No good words

Sometimes a stack of disappointments just makes me fall in on myself in concentric circles of sad, like a rock tossed and then falling to the bottom of a lake.

I just don't know what else to say.

I can't take one more disappointment right now.

I was working so hard to collect myself to get to the shore, to make sure I was stable and could have a conversation with someone without crying or having a panic attack. To make sure I wasn't going to get claustrophobic while riding the bus. Yesterday I had lunch with Barb who is so great. And we went back to look at her sweet little apartment. It was the first time in days that I hadn't felt the sadness just constantly eating at me. I could just ignore it for a time. And so, after navigating the obstacles of my emotional crap and Mike's work crap, we finally made the decision that we could pry ourselves away and go to the shore....

....and now it looks like my "transportation opportunity" has fallen through. Last week it was teetering on the edge and I had some hope that we could work it out, but I found out this morning that even with Mike & my efforts to meet halfway, the answer is no. We made the decision 12 hours too late.

Right now, at this moment, I am incredibly bitter that I can't drive. I'm very bitter at my family who didn't even double check with me before they changed the plan.

I just can't even.... I want to go back to bed forever.  I have to see A at 11:45, but I don't want to go outside because I can't take another thing going wrong right now.

Fuck this. Fuck everything.

There's a splinter in your eye and it reads react (R-E-A-C-T)

Haaaaay internet bitchez what up?

Okay, I tried being casual just there (which I mistyped causal) but I like you. And I'm not casual with people I really like; I'm serious. 

I've got this serious dilemma. 

You may have already been caught up with my life to date, or at least the one I share in blogland, but if you're not, maybe you should read back a few entries until you are caught up... if you want to help me make this choice. If not, fuck it. Keep reading voyeur. I know you're there.

This house here that I'm sitting in right now is a safe place because Pam says it is. I think stepmom Pam may have been created from part-goddess parts.

Then there is my dad who, when I said, pre-morning-coffee: Gee I'm sorry I slept so late; I was up all night worried about my kitty cat.... responded with YOU KNOW I FEEL A CERTAIN WAY ABOUT PETS SOME PEOPLE MAY THINK IT'S HEARTLESS OR CRUEL BUT YOU REALLY HAVE TO LOVE THEM IN THE MOMENT AND THEN WHEN THEY DIE OR RUN AWAY YOU NEED TO JUST REPLACE THEM AND LIVE IN THE MOMENT YOU CAN FORM THE SAME LOVING BOND WITH ANOTHER PET SOME PEOPLE MAY SAY THIS IS CRUEL BUT FOR EXAMPLE [..... minutes pass ......] YOUR MOM AND THAT DOG OF HERS WERE REALLY CODEPENDENT TO THE POINT WHERE IT JUST WASN'T A NORMAL SCENARIO dad you know mom herself isn't a normal scenario BUT WHAT I'M SAYING IS IT WAS UNHEALTHY NOW INSTEAD YOU SHOULD..... 

My dad actually talks like that. His default unit of communication is The Lecture. It lasts from 5-10 minutes. I have gotten good over the past few days at not giving a crap. Or rather at fake giving a crap. This is different from when I was growing up. Then I really gave a crap about everything that came out of his mouth because he was my dad. And I was raised to do so. Ditto mom. She really isn't a normal scenario. I don't mind faking it. I love him. He's my dad. I love mom too. They did some pretty stupid things back in the day, but I love them. Pam has semi-reformed my dad. My dad is driving me to Pittsburgh for a thing. He's good. We just don't see the same on a lot of stuff. Mom is still doing stupid things. But I love her anyway. Yes, I'm being vague here. The stupid things they did aren't really relevant to this post. 

Anyway dad in this particular cat lecture kept rolling on like a 18-wheeler that's lost it's brakes and is on a slight slope downward. When I was younger I would have freaked the fuck out that he was talking about my cat that way, because I depended on my dad to understand me. Now I'm 37, I have a load of friends that I pretty much consider my extended family, and also did I mention, right now I'm on lots of medication. So I was like in my head: hm dad, fuck fuckityfucknuts where is the coffee.... 

But it takes little pieces of me away, whenever I have to fake it. My dad says ridiculous things all the time. I mean reeeeeee DICK ulous. His views on gun control and immigration are... ahem, they do not match mine. And without Pam there, he feels free to expound even if I ask him not to. Because he speaks in the all-caps voice, and I speak in the regular typeface with lots of dashes and interruptions-of-myself / or / slashes / like this / voice. 

If dad were the only thing getting under my skin (HA I made a joke there b/c my skin was all scabby before my dad got under it), this trip would not be making me so crazy. But there's one more leeeeettle straw that is breaking my back.

Back, back, back in the day I used to live here. In this town. And when I wasn't living here, I was living about 15 minutes south.

Some crimes were perpetrated against me by a certain man. Not a relative.

And this town holds all these memories that I didn't even realize would come up when I was by myself, under a fair amount of stress.

I thought this afternoon hm this could be a clue as to why I don't visit here that often.

I feel like to go outside I should dress up in a floofy head scarf and big sunglasses (sunglasses, check). Like Jackie Kennedy.

I don't believe this person, this man, is living here anymore.

But when you have, for example.... say you have a really ugly dresser. 

I have a really ugly dresser.

Say it was bought for you by your dad who has very masculine taste in furniture when you moved into his bachelor apartment when you were 17 because mom was not a normal scenario.

It was bought for me by my dad..... 

and I was looking at it when... this man... not a relative... was perpetrating crimes against me. Not crime, crimes. Repeatedly for several years.

This dresser is still in the room where I'm staying now. This dresser has followed me through 1, 2, 3 yes I believe it's three homes in the Allentown-Bethlehem area. 

And it's not the only scenery that surprise-haunts me.

My dad and I were doing some errands today in the car. Vroom, drivey-drive. You don't walk anywhere around here because you drive. Dad likes to drive. He likes to drive scenic routes sometimes. Todays scenic route, featuring some of the best scenery of Allentown-- it is seriously nice scenery --took me past several places where I remember the details of certain crimes. 

Last night, before this all even happened, I dreamt about him. The man. I dream about him in Pittsburgh sometimes too. But not very often. And when I dream about him in my own house, I wake to my life, my independence, my I-can-leave-if-I-want.

So I'm thinking about coming home. My dad already agreed to drive me back to Pittsburgh and back in a few weeks to do an important poetry thing. Nobody besides my dad and Pam (and Jenn?) know about this because it's been all Ravi Ravi Ravi where the fuck is Ravi. But I could just not go back with him. I would stay a week at home and then come back with Mike for the shore trip at the end of that week. 

But I am worried about incurring the, I won't say wrath, because my dad doesn't do wrath anymore... incurring the pissed-off of my dad.

*     *     *

I can't take this shit anymore. I'm going to list the shit now, just to recap.

1) We got fleas.
2) My OCD, the fleas, and the extreme heat of August interacted very badly, creating lots of scabby wounds all over me which I imagine are all flea bites, but which, in fact, are most likely not all flea bites.
3) I retreated to my parents' villa in sunny A-town which is well-appointed, cold as a fridge, and has stepgoddess Pam.
4) Back in Pittsburgh one of our cats vanished.
5) My husband starts freaking out and we are apart. I mean he is being really productive and amazing, but he is still hurting too.
6) I start freaking out here but in a slower, more protracted manner, including varied and sundry elements of PTSD badness, remembering crimes, etc.
7) if I go home, I will have to face the reality of my gone-cat-gone, and the imaginary but sort-of-real fleas.
8) if I stay here I will have to deal with the PTSD and to a much lesser extent my dad.
9) Either way I have at least another week of here. Which has goods and bads that even out. If you look at it as T = 7 days.

Am I still making sense bloggerinos? Help me make this choice? Deliver me some insight? 

Day 3 oh my

So the first few days in A-town have been eventful. Maybe a little too eventful. What I need right now is some calm and happy instead of intense and OMG, OMG. But the latter seems to have followed me from Pittsburgh.

In good news: I just got tapped for an amazing opportunity in the realm of disability poetry. Like in my lap, out of the blue, and all the other cliches. And at first I thought I wasn't going to be able to do it, but my dad, of all people, provided the help that I need to make it happen. And by help I mean he can drive (unlike me) and he's going to drive me a long way to do this thing. It's seriously one of the kindest, most generous things he's ever done for me. I don't know if I'm allowed to blog about it until it happens, but I'll fill you in more later. This not-allowed aura comes from all Mike's classified projects at work. It makes me think about what I say and to whom very carefully. As if things I did were so important that they had to be classified. Poetry espionage! 

In not-so-good news, our middle cat Ravi got out yesterday when Mike was having some haul-away guys move junk out of our house in my absence. Mike is a trusting, optimistic person. It's this quality that made me fall in love with him. It balances out my more cynical, skeptical nature. He stood by the door and carefully guarded each item on the way out. Also he told the moving people to watch out for escaping cats. I would have locked the little devils up. But Mike is doing seriously everything-and-more to try and get our boy back and I'm so sorry this had to happen on his watch. It is a rather bizarre scenario. If you know Mike, he can tell you all about it. 

This is Ravi: 

He's not really an escaper, anymore. He's more of a hider-from-big-scary things. They searched through the house and porches and all around outside and put up posters. I feel so powerless that I'm "stuck" here when my boy is gone missing, but honestly my eyesight sucks. The only thing I could add would be my familiar voice calling to him and my presence, which would probably be comforting to Mike and Luna, who is following Mike around crying. She is Ravi's cat-friend and misses him greatly. Also, she is probably wondering... first Jill, then Ravi... wtf wtf wtf??!!

The two of them (Luna and Ravi) eat together upstairs away from Ruskin who is a hoover while Luna and Ravi eat more moderately. It's a game to actually get them up the stairs. Which means it's a pain in the ass for us and super-fun for them. They resist coming when called and then chase each other up the stairs and get distracted by The Cat in the Mirror and invisible things floating through the air. Often Ravi will be more resistant than Luna because he doesn't get as hungry for the wet food. Also hiding is one of his favorite games. So often I will go through the house calling Ravi Ravi, and Luna will follow me around meowing. I wonder if she is calling to him too. I think she did that with Mike last night (at least while he was searching the house) and it's heartbreakingly adorable. 

I wish I could be there for them.

I wish I could be there b/c I think my presence would somehow magically bring Ravi back, ha.

Anyway, safe travels, boycat. And come home soon damn you.

PS this has not really helped my stress-related skin crawling / itching from going away. I think I'm gonna need more Neosporin soon. And some bandages. And a giant bath full of oatmeal. I know they say "oatmeal bath" is soothing to people with skin irritation. Of course my imagination interprets that as boiling up a cauldron of Scottish steel-cut and dropping it in the tub, then climbing in after.

goodbye / hello again

"It's the first day of PItt." The vivacious girl with blonde wavy hair and a college t-shirt says this to the slightly harried woman with short brunette hair and a polo shirt. All across the streets of lower Oakland are ad hoc artifacts of car and crowd control. The roundabout in front of the hotel near this coffee shop is high-traffic right now. Sandwich boards made out of plywood and newsprint say NO PARKING in hastily scrawled sharpie. 

The blonde girl is head of a dorm check-in operation that she's running from the big wooden table near the door of the Caribou. I'm sitting a few seats away, contemplating my own ... new beginning isn't the right word for it. I'm telling myself this stay with my folks is kind of like a writing retreat. I've never been to one. Maybe I will have the time to do some research / application while I'm chillin in Allentown. It feels like a new beginning though. I could sense my flea-stress palpably release as I was dragging my much-too-heavy suitcase over the busted sidewalks on Meyran. 

The airport peeps are totally gonna weigh that shit and charge me an extra fee, then mark it with a big bright tag that reads HEAVY. I always used to make fun of Stina b/c her luggage would get tagged like this routinely. Stina, if you're reading this, it's karmic payback time for Jilly. 

I've never been on vacation for a month. My vacations are more in the weekend mini-break range. Two weeks is really luxurious / the amount of time I can be away from my cats before going a little insane with missing them.

Right now they are making me a little insane with their presence. I feel bad about that. They are the equivalent of my kids, because I don't want to have kids, yet I have this maternal affection that needs to go somewhere. But the OCD has really gotten in the way with loving them right now. I feel bad because they can't understand why I've been avoiding them and I can't explain it. Our relationship is based a lot on touch-as-communicatin, on soothing, comfort and mutual purring. 

The oldest one, Ruskin (he turned 14 last week) is probably suffering the most, because he's the least likely to go to another person besides me for affection. Also, after Ravi's territorial marking problem (yes, he's neutered; no, we don't know exactly why he's doing it) we've kicked all cats out of the bedroom. Rus would snuggle with me at night. It was one of his great joys. Some cats are joyful naturally. Rus is not one of them. 

It's funny. Rus would herd me off to bed. Like when he knew it was time for bed, he would follow me around meowing as I was doing the whole brush-teeth-wash-face thing. Mowwww. Mowwwww. You're taking too long! Sometimes he would get on the bed before me, right in my spot, nailing down the covers so I couldn't get in. And sprawl there. Like you had your chance but you were toooooo slow. And we would play a game to get him off the bed. He would resist jumping down for a few moments and then huff off in a grand display of huffiness, only to return the second I got in and pulled the covers up.

I hope when we replace the rug, seal the floor, and cover it with laminate or some such, we can let the cats back in and Rus can resume his snuggling. 

It hurts both of us that I can barely touch him.

I can't help but wonder how OCD would affect my loving of a baby. I mean, my physical loving. Babies can get really realllllly messy, and you're with them 24/7. I don't want to dwell on that too much, because it makes me sad. I would like to think I'd get desensitized. And bugs, one of my major triggers, on a child, are far less likely. Anything a child can produce is not nearly as triggering for me as bugs. 

I sincerely hope a month away with Mike working on the flea issue will help this whole crazy situation. 

I never used to Frontline the cats consistently. That will change now. 

Anyway, I'm looking forward to my month away, at least right now. There will a lot of stress taken away, by being gone, but some stress added. I hope to spend more time writing, reading, submitting, working out, doing yoga, and then holy moly I GET TO GO TO THE SHORE. It's been forever. Like almost ten years since I've gotten to go. 

Gotta sign off now. Time to go to airport.

Aiton sent me this & I heart it: 

Foreign exchange

I've been thinking about a particular disability trope which has always bothered me:  Person X may have a disability, but they're just like everyone else. They're no different from you and me. I really loathe that. You hear it from, say, movie producers or PR people who want to cash in on the inspirational-overcoming version of the disabled character. Sometimes you will also (even) hear it from a person with a disability, said about him or herself. 

The thing that bothers me about this statement is it's falsely reassuring, gooey-sentimental, and just not true. But... I think I get it now. 

I mean, I'm not suddenly in favor of this wording. But I think it's badly executed shorthand for: although I have a thing with my mind or body which may be initially offputting to you, person who lives in the land of Normal, you should examine that opinion. This disability, though it comprises part of my character, does not exclude me from also possessing character traits that you, Normate, can identify with. Maybe we can have coffee or something. Even though we are from different countries, let's have an exchange. 

This trope is on my mind because I'm here today to blog about OCD. It's not my favorite topic. I want to keep my mouth (hands?) shut. But I haven't been blogging a lot recently, and although my pageviews are way down for August, I'm assuming some of you might still be reading and maybe wondering what's up with me. What's up is OCD badness.

I've been having a cumulative amount of stress through late July / early August, none of which I can write specifics about. I'm hesitant to include the personal details of my friends and family in the blog. The biggest stressor is a family thing that I don't want to talk about in the great open space that is the internet. 

Setting that stress-ball aside for a moment... know, reader that I've had OCD --the serious full blown after-school-special with tics and checking and counting and weirdness-- ever since I was small. Somewhere between age 4 and 6, I started noticing the rituals. Of course, I didn't know they were rituals at the time. Although my rituals were quite overt, I wasn't diagnosed until I was 17 or 18. 

I still wonder about the late diagnosis. Some possibilities: unmedicated OCD can relapse and remit. A few bad months, then one good. Some tics were obvious but some were secret. My parents didn't want to / understand / have the time to deal with this strange behavior. I was always strange. I was born strange, and this was another manifestation of my strangeness. When your marriage is falling apart in vivid and messy detail, it's more concrete and more compelling than your kid doing a weird thing. 

So after the diagnosis there was medication: first Zoloft, then Luvox, then back to Zoloft, then another brief flirtation with Luvox which suddenly started giving me heartburn and I would have to give up my BELOVED coffee and fuck that, so back to Zoloft, and finally onto Cymbalta, which covers both my OCD and the nerve pain of my fibro. It really covers my OCD... better than the Zoloft did. About as well as the Luvox, without the heartburn. 

I'm interested in my hesitation to tell you about the OCD. I've already revealed the blindness, the fibro, the PTSD. And I believe disability is my country, my political party, my crew, my crowd, my proud-to-be. So why the coyness about OCD? I feel like it's worse somehow, comes with a stigma.

Idealized OCD, on tv for example, is often portrayed as comic relief. Or OCD gives you supergenius powers of observation. 

But when one considers the reality, it's more particular, more individualized, far less glamorous. 

I have heard lots of people say "oh I have a touch of OCD," when what they mean is, "I like to alphabetize my books" or "I get finicky when my collectable figurines are out of alignment in the curio cabinet." 

It's not the same as the all-out counting-checking-ticcing-can't-help-it variety that I speak of now, that I hesitate to speak of.

Wikipedia, prized source for all my students' "research," says:

Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that produce uneasiness, apprehension, fear, or worry, by repetitive behaviors aimed at reducing the associated anxiety, or by a combination of such obsessions and compulsions....[Symptoms] can be alienating and time consuming, and often cause severe emotional distress. The acts of those who have OCD may appear paranoid and potentially psychotic. However OCD sufferers generally recognize their obsessions and compulsions as irrational, and may become further distressed by this realization....Roughly one third to one half of adults with OCD report a childhood onset of this disorder, suggesting the continuum of anxiety disorders across the life span.  

OCD is my brain's favorite torture device. It's there with pinchy calipers to pull and poke at my rationality, ubiquitously. It makes my thoughts race. You really wouldn't know it to observe me though, unless you lived with me and caught me doing a series of tics. 

The medication aids in a popular coping mechanism of "saving" the tics for an appropriate time to discharge them, i.e. not in public. 

So the OCD was exacerbated by the cumulative stress-ball rolling itself bigger and bigger since late July. 

August is inflammation, fire, anxiety. August two years ago was when I got the shingles. I once wrote a poem about August called "Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified." It's in my chapbook, Borrowed Bodies.

The seed of my annual August (Augustine? Augustian?) stress usually is familial on the maternal side. Mom stuff, to put it simply. This year my mom stress is unbloggable. I don't feel comfortable revealing her personal details which also trickle down to be mine. Maybe that there is part of my problem. N has said quite a few times that I need to mentally "let go" of "fixing" my mother. 

So. if Mom stuff is the seed to my stress-ball, then fleas are its outer coating. <-- Ew.

Our cats have contracted fleas. They don't go outside much, hardly ever really. But Ravi may have picked them up from his porch time. Or a human, including the humans he lives with, may have brought Flea Zero in on clothing or bags. Or Flea Zero just hopped through the hole in the screen one day. 

We've had fleas before, but never this bad. Admittedly, we don't use Frontline (or its competitors) all year round. I just have this "less medicine is best" attitude and it's cold most of the year really isn't it? and cats are so squirmy and I'm always fretting that I'm doing it wrong because am I really parting the hair at the shoulder blades and getting the product DOWN TO THE SKIN? If I don't get it DOWN TO THE SKIN I'll have done it wrong and omg, fretting ensues.

Bugs squick me. Biting and stinging bugs. Fleas bite. I"m not sure fleas have ever bitten me before now, before this August. But they've since attacked my ankles, my knees, the tops of my feet. My skin is extra sensitive to bug bites. They swell, get really red, itch like a motherfucker. I've scratched my ankles raw from these bites. 

So the stress had been mounting and I just didn't intuit where it was all headed. Bugs. Fleas. August. OCD.

Being an intellectualizer, I tried to sublimate my flea stress by doing research on the internet; always a good idea! Internet research did nothing except to amp up my obsession. Basically the conclusion I came to was a) they're nearly invisible to me b) they can live EVERYWHERE in my house in the absolute smallest places where I couldn't even conceive of before reading the horrible horrible internet c) they can lie in wait in egg sacks d) the Frontline alone won't fix it; we have to vacuum EVERYTHING EVERY DAY. All soft surfaces.

d) is practically a quote. 

So after amping up my obsession with internet research, I was petting Ruskin and saw two fleas on him. One was maybe dead? And one was moving... I saw it. Go in. Burrow. Into his fur. 

I SAW THE FLEA GO IN TO MY CAT. And then I lost my shit completely. 

Mike found me at home in the middle of the day, absolutely hysterical, unable to exit the shower. I was fixated on two objects, each about the size of an individual coffee ground, dark against the porcelain tub. It seemed as if they had come from my hair. 

Water running over me continuously seemed the only tenable state. 

I was like, in control of my body, but not. Words came out of my mouth...

We stayed in a hotel for a few days last week. For me. So that I could re-gain my sanity. My therapist was on vacation. I called her (she'd said I could) and we communicated about this issue. 

There's a new med, for the short term. 

Two days ago we came home. I was good for the first day and now bad again. Not hiding-in-the-shower bad. But... home is not a good place for me right now. 

I'm going to visit my folks for a few weeks. Their house is very clean. VERY clean. They have no pets. They have wifi and serious a/c to calm all my heat-related skin-flamation. And they are my parents, my dad-and-Pam who I haven't spent nearly enough time with in the past years. 

I look forward to many kitchen-table conversations. Now that I am older I can appreciate my family more, as individuals. Hopefully I'll get to see some of my extended stepfamily while I'm there. My nieces, with whom I've missed a lot of their growing up.

[........]

I brought up the trope, the "... and I'm just like everyone else" thing because I like to deconstruct these concepts but also, paradoxically, I find the need to say it to you now, when I haven't before. Like I have OCD but really I'm just like you. Even though it's a stupid thing to say. It's like I'm pleading. I have lovable characteristics you may recognize in yourself. 

How many diagnoses have I revealed in this blog? Not as many as I have. There's a need to say I'm not the sum of them. Mike says it's because you're an intellectual. Disabilities of the mind are more entangled with your self image. 

Maybe that's why I'm embarrassed. I feel the lack of control more acutely, when it happens. 

But also, you should know. I love the ocean, painting my toenails, eating cake for dinner. I subscribe to the NYT crosswords app for my iPhone, even though it's $20 / year. I sing to my cats. I do jigsaw puzzles. I grow cacti in my front window. A poem from my MS was just accepted by RHINO. 

And I always know where my stuff is, keys, wallet, phone, purse, coat. Because each item goes back in exactly the same place I got it from. 

one vegas moment

More than once, someone has looked at me quizzically and said, "you don't seem to me like a Vegas person." That makes sense to me. I don't gamble, easily get overstimulated by crowds and loud noise, and can take-or-leave massive entertainment spectacles. Liking Vegas happened by accident. Five years ago this January, Mike and I were searching (and *searching* --he kept vetoing my ideas) for places to elope. I was getting rather cranky. I would have gone down to the courthouse and signed a document, except I wanted a good wedding story to match my good engagement story. We both did. So we ended up getting married at Valley of Fire State Park. The photo on the main page of their site is rather boring. If you are curious google-images "valley of fire" to get a better idea of the glorious nature that surrounded us. And so we spent a few days in Vegas. The place has become special to me. While I don't really take advantage of the high profile opportunities that it offers (mostly opportunities to lose lots and lots of money) I'm sort of obsessed with the interior design of the hotels.

The place we stayed this time was a delicious resort built around at least three separate water attractions. There was a wave pool, a "lazy river" pool, and a topless beach. Guess which one we didn't go to? Anyway, it's not often that I go in the water, even though I love water. I guess the last time was jet skiing on the lake near my uncle's house in Georgia. I'm rather shy about my body. It's pretty average looking, I guess, but I have all the stereotypical female insecurities: too small here, too large there, lumpy, etc. And I inherited my father's translucent skin and varicosities in my legs and ankles.

When I asked Mike if I could blog this next part, he sort of scowled and said, "you'd better make it about your other husband." So to be clear, this is about my *other husband*, not the one I married five years ago. My other husband, for reasons he has no control over, is a bit short-statured and slender. If you know him, you know why, and if you don't, he'd probably say it was none or your business (or he might just tell you... he is a gracious person-- moreso than I) He has trouble keeping weight on. While I, like many women, work to keep it off. It's not hard to feel, well, kind of big, around him. Even though I'm not "big." I would say I'm medium. But I'm bigger than my husband. (I mean, my other husband.) I know he feels the counterpart of my feelings. The man is "supposed" to be built this way and the woman built this way. Even though we are both intellectuals and know that this is socially constructed BS.... well ... we live in the world.

But here's why I bring it up. Because this was the best moment in Vegas. And I'm blogging it, even though it was a sort-of-private-in-public moment, because I have shared lots of shitty, demoralizing, sad, and achy things on this blog and I need something to balance it out.

We, my other husband and I, went into the wave pool. I don't think I'd ever been in a pool with him before. And here's the thing about a pool. You're weightless. He carried me in his arms and we whirled and spun around. I almost cry just thinking about it. I almost choke on this beauty. I wished all the other people gone, or at least to the edges away from us, just so we could dance and spin and feel completely alone. I feel like I got my fairy tale moment, you know? I'm sharing this because I want the positive energy to radiate among you, readers. And so that I can look back on this entry when (24 hours from now) I write about something sad or complicated or weird.

Last Day in Vegas

So it's 7am here and I'm not supposed to wake up until 8. This didn't work though, because I'm sunburned everywhere and the weight of the comforter on me was starting to be irritating. I'm barely awake, so ... fun blogging! This whole trip I've only used my cane in the airport. In this and other hotels, it's been all "sighted guiding," which for Mike and me means careful hand holding. I don't know why I made this decision. It sort of made itself up out of my unconscious. Certainly, I'm never going to see any of these people again.

So venturing down here to the Orchid coffee lounge by myself was like what I am now considering "the old days." Walking slowly and hesitantly. Really paying attention to sounds to figure out my distance (and closeness) to the world. You know what has a lot of ambient noise in it? A casino. Friendly Me is out this morning, especially to baristas doing the morning shift. I got a soy mocha because I only have one of those little pills that mitigates lactose intolerance left, and I want to use it with Mike at breakfast. They don't have soy in the breakfast place. But that means I had to forego a pre-breakfast mini cupcake... I gotta say these are real beauties. The supermodels of mini cupcakes, with an elegant minimalism. If the light was better I would have tried for a picture.

Things are so surreal at this time of morning. There are gamblers coming in from what looks like all night sessions. They look sort of baggy and rumpled. There are many behind-the-scenes people scurrying to make sure the "guest experience" is ongoingly even and nary a leaf of asiatic lily is out of place.

I would post you my pics but I forgot the cord that connects the phone to the computer in our room. Mike sleeps. I kiss his forehead and he murmurs something. His hair trails over two pillows. It's so long! Like butt-long. When I suggest cutting a few inches off, those last ratty few, he says cryptically that it might be "time for a change" hair-wise. One can only wonder what that means. I know that when I had my hair at its longest, which was only at about chest level, it felt like I was constantly minding a small child. Don't get caught in my backpack. Don't get snagged in the door. Now it's cut close to my head on the left and either a sleek cascade or a wavy wildness on the other side. When I pull a piece down, it hits just above my clavicle. My right-side, normal clavicle, not my left-side, crispy crispy crispy clavicle. I have the weird sunburn pattern of someone who went in the pool and was then haphazard about re-applying lotion. The ends of my hair on the long side are dry from the chlorine. Not used to having dry ends. They needs a deep conditioner or something. I was thinking I'd dye it raspberry when I got home. It wouldn't be the first time, but the first time in awhile.

[Alaina, if you are reading this, do you remember the cherry kool-aid dyeing experiment you did in high school? Your long dark tresses had that raspberry gleam. Do you mind if I write a poem about it?]

I actually got to read! books! while I was here and love the experience of sitting by the water reading. Wish I could re-create that. Part of me is like, why can't you dummy? I've managed to crawl out from under the panic and guilt long enough to have some fun. Whoa. Mind-blowing. I've read The Miseducation of Cameron Post, which Carrie sent me as a gift. It's by her friend Emily Danforth. If one had to categorize it I would say: a queer coming of age novel. It was really riveting. I had to make myself put it down, attempting to pace myself. My plan was to finish it on the flight back but too late! It's done. I intend to write Carrie with all the books this one is "better than." There are MANY highly touted volumes, and also some noir, which I've tried and failed to read on the plane --just gave up and fell asleep. After about an hour I get super-claustrophobic on plane flights. Mike will sometimes stretch his legs by walking the aisles, but my limited vision plus unlimited shyness make this plan not a good fit for me.

[When I went back to add the link from Amazon, I noticed that Miseducation is one of Amazon's Best of the Month in Young Adult selections. Rock on with your bad self Emily!]

I'm also reading Jim Daniels' book of ghazals All of the Above. Adastra put it out last year or so. Good. Soooo goooood. Like, these poems surprised and impressed me with their leaps of language and image. I think of "the Jim Daniels poem" as being fairly straight-forward, narrative, and sort of tough. I'm a little in love with these ghazals though. Of course then after getting about halfway through the book, I had to write a ghazal. So yay, one vacation poem.

And then I picked up on Kindle, Nancy Mairs' Waist High in the World: A Life among the Nondisabled, which I'm also knocking out much faster than I intended. I'd wanted to read the whole thing instead of scattered essays in anthologies. I need to get something lighter for the plane though. Mike gifted me Christopher Moore's Bite Me: A Love Story at Christmastime. I adore Moore's humor, but I don't know if I can do vampires right now. Maybe I'll see what Amazon thinks I should want.

Then again, when I went back to add the link for Bite Me, I noticed that this book has "a huge shaved vampyre cat named Chet" in it. I think of Rus, my oldest at 13... soon to be 14! Tall, strong, and meaty with giant fangs. He won't let anyone stick their hand in there but me. Let's hope he doesn't go all vampire.

Uhhh, speaking of sharp things, I'm getting new ink on Friday. It will pretty much trail down my left arm the way the leaves-and-eyes trail down my right. Again, I designed this one myself and it's kind of wacky. Jason said holy fractals! when he saw it. I don't really think the fractal is super apparent.

Okay, now I'm babbling, because I haven't had enough coffee, and I don't have much more to give you right now. It was nice to get away. I'm restless to get back already. But I don't want to lose this otherworldly relaxed feeling.

Vegas Postponed

So my husband and I postponed our Vegas trip after he had another, worse, gall bladder attack than the one on Friday. This one had the pain plus nausea, fever, and the shakes. We worry because he is prone to infections. Also, he would have just been miserable trying to be careful in Vegas. The whole point of a trip like that is the hedonism of it all. I'm sad we couldn't go, but a vacation when you or a loved one is sick is often not a vacation at all.

I channeled my Vegas disappointment by getting up early this morning and doing some work in the studio. Made a new prototype for the kind of necklace I'll be focusing on as the first product to be offered on my (as yet to be gotten) Etsy store. It's drying right now. I painted some pendants. I organized all the drawers in the main bead box --it's like one of those Craftsman tool boxes only plastic, not metal. I re-wrote some worn labels, shuffled some wrongly filed beads into place ('pearls' have a whole separate bead box now), and generally cleaned up the work table area.

Surprisingly, all three cats were in the studio at the same time and yet none of them bothered me. Luna and Ravi, at least, are usually up in my stuff. Shiny? Small parts? Pointy? Breakable? Toxic? It's their favorite. But Ravi was in the carpeted window seat having a snooze, Luna was sitting on the back of the brown armchair looking out the window, and Rus was sprawled on top of one of the giant Rubbermaid crates that hold my off-season clothes. So cozy. I wonder if we will have a day like that again soon.

Mike is watching the second Lord of the Rings movie on Blu-Ray. Crispy-clear! Ugh, that movie is sooooo boring. Orc hunting. Now they're walking. More orcs. Etc. I think it picks up at the end but I'm usually so dead that I never remember the end. I wonder how many times he's seen the trilogy. I know this version is a special extra-un-un-cut, 16 hours of special footage one.

Holy crap; I won last week's Trifecta challenge

... with that poem about the guy in the quarry with the accordion. Based on a true story :)

Anyway, this week has been such a whirl, first with fulfilling all the things I had scheduled (which has been so much fun and so rewarding; thank you friends and workshoppers) and secondly getting ready for Vegas. We leave tonight. So exciting. I am ridiculously looking forward to this vacation.

Unfortunately, yesterday Mike had a big gall bladder flare-up, so much so that one of the options on the table is having it removed at some point soonish, and I hope he will be okay for the trip. I know how it is to feel wretched and miserable on a trip because of some health thing that has cropped up, so I'm hoping the 24 hours with bananas/rice/applesauce/toast will calm it down to the point of "okay."

Yesterday I took some spring dresses out of the attic. It seems like it will actually be warmer in Pittsburgh on some of our "away" days than in Vegas --they are having a brief cool spell that includes some rain even.

I probably won't be online much this coming week. Which in a way I will miss but also I need to get away from it for just a few days. Kind of how I feel about the cats too. On Friday, because I was not around much M-Th, they were totally up in my grill. This is difficult when trying to give oneself a pedicure.

Just the thought of wearing those spring dresses as opposed to all my heavy winter sweaters/skirts makes me feel lighter in the mind.