Red is the New Black

It’s been a long time since I felt beautiful.

Years really.

And before you say or think anything...this isn’t a fish for compliments or affirmation or anything of the sort so, yannow, just let me finish.

When I say “felt beautiful”...that has very little to do with physical appearance - although physicality does play a small part. I think what I generally mean by feeling beautiful though is feeling good, positive, energetic, peaceful. 

I hadn’t felt beautiful or ugly or anything in between. I just...hadn’t given any thought to beauty or myself. At all. Completely disconnected. 

Invisible.

2013 was an epic year for major change - a series of (mostly) unrelated events - that would seem to change the trajectory of my life in ways I’d never anticipated. 

You know I bought a house.

You know I moved my dad to an independent/assisted living apartment.

I changed jobs.

What you don’t know is that Spux and I, well, we had a massive falling out. And someone who’d been such a huge presence in my life wasn’t there anymore and I started to withdraw from the places and scene where I might run into her to avoid conflict and discomfort.

You also don’t know that I quit Denhac. I didn’t have the time or energy or the enthusiasm to dedicate to the space anymore and I felt the members deserved a Board who could be there in ways I couldn’t. 

I suppose you might say I withdrew from that scene too.

So I was already feeling kind of lost at sea.

And then?

And then.

In November and December of that year, 2013, Acr0nym - my near constant companion, my non-sexual non-husband, my BFF - suffered a MAJOR mental health crisis. I mean, y’all, it got bad. And then it got worse. And then it got to New Year’s Eve and, well, I did the unthinkable. 

I had him committed.

It was dawn on New Year’s Day 2014 when I rolled back into my garage after having spent the entire night talking him down off the proverbial ledge and convincing him to go to the ER and subsequently sitting in the ER with him while waiting on pins and needles for the doctor to decide whether or not to place the 72-hour hold on him.

I fixed myself a cocktail at 7 a.m, watched the sunrise, and collapsed in ginormous racking sobs as the anxiety and terror and exhaustion of the prior weeks rolled right over the top of me in waves.

He was safe.

And I could shut down.

So that’s what I did. For many, many months.

Before I go any further, Acr0 was hospitalized for 13 days. During that time, his father died and so the staff worked to stabilize him enough to be able to release him so he could be with his family. It’s been a very long road since then but he is better now. So ever much better! For real!

2014 was a blur. There’s not much to say about it except to say, while my friendship with Acr0 was still intact, he had his hands full just trying to get by and so, for the first time in years, I was on my own. I think, after his father’s memorial service, I saw him a total of maybe six times throughout 2014 and even less in 2015. Also of note, my father, already declining in hearing, mobility, and function, was diagnosed with prostate cancer in February and underwent radiation daily for 6 weeks (the treatment worked - he’s cancer free). 

Mostly, 2014 and the first part of 2015, as far as I can recall, didn’t actually happen. (Although something good did happen! Spux and I made amends and are, for real, great friends again!)

Shut down, beat down, withdrawn, disconnected, I had a vague sense of the passage of time but viewed it with apathy - like time was passing but it wasn’t related to me - I was moving on automatic right through it. The more tired I felt, the more invisible I tried to become, and, with invisibility comes silence...on the blog, on social media, on any platform where I might have been heard and/or seen.

I will, however, assert here that I don’t believe I was depressed. I’ve experienced depression and this wasn’t it. Rather, I believe I was physically and mentally exhausted and getting sick...sicker by the minute and much sicker than I realized.

Until…

In the spring of this year, I suffered a series of health problems. 

I won’t go into it here...at least, not tonight...but it was an extremely loud and incredibly close wake up call to PAY ATTENTION! I wasn’t taking care of myself in any way. I thought withdrawing from people in my personal life would help me re-charge, re-energize and that would get me moving in the right direction - ANY direction - again. 

It didn’t.

The only purpose withdrawing did was to allow me an uninterrupted path to a complete physical break down. Woot.

That wake up call, as so often happens, was the exact call I needed to get moving in more ways than one. I started eating better. I started walking again. I bought a Fitbit. I started thinking more about myself and what was good for me and less about what others needed from me. I started to evaluate what was good, what was bad, what was necessary, and what was nonsense.

I started to care about and pay attention to me again.

I started to sleep again.

I started to really feel compassion again.

I started to forgive...everyone.

I started to emerge.

To see and be seen.

And THAT is how we come to now and feeling beautiful.

About a month ago, while I was on vacation, Acr0 took the day off to spend with me and he told me we could do whatever my heart desired.

I made a list. 

• Visit his mom. 
• Tour Tinkermill. 
• Have lunch with our friend, Monk. 
• Tour the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg. 

And so that’s what we did. It was a perfect day. The weather was gorgeous. There were no hiccups or tensions. Everything was entirely right with the world and incredibly easy in a way it hadn’t been in a couple of years.

At Tinkermill, where we ran into Monk earlier than we’d expected, the three of us walked out to the parking lot together and, as the sunlight hit me, Monk exclaimed, “You are beautiful!” completely out of the blue.

I was taken aback.

I hadn’t thought of myself as beautiful in what felt like forever. No one had thought to acknowledge me as beautiful in nearly as long.

And so I chewed on that for awhile.

And then I went shopping...for clothes...which I normally dread.

And all of a sudden what appealed to me wasn’t black, black, and some more black.

What caught my eye were reds and purples and blues. Oh my, yes. Lots of red.

I spent way too much money on clothes in colors and patterns...things I’ve abhorred in the past.

And then I wore them.

And, on the first day I wore red, as I drove toward work, I thought, “I feel really beautiful. I should wear more red.”

And so...I am.

Red. It’s the new black.

And I’m beautiful.

Wait Ten Minutes

That's what they say about Colorado weather...if you don't like it, wait ten minutes. It'll change.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that Denver and the Front Range were seeing record-breaking temperatures nearing 100º. School districts were closing some schools early or altogether as the attempts to keep old buildings without air conditioning relatively cool against the oppressive heat failed miserably. Everyone in this neck of the woods has heard of that glorious unexpected holiday known as a "Snow Day". No one, to my knowledge, can recall schools closing for a "Hot as Hell Day". It was unprecedented.

I think most of us have been waiting, anxiously, for that first hint of autumn. That first morning we step outside of our houses and feel that first bit of a chill signifying its inevitable approach. This summer started much like the last with fires raging - devastating communities, destroying homes, contributing, psychologically, to the unbearable heat. It felt hotter than normal - at least, to me. Maybe that's because I was moving in the middle of it. I don't know. Regardless, I don't believe I'm in alone in saying that, last weekend, when the powers that be began forecasting cool temperatures and rain for several days in a row, I let out a ginormous sigh of relief. AT LAST!

Ahem.

About that...

Tuesday, September 10

After a long day at work and an extra long, intense acupuncture treatment for tennis elbow (apparently from all that, um, tennis I play) I sat out on my patio in the gloaming, enjoying an adult beverage, when the wind kicked up and I realized I was sitting outside and I was cold and not really in a good way. There's a difference between a crisp chill in the air and a cold wind stirring the leaves ominously. I shivered. I went inside and grabbed a sweater. 

It began to rain.

Wednesday, September 11

It was lightly raining as I made my way to work. It didn't seem unusual or even particularly heavy. Just, you know, rain...like the rain that rains in Seattle a good portion of the time. It had rained off and on throughout the night. Occasionally, very occasionally, that happens around here. I had an umbrella. I left it in the car. That's what most Coloradans do...cuz, you know, why carry an umbrella when, in ten minutes, the weather will change?

It rained pretty steadily all day but was, all in all, uneventful. I went home. I slept well. The rain was such a nice change from the weeks of blistering heat.

Thursday, September 12

Morning dawned. It was raining still. Light and steady most of the time but punctuated every once in awhile with a hard shower. I thought nothing of it beyond how annoying morning rain is when it impacts my ability to enjoy my morning cuppa joe out on the patio.

A couple of hours later, when Acr0nym rolled into work, he IM'd me and said, "This shite is crazy!" I made some comment about how this was just like Seattle so what's the big deal. And that's when he told me about Boulder.

Boulder was flooding. Boulder was, in effect, closed. 

Huh? Boulder's closed because it's RAINING?! That's almost as ridiculous as Denver Public Schools closing buildings because it's hot.

And that's when I thought to tune into the news.

Ahem.

It wasn't just Boulder. By then, Lyons and Jamestown had been completely cut off - no way in or out. Reports of houses collapsing and being washed away in Nederland. And then Longmont, home to TC and Mrs. TC and Mr. & Mrs. Acr0nym Senior - his whole family, cut in half by the St. Vrain River and impending evacuation orders issued. 

Both of us sat, mesmerized, horrified. 

Highway 7 12 miles west of Lyons, CO from the Camping in Colorado Facebook page

Parts of Commerce City, near Denhac, evacuated. Pictures rolling in, stories of wide-spread havoc and devastation from Colorado Springs to the south all the way up practically to the Wyoming border 100 miles away.

And then I saw this picture on the 9 News website...

Utah Park, Aurora, Colorado 

Utah Park is approximately a mile from my house. My NEW house.

And then I saw this picture also on the 9 News website...

This is a picture of an apartment complex right up the street from my house.

And all of a sudden I just really really wanted to go home. Because those pictures, while not nearly so devastating, were much closer to the little world I've carved out for myself, for Lex, for Vinny.

I canceled my chiropractic appointment (my back had been whacked for weeks) for that afternoon, sounding to my doctor, I'm sure, like a helicopter parent who has left her child at daycare for the first time. He told me to go home. He told me he was at a conference all weekend but, if I needed him, to call his cell. I assured him I would be OK. I told him I'd see him on Monday. Ha. Hindsight. 20/20.

My house was just fine. We were snug as bugs in our little nest. While the streets and neighborhoods around me were inundated with flood water, hail, and torrential rain, my little neighborhood's roads didn't have so much as one puddle. I counted my blessings. I worried about my friends, family, loved ones who pepper the communities hit hardest. I went to bed.

Friday, September 13

My back hurt.

Bad.

Badder than it had hurt since I had a strained sacral ligament and spasms in my piriformis muscle back in February and spent weeks and several hundreds of dollars on acupuncture and chiropractic care getting put back to rights.

I took an ice pack with me to work. It got worse. I started to re-think the wisdom of canceling the appointment with my personal wizard, Dr. Sid, the day before. 

I crossed my fingers and just hoped I could muscle through (ha ha) the pain until Monday. I doubled down on the Aleve. I iced. I rooted around my recently unpacked medicine chest and found an old prescription of Robaxin...just in case¹.

It was still raining.

I barely noticed.

I posted to Facebook: "Oh hai, Back Spasm. Been expecting you. Why you gotta land on a Friday when Dr. Sid is busy at a conference all weekend is beyond me. Regardless, I see a weekend fueled by Robaxin and the haze that goes with it. Also? Friday night couture should not include ice packs in the pants. Pretty much ever."

I went to bed.

Saturday, September 14

I guess it was about 1:30 a.m. when I awoke with excruciating pain radiating down my left leg.

"Oh my gawd. What fresh hell is this?" I thought to myself as I grabbed for the Robaxin and then stumbled downstairs to retrieve a fresh ice pack.

But I already knew. Sciatica. An affliction that, in 1988, landed Betsy, the Mom, flat on her back for days and on prescription strength painkillers ever since. An affliction that's plagued several people in my life...Acr0nym (who, if he is even a few minutes late taking his evening anti-inflammatory, gets a little panicky), Beasley, my boss to name a few...for years.

I cannot possibly describe the pain. There aren't words. Only if you have experienced nerve pain can you truly understand. All I can tell you - those of you who have never had the pleasure and by pleasure I mean suckage of the Dyson kind - is that the pain was so intense, so horrible - the worst I've ever experienced - that amputation, if offered, would have come as a welcome relief.

Sincerely.

It was that bad.

I confess. I cried. The ugly cry. Several times.

The muscle-relaxer/sedative fog descended. Still...I couldn't sleep. The pain was the worst if I sat or stood still for just a few seconds. Even lying flat on my back hurt. The only thing that remotely helped was to keep moving. Walking and ice. I paced. And paced. And paced. I shoved ice packs down my pants² quite possibly more than was prudent. I paced until my spasming back screamed shrilly in protest and I was forced back to my bed, tears streaming, begging some unknown and unbelieved in deity to please Please PLEASE just make it stop.

It didn't stop.

I took deep breaths and considered my options.

While dying was preferable, it wasn't forthcoming. That was plan A. Plan B was to make it until Monday when I was scheduled to see Sid. Considering a moment felt like an hour, that didn't seem survivable - especially knowing I'd have to sit at my work desk for a full 8 hours before my scheduled appointment. Plan C was the ER. However, knowing what I know about sciatica, muscle spasms, and western medicine in general I knew Plan C would result in either a cursory examination and a handful of prescriptions for crap that wouldn't do much of anything that the Aleve and Robaxin I was already taking weren't doing or a bunch of ridiculously expensive tests and an even more expensive reservation in a surgical suite for an epidural. That left me with Plan D...seriously inconveniencing the 2 people I count on the most in these kinds of situations on a weekend...my acupuncturist and my chiropractor.

Luckily, my acupuncturist, the lovely St. Jude, was due at my house that day around 2 for a leisurely afternoon on my patio. So, you know, I kinda knew her schedule was already blocked out for me. I called her. I left a tearful message. "I need you. Help me." The call to Dr. Sid, even though he'd told me to call if I needed him, was harder. He was busy doing continuing education-type chiropractor things. It's hard enough to interrupt a friend for professional reasons on a weekend. It's way worse to interrupt when they've paid money to attend a conference you're going to rudely circumvent after you needlessly (as it turns out) canceled your appointment at the very last minute because you can't seem to control your out-of-control anxiety and helicopter homeownershiphood.

Still...I made the call. He answered. After listening to my tearful, plaintive plea, he said, "Call me at 9 a.m. tomorrow and I'll see you in the morning. Unless Jude can't help you today. In that case, call me this afternoon after 3."

St. Jude, however, came to my house prepared, carrying an old fashioned doctor's bag filled with needles and a heart full of healing gold. She laid me out on my bed, stuck me full of needles, and then we talked. We talked about my diet. About diarrhea. About yogurt. About wine. I don't know why. The pain was alleviated...a little. There was little she could really do until the root of the problem - that pesky sacrum and piriformis - was resolved.

It wasn't raining. I hardly noticed.

Afterward, I took her out on my patio. I took Vinny (harnessed and leashed) out on my patio. The sky above was broiling with angry, black storm clouds. Within ten minutes (wait ten minutes), we heard no less than 3 emergency sirens going off in several directions. "Tornado?" I said. "Flood," she said.

Fuck.

I invited her into my living room - the living room whose accommodations include one ratty old couch and boxes of stuff we don't know what to do with and haven't unpacked. She sat on the couch. I laid on the floor. I got up. I took a muscle relaxer. I laid back down. We turned our heads toward the picture window and talked not looking at each other - one of us more coherent than the other - as we watched the hail and the torrential rains pelt the world outside.

Jesus. Is this ever going to stop?

In my head, I was questioning my question...am I talking about the rain or the pain?

Both.

She left a couple of hours later with me issuing grateful promises to gladly have her back in a couple of weeks when I was functioning and able to host her appropriately. 

I retreated to my room. I tried to sleep. No go.

Sunday, September 15

The hours between the wee sma's and 9 a.m. were spent pacing, pacing, pacing intermittently spattered with futile attempts to sleep in my bed and then the guest bed - a bed that, while certainly lacking in lavish comfort, is lower to the floor and easier to enter and exit - and excursions to the freezer for more ice and to the patio for a smoke.

At 9:05, I called. 

"Help," I said.

"OK. How soon can you be here?" he asked.

"Now," I said.

20 minutes later, I found myself lying on my stomach, the e-stim machine attached and scritching away at my back, stimulating the muscles, in hopes that they would relent and allow Dr. Sid to provide me with full release from my agony.

He gave me an extra long time on the machine in order to "cook" he explained.

I took deep breaths in time with the machine.

"I hope this works," I said.

"It will. You'll be OK," he said.

The machine beeped as it stopped.

"Take a deep breath. Now let it out," he said.

And I did.

Pop!

Pop!

Pop!

My spine.

"Turn over on your side," he said. "I've got you," he said.

POP!

My hip.

"Turn over on your other side," he said. "No really. I've got you. I've got you! It's OK, I've got you," he said.

POP!

My other hip.

Immediate relief. No pain. Just sore. The muscles and the sciatic nerve retreating in defeat.

"Don't lift anything heavy. I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

"Thank you. I can't even tell you how much," I said.

I drove home. I slept deeply. I watched the last 6 episodes of Homeland season 1. I no longer hurt.

It wasn't raining.

I didn't care.

Monday, September 16 

It was so beautiful today! Blue sky, low 70's. Colorado in September. My adopted home of 20+ years that I love so much. I relished my new lease on life without pain. I'd forgotten about the floods.

As I drove to work on dry roads, relishing the tasks that laid ahead, the sun shining, listening to Colorado Public Radio, there was a story about the floods. A girl - 15, I think - describing how she and her mother, each carrying a cat, escaped from the devastation of Lyons, CO. just a few short miles from my little nest. "They're saying we won't be able to go home for, at least, 2 to 3 months at the soonest," she said.

Wait...what?

Acr0nym, later, said, "Jane. Lyons is basically gone."

Wait...what?

The gravity hit me again. Floods. Devastating floods. Lyons is gone? The pinball museum? The original Oskar Blues? What about the commune where my darling, Nykki, lived for a time? Gone?

They are calling it a 1,000 year flood. 30+ bridges washed out. The rescue effort the largest since hurricane Katrina. Towns - towns I know intimately, towns whose citizens are friends - devastated, no water, no sewer treatment, no electricity.

All of a sudden I understood...

Ten minutes is a lifetime.

When it's ten minutes of pain. When it's ten minutes of devastation.

Ten minutes can feel like infinity when it's your life.

Wait ten minutes and everything can change...for better. For worse.

1. I really hate taking drugs period. But I especially hate taking drugs whose potential side effects include jaundice because that means the liver is compromised and, well, if I'm going to compromise my liver, I'd at least like to enjoy it. 

2. FYI: Every ice pack in my house has now been shoved down the backside of my underpants several times. Just know that, in the event you need an ice pack while at my house, you are one degree of separation from my ass. You're welcome.

It's Like That

And...just like that, it's done.

As of Monday evening just past, I am down to just one house - MY house - that I own.

As of Wednesday afternoon, I am down to just one job - the NEW job - one that I love.

Yesterday morning was the first weekend morning in months I didn't wake up in a panic wondering how I was going to get everything done that had to get done before:

• I moved my dad
• I closed on my house
• I moved into my house
• I vacated The Grotto
• I started my new job full time.

Friday marked the end of 60-70 hour work weeks. 

It occurs to me I won't ever have to throw a post-apoca-audit party again.

I've spent this weekend shopping for household goods and groceries, unpacking, re-arranging, and finding new places for long-kept treasures. Slowly but surely, the boxes are disappearing as Lex and I make this space our own. 

Both of us fall a little more in love with our house and our neighborhood each day. The "modern" conveniences we now have that we've lived without for the last 5 years - a dishwasher, central air, a double-car garage, our own designated trash and recycling receptacles, reliable postal service, OHMYGAWD bathrooms!!! 2 for each of us!!!, and space...alotta space to spread out - seem like the best kind of magic. We have way more elbow room than we've actually got elbows.

Lex said tonight, "It's pretty great here. It's like...we've moved up...to that deluxe apartment in the sky."

It's also way too quiet here. For years, we've fallen asleep to the sounds of buses, "street tv", and oontz oontz Thursdays (and Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, etc.). It's so quiet that, when I'm sitting out on the patio enjoying my morning coffee or an adult beverage and a smoky treat, I jump when the a/c condenser pops on and does its thing - whatever that "thing" is - to make it cool inside my house. As a result, I'm listening to NPR pretty much nonstop. I've revived the habit of tuning into the BBC during the night - a little something I picked up while dating N8 the GR8 all those years ago. I feel smarter already. At least smart enough to win Karl Kassel's voice on my answering machine by answering all the questions on Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me! Heh.

I'm missing Defcon going on right now. I was supposed to be a Goon again this year but saw the rude writing on the wall back in early June boldly, brazenly stating I would not have time or the physical/mental capacity to live through the stress of all the packing and the moving and the switching jobs and the care and feeding of an aging father AND plan/execute a trip to the desert to sleep little and party lots with the nerd corps. So I backed out.

I hate that I missed the world premiere of Defcon: The Documentary in which I have a (albeit extremely short) speaking part. I hate that I'm not there with friends...with Acr0nym. I hate that I'm not adding to my badge collection (although Acr0 will be bringing me my 4th annual Defcon souvenir knife). 

And yet...I have a house.

An awesome house! With a Target and a Noodles & Company and Korean BBQ and scrumptious sushi and Sam's No. 3 nearby. 

I have a house.

MY house.

A lovely house.

And a grown up bedroom freshly outfitted with grown up furniture and bedding.

It's done.

Just like that.

Whew.

That One Night I Actually, You Know, Blogged

Oh!

Hi!

I didn't expect anyone to still be here lurking around in my blog space waiting to hear from me. You must be starving! And likely thirsty. I would be too if I'd stuck around this long with nary a word. You should go fix yourself a snack. Perhaps a cocktail too. I'll wait. I'll just, you know, occupy myself by blowing the dust off and vacuuming up the cobwebs around here until you get back.

Ready?

OK!

So...let's see...where should I start attempting to fill you in on where I've been, what I've done, and why I've neglected the blog? Well...I know! Let's start with the big stuff.

1.  I am under contract to buy a house! And while you are likely thinking, "Oh! Of course! That's where she's been...looking at house after house after house in search of her dream first time home!" you would be wrong in thinking that's where I've been spending my time. Because, in reality, I saw that first house and then, five days later, saw the second house and put an offer in on it the very next day after receiving the stamp of approval by my realtor, my boss, and non-husbands 1 and 2. 

That's right. I am buying the second house I laid eyes on and I'm not even sorry because it's EXACTLY what Lex and I wanted. It's so perfect (for us) that Lex was practically bouncing about it. For the record, Lex doesn't ever really bounce. He doesn't ever say he loves pretty much anything. Ever. So when he said he loved it, I knew this was the one. Of course, I knew it was the one the day before - likely from the moment I saw the Mormon pantry or the all-mirrored, 70s disco powder room on the main floor - but I figured I might as well give him the illusion of having a say so.

The one down side to this particular house - OUR house-to-be - is that it is a Short Sale. In essence, the sellers are thisclose to foreclosure and, in order to avoid foreclosure, are attempting to sell the house for less than they owe on it hoping their lender will take what they can get and save everyone the time and expense and additional loss created by the headache of an actual foreclosure. Why is this a downside, you ask? Because it takes forever to get approved. It could be 3, 4, or even 6 months before I close on this house. And there's always that added extra stress of wondering if the lender will approve the offer and worrying about whether or not, once it's approved, if it'll pass inspection and/or come in at a reasonably comparable appraised value. 

Ugh. I don't even want to talk about all the little things that are keeping my sub-conscious busy with all sorts of bizarre anxiety dreams (of which I ought to write down because they are just that weird and frequent).  

Just...trust me. I love this house. I'll wait for a long time for it if I have to just...let everything go smoothly. And while I'm waiting I'll just keep pinning stuff to my decorating ideas board on Pinterest. Because yes, apparently I've finally figured out just exactly what Pinterest is for and I don't believe any good will come of it.

2. Let's see...oh yes! Right after I wrote a letter to a sick co-worker, I got sick! With the flu! It was really awful. I ran a fever upwards of 102º for the better part of 9 days and didn't think I'd ever feel well again. woot. If you've ever run a fever that high then you know there isn't much to do except lie about feeling sorry for yourself and watching television. Except I have no television or Netflix or much of anything really (because I'm a cheap bastard) except books and a computer. Reading, however, is out of the question with a fever - I mean, if I want to retain anything more than a few words. The saving grace was that, after a couple of days lying around in germy pajamas, trying not to moan so loudly the neighbors would call for the police or for a sex addiction intervention, I discovered PBS has every episode ever produced of Frontline available online. I don't know why that is important. It certainly seems ridiculous to me now that, while burning up with fever, the one saving grace in my life was hard core documentary porn, but it was important.

No Rocky and Bullwinkle, Inspector Gadget, or Loony Tunes here in this sick ward, folks! No, no! It's all about the opium brides of Afghanistan, AIDS in black America, or poverty through a child's eyes. I suppose maybe I got hooked because misery loves company. Either that or, relatively speaking, the flu ain't got nothing on the street gangs of Chicago. Regardless, I spent 9 days off work, in my pajamas, eating cough drops and Advil while watching people talk about euthanizing themselves.

There's a party all up in here, y'all! Just a barrel o' laughs. Clearly.

Eventually, even though I thought it would never happen, I got better. But not before I'd forsaken every one of my new habits ...with the exception of rubbing the lotion on my skin every day. Oh well. There's always next year.

3. Mostly what's been keeping me away from the blog though is actually a great thing! I've been spending most of my free time volunteering as a board member for Denhac! I don't remember if I mentioned it when it happened but, back in October, I was elected to the board and subsequently elected as an officer - secretary - of the board. After a massive Denhac-ian kerfuffle in December that had me re-thinking relationships and led me to the discovery of the drama triangle - in which I am most often pulled into playing the part of rescuer but found myself in this instance being cast as the villain to which I said wholeheartedly "No thank you. I won't be playing your bullshit game henceforth" (I paraphrase...I didn't actually say it quite like that) - I took over the all important role of managing communications for the space. Turns out, I love it! And I'm really good at it. But it's a lot of work that, for the most part, was neglected in the past. So I've been spending most of my free time building an audience for the space while neglecting the audience I've built here. 

For that, I am sorry. Because I miss my blog. I miss my friends. I miss writing for me...without much purpose and without intent to promote.

But I'm not sorry to see the Denhac hours I put in every single day make a difference. And there is most definitely a tangible difference. Of that I can be extremely proud.

So there.

That's why you've been left to your own devices for much of the last several months. Hopefully you'll forgive me and will continue to poke your noses in every once in awhile to check in on me. I promise I won't make you watch any Frontline episodes on undertaking while you wait...unless you want to, that is. It's a pretty cool episode. I mean, if you like that sort of thing...

Which I do.

It's Probably Best Not to Ask

Have you ever had one of those nights where you're just lying there, drifting off to sleep, and slowly become aware that you're counting?

OK but have you then come to realize you aren't counting sheep or butterflies or LOLcats but you are, instead, counting (and naming) the kids from Eight Is Enough?

OK but have you then found yourself wide awake because dammit! You've only managed to name 7 and who was the 8th kid? Not Nicholas. No. You got him right off the bat. And not David or Tommy or Mary or Elizabeth. And not Joanie either. Susan took some time but you got to her eventually because you remembered she'd been married to Meryl the Pearl and who could forget Meryl the Pearl?!

Clearly I can't. 

OK but have you then started naming the spouses and the actors and plot lines of various episodes and even though you STILL can't remember the name of that 8th kid you are now playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon except with Willie Aames? 

And then, just about the time you are trying to decide whether or not you're going to admit you are now fully awake and obsessing by going through all the trouble of reaching over to grab your phone so you can google the cast of Eight Is Enough or just wait, lying there sleeplessly until the morning, and risk forgetting that you've got this burning first world problem to solve, you sit up in bed, snap your fingers, and exclaim...

NANCY!!! Blond, ditzy, beauty pageant contestant Nancy!

Which startles the cat who was, until then, sleeping soundly next to your head and sends him skittering off in the direction of a quieter place to get some sleep uninterrupted by outbursts from a crazy 80's-pop-culture-obsessing lady. Which is too bad really because once the mystery was solved you were able to fall almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep?

Well...have you?

No?

I guess it's just me then.

Some People Have No Patience Whatsoever

According to the Mayan calendar, the world was supposed to end today...or, at least, change dramatically somehow. Begin a new cycle. Whatever. I don't even know. All I know is that the Maya, for whatever reason, stopped recording the days of the future at 12/21/2012 which was today...I think...although they didn't figure in leap year and now I'm all confused.

Regardless, I would have been sorely inconvenienced if the world had ceased altogether today given that today was the last day I had to work before getting a respite from all things Real for the next 9. Frankly, I've been counting down the weeks and then days since Thanksgiving until the very moment the clock "chimed" 4 p.m. this afternoon (is there such a thing as clocks that chime nowadays? Would anyone under the age of 25 even understand what I mean by that?). The very moment reality could be suspended and I would be allowed to exist only in liminal time.

Luckily, the world did not end and I'm here, now, ensconced in the pajamas I may very well wear until the 9 days are up or they rot off of me. That's the only plan for the next 9 days I currently have.

Well...OK. That's not true. I will go to the grocery tomorrow to lay in 9 days' worth of supplies. I will also make my mama's clam chowder - double bacon, double clams - to take to a beloved friend who needs more comfort than most of us (and that's saying something). I will also venture out to denhac at least twice to record a little something for the all new denhac radio stream online.

I've got my first music playlist already to go and whatever happens on the Serious Business with Stringer and Jane show will happen. No matter what it will likely not be safe for work or for children whatever the topic may be. Which is how it goes with Sharp Pointy Objects too so no one should be in the least surprised.

Bottom line is the world didn't end today. And, while I'm mostly glad, a part of me is sad for flat-as-a-pancake Willy that this song doesn't yet apply...

And for those of you who are youtube averse or put off by the monotony of the electronic tones of the (albeit arguable) music of King Missile, here are the lyrics:

On the morning of the day of the Apocalypse

Willy woke up and made himself bacon and eggs and rye toast

He didn't usually eat bacon, but since today was such a special day,

He figured why not?

Like most people these days,

He had a hard time keeping his food down, but that didn't stop Willy from eating.

He enjoyed food too much.

Willy went outside, he loved to breathe fresh air, but he went outside anyway.

He decided to head across the street and visit his good friend, Bob.

When Willy got to Bob's house, he found that Bob, in utter despair,

Had shot himself in the head.

"Some people have no patience whatsoever," Willy proclaimed.

Well, I'm not going to kill myself!

I'm sticking it out. Today's a special day,

The last day of planet Earth, and I'm going to enjoy myself.

Maybe today I won't go to the health spa.

Maybe I'll just stay here and drink all of Bob's beer.

Or maybe when Bob's wife comes home, I'll take her out dancing.

Yeah, that's it! Dancing! 

I'm going home to get changed.

Willy raced out the door, into the street, not noticing the runaway steamroller

That flattened him into a pancake in less than one second.

The World would have to end without Willy.

It's What I've Got

It wasn't that I consciously decided not to have kids.

At least, not until I was nearly 35.

It was just...

Opportunities presented themselves - both biological and adoptive - and then, by choice and by chance, those opportunities got swept away without my consent until, all of a sudden, I was practically middle aged without prospects. 

And then it occurred to me I rather liked my child-free life. So why try to change it?

Never mind the fact that I didn't feel like I took care of myself particularly well - even though I'd been left to it ridiculously early on - let alone a pet until I adopted Vinny, the guerrilla terrorist cat, 4 years ago today. Until 5 years ago, in my opinion, I wasn't adequately equipped with the fundamental skills required to parent a wee human. My oldest niece and nephew can attest to that...you know, until they were in their teens. Occasionally, I still don't think I am prepared to parent. Parenting a mini me is all-consuming. Exhausting. And I'm already that sans child.

But sometimes...sometimes...my ovaries ache. Like...during the 5 years I spent parenting 600+ children 8 hours a day when I worked at the elementary school. I didn't need children then. I told myself I took the care and feeding of those wriggly beings in hand for a living, I didn't want or need any of my own. 

Or like last night. Watching two dads interact with their children - all girls - playing with them, helping them, patiently letting them climb all over them...

I don't know if my tears tonight are for the me I was who needed, and didn't get, that dad or the me I am who needs to nurture.

Probably both.

Regardless, last night I realized something extraordinary. There really is nothing quite like the love of a child. Perhaps most especially when that child is not your own and yet they seek you out, hug you with everything they've got, and exclaim, "You don't need kids! You've got ME!"

You're all I've got, Kid.

And I'm glad.

What's New?

1) I'm sick.

As it is mid-November, this should come as no surprise to anyone - especially me. And yet, it still caught me a little off guard as I normally get hit with the crud right around the autumnal equinox. In fact, I was starting to feel a bit cocky given that Lex had the plague just a few weeks ago and I didn't catch so much as a sniffle from him.

Alas, germs. I have them. 

Not helpful to my condition was the fact that something happened to the gas line coming into our apartment building and so, for two days - the entire weekend - we had no heat, no hot water, no ability to use our stove. It was a mite chilly in here by Saturday mid-morning when temperatures plunged and the rain/sleet/snow began to fall. Overnight lows on both Saturday and Sunday nights were in the lower teens outside and only slightly warmer inside The Grotto. The situation was eventually rectified late last night...just in time for fever to strike and for me to wake up sweltering around 3 a.m, desperately kicking off covers, opening the window, and peeling off pants and socks in search of relief from the oppressive heat the radiator above my bed was pumping out. 

Yuck.

Anyway!

2) So...a couple of weeks ago, by some fluke, I was voted onto the board of Denhac. I had never been voted onto anything before so I was a little flabbergasted. I didn't even have an acceptance speech prepared. I mean, all those years of practicing my Oscar acceptance speech in front of my sister's full length mirror and I choked?! WTF?

Anyway!

It kinda feels like winning Homecoming Queen or voted most popular but way geekier and I'm not required to wear a fancy dress or pantyhose...uh...I don't think...which suits me just fine. But I wasn't honestly expecting to get voted on even though there were 7 slots and only 8 candidates. Clearly, I don't always hold myself in the highest esteem.

Regardless, I got voted onto the board and then subsequently got elected Secretary.

But not this kind of Secretary...

Uh...I don't think.

Mostly, I think I'm just supposed to take and publish minutes. No spankings [generally] allowed.

3) So...the US Presidential election happened. 

I have kept this blog and my Facebook/Twitter/G+ pretty clean about my personal leanings - I don't tend to use them for a political pulpit anyway - but suffice it to say I was happy with the outcome. 

Pre-election, I tried my best to stay as tuned out as possible. The anger, fear, self-righteousness from both sides left me feeling sick to my stomach and sick in my heart. I will confess I unfriended two people from Facebook as they virtually screamed utter nonsense at everyone in their friend list. 

In the wake of the election though, I've allowed myself to be appalled by the racist tweets published by teenagers, to laugh and understand the sadness of White People Mourning Romney (it's just as I felt in 2004), but mostly I've read some incredibly thoughtful articles written from both sides. Today, in particular, I read this article from the Washington Post - GOP's Red America forced to re-think what it knows about country. 

The reason why I point to this article is because, while I fundamentally disagree with everything this woman stands for, the article so gently captures her disappointment, her sadness, her confusion, and her fear, I felt as though I could somehow to relate to everything she was feeling...from the other side.

I'm under no illusion that the woman herself is as gentle as the author makes her out to be. But the piece was written in such a way that only the most heartless wouldn't find some compassion for her. In other words, Eli Saslow made this woman real in a way that White People Mourning Romney simply parodied. 

If I thought it would do any good, I would ask her to sit down with me over a pot of coffee and talk about Colorado. 

“And Colorado? Who the heck is living in Colorado? Do they want drugs, dependency, indulgence? Don’t they remember what this country is about?”

I would gently explain to her that I - me - I'm living in Colorado, Sister. And I do remember what this country is about. It's about freedom from religion (even yours). It's about freedom of choice. It's about free speech. It's about having equal opportunity under the law (even for women and minorities). It's about the freedom, as a single, aging, independent, feminist woman to openly challenge and defy your (and a shit ton of other people's) idea of the "natural order of the household"...

“Yes, Lord,” she said. “We are saying yes to honoring you, but no to the junk of this world, to the wickedness, the self-gratification, the path that we are just saddened by. We choose your path, Lord.”

It was a path that had worked for her, providing strength and stability during her parents’ rocky divorce, and then helping her transform from a stubbornly independent woman — the “feminist, I-am-woman, hear-me-roar type,” she said — into a mother and a wife who respected what she called the “natural order of the household.” 

I would try to explain to her that her party - the Republican Tea Party - is scaring people. It frankly reminds me of 1970's Iran and the rise of the Ayatollah Khomeini. And we all know how well that's working out for the Iranian people - especially women and those of other faiths. 

So no matter what her party runs and banks on for their economic plan, when it comes to civil, human rights, many, MANY of us are terrified. 

That's what happened to America. We, the complacent, got supremely scared.

Ask any one of us and we'll tell her/him/them.

Amirite?

So that's what's new. Mostly. I think.

I Found Hell

And, as it turns out, hell is a sports bar located in Small Town, Colorado.

My version of hell looks like that anyway.

I don't like sports. I don't like watching sports or talking about sports or yelling at the TV when a sport is being broadcast. I also don't like finding myself surrounded by gobs of people watching sports - especially when it is all kinds of sports on a number of TV screens - and hearing them yell...for no reason.

It sets my nerves a jangling. 

Additionally, I don't appreciate the seating in sports bars which typically comes in two types...

1) High bar stools which leave my short legs a dangling or

2) Booths in which my quadruple D breasts have nowhere to hide and are forced to rest on the table itself.

Lastly, this...

This song should play in no bar - sports or otherwise - pretty much ever.

(Oh hai, Spux. Apparently this video would demonstrate how one ought to dance to this song. You're doing it wrong.)

Throw in throngs of drunken people who've clearly been there for hours, the inability to take the edge off with a cocktail myself due to the fact that I've got to drive myself several miles home on the freeway (something I don't do well under ideal conditions...you know, like in daylight completely sober) while recovering from a persistent migraine, and witnessing one particularly dick move by someone who wasn't invited, shouldn't have been there, who is lucky I didn't stand up and punch him full on in the face, and all of a sudden you've got...

H-E-Double Hockey Sticks. Hell.

Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?