Stephanie is the lovely English gal with the Aussie accent who taught me to dive. She was feisty and sweet as can be, and called everyone “darling” in her darling accent. She said she spoke that way from watching so many Australian soap operas growing up and wound up in Mexico quite unexpectedly. Her parents went on a trip there and spontaneously put a down payment on a house in Cancun and then moved there. Her father is a jolly, adventurous fellow and she only reluctantly came to visit, and well, that was the end of that. Fast forward seven years, 3,000 dives, and the overweight, pale english girl is now a fit, ebullient, dancing on the deck, scuba instructor, newly married to a Mexican musician. I imagine her diving all day and then relaxing in a cozy cantina sipping cocktails while her love serenades her while seemingly singing to the whole crowd. I asked if when she was young, when she was 18 or 20 she had any clue she’d live an adventure life, and she said “nooooooooooo”. She said she was looking forward to raising a family there, thought it would be the perfect place.
I watched a video in the dive shop, but my expert diver companion had already verbally walked me through the basics, so the information wasn’t overwhelming and then Stephanie took me under the dock while they guys loaded the boat, to practice four basic skills and then off we went. The first thing she asked was if I wanted to scuba dive and she was relieved by my jumping up and down, enthusiastic response because she said that often, when it’s the female part of a couple where the man already dives, they’re very often pressured into it, scared out of their wits and the day is a disaster. I am happy to say that I experienced not one moment of panic, fear or anxiety even when I suddenly ceased being able to breathe on my first dive and had to go up. The air in the tank is really dry and I didn’t know that you have to focus on making saliva and swallowing it, and since I’d not done that, all of a sudden my throat just closed up and I couldn’t swallow or breathe, so I went up, no big deal. Second dive was no problem and I stayed down for 50 minutes which honestly felt like 20.
When you're diving you use hand signals, and if someone signals you, you're supposed to respond. The O.K. hand gesture is for, everything's o.k., which seems simple, but we're all so used to doing a thumbs up for that. Thumbs up means, "oh no, somethings wrong, I have to go up". Stephanie OK'd be throughout and I OK'd back and near the end she did it and I made the heart shape with my hands and she threw her hands up into the air and did the underwater equivalent of jumping for joy. I heart scuba diving, I heart sea turtles and I heart Stephanie.
I’m hoping to do the classroom and pool certification here and then go back to Mujeres and do my four requisite dives with Stephanie, that would be perfect! She’ll probably have an intrepid little baby in a wetsuit in tow. Sadly, I have no desire to plunge into the freezing Northeast water.
Along with my souvenirs, I brought back another unique chapter in my puking diary. I’ve never been seasick and neither had my friend who has dived and snorkeled around the world for decades. The 45 minute ride out to the whale sharks was really fast and choppy, but if you sat on the seat sideways it was like riding a horse, I loved it. I didn’t notice the choppy water when snorkeling, it was too exciting, but when I got back on the boat the queasies crept up on me. One woman, who seemed a bit worse for wear before she even got on the boat had already puked over the side, so that kind of planted the seed. I got through it though and went for another swim, we rotated, only going in the water in pairs, and swam really hard to keep up with some sharks and as I swam back to the boat, zowie, I started puking all over myself with no warning, vertically, while treading water. Blech, vomit and salt water {insert shudder here}, at least it’s easy to rinse off and I felt better immediately. Except that one of our boatmates was a know-it-all prick who could not stop pointing out what had just happened “ha ha ha, you sure fed the fish" {repeat ad nauseum, shameless pun intended}. I felt like such a wimp until we heard my seasoned travelling companion, still in the water doing the exact same thing! The third swim was the best, the whale sharks had slowed down and I was able to swim for a bit directly over one that was about a foot under me, with very little effort. I’m sure the puke diary will continue, but this was certainly my most worthy chapter.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
The heck with dolphins
I could float in the warm, blue sea forever. Carefree. Weightless. No aches, no pains, just warmth and peace. There was so much salt in the water, the temperature of a warm bath, you couldn’t help but float, I tried diving in shallow water for some shells and couldn’t do it, kept popping back up. The currents were strong, so I could snorkel without even moving, the current carrying me along. Swimming against it is nearly impossible, it’s swimming in place and exhausting. Soft soothing sand on my feet, laying unter a thatched umbrella, someday, I hope, I will stop humming the theme to Gilligan’s Island.
I had many cocktails on the beach and thought I could suddenly hold my liquor until we realized they pretty much just waved the tequila bottle over the drinks or as R said, maybe had a spritzer bottle. Apparently you need to order a “double with a floater” which means, obviously a double shot and one poured on top. I was pretty happy though, with my frosty, fruity drinks and probably better off without any floaters. And if you’ve read David Sedaris... you don’t want any “floaters” in your drinks.
We snorkeled with whale sharks, inches from them, almost tangled up in them. Slow moving, peaceful, gentle giant creatures. swimming near the surface. Incredible to swim along with a fish, four, five, six times my length. Swimming right above them, whale shark, me and it’s gang of Remoras, living symbiotically. Each shark with it’s own groupies, it’s own enterouge.
We saw a giant sea turtle come up on the beach at midnight to dig a hole, lay her eggs and then stumble back into the black sea. We had a full moon, otherwise we’d not have seen a thing. I fell down on the jagged rocks trying to get a better look and as my leg lit up stinging I thought, that was soooooo worth it.
I scuba dived for the first time. It’s been a lifelong dream and a few years ago I thought about the fact that I’d never done it, never done so many things, bogged down in my life of minutia, of surviving each day, one by one. I thought, well, that window has closed, I don’t even know if I want to do it anymore, I’m so much more fear-based, claustrophobic. But I did it, was bouncing with excitement as we left for the boat, no fear, no anxiety. It was thrilling. Thrilling. And I was a rock star for a beginner. I loved it down there, no panic, just breathe in, breathe out. I was so disappointed when it was time to come up. I’m still intoxicated from it. My goal for this year is to learn spanish and get certified so I can do it again {and again}.
I’ve transferred my dolphin obsession to sea turtles. We saw a beauty while diving, and went to a hatchery the next day. You’re not supposed to touch them, but one of the turtles kept coming over to me in the open tank, so when no one was looking I put my hand in and touched his back and his flipper which he held out for me, seemingly intentionally. He looked at me as I stroked his head and now I have magic sea turtle healing power, I’m sure of it.
R had an underwater camera, so I have discs of pictures and videos to look at and show my boys who will hopefully be glad to see me when they get home tonight and also be impressed. Certainly, they should be impressed with the giant black sombrero adorned all in silver that just fit into my suitcase and awaits the next dress up day or halloween trek or movie set.
I’d like to say I’m happy to be home, but I’m not. There are dishes and laundry and dust bunnies and clutter. Bills to pay and an upcoming six weeks of dental appointments in preparation for losing my dental insurance. And regret, pointless regret that it took me this long to realize such a simple dream, that I’ve squandered so much time being bogged down. I am dreaming of the deep blue sea and my carefree floating self, my sore feet being massaged by the sand, and I am dreaming of sea turtles.
I had many cocktails on the beach and thought I could suddenly hold my liquor until we realized they pretty much just waved the tequila bottle over the drinks or as R said, maybe had a spritzer bottle. Apparently you need to order a “double with a floater” which means, obviously a double shot and one poured on top. I was pretty happy though, with my frosty, fruity drinks and probably better off without any floaters. And if you’ve read David Sedaris... you don’t want any “floaters” in your drinks.
We snorkeled with whale sharks, inches from them, almost tangled up in them. Slow moving, peaceful, gentle giant creatures. swimming near the surface. Incredible to swim along with a fish, four, five, six times my length. Swimming right above them, whale shark, me and it’s gang of Remoras, living symbiotically. Each shark with it’s own groupies, it’s own enterouge.
We saw a giant sea turtle come up on the beach at midnight to dig a hole, lay her eggs and then stumble back into the black sea. We had a full moon, otherwise we’d not have seen a thing. I fell down on the jagged rocks trying to get a better look and as my leg lit up stinging I thought, that was soooooo worth it.
I scuba dived for the first time. It’s been a lifelong dream and a few years ago I thought about the fact that I’d never done it, never done so many things, bogged down in my life of minutia, of surviving each day, one by one. I thought, well, that window has closed, I don’t even know if I want to do it anymore, I’m so much more fear-based, claustrophobic. But I did it, was bouncing with excitement as we left for the boat, no fear, no anxiety. It was thrilling. Thrilling. And I was a rock star for a beginner. I loved it down there, no panic, just breathe in, breathe out. I was so disappointed when it was time to come up. I’m still intoxicated from it. My goal for this year is to learn spanish and get certified so I can do it again {and again}.
I’ve transferred my dolphin obsession to sea turtles. We saw a beauty while diving, and went to a hatchery the next day. You’re not supposed to touch them, but one of the turtles kept coming over to me in the open tank, so when no one was looking I put my hand in and touched his back and his flipper which he held out for me, seemingly intentionally. He looked at me as I stroked his head and now I have magic sea turtle healing power, I’m sure of it.
R had an underwater camera, so I have discs of pictures and videos to look at and show my boys who will hopefully be glad to see me when they get home tonight and also be impressed. Certainly, they should be impressed with the giant black sombrero adorned all in silver that just fit into my suitcase and awaits the next dress up day or halloween trek or movie set.
I’d like to say I’m happy to be home, but I’m not. There are dishes and laundry and dust bunnies and clutter. Bills to pay and an upcoming six weeks of dental appointments in preparation for losing my dental insurance. And regret, pointless regret that it took me this long to realize such a simple dream, that I’ve squandered so much time being bogged down. I am dreaming of the deep blue sea and my carefree floating self, my sore feet being massaged by the sand, and I am dreaming of sea turtles.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
The Oxford Comma
Summer seems to be winding down, only two and a half weeks until school starts which is unfathomable. I feel like I never got into the rhythm of summer. There were fits and starts but it never felt fluid. It seemed to always be too rainy or too hot, otherwise I can’t quite figure out why all those summer BBQs and get together’s never happened. Why the projects never got done. Where the warm summer nights roaming around the city went.
Nine months after treatment ended and I’m at loose ends, I’ve not settled into a new normal. I’m still fighting against a tide that is slowly pulling me in, to someplace that looks like, I know not, and it’s a little scary. A good portion of my income came from selling my work at shows and events. At the time I got sick, I was wanting to do this less, in favor of building up my wholesale business, I was sick of schlepping stuff around, but we do what we have to do. While friends kept my seasonal shop open, providing income while I was sick, my wholesale and consignment accounts dried up, my website became more and more out of date and overwhelming to deal with.
This summer I did what has always been my best show, figuring I could get through it to provide some desperate summer income. Turns out I made about a quarter of what I usually make there and got so over-exhausted I couldn’t lift my tent into my car for the first time ever. E-Z up tents really aren’t very heavy and this thing I’ve lugged around for years with ease was suddenly cemented to the pavement. I was so overheated, I threw up when I got home and could barely function for days. I shared a tent at a different show with a friend, to avoid the tent lugging but again, didn’t make much at all, not worth the work and exhaustion. Then they started an “artists pavilion” at WaterFire, our famous downtown event that draws tens of thousands. They were offering spots with tents, weights and lights already set up, so I figured that was perfect, I could manage that, and it’s a five minute drive from home.
I worked that last night, from 4p.m. to midnight, sales were just o.k. despite the throngs of people and packed tent from start to finish, I know some folks did fabulously, so I can’t blame the event at all, it just seems to be me. I feel like the Elves when they’re leaving Middle Earth, their time there is over, it just is. My time doing this is over, for so many, many reasons, and mostly because it just is like it or not. It's really not a decision any more, it just is.
After the event, I was rush, rush, rushing to pack up because the staff was hurrying to break down tents, and I didn’t want to hold them up or be in the way. I got my car loaded up, checked and double checked that everything was in safely, slammed the door and promptly, and quite efficiently took out my back window with a piece of metal gridwall that was sticking out an inch too far.
The creepy part is that I checked that it was in. Did my eyes trick me in the dark? Or did my eyes send the wrong information to my brain? I didn’t forget to check, I checked and still got it wrong. The sound of that tinted glass shattering was like the King of Gondor saying, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.
My building has taken away a third of the space I use for Craftopia, and is charging me near the same rental fee, refusing to budge an inch, so there goes that income stream. The winter farmer’s market traffic that I depend on for my store’s foot traffic is losing the same space, so they’ll now be split into another part of the building which will dilute the foot traffic I get, also not good, not good at all. Each and every income stream I’ve spent years building is dwindling and I don’t know what my other options are.
I tried to apply for disability, but while from my whole working life I have a nice heap of social security credits, I don’t have enough credits in the past ten years because of being a stay-at-home mom, and then biz on the side thing. I love how politicians pay lip service to “being a mom is the most important job you can do”, but you're fucked if anything goes wrong, you are no more than the sum of your credits.
The whole social security system is rigged {like so many other things} against anyone that stays home with their kids for a good chunk of time. One’s social security payments will be based on a consecutive 35 year block of work. If you’ve been a stay-at-home, then likely, your work history is an income/no income sandwich with the zeros in the middle, therefore cutting into your 35 year block either way you slice it. Divorced former stay-at-home mom, and you are seriously on your own.
The tall one came home from camp yesterday, finally, I was so excited to see him, but I was working the event. He called and told me that a bunch of the counselors were hanging out at one of their houses in Cranston {a nearby suburb}, and could he go and sleep over. I was sad I wouldn’t see him yet, but I’m not gonna inflict that on the kid, so sure, of course he can go to Cranston as long as he gets a ride home. After unloading my glass filled car which entailed stomping back and forth through the perpetual puddle that is my sidewalk due to summer-long water main work, I sat down, now in the wee hours of the morning to confirm that my teenager was indeed where he was supposed to be. I recently put a geo locator on both the kids phones, both for safety and for truth checking and oddly, his phone was turned off which is very unusual and raised my suspicions. After a sleepless night of excruciating leg and foot cramps I checked this morning and lo and behold, Mr. when-have-I-ever-given-you-a-reason-not-to-trust-me is two and a half hours away in Connecticut.
Let the senior year games begin. While I’m disappointed in him, I’m mostly disappointed that I don’t get my perfect moment of seeing him, seeing him in my state of I-really-miss-you, with accompanying full and happy heart. I have a very pissed off heart right now.
Pissed off, demoralized, generally befuddled, and scraped up by little pieces of window glass.
However, on the topic of the Oxford comma, I use them. I didn’t used to, I rejected them entirely and didn’t even know they were legal. But when I discovered them, I started to use them more and more and now I absolutely, positively always use them. I like them a lot.
Nine months after treatment ended and I’m at loose ends, I’ve not settled into a new normal. I’m still fighting against a tide that is slowly pulling me in, to someplace that looks like, I know not, and it’s a little scary. A good portion of my income came from selling my work at shows and events. At the time I got sick, I was wanting to do this less, in favor of building up my wholesale business, I was sick of schlepping stuff around, but we do what we have to do. While friends kept my seasonal shop open, providing income while I was sick, my wholesale and consignment accounts dried up, my website became more and more out of date and overwhelming to deal with.
This summer I did what has always been my best show, figuring I could get through it to provide some desperate summer income. Turns out I made about a quarter of what I usually make there and got so over-exhausted I couldn’t lift my tent into my car for the first time ever. E-Z up tents really aren’t very heavy and this thing I’ve lugged around for years with ease was suddenly cemented to the pavement. I was so overheated, I threw up when I got home and could barely function for days. I shared a tent at a different show with a friend, to avoid the tent lugging but again, didn’t make much at all, not worth the work and exhaustion. Then they started an “artists pavilion” at WaterFire, our famous downtown event that draws tens of thousands. They were offering spots with tents, weights and lights already set up, so I figured that was perfect, I could manage that, and it’s a five minute drive from home.
I worked that last night, from 4p.m. to midnight, sales were just o.k. despite the throngs of people and packed tent from start to finish, I know some folks did fabulously, so I can’t blame the event at all, it just seems to be me. I feel like the Elves when they’re leaving Middle Earth, their time there is over, it just is. My time doing this is over, for so many, many reasons, and mostly because it just is like it or not. It's really not a decision any more, it just is.
After the event, I was rush, rush, rushing to pack up because the staff was hurrying to break down tents, and I didn’t want to hold them up or be in the way. I got my car loaded up, checked and double checked that everything was in safely, slammed the door and promptly, and quite efficiently took out my back window with a piece of metal gridwall that was sticking out an inch too far.
The creepy part is that I checked that it was in. Did my eyes trick me in the dark? Or did my eyes send the wrong information to my brain? I didn’t forget to check, I checked and still got it wrong. The sound of that tinted glass shattering was like the King of Gondor saying, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.
My building has taken away a third of the space I use for Craftopia, and is charging me near the same rental fee, refusing to budge an inch, so there goes that income stream. The winter farmer’s market traffic that I depend on for my store’s foot traffic is losing the same space, so they’ll now be split into another part of the building which will dilute the foot traffic I get, also not good, not good at all. Each and every income stream I’ve spent years building is dwindling and I don’t know what my other options are.
I tried to apply for disability, but while from my whole working life I have a nice heap of social security credits, I don’t have enough credits in the past ten years because of being a stay-at-home mom, and then biz on the side thing. I love how politicians pay lip service to “being a mom is the most important job you can do”, but you're fucked if anything goes wrong, you are no more than the sum of your credits.
The whole social security system is rigged {like so many other things} against anyone that stays home with their kids for a good chunk of time. One’s social security payments will be based on a consecutive 35 year block of work. If you’ve been a stay-at-home, then likely, your work history is an income/no income sandwich with the zeros in the middle, therefore cutting into your 35 year block either way you slice it. Divorced former stay-at-home mom, and you are seriously on your own.
The tall one came home from camp yesterday, finally, I was so excited to see him, but I was working the event. He called and told me that a bunch of the counselors were hanging out at one of their houses in Cranston {a nearby suburb}, and could he go and sleep over. I was sad I wouldn’t see him yet, but I’m not gonna inflict that on the kid, so sure, of course he can go to Cranston as long as he gets a ride home. After unloading my glass filled car which entailed stomping back and forth through the perpetual puddle that is my sidewalk due to summer-long water main work, I sat down, now in the wee hours of the morning to confirm that my teenager was indeed where he was supposed to be. I recently put a geo locator on both the kids phones, both for safety and for truth checking and oddly, his phone was turned off which is very unusual and raised my suspicions. After a sleepless night of excruciating leg and foot cramps I checked this morning and lo and behold, Mr. when-have-I-ever-given-you-a-reason-not-to-trust-me is two and a half hours away in Connecticut.
Let the senior year games begin. While I’m disappointed in him, I’m mostly disappointed that I don’t get my perfect moment of seeing him, seeing him in my state of I-really-miss-you, with accompanying full and happy heart. I have a very pissed off heart right now.
Pissed off, demoralized, generally befuddled, and scraped up by little pieces of window glass.
However, on the topic of the Oxford comma, I use them. I didn’t used to, I rejected them entirely and didn’t even know they were legal. But when I discovered them, I started to use them more and more and now I absolutely, positively always use them. I like them a lot.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
English Breakfast
Oh joy, I’ve woken up to a living room chock full of camp counselors, from all over the globe no less. Full living rooms make me happy and mine has felt especially empty lately. Tall one has been camp counseloring for six weeks with one more to go and I’ve been missing him. Little dude isn’t one to have friends over and I’ve been spending my time sans kids home alone, not knowing what to do with myself and with tired body and fuzzy brain.
So while they’ll be out of here shortly and I’m keeping a respectful distance in the kitchen, I was able to provide some Providence Made {IRIE} English Breakfast tea to some charming brits who were craving a cup and I’m happy for the noise and that my son is well ensconsed with a lovely pack and I might even get my lawn mowed out of the deal. As there are about ten of them, they could do it relay style, each do a power lap and poof, it'll be done without anyone breaking a sweat.
Despite being in the hands of a good lawyer, I have still found it very stressful since being served with divorce papers. Papers that offer zero alimony and list my car and my business under his assets -- "value to be determined". There’s something very jarring about that when you’re in my precarious position. How on earth does this work? I bought that car well after we were separated. Are his new wardrobe and apartment full of furniture my assets? What about whatever gifts and meals he’s shared with his girlfriend? And what is my business other than me? Value to be determined, I feel violated. I suppose me and a bunch of scratched up ikea tables, cut-rate grid wall and found furniture, oh yeah, and rent, studio rent that is more and more difficult to pay.
I didn’t in my wildest dreams, or worst nightmares think we’d ever be reduced to this, never. But I underestimated a lot of things, sometimes being gullible can be funny, an endearing quality, sometimes not.
I’m trying to manage the stress with behavioral modification techniques, controlling what I allow myself to think about, clipping the mental loops of doom, I’m quite poor at this, especially, terribly bad. It will be what it will be despite my worry and panic. Stress is canciferous and so now, not only do I simply not enjoy it, it scares me, I fear it killing me by urging my RNA to replicate poorly.
I believe I have a rock solid case, I believe I’ll be fine once my supporting affidavits start pouring in, once they’ve been seen by a judge, but it’s going to be a long, painful slog and an ever worsening stomach ache.
I think it is cruel and unusual for anyone to inflict this on me now, at this particular juncture. I’ve had enough for a good long while and I want to focus on my rehab and learning how to walk without falling down, finding my bearings and it seems like there’s only one person in the whole wide world who doesn’t understand that cancer isn’t like getting the flu. You’re not just done, you’re never just done and you’re not who you are physically or mentally when you’re “all better”. Some people get all better, and I'm thrilled for them, although I'm sure they'll always worry. There are all different kinds and degrees of cancer, I had bad cancer with bad treatment options. There is no all better for me, there’s only making the very most of the rest of my life whatever it turns out to be and adjusting to a new normal where my body and my brain don’t look or work like they used to.
Even writing this makes my stomach churn, is this what it will be like for the next year? Never once during my diagnosis or illness did I ask “why me” or ponder the unfairness of it. Fair isn’t part of the deal, some people get sick, some don’t, we don’t know what causes cancer or M.S., or Lupus or an endless slew of other less than pleasant maladies or who will get them and why, but that’s just the way it goes, I drew the short straw, so be it, I hope I accepted the situation with grace. But this isn't fate, this is someone to whom I gave half of my life and to whom I was kind and supportive and who tortured me with apathy and disregard for decades, choosing to put me in the meat grinder and I can’t help but ask why me? why now? when do I get a break? I’m so tired, so weary, putting every ounce of energy into being the best parent I can be, and to stay afloat financially and yes, to experience a moment of joy every day because that's the whole point isn't it? O.K., focus on Mexico, focus on my amazing, beautiful friends, and my spectacular children. Focus on the present, the day to day, sticking with rehab at the Y, Mexico, Mexico, M E X I C O, and breathe, breathe, keep breathing.
So while they’ll be out of here shortly and I’m keeping a respectful distance in the kitchen, I was able to provide some Providence Made {IRIE} English Breakfast tea to some charming brits who were craving a cup and I’m happy for the noise and that my son is well ensconsed with a lovely pack and I might even get my lawn mowed out of the deal. As there are about ten of them, they could do it relay style, each do a power lap and poof, it'll be done without anyone breaking a sweat.
Despite being in the hands of a good lawyer, I have still found it very stressful since being served with divorce papers. Papers that offer zero alimony and list my car and my business under his assets -- "value to be determined". There’s something very jarring about that when you’re in my precarious position. How on earth does this work? I bought that car well after we were separated. Are his new wardrobe and apartment full of furniture my assets? What about whatever gifts and meals he’s shared with his girlfriend? And what is my business other than me? Value to be determined, I feel violated. I suppose me and a bunch of scratched up ikea tables, cut-rate grid wall and found furniture, oh yeah, and rent, studio rent that is more and more difficult to pay.
I didn’t in my wildest dreams, or worst nightmares think we’d ever be reduced to this, never. But I underestimated a lot of things, sometimes being gullible can be funny, an endearing quality, sometimes not.
I’m trying to manage the stress with behavioral modification techniques, controlling what I allow myself to think about, clipping the mental loops of doom, I’m quite poor at this, especially, terribly bad. It will be what it will be despite my worry and panic. Stress is canciferous and so now, not only do I simply not enjoy it, it scares me, I fear it killing me by urging my RNA to replicate poorly.
I believe I have a rock solid case, I believe I’ll be fine once my supporting affidavits start pouring in, once they’ve been seen by a judge, but it’s going to be a long, painful slog and an ever worsening stomach ache.
I think it is cruel and unusual for anyone to inflict this on me now, at this particular juncture. I’ve had enough for a good long while and I want to focus on my rehab and learning how to walk without falling down, finding my bearings and it seems like there’s only one person in the whole wide world who doesn’t understand that cancer isn’t like getting the flu. You’re not just done, you’re never just done and you’re not who you are physically or mentally when you’re “all better”. Some people get all better, and I'm thrilled for them, although I'm sure they'll always worry. There are all different kinds and degrees of cancer, I had bad cancer with bad treatment options. There is no all better for me, there’s only making the very most of the rest of my life whatever it turns out to be and adjusting to a new normal where my body and my brain don’t look or work like they used to.
Even writing this makes my stomach churn, is this what it will be like for the next year? Never once during my diagnosis or illness did I ask “why me” or ponder the unfairness of it. Fair isn’t part of the deal, some people get sick, some don’t, we don’t know what causes cancer or M.S., or Lupus or an endless slew of other less than pleasant maladies or who will get them and why, but that’s just the way it goes, I drew the short straw, so be it, I hope I accepted the situation with grace. But this isn't fate, this is someone to whom I gave half of my life and to whom I was kind and supportive and who tortured me with apathy and disregard for decades, choosing to put me in the meat grinder and I can’t help but ask why me? why now? when do I get a break? I’m so tired, so weary, putting every ounce of energy into being the best parent I can be, and to stay afloat financially and yes, to experience a moment of joy every day because that's the whole point isn't it? O.K., focus on Mexico, focus on my amazing, beautiful friends, and my spectacular children. Focus on the present, the day to day, sticking with rehab at the Y, Mexico, Mexico, M E X I C O, and breathe, breathe, keep breathing.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Small Problems
Global warming is a hoax and we’re dwelling in post-racial America. Not. I’d still be wondering what happened to spring, why my kid was wearing long sleeves until the last week of school, but my swiss cheese brain has melted into a tiny puddle of goo.
I can’t fathom how a man who chooses to carry a gun, chooses to whirl himself into that adrenaline feuled state, who stalks another person, causing them fear and terror, causing them to be in an adrenaline feuled state isn’t culpable for what results. It kills me to hear the Zimmerman’s saying that the tall, skinny teenager with a pocket full of skittles was also armed, he used the pavement as a deadly weapon. Well, seems to me that the pavement was quite innocuous until Mr. Zimmerman turned it into a weapon by stalking a stranger and scaring them into protecting themselves with whatever means necessary. And that assumes that the boy did smash the man’s head into the pavement, I don’t know, I wasn’t there, but I do know who left their home armed with a gun and looking for trouble, and who went out to get a snack. Was the young man a perfect model of youth? Don't know, don't care. That night he causing trouble for anyone, just strolling along with a snack in his pocket and a girl on the phone, minding his own business before getting scared shitless and then getting dead.
Where was the suggestion that “excuse me sir, are you lost?” might have clued Mr. Z into what this young man was “up to”. A simple act of civility or minding his own damned business because someone isn’t suspicious until they’re jimmying open a door or climbing through a window and even that, very often has a logical explanation. Lost keys perhaps? You know when you intervene Mr. Citizen? When someone's getting attacked, when there's already violence going on, you intervene or you call for help.
Mr. Zimmerman is an adult. Adults should know not to stalk other people, especially if they’re afraid of them. They call the police, they keep watch from a safe distance or they go home. We are not a well-ordered militia.
I also don’t understand why prosecutors allow themselves to be outflanked, was going to say, outgunned, but that’s too awful a pun. There must have been many willing, able, civil rights attorneys willing to consult pro-bono, how is it that the prosecution in these big cases are the only ones who don’t read the news, they might have gotten a clue, that in fact, there was a smattering of racial profiling going on. Why do they allow themselves to get clobbered this way? Did they want to loose? I’m not one for conspiracy theories and I really don’t care if there was a second shooter, I just know JFK is dead, but what gives with this ineptitude?
My heart hurts for every ethnic parent of a son, who has to have the uncomfortable conversation with their boys that I’ll never have to have with mine. How to behave when the police pull them over for being black, probably over and over, how to handle strangers fearing them with no cause, how to handle the fear and stupidity and recklessness of lesser people, small-minded, yet arrogant people.
I’d go on and on, but I have an overheated, grumpy little person downstairs stomping around to get my attention. My problems are small.
I can’t fathom how a man who chooses to carry a gun, chooses to whirl himself into that adrenaline feuled state, who stalks another person, causing them fear and terror, causing them to be in an adrenaline feuled state isn’t culpable for what results. It kills me to hear the Zimmerman’s saying that the tall, skinny teenager with a pocket full of skittles was also armed, he used the pavement as a deadly weapon. Well, seems to me that the pavement was quite innocuous until Mr. Zimmerman turned it into a weapon by stalking a stranger and scaring them into protecting themselves with whatever means necessary. And that assumes that the boy did smash the man’s head into the pavement, I don’t know, I wasn’t there, but I do know who left their home armed with a gun and looking for trouble, and who went out to get a snack. Was the young man a perfect model of youth? Don't know, don't care. That night he causing trouble for anyone, just strolling along with a snack in his pocket and a girl on the phone, minding his own business before getting scared shitless and then getting dead.
Where was the suggestion that “excuse me sir, are you lost?” might have clued Mr. Z into what this young man was “up to”. A simple act of civility or minding his own damned business because someone isn’t suspicious until they’re jimmying open a door or climbing through a window and even that, very often has a logical explanation. Lost keys perhaps? You know when you intervene Mr. Citizen? When someone's getting attacked, when there's already violence going on, you intervene or you call for help.
Mr. Zimmerman is an adult. Adults should know not to stalk other people, especially if they’re afraid of them. They call the police, they keep watch from a safe distance or they go home. We are not a well-ordered militia.
I also don’t understand why prosecutors allow themselves to be outflanked, was going to say, outgunned, but that’s too awful a pun. There must have been many willing, able, civil rights attorneys willing to consult pro-bono, how is it that the prosecution in these big cases are the only ones who don’t read the news, they might have gotten a clue, that in fact, there was a smattering of racial profiling going on. Why do they allow themselves to get clobbered this way? Did they want to loose? I’m not one for conspiracy theories and I really don’t care if there was a second shooter, I just know JFK is dead, but what gives with this ineptitude?
My heart hurts for every ethnic parent of a son, who has to have the uncomfortable conversation with their boys that I’ll never have to have with mine. How to behave when the police pull them over for being black, probably over and over, how to handle strangers fearing them with no cause, how to handle the fear and stupidity and recklessness of lesser people, small-minded, yet arrogant people.
I’d go on and on, but I have an overheated, grumpy little person downstairs stomping around to get my attention. My problems are small.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Tax Time
I’m sitting in my accountants office waiting to do my taxes, but he’s been on a conference call for the last 50 minutes with a client and their estate planning attorney, I've been listening so long, I've figured out who the players are. He's a good guy and since he’s patient with my disorganization over the years, I can put up with his. I feel funny sitting here listening to this maddening conversation with a big, old, red-eyed dog sleeping on my feet. I know way too much about how much Elsie and the kids are inheriting. I think it's a sheep dog, he is big.
I was in whole foods the other night picking up something for dinner at the prepared food bar. I was getting hot food and the round cardboard containers I prefer weren’t present in the medium size. The large size seemed wastefully large and the fold up cardboard containers always leak. So I grabbed a medium sized plastic container and while filling it up I noticed a large man hovering. I thought he wanted to go next, but not so lucky. As soon as I snapped on the lid he loudly accosted me with “so you must really like having petroleum products mixed in with your food”. I was in my grocery store haze, end of day, very hungry daze and it took a minute to register, so I stammered, “oh, plastic container, hot food, I know I’m not supposed to do this, but they were out of the containers I usually use.” You should have used the large one, he told me, but apparently you enjoy leeching petroleum into what you eat, would you pour crude oil on your food, because you're doing the same thing. Then he went into how much I must love big oil and how I shouldn’t even shop there if I’m going to just put my organic food into plastic and mix it with petroleum, I’m wasting my money. I gotta say, I was just shell shocked and when he launched into the evils of the plastic water bottles which I wasn't even buying, I started walking away, faster, and he followed me, towered over me, but then I ran into someone I know and just turned my back and started talking, babbling really, because I was kind of shaken up, the whole encounter was so surreal, and so hostile. It’s awful when someone pops out of thin air just to tell you how stupid you are.
Oh my god, it’s been over an hour now and the estate planner's voice is really irritating. This appointment was supposed to be a joyous occasion where I cap off my week of productivity. I’ve retained my lady lawyer, my refinance is in the approval pipeline, my taxes are soon, so soon to be done. They’re confusing the shit out of this poor multi-million dollar business owner, lawyers, ugh. He seems like a really nice man, the lawyer is a pitbull and she’s on his side. I already know there are five kids, not sure if any are shared or they both came into the marriage with kids, I'm pretty sure it's a second marriage for at least one of them. He's a farmer, he's a nice man and direct. When he tries to be funny with the lawyer, it's like he's speaking a different language to her, I know that feeling. Oh snap, he just said, really calmly, "I am really confused, I really don't know what the hell you're talking about." Me neither, I can't follow her at all, she's making things wildly confusing. Yep, make a problem for someone and then charge them to fix it. My accountant, I don't even know where he is, he keep leaving, I think he's pretty bored too.
The length of this appointment is going to cut into my gym time and defeat my goal of getting there 3x this week. Fair market value, insurance policies, who’s taking over the business, what if this one dies before that one, yikes!
70 minutes, I’m getting impatient. I’m not even sure why my accountant is on this call, he’s spoken up once.
Luckily Elsie has gotten an inheritance, so she’s all set either way.
Oh, at last my taxes are done, phew, but I’m too late for the gym, I’ll try again next week.
I was in whole foods the other night picking up something for dinner at the prepared food bar. I was getting hot food and the round cardboard containers I prefer weren’t present in the medium size. The large size seemed wastefully large and the fold up cardboard containers always leak. So I grabbed a medium sized plastic container and while filling it up I noticed a large man hovering. I thought he wanted to go next, but not so lucky. As soon as I snapped on the lid he loudly accosted me with “so you must really like having petroleum products mixed in with your food”. I was in my grocery store haze, end of day, very hungry daze and it took a minute to register, so I stammered, “oh, plastic container, hot food, I know I’m not supposed to do this, but they were out of the containers I usually use.” You should have used the large one, he told me, but apparently you enjoy leeching petroleum into what you eat, would you pour crude oil on your food, because you're doing the same thing. Then he went into how much I must love big oil and how I shouldn’t even shop there if I’m going to just put my organic food into plastic and mix it with petroleum, I’m wasting my money. I gotta say, I was just shell shocked and when he launched into the evils of the plastic water bottles which I wasn't even buying, I started walking away, faster, and he followed me, towered over me, but then I ran into someone I know and just turned my back and started talking, babbling really, because I was kind of shaken up, the whole encounter was so surreal, and so hostile. It’s awful when someone pops out of thin air just to tell you how stupid you are.
Oh my god, it’s been over an hour now and the estate planner's voice is really irritating. This appointment was supposed to be a joyous occasion where I cap off my week of productivity. I’ve retained my lady lawyer, my refinance is in the approval pipeline, my taxes are soon, so soon to be done. They’re confusing the shit out of this poor multi-million dollar business owner, lawyers, ugh. He seems like a really nice man, the lawyer is a pitbull and she’s on his side. I already know there are five kids, not sure if any are shared or they both came into the marriage with kids, I'm pretty sure it's a second marriage for at least one of them. He's a farmer, he's a nice man and direct. When he tries to be funny with the lawyer, it's like he's speaking a different language to her, I know that feeling. Oh snap, he just said, really calmly, "I am really confused, I really don't know what the hell you're talking about." Me neither, I can't follow her at all, she's making things wildly confusing. Yep, make a problem for someone and then charge them to fix it. My accountant, I don't even know where he is, he keep leaving, I think he's pretty bored too.
The length of this appointment is going to cut into my gym time and defeat my goal of getting there 3x this week. Fair market value, insurance policies, who’s taking over the business, what if this one dies before that one, yikes!
70 minutes, I’m getting impatient. I’m not even sure why my accountant is on this call, he’s spoken up once.
Luckily Elsie has gotten an inheritance, so she’s all set either way.
Oh, at last my taxes are done, phew, but I’m too late for the gym, I’ll try again next week.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Upside, Downside
90° heat is not a good time to misplace the cat brush. There are tufts of fur flying around the room seeking places to affix themselves, like my sweaty self, blech. The air conditioned bedroom in which I’m sequestered, organizing my getting-later-by-the-day tax documents is too hot for clothes even with the window unit. The missing boobies really do have an upside. I can sit here shirtless very comfortably, no girls jiggling around, getting in the way, no sweat underneath, no stuffing my sweaty parts into a bra and definitely no nip-slips although I worry about scar slips, it seems to me no one's supposed to see that, but maybe I'm wrong, I'm constantly hiking up my shirts, so it's not showing. Not an optimal situation, but there really are quite a few benefits, I can sleep comfortably on my stomach, I can trampoline without self-consciousness, all sorts of things. I am, however annoyed that every tankini top has built-in bras, underwire bras or dominant pleats. Anything called a mastectomy top has built in foam falsies with a corresponding high neck, hideous, yuck... that is just silly and uncomfortable.
I had the best of intentions the other night. As large one is counseloring away at camp and little dude is at his dad’s, I decided to take a break and go to the gym, I checked on-line and it said that they were open until 9p.m. on Saturday. I headed over at about 6 and lo and behold they were closed, I guess some people have better things to do on a Saturday night. I was so proud of myself for making myself go and they thwarted me. I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought lasagne and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, talk about good intentions gone awry. I settled into the couch to watch t.v., with my pint of ice cream which I didn’t even bother to put in a bowl... I knew I was gonna eat the whole thing and I realized I’m a cliché. Lonely, middle aged woman eating pints of ice cream and then being horrified that clothes don’t fit. Not good, not good at all!
My goal for this week is to get to the gym three times, I want to get into a Monday, Wednesday, Friday routine which would be great, I’d feel great, my heart would be happy and healthy and I’d be lowering my chances of a recurrence, but it’s so damned time consuming. My workout takes about 1.25 to 1.5 hours, add in commute of 40 minutes round trip and that’s a good chunk of the child-free part of the day and pretty much everything else takes me longer than it used to.
The heat is aggravating my neuropathy and while I don’t notice it in my hands as much as my feet, I do notice how much slower I am at work, that I’m constantly dropping things and fumbling... I’ve become a fumbler and a wobbler, and as for the feet, they’re not happy. My big toenails were a little too long and I stubbed my toe, which you do a lot when you can only partially feel your feet and my toenail bent back and snapped right off, impairing my pedicure situation. It seems a little too short to paint which is important because the trip has been booked! Yes indeedy, I am going to Mexico {Isle Mujeres} in a mere five weeks, I am so excited, I could cry, o.k., I did cry. I haven’t been this excited since I don’t know when. Downside, you stub your toes a lot, upside, it doesn’t hurt, cause the reason you’re stubbing your toe is because you can’t feel it.
My dear, dear, wonderful friend and gay husband, because he accidentally booked us the honeymoon package is treating me to this most amazing trip. He’s in the middle of a breakup which is really sad to me, but does have the upside of me getting him all to myself for a week {and it’s all about the upsides, right?} and he pointed out that if he were going with X, he’d have to spend 3x as much money just on himself, because X likes the luxe life. I’ve never quite experienced the luxe life, but damn, am I game. I’m grandpa in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang -- it’s the posh life for me. The place we’re going is gorgeous and cheap cause it’s August and I guess people don’t want to be in Mexico in August and the deals are amazing. I figure it will be hot everywhere and I’d rather be hot somewhere with ocean outside my door, crystal white sand and a jacuzzi on my balcony. And half-gay married for a week to boot what could be better? In the time it took us to commit, the Regular room turned into a Deluxe room and then a Deluxe Suite for less and less money, I guess you have to hit that sweet spot of waiting until almost the last minute, but not the very last minute where you won't get a flight. I’ve known R since I was 18 and he was 20. We went to the same high school but didn’t know each other -- big school, different grades. My last summer at home my friend was dating his friend and so we were always at the same place at the same time and we became friends instantly, like seriously, motherfucking friends for life, instantly. I didn’t know he was gay at the time, always wondered why he wouldn't flirt with me, pompous little brat that I was, although really didn’t care, I was in it for the friend thing, we’re so much alike, it’d be like dating myself and that could be ugly. He was living in disguise as a dull as daisies, not meant to be, heterosexual, and pretty damned tortured at that, despite knowing his whole life he was gay, living an inauthentic life because he just plain didn’t want to be gay. He’d heard and seen what people say about gay people and there are so, so many things to be afraid of, and back then, no one was saying “it gets better.” This makes me angry, because when my friend finally came out of the closet and embraced his true self you could nearly see the burden lifted, he is such a happier person and he’s someone who deserves to be happy, I can’t think of a finer human being albeit, sorry for him, equally neurotic as I. I love this man more than I can say. We’ve never lived in the same city, but we have always kept in touch and visited although not as often as we could or should.
I’m beside myself with excitement. I’ve got my passport which I take out of the dresser drawer and caress regularly and have already had my first travel anxiety dream, but we’ll leave that for Dr. Freud... you know, missed the flight even though I was at the gate, they insisted I wasn’t, I guess I’d turned invisible, forgot to pack a suitcase and had to rush home, went to the wrong airport, and the airport was also a furniture store, go figure.
Here’s the best part though... it’s Whale Shark season down there... they swim in large pods close to the surface and are slow moving, so if we are lucky we will see them and swim with them because they’re gentle giants. I’ll get my chance to swim with the magical healing dolphins and there’s a turtle sanctuary and I’d suppose a margarita or two.
Yay for gay marriage!
Jonah is being a good sport, he asked a few times, “um, why are you going on vacation and I’m not?” and I just straight up told him “because you won’t swim and hate the beach and I need to spend a week swimming with the fishies, my soul needs it and you'd be bored silly.” “o.k.” he says, he gets it.
Don’t bother reading this if you don’t know the tune or love grandpa, it just isn’t worth it:
This is livin', this is style, this is elegance by the mile
Oh the posh posh traveling life, the traveling life for me
First cabin and captain's table regal company
Whenever I'm bored I travel abroad but ever so properly
Port out, starboard home, posh with a capital P-O-S-H, posh
The hands that hold the scepters, every head that holds a crown
They'll always give their all for me they'll never let me down
I'm on my way to far away tah tah and toodle-oo
And fare thee well, and Bon Voyage arrivederci too
O the posh posh traveling life, the traveling life for me
First cabin and captain's table regal company
Pardon the dust of the upper crust--fetch us a cup of tea
Port out, starboard home, posh with a capital P-O-S-H, posh
I had the best of intentions the other night. As large one is counseloring away at camp and little dude is at his dad’s, I decided to take a break and go to the gym, I checked on-line and it said that they were open until 9p.m. on Saturday. I headed over at about 6 and lo and behold they were closed, I guess some people have better things to do on a Saturday night. I was so proud of myself for making myself go and they thwarted me. I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought lasagne and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, talk about good intentions gone awry. I settled into the couch to watch t.v., with my pint of ice cream which I didn’t even bother to put in a bowl... I knew I was gonna eat the whole thing and I realized I’m a cliché. Lonely, middle aged woman eating pints of ice cream and then being horrified that clothes don’t fit. Not good, not good at all!
My goal for this week is to get to the gym three times, I want to get into a Monday, Wednesday, Friday routine which would be great, I’d feel great, my heart would be happy and healthy and I’d be lowering my chances of a recurrence, but it’s so damned time consuming. My workout takes about 1.25 to 1.5 hours, add in commute of 40 minutes round trip and that’s a good chunk of the child-free part of the day and pretty much everything else takes me longer than it used to.
The heat is aggravating my neuropathy and while I don’t notice it in my hands as much as my feet, I do notice how much slower I am at work, that I’m constantly dropping things and fumbling... I’ve become a fumbler and a wobbler, and as for the feet, they’re not happy. My big toenails were a little too long and I stubbed my toe, which you do a lot when you can only partially feel your feet and my toenail bent back and snapped right off, impairing my pedicure situation. It seems a little too short to paint which is important because the trip has been booked! Yes indeedy, I am going to Mexico {Isle Mujeres} in a mere five weeks, I am so excited, I could cry, o.k., I did cry. I haven’t been this excited since I don’t know when. Downside, you stub your toes a lot, upside, it doesn’t hurt, cause the reason you’re stubbing your toe is because you can’t feel it.
My dear, dear, wonderful friend and gay husband, because he accidentally booked us the honeymoon package is treating me to this most amazing trip. He’s in the middle of a breakup which is really sad to me, but does have the upside of me getting him all to myself for a week {and it’s all about the upsides, right?} and he pointed out that if he were going with X, he’d have to spend 3x as much money just on himself, because X likes the luxe life. I’ve never quite experienced the luxe life, but damn, am I game. I’m grandpa in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang -- it’s the posh life for me. The place we’re going is gorgeous and cheap cause it’s August and I guess people don’t want to be in Mexico in August and the deals are amazing. I figure it will be hot everywhere and I’d rather be hot somewhere with ocean outside my door, crystal white sand and a jacuzzi on my balcony. And half-gay married for a week to boot what could be better? In the time it took us to commit, the Regular room turned into a Deluxe room and then a Deluxe Suite for less and less money, I guess you have to hit that sweet spot of waiting until almost the last minute, but not the very last minute where you won't get a flight. I’ve known R since I was 18 and he was 20. We went to the same high school but didn’t know each other -- big school, different grades. My last summer at home my friend was dating his friend and so we were always at the same place at the same time and we became friends instantly, like seriously, motherfucking friends for life, instantly. I didn’t know he was gay at the time, always wondered why he wouldn't flirt with me, pompous little brat that I was, although really didn’t care, I was in it for the friend thing, we’re so much alike, it’d be like dating myself and that could be ugly. He was living in disguise as a dull as daisies, not meant to be, heterosexual, and pretty damned tortured at that, despite knowing his whole life he was gay, living an inauthentic life because he just plain didn’t want to be gay. He’d heard and seen what people say about gay people and there are so, so many things to be afraid of, and back then, no one was saying “it gets better.” This makes me angry, because when my friend finally came out of the closet and embraced his true self you could nearly see the burden lifted, he is such a happier person and he’s someone who deserves to be happy, I can’t think of a finer human being albeit, sorry for him, equally neurotic as I. I love this man more than I can say. We’ve never lived in the same city, but we have always kept in touch and visited although not as often as we could or should.
I’m beside myself with excitement. I’ve got my passport which I take out of the dresser drawer and caress regularly and have already had my first travel anxiety dream, but we’ll leave that for Dr. Freud... you know, missed the flight even though I was at the gate, they insisted I wasn’t, I guess I’d turned invisible, forgot to pack a suitcase and had to rush home, went to the wrong airport, and the airport was also a furniture store, go figure.
Here’s the best part though... it’s Whale Shark season down there... they swim in large pods close to the surface and are slow moving, so if we are lucky we will see them and swim with them because they’re gentle giants. I’ll get my chance to swim with the magical healing dolphins and there’s a turtle sanctuary and I’d suppose a margarita or two.
Yay for gay marriage!
Jonah is being a good sport, he asked a few times, “um, why are you going on vacation and I’m not?” and I just straight up told him “because you won’t swim and hate the beach and I need to spend a week swimming with the fishies, my soul needs it and you'd be bored silly.” “o.k.” he says, he gets it.
Don’t bother reading this if you don’t know the tune or love grandpa, it just isn’t worth it:
This is livin', this is style, this is elegance by the mile
Oh the posh posh traveling life, the traveling life for me
First cabin and captain's table regal company
Whenever I'm bored I travel abroad but ever so properly
Port out, starboard home, posh with a capital P-O-S-H, posh
The hands that hold the scepters, every head that holds a crown
They'll always give their all for me they'll never let me down
I'm on my way to far away tah tah and toodle-oo
And fare thee well, and Bon Voyage arrivederci too
O the posh posh traveling life, the traveling life for me
First cabin and captain's table regal company
Pardon the dust of the upper crust--fetch us a cup of tea
Port out, starboard home, posh with a capital P-O-S-H, posh
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