* F. Hell, our inflated-ring pool is like slightly-warm bathwater now! WITHOUT the help of a solar cover! There's no way we could go out and rip up the ground like this.
Still... I'd like a little enthusiasm from my pair. I've stopped badgering them with facts and bits of trivia, I would love to hear the occasional suggestion or even encouragement. Now, when my seed books arrive, I don't bother beyond a cursory flipping. Drop it open to the middle, glance at a couple pages, sigh, and toss them in the drawer with the first ones. The ones I'd so lovingly studied, shared with GRIM, wrote notes regarding.
It's happened. I've hit the "what's the point" phase, and I haven't even got a handful of soil to show for it. I didn't plan on having anything planted this year, but I would have liked to buy a tomato and put it in a bucket. Something.
Which brings me to tonight's midnight call. My ominous Bach making me smile. There are only three people who would call me at midnight, when the baby's home. Silly, who works graveyard and gets lonely. Mom, who knows I'm almost always up at night. Patti, my aunt. We've both been the type for odd hours all our lives. Sometimes, midnight is the only chance you get. Your one chance to talk without an impatiently eager child clamoring to be heard by one end of the phone or the other, away from spouses that have an innate sense and decide that's exactly when they need you (similar to the previous).
The house is quiet, everything is peace and calm, you've had a chance to destress and let go.
~dee doo deet... deeedaaduuuudum.. dooodoodoooot dooo dee dooo, dooo~
So. It's my mom.
My son has informed her that I will *be there* for the fourth.
He is emphatic.
I WILL be there.
No one can dissuade him.
There is no argument strong enough, no reason valid enough.
I will be there.
He knows it.
KNOWS it.
...I'd like to know HOW he knows that.
I offered for him to come out here. Have a barbecue, watch the fireworks, splash in our wading pool, get heatstroke in the park down the street, maybe. I never once said anything about going out there. See, we already had two families coming in for Blue's feed-me-till-I-pop barbecue. I thought it'd be better to add two (or three, or four) mouths to the party, than have me out there.. alone.. trying to remember how long you wait before adding sauce.
Blue had told me the next DAY that he'd called it off because we'd all been sick. He couldn't take grilling and smoking in this breath-sucking dry heat, let alone a repeat of his birthday's chaos. I'd texted mom later that night, saying I would be out for the fourth, if it was okay with her. I hadn't talked to anyone outside of my own house or Blue's mom since then. Mom's phone wasn't set up for texts yet, so it never arrived.
Baffled.
The boy has the pure, singular ability to baffle.
Anyhow, our call gets dropped mid-sentence, and I can't reach my mom. I'm going straight to voicemail, then I get some man speaking Spanish. I wait a little while, and she doesn't call back. Now, she isn't in the best of health. I know this and I'm starting to worry, so I dig my aunt's number out of the phone and wake her out of a sound sleep. Sure, she can go check on mom, tell her I've been trying to call back. Then, since mom's busy, I end up chatting with my aunt.
She's renovating that tiny house, the standing vestige of my grandfather's memory. She's planting in his once-loved soil; mourning the dead lizards that crawled into the walls to hibernate and didn't find a way out.
As is generally true, talk of the property leads to talk of my grandfather. Everyone but his family called him Jim. We called him many other things, from 'grandpa' to 'Fattio Daddio'. He was a great man, but had flaws like anyone else.
He used to cut up half gallon and quart milk jugs, the "paper" ones, and make them into "lizard houses". You could find him outside, kicking back on a pile of old wood like it was a luxury lounger, and he'd gesture you over.
"Quiet!" he'd hiss, grabbing you roughly by the wrist before you could step into an unseen bolt-hole. Once you were settled in, silent and still... he'd lean back again.
Like a magician, his hand would disappear. Bringing it out again with a casual flourish, he'd drop a blue-belly lizard in your lap.. or your palm.. or on the sleeve of your borrowed "cover" shirt.
And there it'd stay.
Staring at you.
You could swear... the damned thing was judging you!
Eventually, it'd look back to him, he'd nod, and it'd skitter off or settle in.
Once they were on me, I found I could sit stock still for hours in that heat. I'd giggle and try to stifle it, squirm a bit with the excitement of it all, and stare deeply into reptilian eyes that seemed just as human as any other. Sometimes, they'd let me touch them, but mostly not. My grandpa, meanwhile, would be crook'd into his lounge, muttering around his rollie cigarette.
I used to think he did it because he loved me best. I was his first, he told everyone. First grandchild; and later, the bringer of the first great-grandchild. His golden one. I thought it was my duty to learn everything he had to teach me. That somehow, all of these experiences were lessons I would need to know when I was grown, when I would take on the mantle none of us could picture him letting slip. Now... Now I think he just needed some peace. A little space of quiet and stillness. Like a child told to play "Let's Pretend" and they've been given the role of "moss on a log", I eagerly accepted and strained to do the best I could at being still and silent.
He never was an outwardly affectionate type. He told people he loved them by saying things like "get a haircut" and "you're too fat". If cornered, he'd admit that he was never taught how to show love. He didn't want his family to be taunted in school, so they should cut their hair. He worried about their health, afraid of seeing them die from something that could have been prevented.
Mostly, though, his love came through in money. "Take some money out of my account and buy that girl of yours a new dress. I don't like her wearing rags." That was said after the family got together (in old, faded clothes) to scrub his floors clean, after he was moved into what would become his hospice area. This man, who would fish out clothes that had washed downstream and take them home to wear, whose ceiling was a schitzophrenic's dream of colors, who'd eaten out of cans he bought by the case.. hated seeing his children or his grandchildren in anything less than "Goin' To Town" clothes.
So we got to talking about the lizards in the walls, my aunt and I. Until she mentioned them, I'd forgotten all about those cut up rectangles. They, like my grandfather, had just... always been there. Accepted, loved, appreciated, sought out. No matter how faded the logos got, no matter how warped by rain they'd become, we - and the lizards - still returned to them, year after year and season after season.
It looks like my Big Idea is going to have to wait for another entry, but I do hope you'll stick around. Whoever... wherever... you are.
Now, it plays the opening bars of..
Bach-Toccata and Fuge in D minor
It sounds epic. xD
I forgot to tell Blue and Silly... Both said, the first time the phone rang while they were home, they "nearly had a heart attack". I thought it was a far cry better than our usual 'LEE LEE LEE ... LEE LEE LEE', one of the standard, ear splitting out-of-the-box rings most cordless phones have.
I say it fits with our future plans to turn the boot room (tiny, tiny foyer) into a Haunted Mansion styled space. They say I'm going "a bit far" with the whole thing. In the end, though, we've kept it. I think it grows on you.
...besides, if they made me change it, I'd pick the William Tell Overture. LOL
ON TO THE PHONE CALL!
This is why I'm making a post, after all, to write about a phone call. Rather, what the phone call stirred in me.
I think a lot about the garden. When the realization first sank in, I was all gung-ho, ordering scads of seed catalogues and talking "garden" nonstop while visions of our back yard transformed danced through my head. As time marches on, however, my excitement dims. I'm holding onto the hope that it'll happen, that I'll make it happen, but every idea... every effort that goes nowhere leaves me more and more despondent. I've accepted that it won't look the way I want, that I'll likely be gardening out of containers for the foreseeable future. I've accepted that we simply, honestly, cannot work out there right now. We're all getting over this virus and the weather has been peaking steadily at 115* F. Hell, our inflated-ring pool is like slightly-warm bathwater now! WITHOUT the help of a solar cover! There's no way we could go out and rip up the ground like this.
Still... I'd like a little enthusiasm from my pair. I've stopped badgering them with facts and bits of trivia, I would love to hear the occasional suggestion or even encouragement. Now, when my seed books arrive, I don't bother beyond a cursory flipping. Drop it open to the middle, glance at a couple pages, sigh, and toss them in the drawer with the first ones. The ones I'd so lovingly studied, shared with GRIM, wrote notes regarding.
It's happened. I've hit the "what's the point" phase, and I haven't even got a handful of soil to show for it. I didn't plan on having anything planted this year, but I would have liked to buy a tomato and put it in a bucket. Something.
Which brings me to tonight's midnight call. My ominous Bach making me smile. There are only three people who would call me at midnight, when the baby's home. Silly, who works graveyard and gets lonely. Mom, who knows I'm almost always up at night. Patti, my aunt. We've both been the type for odd hours all our lives. Sometimes, midnight is the only chance you get. Your one chance to talk without an impatiently eager child clamoring to be heard by one end of the phone or the other, away from spouses that have an innate sense and decide that's exactly when they need you (similar to the previous).
The house is quiet, everything is peace and calm, you've had a chance to destress and let go.
~dee doo deet... deeedaaduuuudum.. dooodoodoooot dooo dee dooo, dooo~
So. It's my mom.
My son has informed her that I will *be there* for the fourth.
He is emphatic.
I WILL be there.
No one can dissuade him.
There is no argument strong enough, no reason valid enough.
I will be there.
He knows it.
KNOWS it.
...I'd like to know HOW he knows that.
I offered for him to come out here. Have a barbecue, watch the fireworks, splash in our wading pool, get heatstroke in the park down the street, maybe. I never once said anything about going out there. See, we already had two families coming in for Blue's feed-me-till-I-pop barbecue. I thought it'd be better to add two (or three, or four) mouths to the party, than have me out there.. alone.. trying to remember how long you wait before adding sauce.
Blue had told me the next DAY that he'd called it off because we'd all been sick. He couldn't take grilling and smoking in this breath-sucking dry heat, let alone a repeat of his birthday's chaos. I'd texted mom later that night, saying I would be out for the fourth, if it was okay with her. I hadn't talked to anyone outside of my own house or Blue's mom since then. Mom's phone wasn't set up for texts yet, so it never arrived.
Baffled.
The boy has the pure, singular ability to baffle.
Anyhow, our call gets dropped mid-sentence, and I can't reach my mom. I'm going straight to voicemail, then I get some man speaking Spanish. I wait a little while, and she doesn't call back. Now, she isn't in the best of health. I know this and I'm starting to worry, so I dig my aunt's number out of the phone and wake her out of a sound sleep. Sure, she can go check on mom, tell her I've been trying to call back. Then, since mom's busy, I end up chatting with my aunt.
She's renovating that tiny house, the standing vestige of my grandfather's memory. She's planting in his once-loved soil; mourning the dead lizards that crawled into the walls to hibernate and didn't find a way out.
As is generally true, talk of the property leads to talk of my grandfather. Everyone but his family called him Jim. We called him many other things, from 'grandpa' to 'Fattio Daddio'. He was a great man, but had flaws like anyone else.
He used to cut up half gallon and quart milk jugs, the "paper" ones, and make them into "lizard houses". You could find him outside, kicking back on a pile of old wood like it was a luxury lounger, and he'd gesture you over.
"Quiet!" he'd hiss, grabbing you roughly by the wrist before you could step into an unseen bolt-hole. Once you were settled in, silent and still... he'd lean back again.
Like a magician, his hand would disappear. Bringing it out again with a casual flourish, he'd drop a blue-belly lizard in your lap.. or your palm.. or on the sleeve of your borrowed "cover" shirt.
And there it'd stay.
Staring at you.
You could swear... the damned thing was judging you!
Eventually, it'd look back to him, he'd nod, and it'd skitter off or settle in.
Once they were on me, I found I could sit stock still for hours in that heat. I'd giggle and try to stifle it, squirm a bit with the excitement of it all, and stare deeply into reptilian eyes that seemed just as human as any other. Sometimes, they'd let me touch them, but mostly not. My grandpa, meanwhile, would be crook'd into his lounge, muttering around his rollie cigarette.
I used to think he did it because he loved me best. I was his first, he told everyone. First grandchild; and later, the bringer of the first great-grandchild. His golden one. I thought it was my duty to learn everything he had to teach me. That somehow, all of these experiences were lessons I would need to know when I was grown, when I would take on the mantle none of us could picture him letting slip. Now... Now I think he just needed some peace. A little space of quiet and stillness. Like a child told to play "Let's Pretend" and they've been given the role of "moss on a log", I eagerly accepted and strained to do the best I could at being still and silent.
He never was an outwardly affectionate type. He told people he loved them by saying things like "get a haircut" and "you're too fat". If cornered, he'd admit that he was never taught how to show love. He didn't want his family to be taunted in school, so they should cut their hair. He worried about their health, afraid of seeing them die from something that could have been prevented.
Mostly, though, his love came through in money. "Take some money out of my account and buy that girl of yours a new dress. I don't like her wearing rags." That was said after the family got together (in old, faded clothes) to scrub his floors clean, after he was moved into what would become his hospice area. This man, who would fish out clothes that had washed downstream and take them home to wear, whose ceiling was a schitzophrenic's dream of colors, who'd eaten out of cans he bought by the case.. hated seeing his children or his grandchildren in anything less than "Goin' To Town" clothes.
So we got to talking about the lizards in the walls, my aunt and I. Until she mentioned them, I'd forgotten all about those cut up rectangles. They, like my grandfather, had just... always been there. Accepted, loved, appreciated, sought out. No matter how faded the logos got, no matter how warped by rain they'd become, we - and the lizards - still returned to them, year after year and season after season.
It looks like my Big Idea is going to have to wait for another entry, but I do hope you'll stick around. Whoever... wherever... you are.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wobbly.
So, after the work on Booshy Boosh, I got sick. We don't know if it was due to something on the bush being breathed in (it was dusty and smelled funny) or if something else got me, but I've been unable to continue on Project Clear Out for the past few days. To put it simply... I'm wobbly. When I stand up, my legs feel like they're shaking and soon to give out on me. I'm weak, nauseated, dizzy, having a hard time with food. Everything feels like it's separate from me, like there's a layer of cotton batting wrapped around me and keeping the world outside. Most of my time has been spent curled up on the couch, wishing it was over. Today, after a lot of sleep and a lot of huddling, I'm feeling quite a bit better... and GRIM is sick. -headdesk-
While I was having problems sleeping, I talked to Blue about the pots we saw that I wanted. Turns out, we've both had very different ideas of how our back yard would look in the long run. Hm. This... could be a problem. Miscommunications have abounded, on both sides. I'd talked of planting the garden under the old swing set, he'd talked of reusing the wood FROM the swing set to build my raised beds. I'd mentioned getting GRIM a baby swing to hang from the swing-frame's eyes, closest to the play house, he'd seemed agreeable.We'd talked about taking out the two idiotically placed trees in the middle of the yard and planting one shade tree off to one side. I want to keep the play house's frame and rebuild it where it stands. He wants to tear the whole thing down and put up a new one somewhere else. I think we should take out the old tool shed and put in a newer one, maybe something bug-proof. He doesn't see a problem with the existing shed staying. I want to rip up all the damned palm bushes. I have no idea how he feels about those. I also want to rip out a bunch of the purple-flowered vines we have, as they're taking over and clearly animals are hiding in there. He sees no reason to do any such cutting. We DO agree on one thing, though. We both want to keep the freaky-weird citrus tree that stands in the little grassy island between playhouse and shed.. maybe the fuschia if I can save it.
I dropped another bomb on him, today. I want to scatter seed for Corsican Mint in our lawn. He doesn't know why, and I'm not sure I really have a reason, other than I like it and I happen to think "lawn" in the back yard is a complete and utter waste of resources and space. Not that I want a cement pad back there.. but there's a lot you can do with all that space that isn't mowing/blowing/raking/weeding/feeding/watering/etc.
So while we were talking about the pots I wanted, I found out I won't be getting them for my birthday. Since they're at Big Lots, chances are they wouldn't be there for long, so I won't really be getting them at all. He was full of reasons why they'd be a bad idea, why just getting regular wood half-barrels is so much better than planting in plastic-foam-form "wood" half-barrels.. but I'll admit I was sad. I had a specific plan all laid out in my head, and it needed four round containers. Large containers. I've seen what happens to wooden barrels after a few seasons and I thought plastic would be much better. Anyhow, we talked and it was all very "meeting of the minds" and we both were very clear that any talk we made of the back yard and "plans" was very up in the air. Nothing is set in stone and we're talking about things we'd like to have in place years down the line. That's all fine and good, but if I got planters for my birthday, I could garden THIS YEAR, not next.
Putting away the daydreaming I'd been doing about the plastic half-barrels did do me some good, though. It got me back into looking at what's out there. The next day, I had something new in mind. It's not pretty, it's not architectural, and it doesn't fit with my little dream garden. Honestly, if this thing works as well as I think it would, I couldn't care less how it looks.
I'll share the New Idea with you next time.
Good gardening!
While I was having problems sleeping, I talked to Blue about the pots we saw that I wanted. Turns out, we've both had very different ideas of how our back yard would look in the long run. Hm. This... could be a problem. Miscommunications have abounded, on both sides. I'd talked of planting the garden under the old swing set, he'd talked of reusing the wood FROM the swing set to build my raised beds. I'd mentioned getting GRIM a baby swing to hang from the swing-frame's eyes, closest to the play house, he'd seemed agreeable.We'd talked about taking out the two idiotically placed trees in the middle of the yard and planting one shade tree off to one side. I want to keep the play house's frame and rebuild it where it stands. He wants to tear the whole thing down and put up a new one somewhere else. I think we should take out the old tool shed and put in a newer one, maybe something bug-proof. He doesn't see a problem with the existing shed staying. I want to rip up all the damned palm bushes. I have no idea how he feels about those. I also want to rip out a bunch of the purple-flowered vines we have, as they're taking over and clearly animals are hiding in there. He sees no reason to do any such cutting. We DO agree on one thing, though. We both want to keep the freaky-weird citrus tree that stands in the little grassy island between playhouse and shed.. maybe the fuschia if I can save it.
I dropped another bomb on him, today. I want to scatter seed for Corsican Mint in our lawn. He doesn't know why, and I'm not sure I really have a reason, other than I like it and I happen to think "lawn" in the back yard is a complete and utter waste of resources and space. Not that I want a cement pad back there.. but there's a lot you can do with all that space that isn't mowing/blowing/raking/weeding/feeding/watering/etc.
So while we were talking about the pots I wanted, I found out I won't be getting them for my birthday. Since they're at Big Lots, chances are they wouldn't be there for long, so I won't really be getting them at all. He was full of reasons why they'd be a bad idea, why just getting regular wood half-barrels is so much better than planting in plastic-foam-form "wood" half-barrels.. but I'll admit I was sad. I had a specific plan all laid out in my head, and it needed four round containers. Large containers. I've seen what happens to wooden barrels after a few seasons and I thought plastic would be much better. Anyhow, we talked and it was all very "meeting of the minds" and we both were very clear that any talk we made of the back yard and "plans" was very up in the air. Nothing is set in stone and we're talking about things we'd like to have in place years down the line. That's all fine and good, but if I got planters for my birthday, I could garden THIS YEAR, not next.
Putting away the daydreaming I'd been doing about the plastic half-barrels did do me some good, though. It got me back into looking at what's out there. The next day, I had something new in mind. It's not pretty, it's not architectural, and it doesn't fit with my little dream garden. Honestly, if this thing works as well as I think it would, I couldn't care less how it looks.
I'll share the New Idea with you next time.
Good gardening!
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