I spent all day hoping that the list would in equal and mutually exclusive parts be either or both:

completely buried by the mountains of scattered papers and piles on my desk

and/or

completed with each name contacted and virtually hugged.  (Eew, cheese)

I started off the day with:

‘My eye’s feel like they’re going to bleed.  My mind is set on overdrive.’ – (Brain Stew, Greenday)

‘We’ve got to stay in one piece, stay out of jail, we gotta hide the dead girl.’ – (Hide the Dead Girl, Terrorvision)

and

‘I’d rather die than give you control.’ (Head Like a Hole, NIN)

And with this I’d like to give a bow to the strength of my current undead theme (…connection with the human race people, pay attention…) and also to appropriately timed lyrics.  (I wish I could put in links; however, it seems I am somewhat inept.  Sorry.)

I would like to preface the rest of this post by saying that today was not a good day.  I would like to use more colorful language…something involving monkeys and maybe tear gas or something, I don’t know…but those words are kind of lost in the ((*#&#%^^@)) currently wreaking havoc in my brain.

It wasn’t necessarily the ten hours without stepping into the sunshine, or the phone ringing off the hook, or the three add ons or the EAS shake and the handful of almonds that I got for lunch…all of my girls (and guy) worked so well together despite missing vital elements of our team, that I really can’t complain.

Any given week I could look for those things that make you wonder if this world is indeed insane and governed by the laws of physics that hold the 6yo’s self portraits in mid air.  It surrounds me…I work in an amazing place that allows me to say, ‘We’re here to take care of you right now when your world has been turned upside down…this is what we do.’  I LOVE that.  I may not always show it but that daily practice, the ‘this is what we do’, is what I thrive on and what drives me forward.

But this week has been bad.

Between nuchal cords and emergent sections, anencephaly and acrania, hydrops and demise…I could actually go on…There have been the near tears of the stoic and taciturn patient as she left her final appointment, the brief break in resolve – so slight but deeply felt – of one of my nurses who came from a room with pictures, the sudden diagnosis of a mate’s girlfriend of cancer, and the quiet anxiety that builds up in a room with the door shut…

Aargh.

So I was a bit burned today, this week already…singed around the edges.

My internal soundtrack is now stuck on repeat playing Fight Outta You.  I heard this, very appropriately, right after hearing about the girlfriend’s diagnosis and right after he declared that he is the type of person to stand out in the middle of the street and shout:

‘Cummon, universe, bring it on!’

I was really rather upset to hear no one had bothered to ask him what was up after a week of unusual gloominess.  (I was really rather upset that it took me so long to ask.)  The yellow paper with blue lines is screaming at me…’People!  ((*#&^&@))!’

As I sat next to my girl M and listened to 90′s alternative, rocking the pile of paperwork, we discussed the supposedly imminent apocalypse.  (Which I did not know about, and therefore cannot be imminent because I would have put it in my planner so I could be available to stop it.)  The image of her shaking her fist at a churning sky and an oncoming tidal wave shouting, ‘Cummon, universe, bring it on!  I am NOT doing this right now!’  Gives me the chuckles.

Where do we get strength?   Where do we go to find understanding and sympathy?  Where do we go to find an inappropriately placed joke or a beautifully appropriately timed lyric?

Dunno.

But we put up decs tonight to a soundtrack of Rage Against the Machine and Depeche Mode…

‘All I ever wanted, all I ever needed…’ [go on, what comes next?] – (Enjoy the Silence, Depeche Mode)

That’s my favorite today, ‘last day’ and ‘next day’, along with:

‘I’d rather take a punch than not give you a shot.’ – (Fight Outta You, Ben Harper)

xb.

‘All I really want is one more hour in the day.’

Because, wouldn’t that be lovely?  There could be an extra hour to cook the meal that you should have cooked the night before so you could have leftovers when you got home at 6pm on Monday. 

There could be an extra hour to play the incomprehensible game that your sons have made up in which you are a pilot/medic and are armed with a duel cored laser rifle with a supercharged something or other that would only be used in self-defense (of course). 

There would be an extra hour to figure out how to get into the very vanilla soy milk carton, which apparently requires a more technical degree than I currently hold. 

There would be an extra hour to sleep.

Sleep would probably win out.  I only say this because I was up til after midnight ‘corresponding’.

I thing that as a society we should bring back the letters sealed with wax and pony express curriers.  Then if a message didn’t get through there might be severe weather, failed river fordings, highwaymen, bandits or countless other disasters to blame.  I wouldn’t have to wonder if there were gremlins in the wires or if I didn’t really connect with the person at the other end because I was put in the junk folder.  Maybe they were just being nice because they didn’t want to be rude in person…

I’m hope I wasn’t put in the junk folder.

Anyway, I want more than an extra hour in the day.  I want a lot more than that…things that are more practical and necessary.  So I wonder why we (meaning me in the royal sense as I’m sitting here with my very vanilla soy milk and contemplating antiquated forms of correspondence) seek things that are impossible. 

I am never going to be happy if I keep wishing for a 25 hour day or an 8 day week…though it would have to be a 9 day week, as we’ve already discussed my difficulty with even numbers.  If I had an extra arm (or another head) I would look rather more ridiculous than I do now.  If I earned twice as much…well, that would make things a little easier but I’m pretty sure I could spend twice as much as I do now and it wouldn’t look much better in the bank account.

Claudia’s sister in the Baby Sitters’ Club (I liked Claudia…at least I think that was her name…anyway, I liked her the best because she was the artist) was once reported to ask why we (as people) try to change the environment to please our needs when we can easily put on a sweater.

Dunno why that’s stuck with me.  I don’t know where I come up with most of the things I think about. 

So, no point to this story, just a thought on ridiculous things.

If there was another day in the week…it might be a Thursday…

Aargh.

Xb.

Hilarious Ducky used to be hilarious.  It was a snowy night about three years ago and the draft blew inside the glorified tent we used to call the apartment.  The small child had just taken a bath with his brother, floating fish, sinking army vehicles and expired syringes (without needles and never used).  He put on the yellow towel with the hood that looks like a duck.  He was now Hilarious Ducky, a super-hero for the modern age.

It was then that tragedy happened.  After running into the front room and running back, after running into the kitchen and his room without anything on but his clever disguise, after his mother shouted at him for the fifteenth time to come get dressed…he hit his head on the book shelf.

He wasn’t hilarious any more.

Tragic.

What I don’t understand is how the almost 6 year old remembers the incident.  I don’t have any idea as I didn’t see the crash…I didn’t even hear it…but it must have  been profound for him.  He remembers the book shelf exactly, he pointed out where Hilarious Ducky had hit his head so many years ago and ended his hilariousness.

He did this as he asked me, ‘Why did you put Ducky away?  I can’ t believe you put Ducky away.  Can we not put Ducky away again?’

He then busied himself running in circles with the towel flapping behind him.  He says, ‘Mom, I’m a cannon ball, watch me.’ And propels himself into the air, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping the towel around himself.  I watch him fall to the carpet without catching his fall.

I watch him come up laughing.

Nevermind, the bookshelf that ended the hilarious part is now right at the end of his runway and his uncontrolled descent. Nevermind, his mother’s heart stops every time he lands with a thud.

‘Mum,’ he says, ‘do you know why the cannon ball is yellow?  Cos fire is yellow…or some of it.’

Well, it is, I guess, even though I’ve never seen a yellow cannon ball.

The other day, I gave a kinda new friend of mine a copy of the title sequence of the screenplay to read.  I did this without explanation or cover art, so she had no idea what it was.

She was confused.

I’m actually ok with that.  I’m over trying to speak the ‘correct’ language or put things in the ‘correct’ format.  I figure that if it’s new and exciting…it’ll be new and exciting or totally misunderstood, either way I’m vindicated.  If I (ever) throw it up into the air and it falls like the Not-Hilarious Ducky cannon ball on yellow fire…well, I’m working up to being ok with that.  If I only ever get a limited audience who sees a reflection of themselves in it…well, I need to finish it first before I think about all that, but it sounds like a good result.

Every question that I get about the monster (i.e. the screenplay) gives me another bit of detail that I can put in.  I try not to get upset when I’m asked questions that have already been explained…if I had to explain every bit of blue eye shadow it would make the silly thing even longer than it is already.  I recognize that it is a completely obscure jumble of words and images, but I have to assume some level of intelligence in the reader.  The absence of something is often as significant as the presence, but not everyone will recognize that something is missing.  I know the monster is not for everyone though.  I get that.

So, I gave the copy to the new friend and after I explained that I am not in danger of jumping off anything significantly high, she asked me if I wrote a lot.

‘No…not really,’ I reply, embarrassed.

I mean, I don’t.  I don’t have a portfolio of (finished) stories, I don’t have novels I’m trying to sell (yet).

So, I don’t write, right?

Well, I do.  I just don’t usually let anyone read what I write.

Ducky continues to be hilarious, even though he doesn’t call himself Hilarious Ducky.  He was in very dangerous danger of becoming even less hilarious by hitting his head on the bookshelf again the other day.  The boy inside the disguise was and is still the most beautiful intelligent, sensitive, creative if a little unbalanced child.

I would like to stop vacillating between apprehension and courage.  I would like to stop equivocating because I fear that someone might get to know me and not like it.  …there are too many lessons to be learned and learned well.  There needs to be more time during the day and I don’t know, maybe I need a towel with a duck hood?

The 5 year old drew this picture to illustrate how to create Lego battleships:

He drew this:

and well, I knew what it was instantly and was impressed.  It may just be because I am his mother, but my husband said that it looks like the almost 6 year old has inherited my talent for drawing…

I wanted to fight and remind him that I haven’t drawn in a really, really long time…but what is is, right?  Accept the complement.  (I think it was a complement).  Just because I don’t call the Duck hilarious (I’m not allowed to), doesn’t mean he doesn’t make my day better.

Ok, I’m finished rambling.

I think my cat just ate a piece of wadded up tape.

Oh, and now she’s come to stick her claws into my thighs.

Joy.

xb.

‘To infinity and beyond!’

and

‘I’ve got a galaxy to save!’.

Two nights after we brought it home, something set it off at three in the morning and scared the life out of me. I figured if it was a burglar and he wanted to save the galaxy, things were somehow going to be ok, but it took me forever to fall back to sleep. The balloon has been floating lower and lower and after I found it hovering about head height on the stairs last night like some large headed specter, I gave up on it and threw it in the trash outside.

Because it is somehow really beginning to feel like winter (even though it is back up to 70F), we made Scouse this weekend. I feel like I don’t actually have the right to explain what Scouse is in the same way that I would be pretty upset if someone gave away the secret of my family’s Momice rolls. (Which incidentally, I have not actually figured out yet…apparently that DNA skipped me, but you get what I mean.)

To say that Scouse is a root vegetable stew doesn’t do it justice either. That is like saying my shiny new phone is a device for communication or that Maserati make vehicles for getting around. Scouse usually contains lamb or stewing steak but there is also a veggie version. I know that you can do a veggie version of almost anything but this meatless version is not called veggie or vegan or meatless or mock or any of those other detonations that people tend to use. Scouse without meat it is called Blind Scouse.

I love the way the British have with words.

It is kind of an honor to be carrying on a family recipe, even if I am rather nervous about my ability as a cook…and even if it is almost impossible to mess up a batch of Scouse (I have been told…I don’t know, I am sure I could manage it) it is an honor to be told that it is a good batch.

The 5 year old went to the farm with his class last week. He was so proud that he brought home bags full of produce he came running up to me when I got in the door to tell me all about it. I wasn’t sure if he was just reveling in the experience of digging in the dirt for food or if I have said too many times that I work because we need food to eat and he was proud to have brought food home for us.

Either way, I felt slightly sad and proud at the same time. It did feel kind of strange to be eating food that was basically put on the table by my child, but I got over it. I think that the Scouse this weekend tasted particularly good because it was straight from the ground and into our bowls, because the 5 year old picked it and helped prepare it and because he was so proud.

We left the corn that he had picked in the refrigerator, still wrapped up in husk. I am not a big fan of corn. I don’t mind if it is from a tin and all nice and de-cobbed…that makes me a deviant, doesn’t it? Anyway, we left it in the fridge and just last night I asked the 5 year old to peel it or skin it or…de-husk (?) it. He was very excited, but as I expected, we found this:

I took a picture of it cos it was cool, and because that is what I do and the 5 year old says,

‘I can’t believe you like caterpillars in my food!’

After taking the picture, I ‘rescued’ it by putting it outside…I realize that it is now winter and I realize that I put it in a pile of rocks that are not likely to sustain it…but what are you going to do? It was better than putting it in the trash or in a jar.

The 5 year old said, ‘Olivia put a bunch of bugs in a jar once and put the lid on tight.’

‘Oh?’ I asked.  (Sometimes this is all you can say to him.)

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘they all died.’

And I’m thinking, OK, not going to put it in a jar.

The second cob was just as bad, and this one had a tiny little caterpillar in it. It was so small, I kept losing sight of it in the corn silk and kernels   I tried to rescue it, but it fell in the trash filled with corn silk and husk and coffee grinds and the 9 year old’s old shoes with the holes in and whatever else was in there.

What does the five year old comment?

‘Now the caterpillar’s going to live under a world of trash…Not a long life for him.’

So even though my heart said that I needed to dig through the mountain of trash to rescue the small creature, I realized the hopelessness of the task, I distracted the boy and tied the bag loosely. Our rubbish bin sits right inside the door that leads to the garage and I quickly carried the bag out of the kitchen and whisked it through to the rubbish bin. I hoped that the 5 year old wouldn’t tell me what a horrible human being I was (any more than he already had). I hoped that I could get away without incident. I shoved the loosely tied bag into the bin and what do I hear?

‘To infinity and beyond!’

I want to believe that this was not a call to my conscience, though perhaps the 2mm bug is a really brave 2mm bug.

Who knows?

He sounded braver than I am.

x.

Of course we don’t remember everything and I remember even less.

So what is it about the things we remember and the things we forget?

What makes me remember tea in the window sill and someone else remember the smell of lavender?  What triggers a memory that was forgotten to become poignant again?

Why did I suddenly remember the girl with the long dark hair that was always pulled back into a messy pony?  I don’t know anything else about her, though I know I had at least one conversation with her.  I don’t know if she was in Goodricke, what she was studying, or what her name was…I don’t know if I ever knew her name.

Why would I suddenly remember someone I never really knew?

If memories choose us or if we choose memories, if they are triggered by sight or smells or if they pop up when they are about to be over written and your mind is asking you, ‘do you really want to delete this file?’  It makes me wonder how many other memories are buried inside my head.  It makes me wonder how many other minds have my nameless image buried inside them.

Course now I can’t stop singing, ‘I met a boy called Frank Mills, on September 12^th right here…’  Will have to dig out the CD if I still have it.

Girl with the long hair that you used to pull into a messy pony, I thought about you the other day and I’m sorry we never got to know each other.  I hope the last 15 years have been pretty good for you.

Prolly not the Hallmark greeting card of choice…another thing to add to my list of careers not to gamble on.

x.

I would have something stunning to say…something sparkly on the surface and underneath deep and wholly embracing.  I wouldn’t be lost in the light and found in the dark with a ‘you need a hug, don’t you?’  I might not have lost the moon, though in my defense it was just a sliver and it was ‘slightly overcast’.  I might be able to make sense of the random words…I swear they mean everything in context.

Unfortunately, I never got around to making coffee.

Fortunately…

x.

‘Mama, what did it start out as? It looks like an angry elephant.’ – The 5yo

MMM…woke up this morning to the pleasant smell of skunk having slept through my alarm…again.  I wouldn’t mind so much except I changed it to ‘Breathe’ by the Prodigy because I could and I couldn’t think of anything more appropriately eye-opening.  Now I keep turning it off.  If I’m not careful and sleep too late, I am woken by the cat in my face roaring like a…cat.  Clever kitty.

I went to bed last night contemplating the cost effectiveness of treating mild gestational diabetes; and wondering if the increased risk of pre-eclampsia and gestational hypertension in pregnant women with mild gestational diabetes could mean that the mechanism of the disease in its mild form was different from that in its more severe…

I woke up late and, I swear, as dumb as a rock.

I listened to an NPR story the other week on learning in your sleep.  The program concluded that the only thing they’ve been able to prove is that a person is better able to retain information after they’ve had a chance to process it in their sleep, i.e. napping is good.  They also said that simple conditioning can happen in sleep under controlled circumstances.

I am not sure that I understood the articles that I read before bed but I am most certain that I didn’t understand them in the morning.  I dreamt I was on a roller-coaster.

Perhaps my cat is conditioning me to live more spontaneously.

Perhaps I am feeling like I did when I took my 8yo on the Boomerang at Elitches…wasn’t such a good idea.

I asked when I got to work about the whole gestational diabetes thing…turns I didn’t really have any idea after all, the mechanism of the disease is the same…there goes my doctorate thesis idea.

Nevermind.

I’ve been working on some digital ‘artwork’, you know…in my spare time.  (Who needs to get laundry done?)  The picture above apparently appears like an angry elephant.  Guess it depends on your perspective.  I am quite excited that the small boy figured that the picture had mutated from something else.  I am also quite excited that I surprised him when I showed him the original.  Guess I’m not dumb, boring mum after all.  Guess I should try to enjoy the roller-coaster and be grateful that I don’t smell skunk every morning.  Guess I should also probably change my alarm.

x.

As he left the table, I say, ‘Dude, did someone poison your cucumbers?’

The answer?  (Mind you this is from my 5 year old)

With a nonchalant shrug, he replies, ‘Just one of them but the other one’s touching it.’

I haven’t laughed that much or that hard in forever.  I couldn’t help myself.  I was probably wrong to encourage him but it was just so unexpected and so casual and matter of fact.  I still find myself grinning ridiculously when I think about it.

I am starting to wonder if I will end up having to taking classes in order to keep up.  I envision a series of 1/2 hour seminars (remember the short attention span) with titles such as:

- Never show fear and don’t let anger be your first reaction

- Don’t ever let on that your child is smarter than you

- Write this stuff down because you’ll never remember it

- Life is much more fun when the children write the script

or maybe,

- Be suspicious of anything green, your children won’t eat it and don’t forget that they are smarter than you are

Once upon a time I used to eat a lot of Ramen noodles.  I stopped after I put the rest of a bowl down on the floor for my dog Sammy (Sammy I miss you!) and she wouldn’t touch it.  I figured that probably wasn’t a good sign as she ate EVERYTHING else including grass and spiders.

Yesterday afternoon we had some TREMENDOUSLY naughty children in the waiting room.  They were running around unheeded, vaulting over the couches, shouting and hitting each other.  They even picked up the diaper cake that I made and brought in for decoration and started throwing it around and hitting each other with it!  Who does that?  Who lets their children do that?

I knew then (and I knew before but I was just suddenly very pleased and proud right then) that my kids are pretty good kids.

I tried to explain to my 8 year old, when he asked why the flag was still flying outside when it was raining, that some people don’t know the rules because they were never taught and others don’t have any sense of concern and compassion for other people.

The answer from the 8 year old?

‘I know the rules.’

Then he proceeds to tell me how to hang the flag correctly and when to take it down and how and I thought I knew all the rules too, but apparently I don’t.

Once again, I am thinking that I am somewhat dimmer than my children.

I suppose this indicates that, despite being me, I have done something correctly.  (Don’t worry I won’t let it get to my head.)

That said, I did break down and buy a KidzBop cd yesterday.  The 8 year old desperately wanted it and the other, when he found out about it, was all, ‘SWEET!’  I didn’t bat an eyelid when the young man rang it up even though I didn’t have anything cool to balance out the extremely sweet.  I did have a yoga mat, which incidentally I am in love with, and that is cool; however, does have an element of soccer mom about it.  Maybe I have given up on what others think about me (oh, so not true).  Or maybe I have (rightly) put that passion for my boys (see previous posts) where it should be: beyond reproach from ridicule.

I would do anything for my boys…even be seen with a KidzBop cd.

Just also let it be said that I did not roll the windows down while it was playing and as soon as they were dropped off at their last day of daycare I found the pretty hate machine and retrieved some internal edge at the top of my voice and the (pathetically inadequate as this is my car speakers we’re talking about) bass stirring rebellion inside.

This all leaves me to wonder if that edge, being slightly poisoned (…nothing serious and life threatening, but non the less toxic on some level…at least to house plants, because I certainly can’t keep one alive in the house for more than three weeks), is allowed to sit next to the cuddly and slightly pudgy, likes to read to the boys out loud and tries to look after them to the detriment of everything else including her cool factor (does this accurately describe my motherly side?…I don’t know.) ?

Can Nine Inch Nails exist in my record collection next to KidzBop?  If I leave them in my car together, will I come back to a burned out carcass of a car?  I didn’t today.  (Coincidentally, who do you think would win?)

Can the girl with hang nails and chipped polish who is really, really, really bad at Cardio Dance also have the quiet grace or calm that allows her to back someone away from the edge of panic?  (This includes herself.)

Can I be all of the things that I am and want/need to be without inciting an internal civil war?

Will I end up the burned out carcass of a vehicle with ‘Down In It’ singing quietly in choir with ‘Feed the Birds’. (Where did the Mary Poppins reference come from?…don’t ask, it happened this morning.  Don’t know why.  Also don’t know how my brain got the two stuck in the same repeating soundtrack together.  It was somewhat confusing.)

I don’t know, but when my son comes up to me and says, ‘Mum, do you know why I like these [granola] bars?  I like these bars because they have honey and viber (read fiber) in them.  I like viber.  You know why I like viber?  Cos it makes you poo.’   I know that…actually I don’t know what I know, because what do you say to that?  Am I proud?  Am I terrified?  Do I need to upgrade my operating system to keep up with the boys?  Take some classes?  He just told me that his poo was green because he ate a lot of green food today…not the cucumbers though.

‘Mum,’ the 8 year old says, ‘you need to skip the track after the next one.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Cos it has Justin Bieber.’

‘Oh?  Is it bad?’ I ask.  I don’t know.  I panic a bit as I realize I have no idea what is on this cd I just bought him.  Who is Justin Bieber?  Are his songs inappropriate?  (Or more so than the Automatic’s Monster, which they also like.)

‘Mom,’ he says with disdain and a little condescension, ’it’s Justin Bieber.‘

I guess I was told.

Won’t make that mistake again.

x.

My mind was a mess this morning.  Much as it was the morning before last and … well, it’s been going on for some time now but I choose to believe that is irrelevant.  This morning my mind was the kind of mess with maggots and meal worms and the doubt that rises when I start to wonder if maggots and meal worms are the same thing.

Erg.

I am caught up in a mess of self doubt, exhaustion and feverish … low-grade, can’t really do anything about it because, yes, it happened, you are the responsible one and people depend on you and guess what?  It won’t get done if you don’t do it … illness.

I am pleased to say that the dreams last night were better than the night before in which the post man was laughing his socks off at me because I couldn’t climb a very steep hill with the help of a rope.  He didn’t understand that I was wearing roller skates.

It is just coincidence that this week is the week that I am covering for someone else.  The only week that I absolutely CANNOT be ill.  It is just coincidence that I am ill for the first time in a year.

Coincidence.

Honestly, it’s been a bad week.

I am slightly panicky that I have begun this new age (35…remember my midlife crisis?) in such a profoundly icky way.  I have been taking bets (the cat currently holding the best odds) on my making it to 36.  Speaking of odds, is it odd that 36 seems younger to me than 35?  Or that 37 seems down right mid-life crisis?

Anyway, when I was younger and all dressed in black and writing away at a story about four teenagers in a small town and moody as anything … yes, this could be last week, but I mean when I was younger by about twenty years, my mother had a quote pinned to her fridge.  It said something along the lines of success/life/happiness is 1percent what happens to you and 99percent what your additude is toward it.  I am surprised that I cannot quote it exactly as I’ve read it that many times.  I do believe that she still has it on the refrigerator.

I used to hate this quote but it now sits (paraphrased with reverence) between my current mantras of ‘Don’t panic’ and ‘Just get it done.’

Thank you, Mum.

About two weeks ago, maybe three, I went to the post office to pick up my husband’s transcripts for his new school.  He signed the back of the delivery notice and I had to bring ID.  I have been trying to train myself to have everything I need prepared and ready to go and I do believe I did a very bang up job with this one.  When I got to the counter the man asked for ID, I had it all ready to go.  It took me by surprise when he said I had a lucky birthday, I got the moon landing anniversary.  He said that his birthday was unlucky (April, 20) and I had to whole-heartedly agree with him.  My birthday was much better.  If my life were a novel, that would have been a point of not-so-subtle foreshadowing.

Weird coincidence.

If you haven’t heard (I know it made news in the UK, but I don’t know about elsewhere), there was a mass shooting at a midnight movie premier in the wee hours of morning this last Friday.  My husband called me just before he started getting calls for vents.

Anyway, I tried drafting why it has been just too difficult since last week (from Thursday to be exact), but everything is pale against the blood that was shed so completely needlessly.

The 500 dollars on top of the 700 dollars spent to unexpectedly repair both cars.  Being by myself on the front at work.  Being ill.  My little one being ill and throwing up all over me.  Being restless and fairly useless and overwhelmed.  Seeing a child knocked down.  Getting another flat on my bike.  My parents being out of town having to deal with things back east.  The doctor implying that my 8 year old may have AD/HD (Lier, Lier, LIER!!!) because he daydreams a lot and forgets to turn in his homework.  The 5 year old, however … as he bounces around the room like a disoriented fly, is mostly acting normally and my concern that I will get a call every week once school starts again from his unprepared teacher is premature.  (The Doctor recommended structure and routine!  WHERE AM I GOING TO FIND THAT IN MY LIFE!!!?)

Pale.

So, as much as I would like to be a nihilist…believe it or not she co-exists with Pollyanna in my head…I can’t be because of the ingrained additude that is pinned to the refrigerator and has been for 20 years.  I am trying to see it all in the perspective of current events.

(Mum, I will be rather upset if you tell me that you threw that quote away years and years ago, because I do remember it being there last week.)

I’ve never been really hungry.  I’ve never been knocked down by a parent and shouted at.  I’ve never been without means or determination to get where I need/want to go or the family and friends to support me in my task.

I’ve never been shot at.

I might be able to wallow in the illness and self pity if I didn’t understand that I am breathing (not that well currently, but I am breathing) and I have gorgeous family and friends who(among other things) made me key lime pie and peach pie and got me empire games to play and galaxies to hitchhike, mascara to wear and skirts and earrings and disco balls of doom.  (There’s really just one disco ball.  Yes, it is the disco ball of doom as I would decorate with nothing less.)

My nurse practitioner tells me that I should look into counselling instead of nursing.  I tell her that she’s right, I should look into counselling but my insurance doesn’t cover it and I can’t afford it.

‘Don’t you get it?  He’s a Jedi.  You don’t mess with a Jedi.’  says the 5 year old.

I wish I was a Jedi.  I wish I wasn’t useless amongst mad men and needless violence, among spanish speakers…when solo hablo un poquito de espanol…and housework and (flippant) suggestions about adding routine and structure into our lives.

‘I’m lost,’ says the woman in surprisingly attractive fatigues.

‘I am too,’ answers me, the girl on the too short stool (the one she sits on now because she replaced her chair as it sounded like she was squishing a frog every time she sat down) as she sniffs her brains (in the guise of yellow colored snot) back into her head.

‘That could be a problem,’ says the woman in uniform, slightly bewildered.

‘Yep,’ I say…There isn’t anything else to say.

x.

The world seemed slightly off center today…just a bit to the left, maybe, or tilted because the foundation had given way.

It was grey and wet after endless weeks and weeks of walking around in an aura of evaporated sweat.

It was silent after a weekend of hyperactivity and machine gun sound effects.  (This weekend hosted an epic battle between a green thunderbirds space shuttle, the cat in galactic space and the five year old’s unfortunately inherited inability to focus on anything, including behaving, for more than two minutes at a time.)

It was the beginning of a huge schedule shift for the family…shifting as it always seems to just when you get comfortable enough to have one hand on the wheel.

I’ve always noticed this kind of change most with the boys.  Get good at diapers and it’s time to potty train.  Get used to ‘I Can Read’ books and Go, Dog, Go! and they’ve moved onto Star Wars Clone Wars choose your own adventures.  ’…there will be a whole new adventure waiting for you with every read.’  Get used to dropping them off at daycare and next thing they are packing lunches for school.

Today, it felt hard to breathe, as if someone was sitting on my chest.  Not in the fun way either, where there are tickle games but in the mean, ‘I’m going to make your face look funny,’ way.

Still, how often do you get to see change coming?

I would rather see the deer in the headlights stand in front of me on the road, than be hit by the train when I didn’t even know I was on the track.  Instead of waking up one morning and tripping over yourself when your son knows all the words to Baby got back.  Or while ‘following directions’ and getting completely lost and turned around in your old neighborhood (yes, it happened again) and ending up five miles out of your way before you have any idea where you are.

Change is good right?  I remind myself that the only constant thing in life is change.  If there were no change, a casual interest in Buffy the Vampire Slayer could not turn into my current love affair with Joss Whedon.  If there were no change, I would still be changing diapers and reading Go, Dog, Go!   ‘Hello again.  And now do you like my hat?’  If there were no change, I wouldn’t be debating the possibility that there are cats in intergalactic space with my children who never had any chance but to grow up with a bit of geek to go with their nerdy.

…just a few thoughts as I try not to hyperventilate.

‘I walk along these hillsides in the summer ‘neath the sunshine.
I am feathered by the moonlight falling down on me.’

(- A Murder of One, Counting Crows)

I welcome change…I think.

x.

The pigtails are back again.  For those of you that don’t yet know me well, this signifies the rise of the undead cheerleader.  She makes an (unwelcome) appearance when I am so ready to give up that I need a physical reminder that there is no reason to take any of this so seriously…that life is in fact good.

Life is good…right?

This last week…a short week mind you due to Memorial Day…has knocked the breath out of me.  I will give you an image: picture my face in the dirt with a little monkey wearing spangly ear muffs jumping up and down on my skull.  Honestly, it is a good thing that I don’t have a problem with dirt…kinda like it.  I also like monkeys.

Anyway, this week:

-         I was all alone on Tuesday in the front of the office.  This is fine.  I am equipped to think in a creative manner that allows me to improvise and take on several roles at once.  Hooray for AD/HD!  All was good, however we were also missing half our staff when we were scheduled for not missing half our staff. 

-         I learned that I was correct about a certain situation that I didn’t want to be correct about.  I was told that despite the situation, there is nothing that we or anyone can do given the circumstances and in fact there may be even less that we can do if the situation continues because we might have to release her from the practice.  I realize that I am not the policewoman for moral correctness and I realize that I cannot ‘save’ everyone.  Problem is, I want to.

-         I diagnosed a problem with my doc’s monitor and thought I was doing really good by ordering him another one only find out that I shouldn’t have done so…it was only a mild reprimand…more of a grinding of teeth.

-         I found out that my husband wants to go back to school, which I fully support and would be willing to put off nursing for two years because of.  Then I found out that he doesn’t want to go back to school, which I do not fully support.  Then he does and then perhaps didn’t and…I don’t know where the situation stands now.

-         We’ve done two new obs because of fetal anomalies and have at least one more scheduled.  My WHNP told me that this is what we do…maybe 25% of our patients have some form of Pre-Eclampsia, but it only affects 4% of pregnancies…we see a skewed population that doesn’t represent the norm.  Lymphatic infiltration is not normal, holoprose encephaly is not normal.  She told me that this is what we do and we are here to take care of these ladies and these babies and I know this is a good place, but it struck me that it is often filled with sadness.

-         I walked into a post partum (we delivered her but didn’t see her for prenatal care so I had no report with her) totally prepared and having read the notes went into the room to ask her how her baby was.  This is when I found out her baby had died.

-         We’ve been back and forth to martial arts twice, had no money in the bank, and no food in the cupboard (I did go shopping so that is rectified now).  I got to check that the ‘check gauge’ light works on my Ford and figure out how I can pay the rent and daycare and still have money to feed the children.  (‘People with AD/HD often have trouble managing their accounts…’)

-         I was moved to write an improvised thank you note to my son’s martial arts teacher because he was giving a lesson on communication and some of the things he was saying were so poignant that I had to tell him so.  Now, of course, I am embarrassed and think that this was a really dumb thing to do.  I should have continued to sit in the back and let him continue to think I am unable to string a sentence together or say anything of significance. 

I think that is it…is that enough to feel like the plug has been pulled and there is not a smile in the house?  Prolly not, but it feels like it.

BUT…I am sitting here, thinking: It is FRIDAY!  Friday is good.  Friday means that I will have two days to sort out my life before the crazy starts in again, right?  Friday means that I’m not responsible for looking presentable and I can cry all I like.

I had an old patient call me today at work.  She had a purpose for calling in that she wanted to get a number for another doc but she updated me on her life since we last saw her and reminded me that even if it is not said, some actions are appreciated long after the fact.

On that note, I would like to present the positive…if I can…

- Tuesday went really quickly, it was so busy and I was able to say several times, ‘I am front desk lady today, I need you to do this lab for me, etc.’  Yes, I delegated.

- Even though I didn’t want to be right about that certain situation…I was able to observe human behavior and come to a correct conclusion.  I’ve been told I am very bad at this, so perhaps this is a win.  And it is better to know that something nefarious is going on and deal with it than find out after more damage is done.  Maybe we can stop more damage happening.

- My doc’s now have a new monitor and they are not scaring me to death hanging out at a computer they do not usually hang out working on.

- My husband has a desire to go back to school.  He might enjoy it.  Regardless of the degree of desire, this is a good thing.  He might enjoy it.

- I work in a sad place, but we get to take care of these ladies and their babies.  There is such a beautiful opportunity to make a difference here, even if it is a small one.

- I don’t know how to make anything good about the post partum.  I just feel for her.

- Martial Arts is really a good opportunity for my son.  I did get food finally.  The check gauge light works and I made it to the petrol station.  AND I had enough money to pay the rent.

- Communication – verbal, body or written is good.  I meant what I said to the 8 year old’s martial arts teacher and sometimes it is nice to be appreciated for what you do.  I am glad to have the opportunity to pay it forward.

Oh, and Pollyanna is worn out…rah, rah and watch my pig tails bouncing…life is good.

Also, I got an e-mail about another past patient’s blog that I have been looking forward to for a long time.  I am so excited to read her work, perhaps I will do that this weekend instead of crying.

The patient that called earlier exchanged e-mail addresses with me.  I told her that I write under the name undeadpollyanna and she laughed like I have not heard her laugh before.  Said it fit. 

If I was a penguin and I couldn’t fly, I would find a way to get around it.

xoxo.

I wanted to be a dark elf sorceress.  Then I wanted to be a huntress, clad in a fitted bodice and armed with a bow and arrow…or maybe a medic or an apothecary or perhaps just the princess with a dark secret…

Then I wanted to be a ranger, just because they’re cool.

The 5 year old said that I could just be a citizen if I wanted.  I didn’t just want to be a citizen…how boring is that?

In the end, I decided I didn’t know who or what I wanted to be and gave up trying to play.  I realized I was driving and figured I should probably focus on that.  Right now, I’m not sure where I was driving to…I can’t remember but the boys changed their conversation and were having a marvelous discussion about the outer rim.  Apparently it is uncontrolled space.

I had a shoot this week on Wednesday evening.  A friend’s son and his girlfriend were visiting home from college and I was asked to do some couple pictures.  We went to a little park near my friend’s house where the playground looks like a boat and I tried to get them to act like pirates, but they didn’t buy into it.  In fact, there is probably some question as to my sanity in general, I hope it doesn’t get back to the little file that determines my future opportunities.  I picture a huge filing room with everyone’s ‘permanent record’ and a grouchy librarian who sits in a little pool of light from the bare bulb hanging above their hunched shoulders.  The light swings slightly in a non-existent draft as it hangs from the ceiling of an impossibly huge room that generates its own weather systems.

Anyway, it rained Wednesday afternoon and I was very worried about lighting.  It’s been a little while since I had a shoot for someone else and I always, constantly, worry about what they will think about my photography (and about themselves in it).  I have previously explained my difficulty shooting by other’s rules and I have also previously explained my difficulty in communicating my needs and feelings, which is kind of essential when you are directing people to sit, turn, smile, not smile, sit up straight, look at each other and act like pirates.

I only remembered at the end of the shoot that my friend’s son is studying photography at college.  At least he had the good grace not to ‘talk shop’.  Perhaps he knew I wouldn’t have any good answers if he tried.  My low end camera probably gave me away from thirty yards.  All in all though, the shoot went pretty well.  The light was not spectacular but it was decent and the rain held off once I got there to after I got home.

Earlier in the week (maybe Monday?) I was sitting in my friend’s office (the one with the son and the shoot) eavesdropping.  By this I don’t mean any malicious undertaking.  I promise.  I was just sitting waiting when something she said crept into my conscious interest.

She was explaining to someone else – I am kind of struggling to remember the details here, it was several days ago and like I said, I wasn’t really listening to the whole conversation.  Anyway, she was saying something about her son’s 5 year plan and his 10 year plan.  I said, ‘I don’t even have a 5 year plan!’  She gave me a look like the look she gives me when I bring her charts at 16:45.  The ‘Are you serious?’ look.  Then I said I did have a 5 year plan.

Of course.

I’ve just…misplaced it.  Or more rightly, I have let the finances and the crazy of late let it slip to the proverbial back burner.  Besides, I don’t think dark elf sorceress is something you can train for.  You’re just kind of born into the role.  If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you will know and rightly point out that nursing is my ultimate goal.  It is and in an ideal world I would be there in 5 years.  Assisting deliveries or perhaps running a clinic for under privileged children…in an ideal world, I would have already gotten there though, wouldn’t I?

I do believe I am having a midlife crisis.  I am not sure.  My therapist hasn’t called me back to reschedule my appointment.  Perhaps she would be able to tell me, but then, perhaps it is not any different than any other crisis of life that I have had.

So, I finished reading Pollyanna.  I finished last week and have been intending to write all about it but I picked up the Hunger Games and writing in the face of such readability has been too much to deal with.

I’m sure that I’ve read Pollyanna before.  I remember a red covered book, well tattered and smelling a bit of mold.  I knew the story; however, I didn’t remember the end.  I got half way through before I realized this.  I wonder if I actually ever finished it or just got halfway through and made up the rest.  This is perhaps one of the wonderful side effects of AD/HD.  You can do something several times (even completing the task), each time only paying attention partly and each time it will still seem somewhat new.  How’s that for being glad?  …but I’m skipping ahead.

Honestly, the whole story is a little bit creepy.  Even if you put in a filter of 1913, when the book was first published.  It is still a little bit nefarious.  At one point the older male character, Mr Pendleton, says to the young girl:

‘And, oh, little girl, little girl, I want you so!’

Oh, but I suppose I should explain the story if you have no idea what I’m on about.  At this rate, I’ll have you wondering what sort of books I read.

Pollyanna was written by Eleanor H Porter and published first in 1913.  It is the story of a young girl who after the death of her minister father, goes to live with her (miserable) spinster aunt.  The girl, Pollyanna, has a unique outlook on life and quickly endears herself to everyone she meets by playing ‘the game’.  The game is something her father taught her to play (as she describes many times in the book) when she received crutches in the missionary barrel instead of a doll.  There are some nice little plot twists that creep up on you and some side plots that flesh out the early 20th century world.  The mentioning of crutches again and again is in no way a subtle foreshadowing device and the story ends rather abruptly with everything being alright in the end.

There were no zombies or vampires and there was no outer rim exploration or dark elf sorceresses.

As I mentioned before there are several kind of questionable relationships and there were no zombies; however, the book is oddly endearing.  Perhaps because I grew up with it (or I think I did) and because I have made Pollyanna’s idea of looking at the bright side of things so much a part of my psyche that I have named myself after her character.  I also can’t get over the fact that if the book had been written today, it most certainly would have been banned in some Southern states.  It makes me wonder about all of those Road Runner cartoons that I watched when I was little and the agonizing I do about the things the boys watch today.

In any case, I was not an English major, I don’t intend to break down the characters or the plots or subplots.  Though, I am certain that Pollyanna had AD/HD.  The evidence is hard to dismiss.

I enjoyed reading the book primarily because every page brought up another reason for a character to be glad.  So, Pollyanna didn’t get a doll in the missionary barrel, she got crutches instead.  The game made her realize that she could be grateful for the fact that she didn’t need the crutches.  In everything she tried to make people understand that they could be grateful for what they had, even if it wasn’t great, because it always could be worse.

And it can always be worse people.

My midlife crisis looming, I am trying to once again resurrect the ‘glad’ in my life.  I do wish that the glad game had another name though, as I can only think of Glad trash bags and the ‘wimpy, wimpy, wimpy…hefty, hefty, hefty’ adverts that weren’t about Glad trash bags at all, I don’t think, but about Hefty trash bags.

I will never be a dark elf sorceress/apothecary/ranger (not in this universe anyway – I might be one tomorrow, cos we’re playing D&D) but I will, 5 years from now or not, be a nurse.  I will be in a position to make an impact on other’s well being.  Even if I am not a nurse now, I can still make a positive impact on people’s lives.  Even if I can’t convince anyone to act like they are a pirate, the couple liked their pictures.  Even if I don’t have a specific 5 year plan, I am MILES away from where I was 5 years ago…waitressing in a fake Irish Pub on a small town mainstreet and making less than I spent a week on petrol.

Life is good, really.

xoxo.

(I will/have posted the pictures from the shoot Wednesday at greyhandcraft.wordpress.com, if you’d like to have a look.)

The view West this morning was sloshy and icy and all the cars I could see were covered in an inch layer of ice.  I am not sure why, but I am convinced that no matter direction my car is parked, there is only ever ice on the windshield.  I may just notice it because I am short and I get frustrated that I cannot reach into the middle.  I am pretty sure that the universe is not out to get me.

In anycase, all I wanted to do today was sit by a window and watch the snow fall.  I wanted to sit somewhere with a bottomless brew and alternatively feel the warmth of woolly hats and fleece and the chill from the windowpane.  I wanted to perch on my stool with my legs drawn up and gaze out at the trees swaying like I’ve watched my cat do…majestic and calm.  I wanted to hear the clack and click of my laptop keys or the grating swish of pencil lead as I poured out all of the things that I think about during the day.  The ‘screenplay’ is very much grey and subdued, perfect for weather like this…saying that, I think all of my work is very much grey and subdued.  I don’t write happy well.

I wanted to do all of these things, the sitting and the swaying and writing and drinking brew…but I won’t get to.  I love and adore my job with a passion that I am not sure is healthy.  I would give up my fingernails, hair and teeth and indeed a lot more in exchange for the happiness and well being of any of my boys.  I swell with pride to think that I am as well adjusted as I am (tee hee), taking care of family, work, patients, a home and slightly insane cat.  But it means writing is on the proverbial back burner.  Even as one of my passions, even with the characters that I have living in my head, even with the constant internal monologue…it is back there with the blankets that I am making the boys or cleaning out the pantry or back room.

I don’t consider myself someone who can write.  Again (Oh! and another undeadpollyanna theme!) I just do it.  My sister is a poet…her works make me cry and I get all emotional when I read them;  my best girl in the UK is a phenomenal writer…her e-mails make me all squishy with googly eyes whatever her intention (she is that good);  I know people who are published, read and just well written:  e-mailers, bloggers, research articlists or novelists.

I just write because I write.  It is what I do.  Because I like to…and, because it is easier than talking.  I am not a good conversationalist.  Even if you catch me on a day when I know what I am talking about and I am in the moment, I am just not very good at the spoken word.  It can’t be revised or relived.  It can be added to but it needs to follow the theme and torrent of the brain wave I ride.  Most people don’t care to follow.  My husband affectionately says that he looses the will to live sometimes as I tell a story.  (At least, I think it is affectionate.)

(On an aside, my son’s martial arts teacher just this very moment said people who are not good communicators tend to yell a lot…that was serious timing on a cosmic level.) … (I don’t yell that much, really…)

Thing is, I love language.  I have set myself a task of learning to say ‘thank you’ in as many languages as I can.  So far I have learned Vietnamese, Korean and Spanish…I’m kind of behind.  I love language in the literal sense but I also love it’s more subtle cultural references.  I love the way that thoughts can be communicated with a look or a signal, with code words or shared experiences.

For me, writing is a beautiful form of escapism and a more effective form of communication than anything else that I do.  I try to capture these subtle sub-currents and make color filled pictures.  I can create a relationship and dissolve it, I can place myself in another world, another planet or time period, I can play out fantasy and desire, I can be someone else – whatever/whoever I want to be.  Most importantly, I can finish a sentence.  My life and my inability to think coherently on the spot, prohibit this.  Writing lets me finish.

Not that I’ve ever finished a story.

I sometimes finish a thought.

Sometimes.

What fascinates me about language is the way it can be bent and shaped and mean something to me and something else to something else.  I was looking at acronyms and abbreviations today…

BS, F/U, H/O vs. Hx, EDTA, ASC-US, Specs…

(Which mean to me blood sugar, follow up, history of or history, lavender tube – or estimated time to arrival even though I know that is not correct, referral to an OB/GYN either now or PP (post partum not post prandial) and speculum.)

Learning the language of medicine according to your specialty is a different language in itself.  The verbal connotations of some of these words, eg. Atypical Squamous Cells of Undetermined Significance (ASC-US said ‘ask us’) are something else entirely.  I tell people I am going to do the dishes and even after three years they tell me the kitchen is clean but it doesn’t mean my lab is.

Language has to do with perspective and culture and history and personal connections that I may have but you don’t or the other way around.  If I can illustrate even a fraction of my own life to someone who has never experienced it, I have succeeded.  If I can make up something in my head that you can also picture, no matter how outlandish or crazy, I have succeeded.

Or I hope I have.

It is all a matter of perspective.  I had a tray fall on my head this morning.  I store my little caddy of sphygmomanometer (AKA: Blood Crusher), stethoscope (AKA: I’m sorry, I can’t hear anything but your heart beat) and thermometer (AKA: let me stick this thing in your ear) above my head on a shelf (which is dumb, I know, but there is limited space) and I brought it down this morning with the other caddy of butterflies and hubs and alcohol wipes, tubes and cotton wool buds…accidentally.  I had to squash Pollyanna because she was thinking about how it was an excellent opportunity to restock and reorganize and check for expiration dates.  I wasn’t that impressed, as my head hurt and three people in the waiting room were peeking around the corner to my embarrassment.

We can’t run from who we are or where we came from any more than I can deny that my glass is empty and I shouldn’t ask for more.  We all share the human experience though.  Every single one of us humanoid types.

Culture means that pants, knickers and fanny pack mean something different depending to your background.  I couldn’t tell you the embarrassment when I said I had a hole in my pants in front of ‘polite’ company in a UK restaurant.  Also when I asked the waitress for the retainer I had wrapped in a napkin…I should have said I had worn a hole in my trousers and asked the server for the brace that I had wrapped in the serviette.

Who would have known?

And who would have known that gaol, gay, phat, sic, cool, sweet or awesome might have different meanings and BTW, WTF…

I love words.

Words make me happy as does the science of reading people, the body language and appearance, the assessment of reaction.

Culture and subtext means I am lost when someone tries to give me a subtle hint that I shouldn’t talk about something because I am about to be caught saying something inappropriate, but get the sarcastic undercurrent surrounding a look and the word ‘nuts’ or ‘helpful’.

Culture and context leave me understanding the statement: ‘It was a good game.’  When any bystander might have been lost. Or indeed, writing ’1 SST, 1 EDTA, L AC @ 1534, 659.63, TSH/HgA1C’.  Just for an example.

Of course all of this is thrown out the window when you enter into personal experiences.  Abby, however it is spelled, is not a name to me but conjures up images of Whitby Abbey, the windswept ruins and cliff top views, the rows of tombstones and visions of a white clad lady walking slowly among the delicate moss and crumbling stone.

You ask how I function in polite society?  So do I.

I never learned to spell – my parents blame the state of California, I couldn’t tell you what a predicate or (and I’m trying to think of something else that I know the word of but I don’t know what it means…I know what an adverb, noun and superlative are…I had to get rid of the things that I knew what they were, because I couldn’t spell them…)… I couldn’t diagram a sentence if the weight of everything in the entire universe rested on it.  Run-on was the phrase I believe most used on any of my school papers.

I write because I write.  I hope I am somewhat understood…is this the writer’s ultimate fear?

I will leave you with some of my favorite words:  hyperbolic, belie, optimization,gaol, beanie,  method, body, like, electrochemiluminescence immunoassay, be, cat and hug…

Oh, and as far as that goes:

One of the best books ever!

I also enjoy ‘Fix it Duck.’

Poor duck…I understand.

I’m just now told that if I die…one of my boys can do CPR.  I am comforted.  Life is good.

(X is attack, X+Y is a special attack, Y is heavy attack…or so I’m told.  Just remember that.  Also remember that Lloyd is the green ninja, this is very important, or so I’m told.)

xoxo.

My horoscope on Wednesday said that someone would write me a love poem or song.  No one did.  I think I might be in love with Friday though.  (After all “Monday you could fall apart…”)

Only problem with Fridays is that I seem to wake up, realize it is Friday and then realize that another week has gone…and it is another week that I haven’t got anything done.  I haven’t come any further to realizing my dreams.

Yes, I know my dreams won’t be realized in a week.  I am not even sure most days where my dreams reside.  I know the general directions I think I should take, but I don’t have a vision.  When I was smaller, I used to envisage living in an apartment with a yellow kitchen and a cat…I figured I would be thin and there would be a round table and I would work somewhere important like Mother Teresa.  (Perhaps I have always had a problem with the practical implication of things.)

I always have tried to make goals.  I have always set myself a pace, made charts and plans, filled out study schedules like Rimmer in Red Dwarf.  (Please feel free to e-mail me if you know what I’m on about.)  I have made poster sized charts, color coded and neatly laid out…  Sometimes I even fill them in, halfway – until I figure I need another way to organize my life.  Or I forget to record a few days and loose interest because it is not a complete record.  That happens a lot.  I am an anal historian at heart.

I have been thinking a lot about time lately.  Nearly every letter or e-mail I write begins with ‘I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long, it is hard to find time… I am a bad friend…’ Luckily, all the women I engage with are beautiful, understanding women who live equally crazy lives and accept that we can pick up where we left off without questions or apologies.

I was prompted initially in my contemplation of time by a friend and co-worker who got me thinking about how I use my time.  Then I was prompted by another blog I follow : http://400daystil40.wordpress.com/2012/03/30/328-days-til-40-treasured-time/ (sorry about the link, I haven’t figured out how to do it in a savvy manner yet.)

If you cannot be bothered with the link, quoted from 400daystil40:

‘Some people really do not have a lot of time and are squeezing the most into every day.  Yet, others have all the time in the world, even when their perception is that they do not have time.  Those people I like to remind of this quote by H. Jackson Brown Jr. , “Don’t say you don’t have enough time.  You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.”  His words are so true, yet so hard for some to accept, particularly when they are living stressful moments in the context of their own lives.’

After reading this, I hyperventilated.  Just a little bit, as I do, because I know I will never create something so important.  When I stopped hyperventilating.  I read on to think about dividing my days into 30 minute segments, to see where all that time goes.

I am never one to shrink from a challenge (unless it becomes too hard.)  I started today trying to do as suggested:

0530-0600 – get ready for ride, stumble around in the dark.

0600-0630 – ride, marvel in how someone could ride without a light, think about having frostbite, think I was spending too much time stopping and putting my hands in my armpits to keep me from getting frostbite and wondering why I couldn’t remember any of my survival training, then thinking about how there was someone behind me – hearing the ‘boom, boom’ over the bridges then seeing no one.

0630-0700 – getting home and getting ready for work.

0700-0730 – still getting ready for work, making myself an omelet, looking for a cd that I’ve lost and burning my omelet.

0730-0800 – listening to my husband come downstairs and asking why I was still at home and then driving to work.  Mudhoney screaming through the speakers.

0800-1715 – erg, work: patients, labs, paps, draws, drug tox panels, hearing ‘ – ‘ll know’ and thinking ‘oh, no!  OH goodness, I hope I do know!’, high BP, twins, add ons, cancellations, drop offs, pick ups and sushi.

1715-1800 – racing to the FedEx drop off location, racing to wait in line to buy a lottery ticket – ‘I know, tax on people who can’t do maths’ and get a free pint glass cos I bought a 6 pack of porter and hoping no one called my bluff about IPA.  Then racing home…more Mudhoney.

1800-1900 – food, bills and cleaning up (though I didn’t do most of this)

1900-2300 – writing and listening to conversations and tv and kids playing and that is everything about up to now.

I wonder when I remembered to breathe.

Not every day is like this.  I never buy a lottery ticket and most days I get lunch when I run or make things more sane.  Still, where the time goes – I don’t know.  I guess it is no wonder that I never get any closer to my goals.

Goals are important – I realize this.  I know this, but some days I can’t remember what my name is and have even less chance of remembering how old I am.  Anytime I think of goals, I think of gaols – a symptom of my reading ahead and going back and mixing things up.  Gaol is a word meaning jail.  I looked up the definition and etomology trying to think of something important to say, but I’m not sure I need to say anything more than: goal = gaol = mix up with letters = poetic deep meaning.  (Picture my nodding my head knowingly.)

Goals are almost as hard to declare as passions.  Worse even, as you are held accountable (and should be) for your progress. I have lots of goals – and I’ve had them for the last few years.  I am slightly embarrassed for it as I haven’t made any progress really.

My goals at work have been to get further certifications and to make my job more transparent.  Neither have gotten further to being reality.

My goals at home have included:

- loosing several pounds (25 at least) – granted, I’ve moved from obese to overweight (yeah me!!) but i’m not closer to the ‘normal weight’ range than I was two years ago.

- paying off credit cards – HA HA HAA HA HA HAAAA!

- getting closer to nursing school – oh, well, about that…I’m scared…and time, oh, there is just not enough time…

- getting passports for the boys – their UK ones…when I have money?  time???

- teaching the boys to swim – which would be easier if I knew how…

- getting the boys to a dentist – I am a good mother, I swear……

Oh, I will stop there…there are more.  They all fit with my passions, which I have neglected in the past as well…

I get that if I break down the big tasks into small ones, they will get done easier.  I get that if I truly wanted something, I wouldn’t let anything stop me.  I get that my time is no more valuable or worthwhile than that of those who have done great things.

I get that these ‘goals’ are not as important as the BIG things I want to do with my life.  Those goals are far less tangible.  Far more idealistic.  More squishy.

Even these goals, I listed, have seemed too big of late.  Perhaps I need to break them down further.

Perhaps I need to…

Oh, I need to do so many things.

Time is a beautiful thing.  People right songs and poetry about it, I still haven’t received any poems or songs about me.

Still, I made an appointment for the boys to go see the dentist next week.  I am 21 miles into my 500 mile cycling goal for this year and 30 miles into my 100 mile running goal.

I figure an inch at a time will still get you to your finish line as long as you are going in the right directions.

I hope we will all find our goals, best luck in making them!

xoxo.

This morning was the first ride of the season.  I pushed it up a week this year because my in-laws are in town for spring break and I didn’t have to get everyone ready this morning.  There was no false cheer and lightness as I sang to my children in a loving wake up now serenade.  There was no shouting or yelling and turning on of lights and opening of curtains and clapping with hollow palms when the serenade didn’t work.  There was no coaxing and prodding and I didn’t say once, ‘Well, if you want something else for breakfast, get it yourself.’

Let me explain.  I am a cyclist in the same way I am a runner…I am still in the becoming stage.  A little pupa or embryo, an introduction a commencement, a mind map of what I could be if I REALLY tried,  i.e. I am a fat girl on a bike.  (There is no shiny spandex and everyone can do a happy dance.)

I may be a little unfair to myself if I say this but I’m not sure.  I am a mother, I am a wife, I am a care giver and I am a writer.  I don’t think about being any of these things and I don’t try to be any of these things any more than I try to be a woman.  I just am them.

In the same way, I don’t try to be a runner or a cyclist or a yogi.  I just do the things that they might do if they had the label to go with their state of being.  The fact that I am not very good at any of these things is more of a reflection on my recession from the five passions (I have previously talked about), rather than a lack of a state of being or label.  Besides who said I was good at being a mother or wife, etc?  And who needs a label?

Argh, this self reflection hurts.

Anyway, I ride in the morning because that is my ‘me time’.  The time between running through my nightly dreamares and running through my life.  It is the only time I am not too tired to do something good for myself.  Living where I do, means I have to take into account regular snow and the state of the sun on the horizon at 5am.  That is why I say I have a ‘riding season’ and not for any other reason.

(Tee hee, that rhymed!)  Let me just tell you that 5am this morning was dark.

I got up and went downstairs feeling my way through the blackout.  I managed to clock my forehead on a door and trip over the cat before I decided to use my phone as a torch.  I found the clothes that I had very carefully laid out last night and attempted to put them on in the dark because I didn’t think to put the light on.  I think I disturbed more people with the noise I made bumping into things than I would have if I had just switched a lamp on.  I wore cotton in defiance to my REI days, just because I was feeling spiteful, and I had to sit down to put on my trousers because I kept loosing my balance with no reference points in the dark.  (So much for the yogi label!)

The cat was very confused.  I wasn’t sure that I felt good about leaving her as she has developed a toilet paper habit and this morning she bit my husband’s leg for no apparent reason.  I think she is working through some anxiety issues.  But I had to leave her, I was so ready for the ride, I could taste it.

I thought I had set out everything I needed, but I got outside and realized that I didn’t wear a wooly hat when I rode my bike, I wore my helmet and gloves.  I also realized that I didn’t have said helmet or gloves, so I had to go back inside.

Yesterday I spent about an hour cleaning and oiling my bike then pumping up her almost completely flat tires.  It is a beautiful beast, my bike.  I felt such contentment playing with her mechanical gears and making her shine that I am quite sure I am insane.

She was all ready for me though.  She was waiting when I finally managed to pull myself together and wheel her out to the path.  I checked the tires and put on my gloves with the flowers and my yellow tinted glasses and got ready to set off.

It was then I realized that I forgot how to ride a bike.  (And I dared to vaguely hint that I was a cyclist!)  Three years ago I worked for REI, I had to get my bike for the price it was being offered so badly that I didn’t care that it is rather big for me.  It was seriously about a fifth of the price I would have paid if I hadn’t had a discount.  So I pretended it had my name written all over it…and it does, it is just a little big.

It has cages for petals and I had changed the gear settings when I cleaned her yesterday so it was harder than anticipated to start off.  To my embarrassment (and it is a good thing no one is up at 5:30 in the morning in my neighborhood) I admit that I almost fell off before I had even started.

Once I got started though, it was complete liberation.

I mean utter and complete, oh my #@$%^^^^$#@!@ I am so HAPPY!!!

At least it was until I got away from the lights and I realized it was DARK!  I mean really dark.   So dark I worried that my eyes had stopped working.  Then I began to see shadows.  I saw a pack of coyotes, three panthers, the grim reaper and a few rabid rabbits darting across the path.  I once again questioned my sanity as I rode further and further from my home in complete darkness.

I told myself I knew the path.  I told myself I was going to be ok, I knew where I was going.  I told myself that my light, such as it was, was lighting the path and that I could see just fine.  I willed the sun to come up as if I could make it rise with sheer force of will.  Oh goodness, I was stupid.

I mean really, really dumb.

I tried to distract myself and realized I forgot to check if my keys were safely zipped in my sacral pocket.  Then I thought about how everything should have a sacral pocket, just so that we as a human race could say ‘sacral pocket’ more.  Then I realized I really wanted to check to make sure that I didn’t loose my keys out of my sacral pocket so that some crazy could pick them up and somehow know where I lived and… Then, after I thought about where I could safely stop when there were panthers out there stalking me, I realized that I wasn’t sure I could stop.

I did, of course I did.

I am one who immediately thinks ‘you can’t tell me what to do!’ when you tell me not to do something.  The O&P (Ova and Parasite) vials I have to give out on occasion (oh and imagine the joy when I get them back all filled!) say ‘DO NOT DRINK’ all over them with a little skull and crossbones.  What is my first reaction when reading the warning?  Of course I don’t drink them, the liquid inside smells terrible, but now you understand a little more about the fragile state of me.

I stopped and I rode all the way to my halfway point alternatively thinking ‘woo hoo!’ and ‘aaaahhhh!’ and ‘eeeesh, that was close!’  I stopped when I reached that point too.  I even got off my bike and back on again, just to prove I could do it.  Then I rode all the way back thinking, ‘fine sun, I’ll show you!  I bet I can get home faster than you can get yourself out of bed!’

I only saw one other person riding on the path; they were all wrapped up and shadowy but I think it was a person.  I am not sure they were more than a bike and a light but at least it was another being.  Another month or so and I will be passed by better and faster cyclists.  It was kind of nice to have the path to myself and the phantom light and the panthers.

When I got back home and got off the saddle I was a little bit butt sore and wobbly.  I am going to have to break my body in again.  The ride was fantastic though.  I was absolutely scared to death and excited and I will be going again at the first opportunity.

Tomorrow if I’m lucky.  (Mum I will be fine.)

Wish me be lucky.

xoxo.

I couldn’t tell you which I prefer…I really couldn’t.

I have been known to self-diagnose myself from time to time.  I have been pregnant multiple times, gone through early menopause, had celiac disease, lung cancer, asthma, lyme disease and been pregnant again.  I have suffered with hyperthyroidism, alopecia, alcoholism, idiocy, wernixophasia (whatever that is…I thought I knew, but now I don’t) and stroke, I might even have been abducted by aliens a few times.  There are large gaps in my memory and I do like a good alien abduction.

I like the self-diagnosis because I have no true knowledge to back up my assertions and when the symptoms of crazy go away, I don’t have to pretend I am afflicted anymore.  Or I can go onto another self-diagnosis that is more pleasing.  Like highlighters, once they aren’t working anymore you can send them to a nice little cemetery plot or simply throw them to the trash.

The book I am reading right now (actually, there are four but the one I wanted to talk about) is called ‘What does everybody else know that I don’t? – A reader friendly guide’ by Michele Novotini, Ph.D.  My counselor recommended it because I told her I am socially inept.

I am still not comfortable with ‘scoring clinically signifigant’ on the AD/HD test despite the fact that my husbands score for me was quite a bit lower but still met the ‘you should consider clinical help’ mark.  It is one thing for me to self-diagnose and forget about it when it doesn’t suit me.  It is entirely different when someone from the outside is wondering if there are parts of my brain that don’t work as well as they should.

I already decided against the meds…at least for right now.  I don’t think they would work with some of my other dysfunctions and I don’t fancy an unnecessary turf war in my psyche.  There are enough explosions going on in my household with two young clone troopers living upstairs.

So the next step is to read books and reorganize…right?

Despite the clinical signification of my test scores, I am still somewhat unwilling to fully embrace my diagnosis.  I wonder when people around me tell me that they don’t agree with the term.  They think it is over used and fad-ish or they say I am perfectly normal – actually, when people say I am normal, I start to wonder about their psyche.  There are people out there who tell me that I am not socially inept and don’t have trouble focusing or functioning, despite the constant chatter in my head.  So either I am over-reacting to another self-diagnosis that has been made a bit more concrete, I put on a really good show or they are not really paying attention to what I’m telling them.  Who am I to judge if they don’t hear the mental goo screaming?  It does tend to sound like music sometimes.

I thought I’d read the books anyway, just for a laugh.  I thought I’d do the responsible thing and do the research.  So I’m reading this book and managed to get twenty five pages in before I found I’d read a page and a half without paying attention.  It helps that there are pictures.

It starts off with an introduction that made me cry because I am an emotional fool and I had a few memories that went along with the story the author was relating.  I had significant pictorial refrences to draw on.

Chapter one: The Kindergarten Connection, made me stop and actually say, out loud: ‘Really?’  Then I got to the bottom of the page and read:

“As hard as you try to remember, there always seem to be gaps in your memory.”

(I can’t remember how to properly reference or footnote, so I won’t here unless someone absolutely demands it.  It was on page 3 of the above mentioned book.)

I always thought that the gaps in my  memory were due to substance abuse of one sort or another – or being really tired or trying to do too much at once.  I am embarassed to say that on more than one occasion, I have fibbed and said ‘Oh! Yeah! I remember that!  When so and so did such and such!  That was hilarious…’  Then hoped that it wasn’t a test to see if I really cared and was paying attention.  I really did care – I just guess I wasn’t paying attention.

The book then goes on to talk about another book I haven’t read by Robert Fulghum, ‘All I really Need to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten.’

Aargh.

Share is the first suggestion, implying that someone with AD/HD might have difficulty sharing things, taking turns or sharing time.  Playing fair was the next section, assuming that someone may not follow the rules.  At first I was insulted.  Of course I share!  I always follow the rules!  Then I thought about it…

Oh, ok, maybe I don’t have a great track record…I get very nervous about sharing the things that I really like: my laptop, my camera, my sewing machine, etc.  The time when my husband’s laptop was in the shop and he was using mine I paced for about three days.  Not that I wanted to use it, I had nothing to do but the bills, but that wasn’t the point.  And then taking turns isn’t so easy either, but it is not so much that I don’t like talking turns as I hate waiting for my turn, especially when playing cards.  I wonder if this is part of the reason I’m not alowed to play cards anymore.  And as far as sharing time…I think that is probably another post.

So are the red lights I ran on the way to work and the favors I called in this morning in order to get my way on a lab I needed run stat.

Now, feeling a little cowed, I read on…the next section was:  Don’t hit people.  ’Duh,’ I though, until I actually, really thought about it.  I have the worst temper a little overweight mouse could have, I just have really bad coordination and couldn’t hit a rock physically or verbally if I tried.  In this section I learned to find outlets and keep a top ten list of good things in your life…I’ve never felt the need to do either of those things, she said, quickly moving on.

I also never had trouble cleaning up after myself, except the piles and piles of ‘I will go through this later…this is important’ stuff and the crafts that I put to one side and then bury with other crafts in my get to later graveyard.

Reading on, I was just increasingly frustrated to learn that each section held something that applied to my personality, including, shamefully, a habit of disheveled appearance and self-neglect.  I still really want to believe that in horoscope fashion, I am just reading a generalized statement that I am taking to heart and applying to my life.  I don’t know.

I’m finding it hard to deny the AD/HD diagnosis.  Not that it really matters, I cannot be different than I am especially if I choose not to take meds.  If the diagnosis makes my life make sense, shouldn’t I embrace it?  If things that were impossible before, now are easier with a coping structure, shouldn’t I run with it?  Should I take to heart when someone says ‘Are you using that whole thing as an excuse now?’ in response to my in an offhand manner, no different than two months ago, saying I was distracted?

Oh!

I work in a place that deals in bad stuff.  Stuff that changes peoples lives, that scars them forever and makes the world a little less cozy.  Either past or current no one comes through the door as a patient unless they have a considerable worry.  We have a lot of success stories and a lot of joy and laughter, but everyday there is another fearful diagnosis that pales my existence into that of a small bug.  I dream somedays that I will be as signifigent as a butterfly flapping its wings.

This week three of the people I see every week (almost every day) have been struck by a fearful prognosis involving someone they love.  THIS WEEK!  I’m not exaggerating for literary emphasis.  Three people I know have seen a dark shadow on their doorstep that could be noting but a wake up call but is likely to be something far more sinister.  My heart cries for them and I don’t know how they are coping, let alone getting through a day of paperwork and politics.  I don’t know how people deal with pending death, or the very possible imminent death of someone they love.

I have come across it twice in the last two years and tears well in my eyes (curse them and the blue mascara they rode in on!).  Which makes me again realize that I haven’t processed anything properly.  When is there time?

The fact that I struggle with my daily life when I have two beautiful, smart, healthy boys and another that takes care of me, four walls that are solid (much better than the glorified tent we used to live in), more than enough food judging by my girth, a cat that likes a good downward dog and an almost new tube of blue mascara to go with my electro-punk life soundtrack…I am grateful.  I am humbled.  I am ready to go to bed and wake up again renewed…I really hope I don’t have to sleep on the floor tonight though, that is getting kind of old.

I am a pokey butterfly.

xoxo.

Alison Arngrim is pictured above, she played Nellie Oleson/Nellie Oleson Dalton on the show from 1974-1982.  I am slightly embarrassed to even be bringing this all up, but I am a TV child of the eighties, I can’t run from that.  A more current picture of the actress on IMDb is extremely more flattering, she really is a gorgeous lady.  I would check it out as the above picture is somewhat unfair.

But I think I’ve digressed more than intended.

I looked up ‘Negative Nelly’ because I wasn’t sure if it was this connection with Little House on the Prairie or something else that I was supposed to know.  This is the first thing that came up:

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=negative%20nelly

There you have it…

(For those of you that don’t like links.  The definition of Negative Nelly is supposedly:

I wouldn’t actually recommend looking at the definition for Negative Nancy.  I just thought the second definition above was rather amusing.

Folks…I am that idiot.

So, there you go…kicking the negative nelly…(not, Nellie Oleson, the one I made up when I thought I was saying negative nancy except I didn’t know there was a negative nancy.)

Anyway, I have been observing recently…no one specifically but general people/things/influences around me.  I have been extremely down and unable to dig up that Goth cheerleader that sings ‘rah, rah, rah’ to the road carrion.  I think there might have been a concrete truck at the last internment.

I have just been hit recently with a great big ‘I don’t care.’  Of course I do care, I know I do, I’ve just not been feeling it so much lately.  I don’t know where this is coming from or what I can do to get rid of the parasite, but of course I am determined to try.

Here are my steps to kicking the negative…whatever her name is.

1. Identify the nelly as negative

Many times in my life I have been told to stop being pessimistic.  I know, you would never have guessed, would you?!  Problem is, I don’t see myself as negative or sarcastic or anything of the like.  I really don’t.

Course, I don’t look in the mirror ever except to make sure I don’t have ketchup on my face and I often say things that come to my head without wondering what the consequence will be.  Nine out of ten times I get to the end of a sentence and forget what I was talking about.  Paying attention and identifying forces around me, negative or otherwise is hard for me.  I do live in LaLa land after all.

I think that sometimes when you’re riding a donkey, it is hard to see the donkey for the ride it’s giving you.  I think you need to occasionally stop and ask he/she/it what he/she/it prefers to be called.

An offhand comment can be a negative thing that may or may not need to be addressed.

A situation may be just on the wrong side of stressful.

A person may be the yin to your yang or they may be sucking the life out of you.

The thing is, you may not realize that there is anything wrong.  The sun is a beautiful thing and being out in it all day can be glorious.  It is not until the next day when you wake up feeling like a fried pig, swollen and red, that you realize that maybe it wasn’t so good after all.  (Can you tell I’ve been reading self help books?  I think it is time to get back to the vampire romance novels.)

2. Interrogate the bug

Just because something is unpleasant, doesn’t mean that it needs to be entirely eliminated from our lives.  There are some things that while at first they appear negative, are in fact a means of making us stronger.  (Though if you tell me this when I am down myself, I will tell you the things that don’t kill us do not make us stronger, they just wear us down until there is nothing left.)  There are other things that aren’t directed at us personally but are more like a stray bullet or a fly in your mouth.

Ask:

Where is this coming from?  My five year old a few years back kept calling me large.  Of course I wanted to take offence and tell him that it was wrong to call a woman large.  I kept my mouth shut, probably because I was distracted by something else and later realized that he was just processing size.  He was small, his brother was medium, I was large and my husband was extra-large.  He then went on to change that to extra small, small, medium and large…I like being medium instead of large, but I’m not sure why he changed his sizing.

Then ask:

Is it something that I can use to improve myself?  A criticism about the way something is done very often makes me want to say: ‘***S@#* fine, do it yourself!’  I usually don’t because I don’t want to start a fight.  Sometimes the criticism is unfounded but other times I can see that I am being lazy or unorganized or that there is something I can change to make it better.

I am all about changing to make things better.  It’s not always for the best, but I do try.

3. Give it IV fluid and a good heaping tablespoon of honey

MMM…Honey…who doesn’t like honey?

It is hard for me not to react to negativity.  I have to remind myself that negative and negative do not make positive…unless perhaps you multiply them, I don’t know, I don’t do math in public.  It is very hard for me not to want to smack someone directly between the eyes if they have hurt me. (With a witty remark…that’s what you were thinking I was talking about, right?)

It is much harder to give something the benefit of the doubt, separate it from yourself, see where it is coming from and if you can not use it in a positive manner or find it is unfounded, make it into … oh, I am so sorry, I never thought I would go here … lemonade.

AARGH, I need to put on some black eyeliner and crank up the Pandora – Sex Pistols Radio!  What is wrong with me?!

4. Squish if necessary

Bear hugs squish well.  Ballerina hugs from the one eye’d nun courtesy my baby sister squish fairly well too.  (She was an imaginative child.)

5. Repeat as desired.

xb.

It was almost a panic moment.  (I do have a lot of those)  ‘What? I don’t have an ideal place that I can escape to, even if it is just for a moment in my mind!?!’  But it’s not like that.  Surely, I was just distracted by the morning hubbub.  (Yes, I did just use the word hubbub…apparently the automatic spell-check knows what I’m talking about, even if I don’t.)  I’m sure I have an ideal somewhere else.  I am sure that just anywhere will not suffice. 

Right now, I am sure you are thinking…huh?  My husband often tells me that he looses the will to live when I tell him these stories that wander on.  I can tell he has when he gets that glassy look to his eye and his fingers start to twitch, like he needs to be rebooted.  So, I’ll try to save the ramble and explain the reasoning behind the crazy quibble between anywhere and somewhere:

Anywhere implies that I want to run away, to escape from the madness of my life and somewhat pitiful existence.  It implies that I don’t appreciate what I have or what I can do.  This is not true.  I love my family, I love my house, I love my life, I love my job…I am even falling in love with the cat, who likes to wake me up at five to do yoga.

But…

Somewhere means that I have a goal, something to look forward to one day, to work toward, to see my self relaxing in and feeling like I am a whole person.  I am told that it is possible.  I almost believe that it is possible…right? 

Even if somewhere is not exactly where I want to be all the time, it is better than anywhere but here.  Course, I do remember the post where I admitted that the act of running from something is easier for me than the act of running to.  I guess the issue just became an ongoing undeadpollyanna theme.

…I want to have a somewhere else.  I want to have a goal.  I don’t want to feel like I am running from things that really aren’t that bad.  I explained to my boys as I was spilling tears out of my eyes this morning that we were really, very lucky.  My eldest said, ‘I know, mum.’  I then went on to explain that I understood that the sun will still come up in the morning no matter how we feel about it.  To which my youngest said, ‘I know mom, otherwise it wouldn’t have come up a minute ago.’

It is good to know that even the five year old understands that the sun still shines behind the clouds.  We’ve had this conversation before and the younger boy said, ‘yeah, unless the sun blows up.’  To which, my reply was, ‘Well, if the sun has blown up, we will know in about eight minutes and there won’t be much we can do about it.  We will all be in a lot of trouble.’  Not sure that is good parenting.

I believe that meditation is a beautifully useful thing.  As with everything I do, it is a shame that I am just not very good at it.  Today I am constructing a place where the sun still shines and has not in fact blown up. 

I poke people for a living, drawing blood and giving shots.  A lot of people have a fear of needles that I don’t understand but that is really, very real for them.  Men, actually, tend to be worse than their partners or wives.  I had a gentleman who was covered in tattoos and piercings explain to me once that it was a call back from a primal instinct…men associated piercing the skin with death and pain from a weapon or beast.  It is an interesting idea and completely irrelevant here except to point out that some people don’t like needles.  I like to walk them through the experience by introducing visualization techniques.

I will share two here (because that was my original number) that can be my somewhere else for right now…until I get a more permanent or at least achievable vision of the else.

When I was younger, I had a room in my head.  There were no windows or doors in this room.  It was square and had no furniture.  There was light but it didn’t come from any source in particular.  It just was. 

When I was in this room, I knew that no one could get in, no one knew where it was.  I could not get out but I was warm and safe inside so I didn’t want to leave.  As I got older, more confident and able, I went to this room in my head and I found that there was a window.  It didn’t look out on anything but it let in light.  It had old fashioned thick glass panes in the iron bars that filtered and tamed the sunlight so that it was not hot or bright.  It was just beautiful. 

Around this time, there also appeared a large, heavy oak, farmhouse kitchen table.  The surface was scared with dents and rings, beautiful ridges that you could run your finger along, so worn into the nature of the wood, that there were no splinters or rough patches. 

I also procured a mat that I could sleep on.  It lay on the floor and looked warm and inviting.  I knew it was there and I could lie down any time I wanted but I didn’t want to lie down.  I was never tired in my room. 

The only things that have been added since that time are candles and a sometimes present door.  There are five candles on the window sill and twelve on the table.  They are arranged on pedestals, natural wax candles that drip and build mingled floes of wax at their base.  I can cup my hands around their flames and feel their warmth.  I can blow gently on their fire, but they do not go out.  Sometimes there is a door that leads into my little room, sometimes there is not.  When there is a door, I do not open it but I know that there on the other side there is a very long corridor.  It leads away and I can go if I choose.

My other somewhere else is different.  It is open and easier for me to share.  This is the one I tell people when I am trying to coax them to think of other things beside the blood draw. 

I picture a wet, deciduous wood, with tree trunks larger than my embrace.  There is a path that runs through the trees.  It is well marked but narrow.  The earth is damp, dark with moisture, but it is solid ground.  I can hear the recent rain dripping through the leaves onto the ferns below.  I can see the sunlight filtering through the branches.

I can feel the weight of my perfectly packed rucksack on my back.  It holds me to the ground, but it does not weigh me down.  I am strong and I can carry it well.  I can feel the weight of my boots, swinging an easy rhythm along the pathway. 

I can hear the birds in the trees singing for no one else but themselves and for me.  I have a destination, it is a sheltered and dry campsite on the other end of the valley.  I know I will get there but I will not rush, there is no need. 

I may stop along the way.  Resting on the edge of a ridge where I can see my destination, idyllic and peaceful.  I know I am close.  It is not far.  I pick up a rock.  It is round and polished from the gentle flow of water eons ago.  I am part of the earth’s history holding it.  I can feel its weight in my hand and I place it gently among others…sometimes creating a rock kern perfectly balanced, sometimes a line or circle.

It really is a shame that I am not very good at the meditation thing.  I think I need to practice.  I do feel more peace now than I did this morning…now that the sun will not blow up today.  I’ve even washed the pigment out of my eyes with tears (honestly, don’t ask, I’m not sure how) so that someone might even notice that my eyes are green and not brown. 

If anyone else would like to tell me about their somewhere elses, I’d love to hear.

xb.

I cannot exactly explain why, but this picture makes me giddy… absolutely, ridiculously happy.  I decided to turn off the automatic focus.  How daring, I thought sarcastically, but it has made all the difference to my interest level.  I have fallen out of love with this camera, the clunky, wanna be that it is because it is too slow and does too many things by itself like there is a little genie inside that likes to play Texas hold ‘em.  I bought the thing because I wanted a shinier digital camera that was reasonably priced and made me feel less like a tourist and more like a photographer.  I have felt (absurdly) that I need to use all its bells and whistles to make ‘good’ pictures.  Well, as of my last post, I explained that I am no longer playing by anyone else’s ‘ideal photography’ rules.  This is the result.  The camera came out when I walked the two miles to pick up my car (AAARGH, it was only $807.00 to fix it, a mere trifle, a drop in the bucket, a quarter of our monthly salary, and the bonus I give our imaginary maid once a quarter so that she can get a little something for her self…) and this is the result.

A crack.  Teeheehee.

This is my ‘White Picket Fence’…It is a little bit worse for wear, doesn’t actually go anywhere and is surrounded by dead grass and thorny Popsicle weeds.

Welcome to my world.

My parents bought me my first camera when I was fourteenish.  A beautifully heavy antique at the time, the OM-1 was my very first love.  When I took it to the UK 12 years ago, it broke.  After mourning, I took it to shop after shop and was told again and again that it would cost more to fix than it would to replace.  ’Besides,’ they said, ‘film is so yesterday.’    You cannot REPLACE a beauty like that, nor can you rip it apart to see if you can fix it yourself – it would be too akin to an autopsy for me.  I wanted to scream at them that the camera itself was ‘yesterday’ before it came to me but they didn’t listen to the voices in my head.  They sold me instead a clunky digital that was so slow that as soon as you came inside on a sunny day, a worm moved too fast for you to capture it.

I have been through a series of cameras since then.  None as good as that first OM-1…but what ever is?  This latest one I bought because it reminded me of that classic film goddess.  (The song line ‘You can’t call it cheating, cos she reminds me of you’ comes to mind.)  In embracing my passions (number four), I have decided to let the ‘ideal’ go:  camera, brightness and contrast and whatever else tells me that tells me that it’s just not as good as it used to be.  Passion is meant to be a little raw, uncontrolled and a little bit messy, is it not?

xb.

Saying all that…even knowing all that in my head and in my heart, I am plagued some days with a very quiet desperation that makes even the smallest things very difficult.  On days like these, I am crushed by the weight of simple tasks.  The world is a scary, overwhelming place that makes me want to either throw my hands up in the air and surrender or flee.

I make up elaborate plans in my head for a life on the road.  I would pack my car with one of our six tents and make sure the cooler was filled with juice boxes and carrot sticks.  We could all drive into the mountains and live off the land.  I would let the boys decide where we were going to go next and what we were going to do.  In these plans, we never want for anything.

My boys were listening to the Beatles the other day and my oldest asked me, ‘Is love all you really need?’  I explained to him that love was not all that you needed, that there were basic human needs that needed to be met in order to survive, but it certainly made things better if you had someone to love you.  I told him that you could be hungry for a little while or cold and love made that time easier to deal with.  He seemed to understand this better than I did.  We all sat in silence listening and contemplating for a while, then my little one piped up from the back seat: ‘I know what love gets you…BABIES!’

I agreed that this was true and then quickly turned the disk to ‘Help,’ for which they know all the words because I like to sing that particular song at the top of my voice.

Today the light dusting of snow we were supposed to get turned into an unexpected eight inches during morning rush hour.  The oil gauge in my car is now repeatedly alarming with no pressure.  The rent is due next week and the tax refund hasn’t arrived yet.  I’ve got four more hours of work before an exciting drive home on the ice.  What we’re going to have for dinner is a mystery, let alone how I am going to get everything done this weekend that needs to be done…

All of this came along on a day where that quiet desperation, for whatever reason, set in before 10am.  I was focusing on the negative:  what I didn’t have, what I wasn’t able to do and what I couldn’t fix.  Then, sitting at lunch, I got a phone call from James Bond.  Not of course the ‘real’ 007 or anyone who played him, but MY James Bond.  It was unexpected, brief and not about anything in particular, but I am now in a position to get through the rest of my day.  I can do it.  I KNOW I am lucky.  I am ready to tie up that part of myself that wants to run away with silk ropes and sit her in the corner.

All I needed was a little love…

Luckily, despite what some of my patients think, love over the phone doesn’t get you babies!

Thank goodness, I am a lucky girl!

This stupid extends beyond ignoring the oil spots on my driveway, because I can’t possibly afford to have the car fixed.  It extends beyond believing that washer fluid is for sissies.  It even goes beyond thinking a protein shake at lunch is going to make me thin or possibly get me through the afternoon without falling into the snack cupboard.

Yes, I am the queen of stupid.

My husband keeps telling me that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results.  I never think to tell him that this time it will be different because things will turn out differently.

I claim the crown today for the following reasons:

 1. Despite the fact that I have no time, I am always tired, I don’t have any extra anything to give and I can’t get the things done that I need to get done…I have signed myself up to be on a committee for a fund raising kickball tournament.  While this may sound like fun, it was not smart to agree to drive all the way down town in rush-hour in order to commit more time and money (which I don’t have) to something I haven’t played since elementary school. 

 2. If that wasn’t bad enough, I thought I would recycle my scrub bottoms today.  I checked to see there was nothing obvious on them.  I even smelled them to make sure they didn’t have some foulness that wasn’t obvious to the naked eye.  I thought this would save on washing.  This was not a smart idea.  I realized this when I got to work and I became absolutely paranoid that they smelled funny.  In light of the paranoia, I decided I should spray air freshener on them.  This was not a smart idea either.

 3. Lastly…and this is really why I wear the crown…I have realized that it is five days until Sunday.  This is all good, it means it’s Tuesday; however, THIS Sunday, I am climbing to the top of theRepublicBuildingdown town.  Another charity event I found myself signing up for…this event sees groups of people climbing up fifty six flights of stairs.  FIFTY SIX…all at once, no stopping between flights for cups of tea or a nap…FIFTY SIX!  Ok, so I’ve done it twice before and it’s not that hard if you don’t gung-ho it and try to show off.  However, this year I’m on my own.  My group is full of those gung-hoers that will be up chatting with the firemen and looking at the view for twenty minutes before I get up there.  In previous years, I’ve always had someone to take the easy pace with, chatting along the way and laughing to pass the time.  I am going to have to resurrect the cheerleader this Sunday as I haven’t trained, I haven’t raised my goal and I am not looking forward to it…

There you have it…today, I deserve to wear the crown of stupid.

If only there were subjects to go with the role!  I suppose one can always dream. 

xb.

I am the most unlikely runner…when I was young, the boys in the class used to boo when myself and my friends sauntered across the finish line at the end of the yearly required mile run around the school.  I wasn’t particularly out of shape, I just hated running.  I was the ‘inside girl’:  the one who found a tree to read under during recess, the one who made dandelion chains cross-legged in the grass, the one who didn’t play sports and who didn’t run, the one who (if she had to be outside) made the least of it possible.

I only started running last April.  Then, the first mile was gruesome.  I remember raising my arms in celebration, finding that I had run an entire mile without stopping for the first time in my life.  I did a little victory dance.  Shortly, to my embarrassment, another runner caught up with me.  She told me that she had been trying to catch up for a while.  She wasn’t out of breath.  She wasn’t dripping sweat or clutching at her chest in agony.  She encouraged me and told me her story as I found myself running another half mile.  From that moment, I have not really looked back.

I am overweight, I huff and I puff, I stop every now and again to walk and pretend that my heart is not trying to claw its way out of my throat…but I love running.  I love the measured, rhythmic movement, the ‘tsee-whh’ sound my breath makes, the connection to the earth and the connection to the sky, as with each footfall I both ground myself and try to take off.  When I see people running along the path, I wish it were me…

So I’ve been wondering why it is sometimes so hard to get myself out.  I have so much going on during the course of the day, the only time I can regularly afford myself an hour (kid-free, task-free, chore-free, etc.) is on the weekend.  If I plan correctly and am lucky I can even go out twice.  The first half mile is still hard, as is the last, but I try to go at least 5k.  After some thought I have decided it is hard to get myself out on the path because:

1. I like to overwhelm myself with things that just NEED to be done.  I make excuses as to why they are more important.

2. I have trouble taking time for myself.

3. I have to spend almost an entire hour listening to my own thoughts, not being able to distract myself from what is going on in my head with what is going on around me.

4. The first half mile is hard!

So, recognizing the problems, I got out this weekend…

Yesterday I ran 3.12 miles in 47 minutes.  Really a horrible time…but I stopped to take pictures along the way, so I could share:  

 It was a cold, grey day, but I’ll run toward this anytime…Life is good.

xb.

Former Boise State quarterback and 2008 NCAA Football cover-boy Jared Zabransky, in Boise to promote the All-State Good Hands Roadside Assistance Program, was kind enough to spend a few minutes with Bleacher Report readers and dig into all the hot topics in college football, including the Heisman race, the dramatic finish to the Boise State-Nevada game, and the coaching rumors swirling around the country.My lasting image of that game isn’t the hook and ladder, or the half-back pass, or even the Statue of Liberty play that won the game in overtime.

Rather, it was watching the steely resolve on Zabransky’s face as all the cameras focused on him after his “almost” game-ending interception that put Oklahoma on top 35-28 with less than a minute remaining. I just knew he wasn’t going to let his team down, or let them lose.

Source:
http://www.red20.net/?pg=exclusve-chat-with-former-bronco-jared-zabransky