Writing, Ranting, and Ramblings
Like so much else in life, this move has left me with exceedingly long periods of inactivity surrounded by periods of pure madness. Since I had a computer with me (even without internets, it's hard to give up a computer), I wrote. Some stuff is utter drivel, some stuff may be interesting, other stuff I may later develop into a story.
I'm posting it all here, for your viewing pleasure (?); which will make this one hell of a long post. Feel free to skim or ignore it entirely, as you wish.
Oh, and for anyone who feels a bit concerned as they read: I'm feeling better, and we got a new aquarium for the snake already.
Friday Cat Attack
There's a cat trying to meld with my hand. Again. I know he's only a kitten, less then a year old, but I swear I've seen dogs half his size. I shake him off and go to the kitchen.
The pot I made rice in last night is still sitting on the stove, rice still in it. Not a lot - we were both hungry last night - but enough to bond with that layer of starch left in the pan into a bumpy white coating. I scrape off most of it, dump it into the trash, then go back and scrape some more. My mind drifts, and the rice turns to maggots, then back to rice, then back to maggots, then back again.
I fill the pot with water and leave it to soak for a bit.
I'm the only two-legged creature left in the house. There's room for at least seven, possibly twice that - but for now it's just me. I can't say I really mind; the past week has left me so exhausted that I barely have the strength to wander from one room to another. I guess a healthy person wouldn't have days like this, but thinking like that is dangerous for me now.
The cats (there's three of them) are bewildered at the vast emptiness about them. We don't let them into the larger, upstairs unit of course - but even our smallish floor is enough to fill them with awe. Normally my husband and I hoard so much stuff that we're reduced to little paths going through the rooms. The cats stalk along them like jaguars after cunning prey, ready to pounce on whatever passes for toys in their minds. But here, we're barely moved in enough to live here full time. Making rice in a non-non-stick pot, typing on my lap to a fritzing laptop sitting on a chair - honestly, I've been camping with more amenities then this. Which I suppose says something about my idea of “camping.”
The snake doesn't care. She's in the same aquarium, on the same stand. I mean, now she has a little more light and it probably smells different. But other then that, well; she's a snake in an aquarium. Almost more furniture then pet.
There' s a new cat trying to meld with my hand. This one, my favorite of the three, is resting her head against the hand while it types. She's been with us long enough not to mind the movement.
I think I'm beginning to understand why we gimps like to stick together. It's not so we have someone to whine with - trust me, the whining gets old pretty fast when the condition never actually goes away. Hell, I'm so sick of listening to myself whine that I'll leave out stuff about my condition when I'm talking to my doctor. No, we stick together because of all the other stuff. I mean, how do you explain what it's like to have a cute furry animal trying to lick you and play with your hair when you're writhing in agony? Yeah, I guess most people understand the innate adorableness of it all. But my life is not a freaking LOL cats cartoon. Most of the time.
The tiredness today is starting to kick back in. It's a little like the feeling I used to get after a cross-country competition, and a little from what I've heard about narcolepsy I have to fight falling asleep when I 'm talking, or wandering in the garden, or cooking: but there's never the danger of falling asleep without realizing it. I won't drown in my soup or get crushed by a car because I can't control my sleep.
Then again, narcoleptic don't have to spend a day or two with wrenching cramps shitting their innards out if they stay awake.
Invisible illnesses are mean like that. I don't get the sympathy or Congressional Funding that more photogenic illnesses enjoy - though, anyone who knows fybromyalgia is easy to spot due to the wince of pain that flashes across their face when you tell them what's wrong. Everyone else has that dazed “is that some kind of cancer” look in their eyes and voice that tells you it's time to put the whole thing into words again. That's never easy to do, by the way. The whole condition is still being debated: some people say it's a genetic mutation that manifests in its recessive form in women to cause a lower amount of certain neurotransmitters to be produced. Some people say the whole thing's made up, and the people who say they have it are just trying to get pain medication.
I'm not on pain medication, so I guess I fall into another category.
The pot is still soaking. I'm finally hungry - eight hours after I woke up - so it's looking like rice again. I put a different, non-stick pot on with some brown rice to go with a package of tuna I found. I can only imagine how much kitten attention that'll bring me.
Right now they're all roaming the house. When I sleep, they either sleep on the furniture around me or go into another part of the house to play. Have you ever heard of such conscientious cats? I've been engaged to people who lacked that level of consideration. Mind you, the kitties tend to knock more things over and have much sharper claws...but still, I can't imagine handling all of this without them. Or my husband; but he's always just a phone call away.
For the record, he wasn't ever inconsiderate. That was someone else.
Rice is still cooking, pot is still soaking, tiredness still creeping. I stay awake by listening to podcasts, when I have to sit still (to do stuff like eat). It's amazing how helpful a voice from the speakers can be. I am alone here, really and truly: but I feel a little more apart of the human race when another person is telling me a story. Even if it's a bad story, or a story I don't like; it's still a story, a part of another person that I get to partake of in my small way.
I'm starting to wonder if weed would help my condition. Dulls pain, encourages appetite, lessens depression - hell, it sounds a lot safer then the drugs I'm on now. A friend of mine is so afraid of Trazedone I can't even mention that I'm on it without her freaking out a little. I admit, it's powerful stuff. Half a pill and I'm out of commission for at least a day, usually more like two.
But with all the other crap in my life, do I really need the legal crap that smoking weed in Ohio is sure to bring me? I didn't think so either.
Talked to my husband. Twice. Once to learn that he couldn't find my engagement ring - a two stone number of no small sentimental value - where I thought I'd left it. The second time to tell him that I had packed it in my “things I'd rather not loose bin” which is already here. After our mutual relief was expressed, we actually started to chat.
The thing that caused me to fall in love with my husband was not his perfect face and fabulous physique (don't get me wrong, he's not bad: he's just not a male model). No, it was chatting with him. Emailing back and forth, talking on the phone, and in general just hearing what he thought and believed. Our beliefs and values match pretty closely; not so close that the relationship gets boring, but close enough to where we have no reason to argue over religion and politics. But our experiences, and our way of looking at the world turned out to be almost completely different. He has two parents, I have four. He spends most of his time doing techy stuff, I spend most of my time buried in literature. He lived in a nudist colony when he was a young kid, both of my biological parents are ex-military. But none of that really detracts from our time or conversation together - if anything, it gives us more to talk about.
He's my elder by about fourteen years. There's all kinds of movie and TV references that I've had to learn over the years we've been together, but other then that the age difference seems to make us more similar now. Sounds odd, but not when you stop to think about it. Men and women mature and grow differently. A man closer to my age is probably more alike to my teenage self, and frankly I'd rather not deal with me as a teenager. Robin, on the other hand, not only looks distinguished enough to buy booze without being carded: but he doesn't mind lying in bed and just talking about stuff as it pops into my head.
Mind you, I don't do that every night. One of us should sleep regularly, and I think we're better off it's the one earning a steady paycheck.
He's been with me when I ended up in a psych ward. He's gone through therapists at a free clinic, stroked my hair when I laid in bed trying not to breathe too hard (for fear of worsening the chest spasms), and now that I have real health care and a really real doctor who cares about me: he's even more there for me. He has years of background in a medical field, so he'll often explain procedures and tests before I even get a chance to look at the literature they send me. And he doesn't resent me for being sick.
Basically, he's the kind of partner every fibro patient wishes they had.
I'm pretty sure I don't deserve him. But; I'm pretty sure no one else deserves him either. And since I got him first, he's mine, dammit, mine. I'm willing to share with others who love him, and with the kitties (who seem to love him even more then life itself)....but he's mine.
On a less crazy/possessive note, my house is now filled with a reddish smoke. A heavily perfumed reddish smoke that results when one burns pure dragon's blood resin on charcoal. This is step one to my master plan of purifying/cleansing/blessing the house we've moved into. The dragon's blood drives out any negative energies, baleful spirits, various types of insects, and (rumor has it) the kinds of aliens that abduct you. Since I don't think I've ever been abducted (at least not from this house), I think I'll just stick with the “driving out negativity” line of reasoning.
Tomorrow I go around with a smudge stick (a big bundle of sage dried and tied loosely together) and get on with the cleansing/blessing part of the program. Then, I'll probably go to the grocery store to get some food - honestly, I am not the biggest fan of tuna- then rest for a bit. Later, I'll go around with some salt to hopefully envelope the house in protective energies.
Should be meditative day. Hopefully the tiredness will let me be for a while, and the worst of the pain will find something else to do with its time. Like cribbage. I always wanted to learn cribbage.
Saturday Sushi Fix
Sushi.
I could eat my entire weight in the stuff. Actually, I think I've come close to that once or twice, when my parents were footing the bill.
It's hard to explain why it's such a crave-worthy food to the uninitiated. Some element of the texture, yes - and the juxtaposition of familiar and strange ingredients. But for me, it's the taste. Raw fish holds some primal appeal to me in a way even I can't understand. Mix it with things like avocado and grilled eel - forget about it.
Sushi and Japanese silk are probably the two things that draw me most to that island nation.
The silk, in its traditional Japanese manufacture, is its own special brand of heaven. It's the softest silk imaginable, not for different worms or special dyes; but for the way it's reeled. Tiny fingers of careful Japanese women (always masters at their craft, it seems) are constantly wetted by saliva as the thin strands are reeled inch by inch. The saliva is smoothed over the surface, and the enzymes dissolve the surface protein structures. The structures almost instantly re-form on top of the strands as smooth sheets, covering the internal layers and making the fiber unbelievably soft.
Naturally, silk like this is well and truly out of my price range. But I can admire. And possibly enjoy a few pieces I've inherited.... ;-)
But the sushi side of the equation is a little easier to come by, and a lot cheaper per piece. Indeed, today I indulged in a little five dollar tray from Heinen's with some crab, salmon, and tuna rolls tucked inside. Top of the line stuff? No. But still delicious to a hungry little me.
The trip to Heinen's was part of a two-part journey that started off at the library. It looks like I'll need to get my license changed to the new address before I get a library card; all the bills come in Robin's name. Not a big deal, since I need to get that done any way. I suppose I should feel a bit more inconvenienced, since I need a library card or guest pass to log on to the internet there, and there's no way I can get my license renewed before next week. But, I'm starting to enjoy the quietude that logging off brings. I have music (thanks to Robin's external drive) and if I really wanted I could load a Sim game onto this laptop...but I don't. Music and writing, with the occasional podcast, are more then enough to leave me happy.
And hopefully, I'll have enough to unpack and arrange this coming week to stay occupied then, too.
The only black mark on my shopping trip when I realized a.) I can't really plan a menu out without knowing what Robin was bringing, and b.) If I didn't lay down and rest soon, I would be very sick in a very inconvenient place. The first one I still can't do much about, the second one is still wearing on me. I may get some writing done (which is looking more and more difficult as the cat keeps creeping further and further up my arm), and I'll eat dinner...but that looks to be it.
Then I got home, and the kittens successfully destroyed the aquarium where we keep the snake.
Fortunately I was in the room (albeit not paying close attention to them), and thus able to rescue the snake before she could actually get hurt. The aquarium is a wash, though: the bottom completely shattered from where it feel. I cleaned up the glass, set the bones of the aquarium outside, rigged a kitty carrier to safely hold the snake and a few of her accouterments, the proceeded to call around to Robin and my parents to see if anyone had any ideas or spare aquariums lying about. None do.
Here's hoping for a better day tomorrow.
Sunday Cobbling
It never bodes well when one wakes up feeling sick. Even when it passes, there's always that chance that it'll arrive the next day (or even later that night) with a vengence. Mine was a queer dizziness that wouldn't fade for an hour, and the inability to eat for several hours after that.
But still, for the moment, I'm well enough to keep on.
Since I couldn't eat, and wasn't showing signs besides a malaise, I decieded to get some fresh air and yard work in. The patio, half-bricked and half-loose mud beneath gravel, is now completely covered in bricks. Half of which are loose and not level...but they're down. I'm hoping the upcomming winter will be enough to settle them more.
There's a surprising amount of fauna that can grow between stacked brick. I found three healthy-looking slugs, a black widow, two centipedes, countless silverfish, and many other things too small to easily identify. I made a real effort not to kill any of them, partly because I didn't want to touch any of them and partly because they've been here longer then me. Seems ungrateful to kill them.
Being outside reminded me of two things. The gardens surrounding my house, while still beautiful, need a bit of cutting back and weeding. There isn't a path about this place that doesn't have a sprouting plant trying to trip someone walking past...and the hostas are getting onry. The other, more irritating reminder was that the furniture on which I now sit really, really needs to be cleaned. If a carpet cleaner doesn't materialize soon, I may have to take drastic measures.
After my foray into cobbling I was too exausted to do much more then listen to a yarn by one of my favorite podcasters about an herbalist. Two epidodes later and I felt well enough to move Robin's clothes into his closet, start the laundry, do the dishes, and start my lunch of potato soup.
I'm not usually one for instant soups (just on principle), but the Bear Creek potato is actually really good.
I still don't have a timer, so I'm using the various movements of “Sheherazade” to keep track to cooking time. Not sure what that says about me...but at least I'm staying entertained.
Robin called to say that the beekeeper charged $50 an hour to remove the hive. I told him it's the landlady's problem. He also mentioned that in his flurry, his best friend had packed many of the things that Robin was supposed to bring back with him. Like my kitchen knives. I suppose I should feel more nonplussed, but it's hard for me to be upset when so much of my house is apparently packed by a man who could have doubtless used the time to much more profitable ends.
The snake is still in her aquarium, apparently curled up in her little house keeping warm. The kitties don't pay her much mind as far as I can tell, but who can say what they get up to when I'm not watching. While I laid brick, there seemed to be a different cat watching me each time I looked up. I looked up more then three times, and we only have three cats, so I'm still not sure how they did that.
Thursday Kitten Attack
“Hi there.”
He stops trying to lick the back of his shoulder blades long enough to stare up at me with pumpkin-rimmed eyes.
“Are you happy?”
As answer, he half rolls, half flops onto his back to expose an enormus expanse of belly; then looks up at me and mews pitifully. He's less then a year old, and already he's learned how to wrap me around his little kitty paws as skillfully as a seasoned con artist.
I deciede against trying to rub the proffered belly. Something about the look in his eyes warns of impending wildness. “Well, you look happy.”
He flops over again, and begins his attack on the rug beneath him. I shake my head and walk past, greatful I hadn't fallen for the ploy. He's never hurt me, or really even tried to: but those claws and fangs still hurt when he's of a mind to use them.
Food is calling me. Collect.
I grab a bag of potato chips and head for my makeshift office on the couch that was left behind from the previous tenants. I've covered it with a massive bedspread and set a small chair in front of it to serve as a laptop stand. Crude, but effective. After a few moments of debate, tinged with guilt from not having anything more useful to do, I turn on a podcast to entertain me while I eat.
The story is a play on parasites, and their effect on mankind as a whole. The premise is that a parasitologist believes that the drive for exploration is actually the effect of a parasite that requires its host to be eaten by an alien life form in order to contiune its life cycle. The story dwells on toxoplasmosis - a pretty common parasite that has very little negative effect on most human hosts. Some people believe that nearly all cat owners have it, which is enough to give me pause at the end of the story.
By the time I'm up again, all three cats have stationed themselves on my bed, and my tea is cool enough to drink.
The day ahead of me looks long. At the very least, I have a three or four hour commute to the house we're moving out of to gather the last of our things and bring them here. Attendant to this is the arrangements that need to happen for the comfort and saftey of the cats while we're gone over the weekend, empting the last of the boxes here so we can bring them back and refill them, and dragging what furniture we don't want out of the way. I'm currently strong enough to complete the first two, but the last one is completely outside my realm of abilities. The pain is manageable today - only a stitch in my side, a dull pain in my shoulder, and a sore hip - but I know better then to risk a flare-up. As it is, I'll need to take some powerful drugs when the move is over just to re-set my body far enough to unpack.
The old musings to deliberately contract leprosy rise again. I suppose that seems crazy to some; but when you know your life is going to be noting but various levels of pain, the promise of a total absence of pain is mighty tempting. Besides, an author with leprosy is a hell of a shtick to sell books with.
I'm still waiting for Robin to call. I don't actually sit by the phone with batied breath, hoping to talk to him...I just keep remembering things I need him to do before we leave. Our internet connection should finally be up a few hours after we leave here, and there's a lot that can't be done without access to the web.
Funny how dependant we've become to a technology that's younger then I am.
I debate laying down for a while. The muscle spasms that cause the stitch in my side don't seem to care about how difficult they're making it to breathe, but occasionally they can be lulled into calm by inactivity. The kittens would certianly appreciate it: they're only on the bed because it smells so much like Robin and I. There are few things they love more then a chance to cuddle with me as I lay down. I don't know if it's real affection, or the extra heat that the muscle spasms produce - I just know they're wonderfully comforting when the worst of the pain hits.
My rhuematologist asked if they ever aggravated my asthema. I told her it's entirely possible, but they were far too comforting for me to think of living without them. Even in attack mode, it's clear that they want to be with me. Bleeding or otherwise.
Hindquarters
My husband really doesn't have much by the way of hindquarters; but what he does have back there is very nicely shaped. He's changed pants a record three times since coming home several hours ago, took me out to a lovely Brazilian fusion place for an overpriced aniversary dinner, and is now fiddling with a group of wires on the floor. AT&T reputedly turned on our internets today, but we still have to figure out the magical ceremony that shall cause it to be accessable.
As usual, I'm leaving it up to Robin to do the actual hardware alchemy. Currently that involves him hunched into a small alcove on knees and elbows, using a tiny screwdriver set to tease and prod wires into some strange sigl that allows us a connection to the information super highway. At the moment the portal from which these wires came looks like nothing more then the detonater unit from a poorly-financed disaster movie. In reality it's a phone jack with its protective cover removed: but considering most special-effects guys I know of, there's probably a reason the two strike me as similar.
The kittens are terribly curious about the large human form working on the floor. I'm (hopefully) the only one who appreciates the view of his...working...but even as I sit here they begin to gather around him. No doubt the new activity and shiny things on the floor would draw any cat to him - but after being together for this many years, I have to admit it's probably more then that. Robin has this inexplicable link to the animal world. Dogs and cats, squirells, snakes, even some skinks and spiders are constantly drawn to him like supplicants after some ancient shrine. We call it the “Doctor Doolittle” effect, but the animals in that movie actually did what the good doctor told them to do.
We have cats. 'Nuff said.
His baby, Nala, is even now trying to find a way to burrow under the directions he's working from, while the other two try to play King of the Hill atop them. Robin, fully aware of the playful little brats all around him, patiently continues to attack the phone jack in any number of ways from any number of directions. I think he may actually win this one - he's done it before - but the sheer entertainment value of his efforts (combined with the cats) makes it a worthy exercise even if he doesn't.
Ah, he's moved onto the modem. This must mean progress. At the same time, the largest and youngest of the cats had begun to romp crazily through the house.
And now, he's hooked into my computer. I think I'll take a hint and find something else to do.
Peace Out.
I'm posting it all here, for your viewing pleasure (?); which will make this one hell of a long post. Feel free to skim or ignore it entirely, as you wish.
Oh, and for anyone who feels a bit concerned as they read: I'm feeling better, and we got a new aquarium for the snake already.
Friday Cat Attack
There's a cat trying to meld with my hand. Again. I know he's only a kitten, less then a year old, but I swear I've seen dogs half his size. I shake him off and go to the kitchen.
The pot I made rice in last night is still sitting on the stove, rice still in it. Not a lot - we were both hungry last night - but enough to bond with that layer of starch left in the pan into a bumpy white coating. I scrape off most of it, dump it into the trash, then go back and scrape some more. My mind drifts, and the rice turns to maggots, then back to rice, then back to maggots, then back again.
I fill the pot with water and leave it to soak for a bit.
I'm the only two-legged creature left in the house. There's room for at least seven, possibly twice that - but for now it's just me. I can't say I really mind; the past week has left me so exhausted that I barely have the strength to wander from one room to another. I guess a healthy person wouldn't have days like this, but thinking like that is dangerous for me now.
The cats (there's three of them) are bewildered at the vast emptiness about them. We don't let them into the larger, upstairs unit of course - but even our smallish floor is enough to fill them with awe. Normally my husband and I hoard so much stuff that we're reduced to little paths going through the rooms. The cats stalk along them like jaguars after cunning prey, ready to pounce on whatever passes for toys in their minds. But here, we're barely moved in enough to live here full time. Making rice in a non-non-stick pot, typing on my lap to a fritzing laptop sitting on a chair - honestly, I've been camping with more amenities then this. Which I suppose says something about my idea of “camping.”
The snake doesn't care. She's in the same aquarium, on the same stand. I mean, now she has a little more light and it probably smells different. But other then that, well; she's a snake in an aquarium. Almost more furniture then pet.
There' s a new cat trying to meld with my hand. This one, my favorite of the three, is resting her head against the hand while it types. She's been with us long enough not to mind the movement.
I think I'm beginning to understand why we gimps like to stick together. It's not so we have someone to whine with - trust me, the whining gets old pretty fast when the condition never actually goes away. Hell, I'm so sick of listening to myself whine that I'll leave out stuff about my condition when I'm talking to my doctor. No, we stick together because of all the other stuff. I mean, how do you explain what it's like to have a cute furry animal trying to lick you and play with your hair when you're writhing in agony? Yeah, I guess most people understand the innate adorableness of it all. But my life is not a freaking LOL cats cartoon. Most of the time.
The tiredness today is starting to kick back in. It's a little like the feeling I used to get after a cross-country competition, and a little from what I've heard about narcolepsy I have to fight falling asleep when I 'm talking, or wandering in the garden, or cooking: but there's never the danger of falling asleep without realizing it. I won't drown in my soup or get crushed by a car because I can't control my sleep.
Then again, narcoleptic don't have to spend a day or two with wrenching cramps shitting their innards out if they stay awake.
Invisible illnesses are mean like that. I don't get the sympathy or Congressional Funding that more photogenic illnesses enjoy - though, anyone who knows fybromyalgia is easy to spot due to the wince of pain that flashes across their face when you tell them what's wrong. Everyone else has that dazed “is that some kind of cancer” look in their eyes and voice that tells you it's time to put the whole thing into words again. That's never easy to do, by the way. The whole condition is still being debated: some people say it's a genetic mutation that manifests in its recessive form in women to cause a lower amount of certain neurotransmitters to be produced. Some people say the whole thing's made up, and the people who say they have it are just trying to get pain medication.
I'm not on pain medication, so I guess I fall into another category.
The pot is still soaking. I'm finally hungry - eight hours after I woke up - so it's looking like rice again. I put a different, non-stick pot on with some brown rice to go with a package of tuna I found. I can only imagine how much kitten attention that'll bring me.
Right now they're all roaming the house. When I sleep, they either sleep on the furniture around me or go into another part of the house to play. Have you ever heard of such conscientious cats? I've been engaged to people who lacked that level of consideration. Mind you, the kitties tend to knock more things over and have much sharper claws...but still, I can't imagine handling all of this without them. Or my husband; but he's always just a phone call away.
For the record, he wasn't ever inconsiderate. That was someone else.
Rice is still cooking, pot is still soaking, tiredness still creeping. I stay awake by listening to podcasts, when I have to sit still (to do stuff like eat). It's amazing how helpful a voice from the speakers can be. I am alone here, really and truly: but I feel a little more apart of the human race when another person is telling me a story. Even if it's a bad story, or a story I don't like; it's still a story, a part of another person that I get to partake of in my small way.
I'm starting to wonder if weed would help my condition. Dulls pain, encourages appetite, lessens depression - hell, it sounds a lot safer then the drugs I'm on now. A friend of mine is so afraid of Trazedone I can't even mention that I'm on it without her freaking out a little. I admit, it's powerful stuff. Half a pill and I'm out of commission for at least a day, usually more like two.
But with all the other crap in my life, do I really need the legal crap that smoking weed in Ohio is sure to bring me? I didn't think so either.
Talked to my husband. Twice. Once to learn that he couldn't find my engagement ring - a two stone number of no small sentimental value - where I thought I'd left it. The second time to tell him that I had packed it in my “things I'd rather not loose bin” which is already here. After our mutual relief was expressed, we actually started to chat.
The thing that caused me to fall in love with my husband was not his perfect face and fabulous physique (don't get me wrong, he's not bad: he's just not a male model). No, it was chatting with him. Emailing back and forth, talking on the phone, and in general just hearing what he thought and believed. Our beliefs and values match pretty closely; not so close that the relationship gets boring, but close enough to where we have no reason to argue over religion and politics. But our experiences, and our way of looking at the world turned out to be almost completely different. He has two parents, I have four. He spends most of his time doing techy stuff, I spend most of my time buried in literature. He lived in a nudist colony when he was a young kid, both of my biological parents are ex-military. But none of that really detracts from our time or conversation together - if anything, it gives us more to talk about.
He's my elder by about fourteen years. There's all kinds of movie and TV references that I've had to learn over the years we've been together, but other then that the age difference seems to make us more similar now. Sounds odd, but not when you stop to think about it. Men and women mature and grow differently. A man closer to my age is probably more alike to my teenage self, and frankly I'd rather not deal with me as a teenager. Robin, on the other hand, not only looks distinguished enough to buy booze without being carded: but he doesn't mind lying in bed and just talking about stuff as it pops into my head.
Mind you, I don't do that every night. One of us should sleep regularly, and I think we're better off it's the one earning a steady paycheck.
He's been with me when I ended up in a psych ward. He's gone through therapists at a free clinic, stroked my hair when I laid in bed trying not to breathe too hard (for fear of worsening the chest spasms), and now that I have real health care and a really real doctor who cares about me: he's even more there for me. He has years of background in a medical field, so he'll often explain procedures and tests before I even get a chance to look at the literature they send me. And he doesn't resent me for being sick.
Basically, he's the kind of partner every fibro patient wishes they had.
I'm pretty sure I don't deserve him. But; I'm pretty sure no one else deserves him either. And since I got him first, he's mine, dammit, mine. I'm willing to share with others who love him, and with the kitties (who seem to love him even more then life itself)....but he's mine.
On a less crazy/possessive note, my house is now filled with a reddish smoke. A heavily perfumed reddish smoke that results when one burns pure dragon's blood resin on charcoal. This is step one to my master plan of purifying/cleansing/blessing the house we've moved into. The dragon's blood drives out any negative energies, baleful spirits, various types of insects, and (rumor has it) the kinds of aliens that abduct you. Since I don't think I've ever been abducted (at least not from this house), I think I'll just stick with the “driving out negativity” line of reasoning.
Tomorrow I go around with a smudge stick (a big bundle of sage dried and tied loosely together) and get on with the cleansing/blessing part of the program. Then, I'll probably go to the grocery store to get some food - honestly, I am not the biggest fan of tuna- then rest for a bit. Later, I'll go around with some salt to hopefully envelope the house in protective energies.
Should be meditative day. Hopefully the tiredness will let me be for a while, and the worst of the pain will find something else to do with its time. Like cribbage. I always wanted to learn cribbage.
Saturday Sushi Fix
Sushi.
I could eat my entire weight in the stuff. Actually, I think I've come close to that once or twice, when my parents were footing the bill.
It's hard to explain why it's such a crave-worthy food to the uninitiated. Some element of the texture, yes - and the juxtaposition of familiar and strange ingredients. But for me, it's the taste. Raw fish holds some primal appeal to me in a way even I can't understand. Mix it with things like avocado and grilled eel - forget about it.
Sushi and Japanese silk are probably the two things that draw me most to that island nation.
The silk, in its traditional Japanese manufacture, is its own special brand of heaven. It's the softest silk imaginable, not for different worms or special dyes; but for the way it's reeled. Tiny fingers of careful Japanese women (always masters at their craft, it seems) are constantly wetted by saliva as the thin strands are reeled inch by inch. The saliva is smoothed over the surface, and the enzymes dissolve the surface protein structures. The structures almost instantly re-form on top of the strands as smooth sheets, covering the internal layers and making the fiber unbelievably soft.
Naturally, silk like this is well and truly out of my price range. But I can admire. And possibly enjoy a few pieces I've inherited.... ;-)
But the sushi side of the equation is a little easier to come by, and a lot cheaper per piece. Indeed, today I indulged in a little five dollar tray from Heinen's with some crab, salmon, and tuna rolls tucked inside. Top of the line stuff? No. But still delicious to a hungry little me.
The trip to Heinen's was part of a two-part journey that started off at the library. It looks like I'll need to get my license changed to the new address before I get a library card; all the bills come in Robin's name. Not a big deal, since I need to get that done any way. I suppose I should feel a bit more inconvenienced, since I need a library card or guest pass to log on to the internet there, and there's no way I can get my license renewed before next week. But, I'm starting to enjoy the quietude that logging off brings. I have music (thanks to Robin's external drive) and if I really wanted I could load a Sim game onto this laptop...but I don't. Music and writing, with the occasional podcast, are more then enough to leave me happy.
And hopefully, I'll have enough to unpack and arrange this coming week to stay occupied then, too.
The only black mark on my shopping trip when I realized a.) I can't really plan a menu out without knowing what Robin was bringing, and b.) If I didn't lay down and rest soon, I would be very sick in a very inconvenient place. The first one I still can't do much about, the second one is still wearing on me. I may get some writing done (which is looking more and more difficult as the cat keeps creeping further and further up my arm), and I'll eat dinner...but that looks to be it.
Then I got home, and the kittens successfully destroyed the aquarium where we keep the snake.
Fortunately I was in the room (albeit not paying close attention to them), and thus able to rescue the snake before she could actually get hurt. The aquarium is a wash, though: the bottom completely shattered from where it feel. I cleaned up the glass, set the bones of the aquarium outside, rigged a kitty carrier to safely hold the snake and a few of her accouterments, the proceeded to call around to Robin and my parents to see if anyone had any ideas or spare aquariums lying about. None do.
Here's hoping for a better day tomorrow.
Sunday Cobbling
It never bodes well when one wakes up feeling sick. Even when it passes, there's always that chance that it'll arrive the next day (or even later that night) with a vengence. Mine was a queer dizziness that wouldn't fade for an hour, and the inability to eat for several hours after that.
But still, for the moment, I'm well enough to keep on.
Since I couldn't eat, and wasn't showing signs besides a malaise, I decieded to get some fresh air and yard work in. The patio, half-bricked and half-loose mud beneath gravel, is now completely covered in bricks. Half of which are loose and not level...but they're down. I'm hoping the upcomming winter will be enough to settle them more.
There's a surprising amount of fauna that can grow between stacked brick. I found three healthy-looking slugs, a black widow, two centipedes, countless silverfish, and many other things too small to easily identify. I made a real effort not to kill any of them, partly because I didn't want to touch any of them and partly because they've been here longer then me. Seems ungrateful to kill them.
Being outside reminded me of two things. The gardens surrounding my house, while still beautiful, need a bit of cutting back and weeding. There isn't a path about this place that doesn't have a sprouting plant trying to trip someone walking past...and the hostas are getting onry. The other, more irritating reminder was that the furniture on which I now sit really, really needs to be cleaned. If a carpet cleaner doesn't materialize soon, I may have to take drastic measures.
After my foray into cobbling I was too exausted to do much more then listen to a yarn by one of my favorite podcasters about an herbalist. Two epidodes later and I felt well enough to move Robin's clothes into his closet, start the laundry, do the dishes, and start my lunch of potato soup.
I'm not usually one for instant soups (just on principle), but the Bear Creek potato is actually really good.
I still don't have a timer, so I'm using the various movements of “Sheherazade” to keep track to cooking time. Not sure what that says about me...but at least I'm staying entertained.
Robin called to say that the beekeeper charged $50 an hour to remove the hive. I told him it's the landlady's problem. He also mentioned that in his flurry, his best friend had packed many of the things that Robin was supposed to bring back with him. Like my kitchen knives. I suppose I should feel more nonplussed, but it's hard for me to be upset when so much of my house is apparently packed by a man who could have doubtless used the time to much more profitable ends.
The snake is still in her aquarium, apparently curled up in her little house keeping warm. The kitties don't pay her much mind as far as I can tell, but who can say what they get up to when I'm not watching. While I laid brick, there seemed to be a different cat watching me each time I looked up. I looked up more then three times, and we only have three cats, so I'm still not sure how they did that.
Thursday Kitten Attack
“Hi there.”
He stops trying to lick the back of his shoulder blades long enough to stare up at me with pumpkin-rimmed eyes.
“Are you happy?”
As answer, he half rolls, half flops onto his back to expose an enormus expanse of belly; then looks up at me and mews pitifully. He's less then a year old, and already he's learned how to wrap me around his little kitty paws as skillfully as a seasoned con artist.
I deciede against trying to rub the proffered belly. Something about the look in his eyes warns of impending wildness. “Well, you look happy.”
He flops over again, and begins his attack on the rug beneath him. I shake my head and walk past, greatful I hadn't fallen for the ploy. He's never hurt me, or really even tried to: but those claws and fangs still hurt when he's of a mind to use them.
Food is calling me. Collect.
I grab a bag of potato chips and head for my makeshift office on the couch that was left behind from the previous tenants. I've covered it with a massive bedspread and set a small chair in front of it to serve as a laptop stand. Crude, but effective. After a few moments of debate, tinged with guilt from not having anything more useful to do, I turn on a podcast to entertain me while I eat.
The story is a play on parasites, and their effect on mankind as a whole. The premise is that a parasitologist believes that the drive for exploration is actually the effect of a parasite that requires its host to be eaten by an alien life form in order to contiune its life cycle. The story dwells on toxoplasmosis - a pretty common parasite that has very little negative effect on most human hosts. Some people believe that nearly all cat owners have it, which is enough to give me pause at the end of the story.
By the time I'm up again, all three cats have stationed themselves on my bed, and my tea is cool enough to drink.
The day ahead of me looks long. At the very least, I have a three or four hour commute to the house we're moving out of to gather the last of our things and bring them here. Attendant to this is the arrangements that need to happen for the comfort and saftey of the cats while we're gone over the weekend, empting the last of the boxes here so we can bring them back and refill them, and dragging what furniture we don't want out of the way. I'm currently strong enough to complete the first two, but the last one is completely outside my realm of abilities. The pain is manageable today - only a stitch in my side, a dull pain in my shoulder, and a sore hip - but I know better then to risk a flare-up. As it is, I'll need to take some powerful drugs when the move is over just to re-set my body far enough to unpack.
The old musings to deliberately contract leprosy rise again. I suppose that seems crazy to some; but when you know your life is going to be noting but various levels of pain, the promise of a total absence of pain is mighty tempting. Besides, an author with leprosy is a hell of a shtick to sell books with.
I'm still waiting for Robin to call. I don't actually sit by the phone with batied breath, hoping to talk to him...I just keep remembering things I need him to do before we leave. Our internet connection should finally be up a few hours after we leave here, and there's a lot that can't be done without access to the web.
Funny how dependant we've become to a technology that's younger then I am.
I debate laying down for a while. The muscle spasms that cause the stitch in my side don't seem to care about how difficult they're making it to breathe, but occasionally they can be lulled into calm by inactivity. The kittens would certianly appreciate it: they're only on the bed because it smells so much like Robin and I. There are few things they love more then a chance to cuddle with me as I lay down. I don't know if it's real affection, or the extra heat that the muscle spasms produce - I just know they're wonderfully comforting when the worst of the pain hits.
My rhuematologist asked if they ever aggravated my asthema. I told her it's entirely possible, but they were far too comforting for me to think of living without them. Even in attack mode, it's clear that they want to be with me. Bleeding or otherwise.
Hindquarters
My husband really doesn't have much by the way of hindquarters; but what he does have back there is very nicely shaped. He's changed pants a record three times since coming home several hours ago, took me out to a lovely Brazilian fusion place for an overpriced aniversary dinner, and is now fiddling with a group of wires on the floor. AT&T reputedly turned on our internets today, but we still have to figure out the magical ceremony that shall cause it to be accessable.
As usual, I'm leaving it up to Robin to do the actual hardware alchemy. Currently that involves him hunched into a small alcove on knees and elbows, using a tiny screwdriver set to tease and prod wires into some strange sigl that allows us a connection to the information super highway. At the moment the portal from which these wires came looks like nothing more then the detonater unit from a poorly-financed disaster movie. In reality it's a phone jack with its protective cover removed: but considering most special-effects guys I know of, there's probably a reason the two strike me as similar.
The kittens are terribly curious about the large human form working on the floor. I'm (hopefully) the only one who appreciates the view of his...working...but even as I sit here they begin to gather around him. No doubt the new activity and shiny things on the floor would draw any cat to him - but after being together for this many years, I have to admit it's probably more then that. Robin has this inexplicable link to the animal world. Dogs and cats, squirells, snakes, even some skinks and spiders are constantly drawn to him like supplicants after some ancient shrine. We call it the “Doctor Doolittle” effect, but the animals in that movie actually did what the good doctor told them to do.
We have cats. 'Nuff said.
His baby, Nala, is even now trying to find a way to burrow under the directions he's working from, while the other two try to play King of the Hill atop them. Robin, fully aware of the playful little brats all around him, patiently continues to attack the phone jack in any number of ways from any number of directions. I think he may actually win this one - he's done it before - but the sheer entertainment value of his efforts (combined with the cats) makes it a worthy exercise even if he doesn't.
Ah, he's moved onto the modem. This must mean progress. At the same time, the largest and youngest of the cats had begun to romp crazily through the house.
And now, he's hooked into my computer. I think I'll take a hint and find something else to do.
Peace Out.