One big rant. One big rant about stuff that doesn't work. Stuff that doesn't or hasn't worked in awhile. Mainly, but not limited to, stuff that doesn't/hasn't worked this summer.
I may digress. You know how I get.
This minute, this very second the lawnmower doesn't work. Gosh, maybe b/c dh took it apart and lost all the bolts and now it is held together by gorilla tape and freaking drapery hardware. Maybe that's it. Now, this is my darling lawnmower. I am the Hank Hill in this family regarding lawnery. When I was carrying the twins, I was forbidden to mow and it got to where I just couldn't even look down when I went outside. I love the man, but a mower, he is not.
Oh, and also this very minute my left hand isn't looking too good. Not working too well. Yeah. Well, I stapled it. Upholstery stapled it. Right there in the fleshy (yet surprisingly musclular/tendony) part of the thumb. This happened about three minutes after I'd finished giving my generally well-regarded stapler safety speech to the friend whose chair I was working on. Honest to heaven, I'd just wrapped up the big "safety goggles" portion and closing with references to tetanus shots and the importance of long pants when she went to check on the kids.
Ka-chunk. That's a sound you don't want to hear when there's nothing actually being stapled between you and the stapler. Hey, that's really deep in there. Wow. That's a lot of blood. Will that come off the porch floor? Hmmmm....should my thumb be numb like this? I wonder...This is almost as much fun as the big ol' black eye/nosebridge cut I had a few weeks back from cleaning out the linen closet. Apparently, I had more than linens in there, no? So hand and mower. Hurts hand to try and start mower. The front lawn is morphing into the opening credits from "little house on the prairie" except it's just grass, no wildflowers. Okay, so that's just this past two days.
My van doesn't work. Actually, to be more succinct, my van is gone. Totaled. That happened on tuesday at the very end of Fay. I registered the twins for pre-k (No, he's not quite potty trained, he's a spectrum kid...you pre-k guys KNOW THAT) and was on my way to drop off a bunch of stuff at the thrift store. Now that right there should have been a dead give away. I drop nothing off if isn't children. I have "Depression mentality." Not that kind of depression. The one after the stock market crashed. All things can find new use. But there I was with a van full of old toys to drop off. Silver van sitting on the median in foggy ucky rain gets hit by silver car. I am silver van and it is my fault. I inched out too far, I guess, the wind was blowing the trees and I couldn't see. It's an easy crossing, really, no beating the clock or anything. But there goes my bumper. Here come the police. Here come new police b/c original police were already on a call. Right after new police arrive, here comes a new accident. Bad one this time. Three cars. One drove over my bumper which was carefully lain on the grassy strip. By the time dh got there, the parkway was closed, fire, ambo, police etc. etc. And I'm on the corner soaking wet, waving madly so he knows that *that* was not my accident. Regardless, the van is a loss. Didn't look like a loss. The bumper and headlights were a loss. Yes. The passenger tire had a blister. Yes. But a loss? Apparently, everything under car had been moved about one inch to the left. Just enough to piss me off. So I have no car. Let's recap: Mommy stuck at home can get stuff done and is glad to do so on two principles. One is that the stuff works. The other is that Mommy can work. See notes regarding lawnmower and hand. All bets are off. Mommy at home w/bum hand is asking for trouble in ways I honestly cannot begin to fathom.
*sigh*
More stuff--neighbor found a day old kitten yesterday. Called me. Did what I could (dad's a vet and I'm a slushy for kittens) but it died. Good feeling. How do they let me keep the kids?
Hmm...washer overflowed, took washer apart (kind of know what I'm doing there) could not find toggle to adjust water level, opened my right hand up pretty good getting that damned back off, got pissed, cut all the wires (pretty pretty colors) and got a front loader. I never just "get" stuff, but you may get the sense that I'm a bit taut of late, so yeah, I just went out and got a front loader. It's a beaut. I love it. It makes me happy every time I see it using 50% less water and a tbsp of detergent and 20% less energy. Mostly I just like the roundy round the clothes do. But that leaves the laundry room flooded from previous occupant. Rug steamer to the rescue. Except...(can you guess this next part?) the rugsteamer got all choke-y and started to smell all rubbery and then got verrrrrry quiet. It went gentle into that good night. Damn.
ahhh...other stuff that fits into this here category of stuff that doesn't work, but in a condensed version: Mitre saw is dull. Carpet in laundry room (not my damned idea, I'll tell you what) is awful and icky. Toilet in second bathroom also relying on drapery hardware to function. Dishwasher leaks somewhere I can't figure. Have still not been in basement since storm. Vacuum cord got scary. flourescent lights in bathroom burned out. (WTF????) Powdery mildew killing the yellow squash. Can't figure how to potty train the twin with the sensory disorder. Oh, and I haven't even begun to consider writing about how dh's new job hours don't work. So don't work. So so don't work.
And the best part of all of this, I have saved for last. It would seem, you see, that MY PROZAC DOESN'T WORK. This happens every now and again and it's no big deal except that my shrink doesn't work (retired) and my insurance doesn't work (crap) and I really, really, really need the prozac to work, you know? If it would just work for another week or so...really, because there is no piece of drapery hardware to fix this situation. That there's an absolute truth for you.
Does this happen to other people? What am I supposed to learn from this? My mantra is always "Nothing is Simple" (always through gritted teeth, tho, so I don't know if it actually works as a mantra). I can't handle this new "Nothing Works" mantra.
It just doesn't work for me.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
And did I mention...
That my mother is having her first really debilitating depression episode (poor thing, had my first in 7th grade, old timer here) oh, and she's tagged on a truly spectacular eating disorder in case anybody misses the depression part? No, I think I would remember mentioning that. So, yeah, she's um...68 and has been spiralling slowly down into that black pool for oh, gosh, let me think...it was after the summer my brother tried to kill himself....hmmm....oh, so it's been since about 2002. And as any physicist will confirm, matter gains speed as it descends. So it is with my mother. We're really crossing our fingers that ECT will have some effect. Hopeful about the outcome of connecting little electrodes to the old woman's head and zapping the crap out of her brain. Nice. But these past two years have been really incredibly painful and I want so badly for my kids to know her, only she's just gone in so very many ways. When I have not the strength to go into detail I just say, 'Mama just done up and flown outta herself."
How does a 67 year old woman pick up anorexia/bulimia anyway? Who does that? WTF?
1/4 cup cheerios for breakfast, my butt. Rounding out (no pun) the day with endless fat free yogurt cups...huh? Last time she visited me for a few days (looooong ago) she insisted that I buy her a scale. Why might I not have one? (Come closer, I have to whisper) I'm a freaking bulimia survivor, for mercy's sake. Yeah. I know the game. Not only was I trained to know the game as a teacher, I've played the game. And believe you me, the game could have killed me at 18, so it certainly will have no mercy on 68.
(I know you're thinking, "well, she probably learned it from you..." I was out of the house by that time. Believe me, I've checked the timeline.)
There is considerable backstory to all this, as you might suspect. Did you ever read Joyce Carol Oates We Were the Mulvaneys ? It's sort of like that, only there was no rape and dad hasn't died and we never lived in a farmhouse. There are other differences, but you get the idea.
God, there's so much...too much for me to even begin to think about putting it down on screen. I will, tho. I think I will. I think I need to. Pat Conroy says that the best gift anyone can give a writer is a dysfunctional family. Somebody got my wish list, yes? Like those companies that send out coffee every month, except it is dysfunction. Lifetime subscription. Wait! Let's double the offer!
*sigh*
As always, when I sit down, I think I've taken on more than I can process at this time, this hour, this phase of my life. It's just that I was missing her. My mom. She's so gone...so out and yet so confined and bound by this cyclic nightmare. I need to call my dad (a whole 'nother cyclic nightmare) so he can "talk." I've been his eldest daughter since, gosh, the day I was born, but now he needs to "talk"to me. Finally, I have a purpose! And I let him talk because I am far away and can hang up the phone and also because I think I'm supposed to learn something holy from comforting this man who just about crippled all his kids with his anger and disinterest (and the back of his hand, fyi). Sort of a foot washing thing. Ann Lamott would know what I mean, but don't think too much on it. It's like I have to streeeeetttttch my soul out as far as it will go and we all know the benefits of a limber soul .
So I was just thinking about how I miss her. How I still want my mama. Is that silly?
I'm 41 and I want my mama but she just done up and flown outta herself. I wonder where that takes her, you know?
How does a 67 year old woman pick up anorexia/bulimia anyway? Who does that? WTF?
1/4 cup cheerios for breakfast, my butt. Rounding out (no pun) the day with endless fat free yogurt cups...huh? Last time she visited me for a few days (looooong ago) she insisted that I buy her a scale. Why might I not have one? (Come closer, I have to whisper) I'm a freaking bulimia survivor, for mercy's sake. Yeah. I know the game. Not only was I trained to know the game as a teacher, I've played the game. And believe you me, the game could have killed me at 18, so it certainly will have no mercy on 68.
(I know you're thinking, "well, she probably learned it from you..." I was out of the house by that time. Believe me, I've checked the timeline.)
There is considerable backstory to all this, as you might suspect. Did you ever read Joyce Carol Oates We Were the Mulvaneys ? It's sort of like that, only there was no rape and dad hasn't died and we never lived in a farmhouse. There are other differences, but you get the idea.
God, there's so much...too much for me to even begin to think about putting it down on screen. I will, tho. I think I will. I think I need to. Pat Conroy says that the best gift anyone can give a writer is a dysfunctional family. Somebody got my wish list, yes? Like those companies that send out coffee every month, except it is dysfunction. Lifetime subscription. Wait! Let's double the offer!
*sigh*
As always, when I sit down, I think I've taken on more than I can process at this time, this hour, this phase of my life. It's just that I was missing her. My mom. She's so gone...so out and yet so confined and bound by this cyclic nightmare. I need to call my dad (a whole 'nother cyclic nightmare) so he can "talk." I've been his eldest daughter since, gosh, the day I was born, but now he needs to "talk"to me. Finally, I have a purpose! And I let him talk because I am far away and can hang up the phone and also because I think I'm supposed to learn something holy from comforting this man who just about crippled all his kids with his anger and disinterest (and the back of his hand, fyi). Sort of a foot washing thing. Ann Lamott would know what I mean, but don't think too much on it. It's like I have to streeeeetttttch my soul out as far as it will go and we all know the benefits of a limber soul .
So I was just thinking about how I miss her. How I still want my mama. Is that silly?
I'm 41 and I want my mama but she just done up and flown outta herself. I wonder where that takes her, you know?
Monday, August 25, 2008
Rain Rain and More Rain
Fay is dancing with us here in the heart of dixie. I have taken the past seasons' droughts very personally and so I think it would be wrong to complain about rain so I won't, but then, I haven't been in our basement yet.
Anyway, we were stage 4 drought last year with surcharges and water police and neighbors busting neighbors for watering "off schedule and beyond allotted time" and eventually it was necessary to euthanize my gardens for the season. Very bitter about that. Couldn't figure why God would withhold such a simple joy...my beloved gardens. Made a bunch of rainbarrels and hooked up a half-butt grey water system from my washer. Note: Rainbarrels sans rain are not rainbarrels, they are, in fact, very big mosquito malls. Found out that despite the water police and the dire situation (really, car washes and other water-necessary businesses closed...landscapers went out of business, it was a mess), my grey water system was not street legal. Fortunately, it was in the backyard. It was just a damned hose leading from the washer discharge, have mercy!
But herein lies one of the many contradictions of deeply southern thinking. Lawns are nothing short of a reflection of the character of the mower here and apparently, so are sidewalks because they all got automatically sprinklered despite the diminishing lake levels. Got to love a vibrant, lush sidewalk, no? Gardens here are a bit like pampered pets. Some folks just would not think of depriving them even a teeny bit.
Now, I am in love with my gardens because it's dirty and honest work and it feeds me somehow in my soul--explains a lot about God somehow, but they are in no way pampered. They are more like fond neighborhood strays who don't get into much trouble, but could never pass for house pets. I put gardens in where I don't feel like mowing. Not much planning. A lot of daylillies and re-seeders. Compost bin. Worm bin. Not the pretty side of gardens.
But where was I? Oh, yeah, rain. Well, when the ground is dry enough for long enough it sort of turns into something that won't absorb water. Maybe it's called hardpan? Dunno. But I'm wondering when/if the ground will ever accept this hard-won rain instead of letting it roll down hill and into the streets so the weather guys can threaten flash floods even in the absolute middle of kids' shows so that one of your twins gets very concerned about tornado safety to the point of near hysteria. And F.Y.I. a 4 year old is pretty much riding out the year in a state of near hysteria, so if you pump it up at all, for any reason, it might could turn a mite crazy. Crazier. I totally meant crazier.
So that was today. Getting that rain, loving that rain and watching that rain just roll on past my scrappy patches right down to the everblooming sidewalks.
There's got to be a reason, right? Got to be a lesson in there somewhere. Unfortunately, rain (as with just about everything else) makes me tired, so I might think on it some other time. I'll get to bed now and I'll crack the window just enough to hear that crazy rain roll by.
Anyway, we were stage 4 drought last year with surcharges and water police and neighbors busting neighbors for watering "off schedule and beyond allotted time" and eventually it was necessary to euthanize my gardens for the season. Very bitter about that. Couldn't figure why God would withhold such a simple joy...my beloved gardens. Made a bunch of rainbarrels and hooked up a half-butt grey water system from my washer. Note: Rainbarrels sans rain are not rainbarrels, they are, in fact, very big mosquito malls. Found out that despite the water police and the dire situation (really, car washes and other water-necessary businesses closed...landscapers went out of business, it was a mess), my grey water system was not street legal. Fortunately, it was in the backyard. It was just a damned hose leading from the washer discharge, have mercy!
But herein lies one of the many contradictions of deeply southern thinking. Lawns are nothing short of a reflection of the character of the mower here and apparently, so are sidewalks because they all got automatically sprinklered despite the diminishing lake levels. Got to love a vibrant, lush sidewalk, no? Gardens here are a bit like pampered pets. Some folks just would not think of depriving them even a teeny bit.
Now, I am in love with my gardens because it's dirty and honest work and it feeds me somehow in my soul--explains a lot about God somehow, but they are in no way pampered. They are more like fond neighborhood strays who don't get into much trouble, but could never pass for house pets. I put gardens in where I don't feel like mowing. Not much planning. A lot of daylillies and re-seeders. Compost bin. Worm bin. Not the pretty side of gardens.
But where was I? Oh, yeah, rain. Well, when the ground is dry enough for long enough it sort of turns into something that won't absorb water. Maybe it's called hardpan? Dunno. But I'm wondering when/if the ground will ever accept this hard-won rain instead of letting it roll down hill and into the streets so the weather guys can threaten flash floods even in the absolute middle of kids' shows so that one of your twins gets very concerned about tornado safety to the point of near hysteria. And F.Y.I. a 4 year old is pretty much riding out the year in a state of near hysteria, so if you pump it up at all, for any reason, it might could turn a mite crazy. Crazier. I totally meant crazier.
So that was today. Getting that rain, loving that rain and watching that rain just roll on past my scrappy patches right down to the everblooming sidewalks.
There's got to be a reason, right? Got to be a lesson in there somewhere. Unfortunately, rain (as with just about everything else) makes me tired, so I might think on it some other time. I'll get to bed now and I'll crack the window just enough to hear that crazy rain roll by.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Just Two Weeks...two weeks...
So I am really not a blogger. I mean, back in the day, I sort of blogged, but we called them "boards." A board got me through my first deep south deep summer deep depression pregnancy long long ago. We were an intimate and nurturing crew, some of whom are here on this very site.
I do write, but when people say, "oh you should blog" I am mystified because a) my life is not as glamorous as it may look (we'll get into that later, lol), b) my time is mostly spent scraping a variety of substances, organic and other off the the floors, and c) if I write it down, then I'll see it in writing and that changes things.
I'm full up on change these days. Actually, been full up on change for a good long time now. Moved from my homeland, family, job, friends to another time zone. That's an old change, but it still chafes sometimes.
Thought about maybe sorta kinda having a second child because, well I was probably too old and we weren't really trying and dh was a long distance cyclist and at least we gave it a shot (heehee) and in the two weeks that I was un-contracepted--TWO WEEKS in my late thirties after a rough 80s decade (ahem) with no thought to ovulation or regulated sex, mind you, in those two weeks I made two changes.
The first change was about the second kid. No thanks, decision made.
The second change was that I had already conceived.
Bonus change: Twins.
Double Bonus plus value points: One twin is a spectrum kid. (surprise bonus is that I aaaaaaaaaaaadore him for all his beautiful differences)
Pretty much that's just to explain the title of this post. I really have no idea wtf I'm doing so please be patient.
Today's a lousy day to begin blogging anyway, I think. Recent changes have left my days in-freaking-terminable and yet I get nothing done. Maybe I should mention that I am prone to lousy days. Psychologically, the term is dysthymia (sp?) which means long term low-medium grade depression of organic/genetic origin. For our purposes, it means chronic tendency to sigh.
*sigh*
Yeah, today's not good. I am heartily sorry for this first impression. Here in the deep south, we understand the importance of such things, and I just go on tossing lousy first impressions around like it's Fat Tuesday and I'm riding a float.
*sigh*
But I think I need to write, even or especially on these days. Nobody has to read it, really, that's okay, I live with four males who don't pay me any mind, so don't feel bad about that. It's just that, well, I think I need this. Been told I need this (no copays). So away we go...(could we? lol)
For the record, yes, I admit I have more children than I'm wired for, and I will never, ever, let you forget it, but I do adore them and learn from them and love them fiercely. Also for the record, I feel that same way about dh. Except for the having too many part. Just the one. Ten years and counting. My beautiful dh. Adore him. Could slap him (never have) but am passionately in love with him.
Still, the most recent changes here in Lahlahland suck. More later.
*sigh*
Um...thanks. I'll be back.
lah
I do write, but when people say, "oh you should blog" I am mystified because a) my life is not as glamorous as it may look (we'll get into that later, lol), b) my time is mostly spent scraping a variety of substances, organic and other off the the floors, and c) if I write it down, then I'll see it in writing and that changes things.
I'm full up on change these days. Actually, been full up on change for a good long time now. Moved from my homeland, family, job, friends to another time zone. That's an old change, but it still chafes sometimes.
Thought about maybe sorta kinda having a second child because, well I was probably too old and we weren't really trying and dh was a long distance cyclist and at least we gave it a shot (heehee) and in the two weeks that I was un-contracepted--TWO WEEKS in my late thirties after a rough 80s decade (ahem) with no thought to ovulation or regulated sex, mind you, in those two weeks I made two changes.
The first change was about the second kid. No thanks, decision made.
The second change was that I had already conceived.
Bonus change: Twins.
Double Bonus plus value points: One twin is a spectrum kid. (surprise bonus is that I aaaaaaaaaaaadore him for all his beautiful differences)
Pretty much that's just to explain the title of this post. I really have no idea wtf I'm doing so please be patient.
Today's a lousy day to begin blogging anyway, I think. Recent changes have left my days in-freaking-terminable and yet I get nothing done. Maybe I should mention that I am prone to lousy days. Psychologically, the term is dysthymia (sp?) which means long term low-medium grade depression of organic/genetic origin. For our purposes, it means chronic tendency to sigh.
*sigh*
Yeah, today's not good. I am heartily sorry for this first impression. Here in the deep south, we understand the importance of such things, and I just go on tossing lousy first impressions around like it's Fat Tuesday and I'm riding a float.
*sigh*
But I think I need to write, even or especially on these days. Nobody has to read it, really, that's okay, I live with four males who don't pay me any mind, so don't feel bad about that. It's just that, well, I think I need this. Been told I need this (no copays). So away we go...(could we? lol)
For the record, yes, I admit I have more children than I'm wired for, and I will never, ever, let you forget it, but I do adore them and learn from them and love them fiercely. Also for the record, I feel that same way about dh. Except for the having too many part. Just the one. Ten years and counting. My beautiful dh. Adore him. Could slap him (never have) but am passionately in love with him.
Still, the most recent changes here in Lahlahland suck. More later.
*sigh*
Um...thanks. I'll be back.
lah
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