Monday, May 2, 2016

Healthy. Or, Not

I had a conversation with my mom over the weekend that made even more determined to get a grip on my health.

My niece, Miss Kennie, has a birthday that, like mine, falls between Christmas and the New Year. My mom and I were talking about how that impacts plans, and I said, "Plus, for my birthday, we always had to be near a hospital."

I got sick -- really sick, catastrophically sick -- every year. On my birthday.

It sucked.

My mom agreed and then said, Hey, remember that time we had company on your birthday and you were WICKED sick? And you spent the whole time on the couch and then I slept on the floor by the couch because I was kind of afraid that you would stop breathing?

(She had to do that more than once, by the way.)

I recently discussed here how I suddenly realized I was an adult because I accept that I'm not the only person who's impacted by my decisions, but when she said that to me, I also realized -- for the first time -- how much my health has sucked for OTHER people, and how it interfered with the lives of everyone in my family.

It makes me feel ... bad. I know it's not my fault, but I feel bad anyway, especially since my MO as an adult has been "eh, whatever."

It also makes me feel better about my resolve to take more care when it comes to my health. I don't want my sickness to make anyone else's life harder again.

Here's to health!

Friday, April 29, 2016

Friday Randoms


"Hey, it's raining wicked hard. You should take my umbrella."

"I am a dude. I am not walking around with a polka-dotted umbrella."

"What? It has a sassy ruffle!"


"He made me so mad that I wanted to stab him. But instead I decided to get a sandwich with peanut sauce. Less bloody, more delicious."

"And? I don't think they have peanut sauce in jail. Which is where you would go if you stabbed him."

"Once again, you have used logic and reason to keep me from making terrible choices."


"How's that piece coming?"

"Eh. I've been frowning at it for fifteen minutes. Oddly, that has not improved its quality at all."

"That's not how it works?"

"Sadly, no."


"Soup is like a hug that you eat with a spoon."

"That ... is creepier than you meant it to be, I think."

"No, I think it's exactly as creepy as I meant it to be."


"How are you doing?"

"I'm thinking about rage eating donuts. ALL OF THE DONUTS."

"Ah, paging Dr Creme, Dr Boston Creme."


"You love those liney things when you write."

"That's an em dash."

"I wanna use one!"




"How do they work again?"

Wednesday, April 27, 2016


I became an adult yesterday.

I have mentioned before that when I was young, I imagined that there would be a moment when I felt like I had it figured out, a place and time when I felt like a full on grown up, and I hadn't gotten there yet. I was starting to think that maybe there wasn't a there. Maybe you just puzzled through every day trying to figure out the secret of everyone else who seemed to have a much firmer grip on what it meant to be a grown up.

But yesterday I realized: there IS that moment. Maybe not for everyone, but definitely for me. 

I realized it because I experienced it.


It's not a secret that I have significant chronic health issues, the kind that can cause your life to end suddenly and sometimes without very much warning. What might be a little bit of a secret is this: I like to act like I don't have an illness. As a result? I am haphazard with my medications. I am careless with refills. I am not as respectful of medical advice as I should be.

I didn't think of it as being impactful to anyone but me, you see. I was tired of thinking about it so I decided not to. I wasn't hurting anyone.

Except maybe me. 

But who cared? 


I had a coughing fit in the kitchen yesterday. After, I couldn't catch my breath. This is a tough time of year, breathing wise, due to allergies. I kept coughing and then trying to draw in air.

The Fella asked if I was okay. 

"Yeah," I said.

"No," he said, looking stern. "That sound-- you need your inhaler."


I dug out my inhaler and used it. 

"I know that's almost empty," he said. 

"It's okay," I said.

But the look on his face said it's not. And that? Was when I became an adult. Because I realized: it's not just about me.

It's about the people who love me. It's about taking care of myself so they don't have to worry. It's about not putting them through unnecessary bullshit because I want to have some other kind of life. The one where my body is magically healthy.

My body will never magically be healthy.

But I can still care for it and make it as healthy as it can be, and the people who love me in spite of the fact that I'm such an idiot deserve that.


I don't have all of the answers. I'm not great at being a grown up. I'm not entirely sure what that entails, to be honest. I am one though. I get some of it now.

It only took me forty years.

Monday, April 25, 2016

This Probably Shouldn't Bother Me, But ...

So as you likely know, Prince died last week. I feel like my childhood is slowly disappearing and want to lock some of favorite musical folk in a bubble to protect them. (Belinda Carlisle, you be careful out there!)

It's sad. And it's shitty.

Having said that, here's a thing that makes me sadder: I saw a meme on FB that had a picture of the Kardashians and said that 2016 should stop taking fabulous artists and we'll offer up the Kardashians as an appropriate sacrifice.

Don't misunderstand: I'm not a fan. I don't understand the whole Kardashian thing. But what I do know is that it's terrible to suggest that someone is not valuable and should just die. I think that's a terrible response to something that's already terrible.

It bothers me.

Friday, April 22, 2016

Friday Randoms


"This is the kind of weather that makes me want to be outside. Which is weird because I'm not outsidey. I'm... Insidey."


"I have the worst cramps. My uterus hates me."

"Maybe it loves you! Maybe those are, um... Uterus hugs!"


"I'm pastey-pale except for the bright red allergy nose I am sporting."


"I am a sexy bitch. It's true."


"I just feel the need to point out that a lot of people you know are kind of assholes."

"That's not -- okay, yes, but that's not where this story was going?"

"It is now."


"Jesus. You cook, you take photos, you sing, you decorate, you clean ... is there anything you DON'T do?"

"Exercise. Obviously."

Thursday, April 21, 2016


I apologize for everything.

There are multiple factors for this, and I'm not going to go into them all today because that is "probably several sessions with a therapist" kind of material, but the why doesn't matter at this point. What does matter is that my chronic apologizing and my feelings of guilt for -- wait for it -- things that are not my fault/don't necessitate guilt/insert daily event here are probably driving the people around me crazy.

How bad is it, you ask?

When I apologize for something, and someone points out that it's not actually something that I need to apologize for? I will then apologize for apologizing.

Yep, that's me.

I believe that telling people you're sorry goes beyond apologizing for things that you've done. It's a way to offer empathy; telling someone you're sorry when they say they've had a terrible day, for example, isn't owning the terrible day they've had but rather offering them compassion -- you're sad for them that they had a day filled with suck.

I do that.

But. You can't find your shoes? I'm sorry -- I should have made sure they were findable. We're out of paper? I'm sorry, I should have purchased some. You need gas in your car? I'm sorry, I should have asked you about that. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Last night, we had a small kerfuffle with dinner and had to run out at the last minute for an ingredient. You might be thinking, well, you could have left it out, but it's very hard to make spaghetti without any pasta. I was sure we had some, so I didn't buy any when I went grocery shopping. I was wrong.

I apologized to The Fella roughly 3743647364732 times. He pointed out that this was not necessary, it was fine, the store wasn't far. Finally, he said: "No more. You cannot say you're sorry again."

So I had to stop talking. Because otherwise I was going to start apologizing for apologizing. It's an endless cycle.

I'm not sure how to fix it, either.


Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Oh Cee Dee

I was merrily typing away when it happened: I went to move my mouse and whacked my hand into my clipboard.

"I don't want that right there," I thought. And then, swoooooosh, the OCD kicked in. "I don't want ANY OF THIS HERE WHY IS THERE SO MUCH WHYYYYYYY."

I feel like people who have brains that work properly don't understand the way anxiety and OCD actually cripple you. It's not an issue of choosing to clean over continuing to type. I HAVE to. When the situation at my desk strikes me as being "wrong" -- whatever that means -- I can't do anything until it is "right" because the only thing my poor, tired brain can focus on is that things are not okay and they need to be made to be correct. Once they are correct, I can go back to working.

This is why, when people come to my house and comment on how tidy it is, I feel like it's not something I can actually take credit for. I don't clean and keep it neat because I feel like I want to be cleaning all of the time. I do it because I have to, because I can't function in a space that is cluttered or messy. I'd like to? But I can't rest in that kind of a space. My brain won't let me. It insists that we have to have order so that we can function.

So: the desk.

The problem with my desk is that it's not REALLY a desk. It's a table. There are no drawers, so I can't tuck things away. And there are cables everywhere, and my Sherlocks don't really have anyplace to live. It's ... It's a lot, visually. So it got to be too much. I hid some note pads and books in my computer bag and am also going to stash other stuff in my purse so I can get them off the workspace. I was able to clear out enough space so that I don't feel cramped and cluttered and can THINK.

It's much easier to write when I can think.