Pa has been ok, if a little unsteady. Ma says he fell once, but it was a gentle fall, where he sat down unexpectedly on the floor. He wasn't hurt at all, mostly just surprised. He's actually a black belt, and knows how to fall. This is not to say he could never be injjured in a fall, especially if his brain is shut off as in during a seizure. It does mean that he is less likely to sustain serious injury in simple low-speed falls while fully conscious. Less likely than me, probably.

So after more than five, less than ten years I went to the dentist and one thing, another thing, yesterday I also went to the oral surgeon to have a long-time broken tooth extracted. I had quite a bit of anxiety about it; I actually broke it not long after my last trip to the same surgeon, and broke it while eating a piece of white bread of all things. It was sharp at first, but then it wasn't. I kept telling myself, I'll go when it hurts, but it never did.

I went back to the same surgeon as last time. On that occasion he took out my belatedly erupted lower right wisdom tooth, and the molar next to it which had split in half during the collision. I didn't have any pain during the yanking, except I have this thing where my teeth are crap but my roots are amazing. To look at my face you wouldn't think there would be room for that much root in my jaw; even looking at the x-rays it seems unlikely. And so it is that removal involves a lot of physical yanking, and the pain of the empty space is later equalled or surpassed by the pain in my jaw, neck, head, and shoulder.

However I decided that the pain of an extraction would probably be the same whether or not I waited until after suffering weeks of infection-pain, so when the regular dentist said that tooth has to go, I said yes, ma'am. Also, it had risen in its socket over the years, and kept any of my other teeth from meeting properly, so...goodbye.  I scheduled with the same surgeon, who I'd forgotten was rather brusque and un-sweet, but that's ok because he's good. Also strong. Also...I have trust.

The last time I went, I had first gone to a regular dentist that time also, as you do. The regular guy did xrays and discovered a lower left wisdom tooth, completely unerupted, lying on its side like a vampire in its coffin inside my jaw. You can have that taken out or not, he said. You really don't have to, unless something goes wrong with it, and you can watch it with regular xrays.

The procedure would have involved having my jaw sawed on, so I said no thank you. But when I arrived at the oral surgeon (whose name is Maxwell) he thought he was taking out that tooth. I would have had unwanted massive surgery because the first dentist is an idiot. But I didn't, because Maxwell is careful. I'll take care-ful over care-bear any day. Also he's good. He got my broken tooth out in about ten seconds, literally, with no cutting and no stitches. I felt the first part go and thought, "Ow, I should probably--" and then the second piece came out and he said, "All done."  If I had been able to finish the first thought, it would have said, "I should probably let him know I felt that."

The main thing I did remember from the previous visit was the super-luxe blankie in the recovery room. And--it was still there, or one just like it. I happen to know it was a Martha Stewart blanket from her pre-prison days at K-Mart. I know this because my brother-in-law gave us one for Christmas one year. We wore ours out, but Maxwell still had his. So he's not a care bear, but.

He also listens. He asked if I wanted anything for pain and I said, no I'd take Advil. He said, are you sure, because you don't have to fill it. I said, I don't do Vicodin. He said, How about Tylenol 3. And I said ok, because that shit works for me and I've never had any trouble giving it up. And it doesn't cause me rage. Vicodin turns me into a monster. I've noticed it does this to other people also, but they don't ever seem to believe me.

Mr Moth believes me. He was there when the first dentist prescribed V and after the third dose I turned into Charlie Manson's evil twin.

Oh, Maxwell? gave me his personal cell phone number in case I have any trouble over the holiday. Is that not amazing?

So I drove myself to Revco, now known as CVS, but screw it, filled that script, picked up $80 worth of others as well,  and went home to the sofa nest I had built myself before leaving, where I chewed gauze and watched Last Man Standing on Netflix until the numb started wearing off, whereupon I took a codeine tablet and a nap. When I woke up hours later, Zor was up and Mr Moth was home, and I was in moderate discomfort but couldn't remember what time I took the pill.  I was also starving, so Mr Moth heated up the lasagna I had made the night before.

Lasagna is not health food, and too many carbs, but I figured it would be special enough to make me eat even if I was in pain, and soft. I think I would have eaten dog poo in a pudding cup though, because I was starving. Did I mention I was starving? Afterwards I took another pill. Mr Moth went to bed because he's on twelves this week (happy holidays) and Zor and I watched the rest of season two of Orange is the New Black. By then I had no pain, but I took another pill to insure a night of oblivion, and went to bed.

Somebody rang the bell and woke me up around 10:30. I remember how happy I was when Mr Moth fixed that damn bell, ha.

Today is Zor's birthday. I need to make her some brownies, and am debating if I need painkillers or should attempt it sober.  Gonna give those advil a chance first.
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the phone rang

On Friday, just after seven a.m.,  I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing, not Tim's ringtone, just the generic one. By the time I sat up it had stopped, but--like always--I really had to pee, so I went into the bathroom, and while I was in there--an enternity--the landline began ringing, and kept ringing and kept rining. No generic ring this time; it was my parents' special ring. But I couldn't stop peeing. For an eternity. Did I mention an eternity passed?

So I got up and took the gate down and dogs surged past me. I snagged the phone off the phone table as I stumbled by in the blear. I let dogs out, shut the door, turned on the light, and tried to see the phone display so I could select the number and hit "call." Just then it rang again so I answered it.

It was my brother, who lives with my parents. He told me that he (Squabby) had fallen asleep in the front room watching television. Pa had got up and reached the middle of his morning routine, the point where he watches the Weather Channel with the sound off and calls Time and Temperature on the phone at the same time. Something woke Squabby up, he thinks it was the thud Pa made when he fell. When Squabby woke up, he saw Pa jerking and twitching in the path in front of the television.

Backstory (Reminder): My father is a full blown OCD hoarder, yes, just like on television. (So is his sister, who has filled up a house, a barn, several sheds, and a mobile home). So there are paths in my parents' house. And the morning routine includes watching the Weather Channel and calling Time and Temperature and carefully recording the data in notebooks because, I dunno, the National Weather Service probably doesn't keep adequate records. No, it's actually because filling in numbers in columns is soothing. Frighteningly, I get that. It's not really different from my to-do lists with columns and boxes and sometimes I confess highlighter to divide the different tasks into categories.

Shit be genetic, yo.

Anyway, Squabby admitted he has secretly sneered at the whole watching the weather channel while calling time and temperature thing, but now he is thankful, because Pa had the phone in his hand when he went down, and if he hadn't, because he was blocking the path, Squabby doesn't know if he could have got to the phone. He does know he couldn't wake Ma up in spite of several attempts at shouting. So he called the squad, and when the squad came he went in and woke Ma up, who then had to deal with waking up from a coma in the middle of a crisis.

Then he tried to call me and couldn't get me up either...  I told him we'd send him to rooster classes so he could practice waking people up.

Anyway. The hospital did a CT scan and a chest x-ray and didn't find anything. They called Pa's old neurologist and he said this is not uncommon to happen years after an illness like Pa had fourteen years ago. We have spina bifida occulta, possibly related to the whole MTHFR genetic thing, and fourteen years ago Pa caught a simple virus but it jumped into his spine and surfed up to his brain giving him encephalitis. He nearly died, and when it was done he had brain lesions. Our loving government decided he was not disabled by this, even though he had to teach himself to write again and still can't remember my name. (He actually knows who I am, but he calls me by his sister's name.)

The chest xray was to double-check for clots (I think).

Anyway, he was on anti-seizure meds for a while after that, but he never had any seizures so they took him off, and there was no real reason for him to continue seeing the neurologist either. But the Brain Doc put him back on the seizure meds, made a follow up appointment, and let him be discharged rather than admitted. However, we all assumed it would be hours before any decision would be reached, and that most likely he would be admitted, so I went back to bed. Almost instantly the phone rang again and Squabby said they were discharging Pa and he and Ma needed a ride home. So I got up and zoomed north, picked them up, took them home. Pa didn't have his shoes, so we told him to wait in the van while we went in to get his shoes, but nope! He trotted inside before we could stop him because he had left his breakfast peanut butter sandwich half made and wanted to eat it.

He remembers heading in to watch the Weather Channel, and nothing until the ER, although he was beginning to respond again in the ambulance.

So I took Ma to WalMart to get his new prescription. He's been fine since, a little wobbly due to the new med, but no more seizures.

I really don't have an ending for this entry, so I'm just going to stop abruptly.
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gemini shoes

Follow my brain.  Mr Moth grumbled about how professors give vague assignments and did they ever do that to me?

Are you for SERIOUS, Mr Moth?!

As a specific example I reminded him how Ms L gave us the topic of duality and I drew Gollum.

Duality is a favorite theme of mine. I'm pretty sure that there's no validity to astrology and that it's a huge coincidence that I really am so very Gemini. Either that or hearing what a person born under that sign is supposed to be actually shaped my personality.

Regardless, later in the week, as I was driving, it popped into my head that my shoes are an example of the many dichotomies that make up my life. I have several pair: house shoes, bad weather boots, dress boots, dress loafers (ha), and the primary subcategory of athletic shoes, which I call tennis shoes.

Of tennis shoes there are a couple of pair I should really get rid of because they don't fit right but I hate to because they are in good shape, a couple of pair that I should get rid of because they are beat down and awful, and two pair that are fairly respectable. It's these two pair that captured my imagination on the way to school that day.

One pair are Nikes.

One pair are Dr Scholl's, and since I couldn't find an internet image anywhere, I took a snappy of them on my feet with potting soil accents.

I later remarked on this to my family over dinner, about the complete opposite branding going on with my shoes.  One "just do it," and the other, well.

Zor said, "One pair for running, and one pair for falling."

Um...ok, but hopefully not!

Anyway, duality.  Yeah.
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"suck it up and spend a little more on candy" or, the ethics and economics of trick or treat

Yesterday, on Facebook (where else?) a friend of mine posted this: Here is my response to those bitching about kids going trick or treating in neighborhoods not their own... Who cares. I'm taking my kids to [town redacted] like I did as a kid. Their great grandmother expects it and looks forward to it. If some has a problem with it they need to keep it to themselves or Come up with gas money to come with us. The bonfires are fantastic."

In the comment thread, this from another poster: "We go over to Clintonville. Started with going with friends who lived there, but they have since moved on and we continue going there. Heh. As for my post earlier about this, every.single.year there are comments on the neighborhood FB group about this (it's not [town redacted], I grew up in [town redacted). It makes me homicidal because indeed, why does it matter? Be thankful you live in a nice neighborhood where parents feel their kids will be safe. Suck it up and spend a little more on candy!"

Suck it up and spend a little more on candy.

That's the part that made me feel homicidal.

Five and a half years ago, Mr Moth and I moved from a lower working class neighborhood to a middle-working class neighborhood. We'd been broke all our lives together and figured we were willing to keep on being broke to buy a house in a solid neighborhood exactly halfway between his parents and mine. A dog-friendly place with room to write, a garage for working on cars, a dishwasher, and a room to write. You know...the American Dream on a modest budget.

And here we are. We sacrifice all the time to live here. And we know how lucky we are. If you've been around this blog awhile, you remember me posting about our adventures at the House on Whore Corner where prostitutes daily turned tricks outside our bedroom window, peed on the sidewalks, and sprawled across the hood of my car while waiting for customers. The upstairs neighbors were heroin dealiers. The downstairs neighbors fought constantly and called us slavers because we're white, and threw loud drunken parties outside our front window for the first two weeks of every month, until the disability money ran out.

(To be fair, I liked most of my actual neighbors.  They just were just kind of hard to live up against.  Often, I miss living there; I felt more like I belonged.  Here I feel like Roseanne on Wisteria Lane.)

Back then, Mr Moth worked, I worked, and Zor was being raised by babysitters so we could afford (barely) to live in the armpit of Ohio.

We know what it's like not to l ive in Happy Swell Meadows, which I sometimes call Wonderbread Land because it is so very caucasian here, and which I also sometimes call Skunkridge, because whooboy, the skunks. I make acerbic observations about how everyone out here builds a six-foot privacy fence and then a three-foot deck. The most obnoxious neighbor is the ones whose kids scream like they're on fire for no discernible reason and give me a heart attack on a semi-regular basis. Other obnoxious habits include ignoring barking dogs and car hoarding.  Nobody fights in the street here; kids play there. You almost never hear a stero thumping, in spite of the vast quantities of teenagers. And it is a nearly perfect neighborhood for Trick or Treat.

Nearly perfect because there are no street lights, so once the sun goes down it gets really--and ironically--dark.  But the houses are all close to the sidewalk, most have only a stoop to contend with, there aren't any front fences or gates, and the dogs are out back where the fences are.  Most of the families out here seem to have older children, and most have someone home passing out candy come Beggar's Night.

Halloween has been my favorite holiday for forever.  When we lived on Whore Corner, we took Zor to Grandma's for Trick or Treat, and when she was older, nobody came to the apartment on the hill. (Sidebar: there was a shooting in that neighborhood this year during Trick or Treat.)

One of the little added (unexpected) bonuses of moving here was, sorry for the allcaps, but this is how it felt:  HOLY SHIT LOOK AT ALL THE TRICK OR TREATERS!

I had no idea how expensive it is to buy candy for so many children!  Fifty bucks might not sound like much, until you consider that would be at least ten hours of after-tax wages at any job I've ever had.

That's ten hours of scrubbing somebody's dirty underwear or straightening up porno mags or putting forty ounce bottles of beer in a poke for the factory guys to drink on their breaks while they make trucks and making change with fingers blue from cold or being bellowed at by jerkoffs at Steak N Shake.

Ten hours.

But passing out candy and seeing all the little ones is a blast, so every year I guess how many kids we're going to have and plunk down the fifty bucks and hope I buy enough. Often it isn't. If we run out, we turn off the lights and close up.  Otherwise we haul out lawn chairs and watch the parade of costumes and personalities. I'm of the mind that there's no such thing as being too old for Trick or Treat, so I don't care how old folks are. You could be eighty. If you show up at my house on Beggar's Night and say, "Trick or treat," I will give you a piece of candy, at least until I run out.  And I don't care where you came from, either, because let me emphasise this:  We used to live in the armpit of Ohio, and we used to have to take Zor to another neighborhood too. We get it.


Nobody is legally or ethically obligated to pass out free candy no matter how wealthy they are. People who participate in the giving a basically throwing a party. Who goes to a party at someone else's house and then trashes the place and criticises the host? If you want to be welcome in other peoples' neighborhoods, how's about not walking down the street grubbing through your child's pillowcase of goodies, shoving things in your face and dropping wrappers like there's a maid coming. Furthermore, don't scream at your kids, don't scream at the people passing out the candy, and don't make snarky comments about the quality of the treats. Yes, this stuff happens. It happens every year.

Another thing that shouldn't need to be said but apparently does:  slow down and drive like you have an ounce of sense! Hello--KIDS EVERYWHERE.

In summary, don't be an asshole.

Continue not being an asshole when you get home and go online.  Don't post entitled sounding things like, "I have to make sure my kids get enough candy." Definitely don't say, Suck it up and spend a little more on candy. That one ruined this year for me. I'm honestly not sure I want to do "passing out" any more. I mean, I've been doing it, but since apparently I'm not doing it right, or enough, or with the right attitude, f*** it.

Yeah, we'll see, but right now I'm pretty much lodged at f*** it.


I feel like crap.  Still dizzy, now also out of breath and so fatigued I barely make it up the basement steps carrying a basket of laundry.  I hate this.  I hate having to ask people for help, and I hate it when I ask and they make that little exasperated sound in the back of their throats.

Now, with that out of the way...

I have fallen a little more in love with the Shark.  This is probably at least partly because it's part erector set and it's fun for me to take it apart and reconfigure it (also I am resting, i.e. sitting down, during the reconfiguring part).  But also, man does this thing suck.

It sucks things off the industrial rugs in the kitchen, it sucked up the jurassic doghair tribbles from the corners of the bedrooms, and it sucks things from under (and nearly reaches the back of) the sectional.  It probably would reach all the way under the sectional if I used the appliance attachment, but I'm too lazy to try, and I kind of have a, "If I can't see it and it doesn't smell don't worry about it" attitude about dirt.  It even tried to drag all the tennis balls out from under the sectional.  I really appreciate being able to walk through the house and do baseboards and corners without standing hunched over.  That position hurt even when I was in better condition.

You know, usually when companies shoot for The Best of Both Worlds, it's a dismal failure.  I have a name for these: Dodge Rampages.  Too little cargo room to make a good truck, too little passenger room to make a good car, they are actually the worst of both.

1983 Dodge Rampage

In fairness, Rampages are now niche classic cars, and they are at least cute.

So far this vacuum is the best of at least two worlds--upright, and cannister, with a little broom, dustmop, and portable thrown in.  It's really light, which is good considering my energy level.  And it's so quiet, Cobie isn't afraid of it.

I say "so far" because I've only had it a week.

I just filled a tall kitchen bag with dog hair and dust, and didn't spill any on the floor.


I'm looking forward to trying it inside the van and on the steps.

Did you hear that? looking forward.  To vacuuming.

Well I could go on about more nothing, but I have homework, of course, because it's Sunday and no matter how hard I try, everything backs up onto Sunday.  So, until next time.

catch up

I have not been posting because I have been busy. So busy that those facebook macros that say, "People aren't really too busy, they're just making excuses," really piss me off.

Speak for yourself.

First things first, I had to get new front tires put on Big Blue Berta. I went to EvilMart, and Zor went with me. I was amused by an escaped cheeto near the photo department.

Then we went to an auto auction. Before we left the house, it hailed pea-sized. On the way there, it snowed.

It was a warm slooshy snow that melted almost as soon as it hit. I tried to take pictures as evidence, but well. You can maybe tell in the spatters that this isn't just rain. The weather guys said it was sleet. The weather guys were high. I saw hail, rain, snow, and more rain. Other people posted better snow pictures on facebook, but those are their photos.

There were surprisingly a lot of people at the auction in spite of the weather. Surprisingly few of those people actually bid on anything.

The auction place did not have bathrooms, only porta-potties. That may be it for my future as an auto auction attendee. My teeny bladder and I am not particularly fussy, but yuck. Let someone go who can stand up and pee.

Kind of a shame, because I love auctions. I love cars. Stupid porta-potties.

Anyway, I got to do a lot of people watching, and car snooping.

Mr Moth bought a van.

That's kind of an over-simplification. He picked the van he wanted and then did this weird psychout thing on everyone else who seemed to want it. Something like shooting death rays from his eyeballs. I pretended I didn't know him until it was over.

And here's the van. We are calling her Silver. Berta and I followed Silver and him home. Silver did not throw a rock and break one of Berta's headlights like what happened when we follwed him home after buying the Sonoma. More importantly, I survived driving home from Columbus even though I felt like crap, which I pretty much always do anyway.

Silver's inside does not have that brown tinge; that's a camera/lighting thing. It's gray, just like you'd expect it to be.

Silver used to be a prison van. She is a Caravan, two years newer than Berta who is a Grand Caravan, and better in a dozen details, like the storage drawer under the passenger seat, better quality speakers, a cd player instead of a tape deck. Silver has electric windows, electric mirrors, all her automatic door locks work, and she has no body damage. She does have a ding in the windshield.

We don't have a plan yet for what we'll do with the Sonoma. First we have to find time to take it to the car guy and find out why it's drizzling transmission fluid and what it would take to fix, whether it's worth it to us.

The auction and grocery shopping ate an entire weekend. I was simply exhausted and barely finished enough homework to scrape by.

Other activities included making soup with rutabagas. I wish I hadn't eaten it all, because it looks pretty good, even though it would have looked better, in my opinion, in a white bowl.

And buying a new vacuum.

This was at Meijer on a 2-Day sale, regularly $179, plus I had a 20% off M-Perks coupon. Except, even though I got there as soon as the sale started at 6 a.m., they didn't have any in stock, not even one. So they sold me the next one up for the same price. I didn't ask them to, they just offered to do that. Which I think was pretty swell of them, letting me take home a $200 vac for $102.

There is nothing particularly wrong with my old vacuum, a low-end Bissell, except that it doesn't reach under the sofa. (Yet it has a headlight that beautifully illuminates all the dog hair tribbles under there, blargh.)  So this vac is supposed to let me clean under there without moving the heavy furniture, at least not every time. This will involve some disassembly which seems really complicated to me now, but which I'm sure will become easier as it becomes routine.

It's also very light, sucks so hard it actually pulls itself along, and did an amazing job on the short rugs in the kitchen which the other vacuum has never seemed to get truly clean. It pivots and everything like those outrageously priced Dysons with the balls.

My favorite thing about this vac so far is, it's so easy to empty. You take the dust cup off, and upend it over the trash can, and it's done. With the Bissell, it has a weird filter that's above the dust cup, and crud gets caught above it, and when you take that filter out, which I have to do every time I dump it, gravity does what gravity always does, and it makes a huge mess. And I generally have to empty it at least three times every time I run the vacuum.

When I say the mess is huge, I do mean HUGE. Like this.

Yuck. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong (I'm not wrong) but vacuums aren't supposed to make a mess--even if you have a husky mix that sheds like a husky mix twice a year.

And lastly I will say Oliver still doesn't like Artemis the Ckatten.

Oliver lost his first tooth when he was quite a young cat. Well, first he grew an extra fang, twice, which was quite creepy, but not all that unprecedented since he kinda sorta grew his testicles back, at least part way. The second time he grew the extra fang, it pushed his original fang out, and then the new fang fell out. It was all very no-fuss, which is why it's not too surprising that other teeth have departed since then. It hasn't affected his appetite or ability to eat at all, but I started giving him a little cat milk and gooshy fudz to supplement, and he does not want to share and tries to bury the leftovers. Here he stuffed a rag in the dish. He would rather have a dirty rag on his food than share.

But I have started giving Artemis her own dish of gooshy fudz and a miracle occurred.

Yes, I am letting cats eat on the kitchen table, and yes I agree it's gross (hence the cleaning rag) but if I want them to get any, I have to give them the food where Cobie can't reach it.  And yes I also know the table desperately needs de-cluttered, and I promise to get to that right away...because I am not really too busy, I am just making excuses.

And now I must find food, eat it, and then commence my studying. Last week I swore I would stop letting homework eat my Sundays, but it's not looking good for that promise at this point because other stuff just keeps pushing homework back until there's no more room to push, which generally means no day of rest for me.

I'm sure the makers of not-really-profound facebook macros would say I shouldn't have written this blog post if I really didn't have enough time, but luckily for them, I don't have time to track them down and beat them to death with my Sanctimonious Turd Silencing Stick.
  • Mood: exhausted

still dizzy

The story thus far:  When my ovary exploded the second time they diagnosed me with scary high hypertension and put me on one BP med.  It worked, but not enough so my first post-explosion doc added a second drug.  My bp still was not what you could call low, but it was low sometimes, which made my second post-explosion doc leary of increasing anything.  Fast forward to the spring/early summer of this year and CNP changed BP med because she noticed some edema.  I believe the edema was just my usual PMS fluid retention, but I'm not a medical professional.  And I don't actually have M on a reliable basis anymore, but I do have the P and the S.  I ask you, is that fair?  Uh...NO it is not.  Anyway, she took me off the original drug and doubled the second one.  This was about the same time I was diagnosed mutant and the blood doc put me on all the supplements.

Where before I had had occasional bouts of light-headedness upon standing, suddenly I have huge bouts of debilitating, reeling down the hall, grabbling things to keep from faceplanting, couldn't drink enough to get this drunk even when I was young, lack of balance.  The world swims away, and it goes on and on and on for hours.  Well, Mr Moth says ten seconds, but it feels like hours.  And then I get a quickie hangover that lasts another thirty seconds to a minute, and then I'm fine.

So CNP changed the bp med, and the dizziness almost stopped for a few days, and then crept back in but not as bad, but that initial low dose let my bp go back up into the scary zone, so she doubled it, and the dizzy came back, still not as bad as before, but bad.

So today was my follow up, and apparently I had forgot to mention the headache aspect (because they aren't that bad, and they're fleeting)  but then she put me through all these paces and I know what you're up to woman, you're testing to see if I've had a stroke or similar.  Can I hold my arms up, and do my eyeballs track the same.  Which I can and they did.

But now she wants my carotid arteries ultrasounded and my brain scanned, to check for blocks and leaks.

If that doesn't turn up anything, she's going to adjust the medication back to what it was originally to see if that resets me.

If that doesn't work, she's referring me to a neurologist.

It probably didn't help that she asked, "When this is happening do you have any chest pain or shortness of breath?"

To which I replied, "No, it's all in my head."

Not sure whether to sigh or whimper.
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crap food (food snobs move along, there's nothing for you to comment on here)

Three nights a week I am in class at dinner time.  Two nights a week, so are Mr Moth and Zor.  So we have been eating microwavable crap.

Yes, I suppose I could prepare food ahead of time, except that would require extra work, and a level of efficiency and energy I just don't have right now.  I haven't hit my stride for this semester yet.

Anyway, pizza, yo.

So the other night I was making a helper.  It was even an actual helper, out of a box, instead of my more usual, "I can make that myself" kind of casserole.  I doctored it, of course, because I can't seem to not.  While it was cooking, Zor said, "That smells amazing!  Probably because it's real food."

Whereupon I almost snorted, because box helper isn't real food.

Later I got to thinking about it and decided that when you get older, anything your mother makes probably gets categorized as "real food."  To me it's not, because my mother never made it--it was too expensive, and I was really envious of my friends who got to have such extravagances.
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on being flexible

I always thought, and even said aloud, "I'm not flexible.  In fact, I'm rigid and uncompromising."

Last winter, when Zor moved out temporarily, I realized it's not me.  It's life.

With slack in my schedule I suddenly became all about flexiblility, spontanaeity, go with the flow.

Now, not so much again.  It's not her fault.  Again, it's life.  When there is too much to do, there are no empty slots on the schedule.  Making any change is like one of those slider puzzles.  Remember these?

To move one "thing", you have to move every "thing", and it fast becomes overwhelming. Also in real life, many "things" you might want to move affect other people, such as the dogs' need to use the yard more than once a day, and some "things" can't be moved at all, such as class start times. Sure I could skip class for whatever, but I paid for it and I don't want to.

That's where legit inflexibility comes in. I don't want to miss things I paid for, piss off my doctor by missing appointments, skip classes I paid for, do without sleep.  I don't want to, and ain't gonna, just because someone is going to be all, "You're too inflexible."

Yeah, I am. Not by choice, but I am. And that state of affairs will ease some when Zor is out on her own, but I will be in zero big hurry to slot in a bunch of new responsibilities!  Or to sluff off the ones I'll still have, either.

I might, however, occasionally be able to slot in an extra cup of coffee with a friend or a photo trip to the duck park or a cemetery walk or even a date night with the old man.

We live in hope.
  • Location: The Keep
  • Mood: sore
  • Noise: silence

coffee cups

I recently put a bunch of coffee cups in the goodwill box.

When we moved in, five and a half years ago, there were two cups.  Well, there were a bunch of 'em, because isn't there always?  Cups left behind by the sellers who, due to an unfortunate incident involving the police and tasers, didn't fully complete the moving out process.  But two of the left behind cups I kept, because they were perfect, and they soon became my primary coffee cups.

Here is a photo.  I normally don't allow cups of liquid to co-surface with my computer hardware, but the cup is empty, I needed better light for photo purposes, and this is a special occasion, so.

I even found one more at goodwill, adopted it, and brought it home.

Why are they perfect?  Well first of all, that most important of all qualities, texture.  You would think all coffee cups would be more or less the same, especially with regard to texture, but trust me when I say, they aren't.  I want them perfectly smooth.  No texture!

Then there is size.  They need to hold the exact right amount.  Enough so that the contents cools, but not too fast.

Shape matters.  It needs to fit both my hand and my ceramic coaster.  (Ceramic coasters are non-chewupable, or at least my dogs are unwilling to chew them up.)  In this photo the coaster is absent because I moved the cup.  And the shape of this one I find aesthetically pleasing as well, the slightly roundedness of it, as opposed to many mugs that are plain cylinders.

And they are from the LIBRARY!  Where I hardly ever go anymore.  The last time I went there it was to look for photos to use as a reference for a class project.  I remember the look of vague astonishment on one classmate's face when I whipped out my library books.

Getting back to the cups, I found a third one at goodwill and bought it, and if I find more, they are mine, mine, mine.

However, there is one teensy imperfection, namely that the light color is developing progressive staining.

Once upon a time people used to talk to each other about these things.  "How do you get stains off your coffee cups?"  "Oh, I use a denture tablet and a toothbrush."

I've always wanted to try that denture tablet trick, but I don't have dentures and it seems silly to buy some tablets just to clean three cups.  So I'll probably try a magic eraser because they take super glue off eyeglass lenses, yo. A coffee stain should be no problem.  But if for some bizarre reason that doesn't work, I guess I'll just google it.

Sigh.  I miss when people went to the library and talked to each other--although not generally at the same time.  But at least I have LJ and my (almost) perfect coffee cups to keep me company.

P.S., Just this past week I saw a woman and her little boy trudging across the school parking lot, their arms laden with library books.  (It's right across the street.)  Which made me happy until I realized I no longer live in a world where I could offer them a ride.  Add that to the list of things I miss, sigh.