Yep. It is. I'm not exactly sure what to do at this age. Facebook doesn't help, either. I see my FB friends posting snapshots of their lives, and in the virtual world, their lives look absolutely fantastic. They go from country to country, attend great sporting events, and when they're home... apparently, they are a cross between Martha Stewart, Mother Teresa, and someone from "This Old House". Oh, and did I mention that they're also very attractive, and look radiant at each and every one of these events? Did I mention THAT?
So, is that what I'm supposed to be doing at this age? If so, once again, I'm failing miserably. Sometimes, I think it would be funny to post pics of me and what I'M doing. But a quick, FaceTime conversation with my daughter last weekend on my iPhone put the kibosh on THAT idea. Why? Because I finally saw up close and in person what I actually look like while sitting on the couch. And there are NO GOOD CAMERA ANGLES to hide that. So the Facebook world shall be spared pictures of me slumped in our old, sometimes comfortable leather couch...and ones of me attempting to make potato salad, because I'm craving it, and it taking me three times to get the potatoes and mixture "just right". Or my quest on how to make the perfect pitcher of tea...the constant studying of the internet, (thank God for that Al Gore person), pouring over a myriad of southern cooking websites, and getting input from all sorts of relatives. Lipton vs. Luzianne, bottled water vs. tap water... it's quite complicated. After all of that knowledge, it "only" took me about 4 tries, wasting probably 10-12 family size tea bags, and 2 1/2 pounds of sugar....but dammit, I finally have it down to the perfect pitcher of satisfying iced tea. You also won't see any pics of me cooking chicken breasts for my daughter's dog, because he loves them, and I can't have him eating just hard dog food... and making him pumpkin dog treats from scratch. Nope.. no pics of that. None of me riding my mom around each day, while listening to her favorite radio station "Willie's Roadhouse". And certainly no pics of me sitting next to my husband with my feet tucked under his legs, or laying on his lap while we watch all of our favorite TV shows. But, you know what? Those are the things I'M doing at 50. And I sure as hell don't look radiant doing any of them. Yes, I take a shower, fix my hair, and sometimes put on makeup. And every once in awhile, I actually wash my faded, hole-filled, cropped jeans that I wear everyday. And did I mention I found the greatest comfortable pair of shoes ever? Well, I did.
But none of that looks good on Facebook. I'm not entirely convinced it even SOUNDS good... LOL. But it's what I do, and it's what I like to do. I think back sometimes on my grandparents and their marriage. They were two of the happiest people I've ever known, and they loved each other till the very end. And I think about what they did at this age. They were both working outside the home. But they had a garden, and they had apple trees, and they had beautiful flowers all around their house. I never saw them when they weren't working on something. Either in the house or outside. But on Saturday nights, they would finally settle down and watch Lawrence Welk on TV. On Sunday mornings, they went to church, came home, and made a huge Sunday dinner together, and their 2 boys and families would come and eat. All together. At a table. I wonder what my grandparents would've done had there been Facebook, or all the other social media we have today? Somehow, I just can't imagine my "Paw Paw" and "Mama D" having anything to do with it.
Ok, back to me. Where is this post going? It rambles, and goes from one thing to the next, not saying a whole hell of a lot. And that's how my life is, I guess. And that's how it's going to be, at least for now. Maybe in my next life, I'll be the queen of Facebook, all cute and sassy, saving the world, building houses, and loving my husband because he's the "greatest human being on the planet 24/7"...and did I mention my kids will be perfect, with great work ethic, and be the smartest people I've ever known... Wait a minute, my husband already IS that, and my kid, too. :-) So it looks like it's ME I need to work on. Dang. So THAT'S where this post is going.
Did I ever tell you about how to make the perfect pitcher of iced tea? ...............
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Give me a Xanax.... I have a Pinterest.
The title of this is misleading, because what I currently have going hardly constitutes having a Pinterest...however, it IS indeed getting on my nerves. It started innocently enough, as these things often do. I kept hearing it. “Pinterest.” “You MUST join Pinterest.” “Have you heard about Pinterest?” “Pinterest is awesome, you HAVE to do it." “You will LOVE Pinterest.” "OH MY GOD...PINTEREST".
OK, OK, so after much fanfare, I get an account. I'm feeling pretty special, because you have to ask to be invited to do Pinterest. I figured they wouldn't accept me once they figured out who I was and all.... but alas, I was wrong. I indeed was accepted into this fab, hip group. My initial elation at being accepted quickly faded into overwhelming dread. Be careful what you wish for, little girl... So NOW what? I'm "in". What do I do NOW? OMG, you mean I have to DO something? It is simply too much.
Even after a fairly detailed explanation, I still don’t think I “get” it. From my limited understanding, I look for stuff, (where, exactly?) and post things that I like on my Pinterest page. Hmmm… sounds simple enough. But for a hermit like myself, who needs other people seeing what I like? Then everyone will know just how truly nutty I am. Who needs ANYONE knowing that I am still searching for the Cream Cheese Brownie recipe from “The Dessert Place”? Or looking up how to make Hush Puppies? Do I really need all these people coming to my Pintrest page and seeing a bunch of fattening foods? Really? So that they can say… of COURSE she’s looking for fattening stuff.. LOOK AT HER. Seriously, she’s fooling no one. She’s eating CONSTANT hush puppies. --- No, I don’t need that scrutiny.
And if I were to post my “fashion”? LOL.. that would be hilarious. I would be posting the same pair of cropped jeans, a cheap neutral tone t-shirt-- sleeve length dependent on weather, and the same pair of dark green suede easy spirit shoes. No, I don’t think I need to be posting that.
Some of my friends have already commented that they are “disappointed” in my Pinterest page, because I haven’t posted anything. So before I even BEGIN this thing, I’ve already disappointed people. Why do I need this aggravation? And then, the worst part may be the fact that other people look at your “postings”, and if they like them, they will repost them. So there’s the added embarrassment that NONE of my things would be re-posted. Why do I need to be reminded in a public forum that I’m a follower, and not a leader?
This “Pinterest” is really stressing me out. So I guess what I should do is take some time one day, and make up a wonderful Pinterest page. I will post lots of healthy foods, beautiful clothing, kick ass decorating, and wonderful happy home ideas. I will MAKE a great life. It will be epic. Everyone will be impressed. And it will be a total lie. And there, in the midst of lies and deceit, I will live… comfortably, as I’ve grown accustomed. As Facebook life has prepared me to do. But dammit, at least someone will re-post my stuff.
OK, OK, so after much fanfare, I get an account. I'm feeling pretty special, because you have to ask to be invited to do Pinterest. I figured they wouldn't accept me once they figured out who I was and all.... but alas, I was wrong. I indeed was accepted into this fab, hip group. My initial elation at being accepted quickly faded into overwhelming dread. Be careful what you wish for, little girl... So NOW what? I'm "in". What do I do NOW? OMG, you mean I have to DO something? It is simply too much.
Even after a fairly detailed explanation, I still don’t think I “get” it. From my limited understanding, I look for stuff, (where, exactly?) and post things that I like on my Pinterest page. Hmmm… sounds simple enough. But for a hermit like myself, who needs other people seeing what I like? Then everyone will know just how truly nutty I am. Who needs ANYONE knowing that I am still searching for the Cream Cheese Brownie recipe from “The Dessert Place”? Or looking up how to make Hush Puppies? Do I really need all these people coming to my Pintrest page and seeing a bunch of fattening foods? Really? So that they can say… of COURSE she’s looking for fattening stuff.. LOOK AT HER. Seriously, she’s fooling no one. She’s eating CONSTANT hush puppies. --- No, I don’t need that scrutiny.
And if I were to post my “fashion”? LOL.. that would be hilarious. I would be posting the same pair of cropped jeans, a cheap neutral tone t-shirt-- sleeve length dependent on weather, and the same pair of dark green suede easy spirit shoes. No, I don’t think I need to be posting that.
Some of my friends have already commented that they are “disappointed” in my Pinterest page, because I haven’t posted anything. So before I even BEGIN this thing, I’ve already disappointed people. Why do I need this aggravation? And then, the worst part may be the fact that other people look at your “postings”, and if they like them, they will repost them. So there’s the added embarrassment that NONE of my things would be re-posted. Why do I need to be reminded in a public forum that I’m a follower, and not a leader?
This “Pinterest” is really stressing me out. So I guess what I should do is take some time one day, and make up a wonderful Pinterest page. I will post lots of healthy foods, beautiful clothing, kick ass decorating, and wonderful happy home ideas. I will MAKE a great life. It will be epic. Everyone will be impressed. And it will be a total lie. And there, in the midst of lies and deceit, I will live… comfortably, as I’ve grown accustomed. As Facebook life has prepared me to do. But dammit, at least someone will re-post my stuff.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
A 47-year-old goes to the Doctor.
The following is an absolutely true story.
I'm dying. I know it. I've resigned myself to that fact, and I'm doing my best to get through without complaining too much. I'm such a wonderful martyr.
I've known my death was coming for a couple of years now. In late November 2008, I got a flu shot. Two days after the shot, I knew something was wrong. I just didn't feel right. I had gone to one of those Quick Medical Clinic things that had opened up near my house. They were giving away free flu shots. So I figured....why not? I could not even pronounce the doctor's name there. But it was spelled something like Dr. Jflmyzhan. Right away, I should've been suspicious, because as soon as I walked in the door, the receptionist informed me that the doctor lived right down the street, (a.k.a. was a part time waiter at La Parrilla Mexican restaurant), and she would have to page him to come in. Ok, this is not good. But because it was free.... I got the shot. How annoying, by the way, if you were the doctor....to be called in to give a "free" flu shot? But with a name like Dr. Jflmyzhan....what do you expect? I think his medical license was printed out very nicely with the "Disney" font...showing people not to worry...he was a "fun" doctor.
So by February, I actually went in to see my regular doctor, with varying symptoms of pain. After a ridiculous amount of blood work, it was determined that I must go see a Rheumatologist. Shit. See? I'm dying. I knew it. So I go to the Rheumatologist....they do 127 blood tests and came up with nothing specific. That's what it will say on my grave. "She died of nothing specific". --- So, I just decided I would live with this pain, whatever it was. And I did. For two years.
Fast forward to March 2011. The last couple of weeks, I have had new pain symptoms. Oh, I forgot to mention that I also saw a Neurologist back in '09......he diagnosed me with Neuropathic pain, from the Shingles in '05. Ok, back to 2011. I've been having arm and shoulder pain, and excruciating headaches. So I go online, like any respectable person would who is dying. And it pretty much told me that I had Polymyalgia Rheumatica.......and I was dying. I'm pretty sure it said that right in the middle of the explanation of the disease. Great.....so here I have ignored my health for two years, and I really truly am dying now. Had I just continued to find out what was wrong back in '09, I probably would be able to live. But again, I effed everything up, and now, I'm definitely dying. Perfect.
So last night, I could not sleep. My arm literally felt like it was off the hinges. Does an arm have hinges? I don't know, but mine is off them. No matter how I held the arm, it hurt. If I laid on it, it hurt....if I didn't lay on it, it hurt. So, I thought I was probably having a heart attack. Then, I remembered it was my right arm. So maybe I wasn't having a heart attack. But maybe I was....who knows? I could not find any way to sleep comfortably. Even my head was hurting. Geez, this is it. This is it. It's happening.
Somehow, I made it through the night. But I was determined to go to the Urgent Care center this morning, as I was dying. So I walk in, and manage to walk to the reception desk and sign in. My arm weighed 240 lbs, so it was kind of tough. But I did it. They asked me what was wrong. I told them I was pretty sure I was dying. Oh, yes...and my arm hurts. So they kind of laughed, like they were trying to be polite, but they gave each other a look that said it all.... "This lady is nuts. Oh, and she's dying". So, they took me back to the room where they check your blood pressure and temp, and get all your symptoms. Well, the first thing that happened is that I blew up the blood pressure machine. This is true. The thing just fell apart when it took my blood pressure. That's it. It's a sign, I know it. But they took me to another machine, and this one worked just fine. After my 24 minute explanation of my symptoms, the nurse rushed me into a waiting room. It was waiting room #1, so I figured that was serious. They don't put just regular stuff into room #1. Room #1 is for REALLY BAD STUFF.
So I sat in that room dreading the arrival of the doctor. I mean, how do you tell a doctor you're dying? I decided the best tactic was just to be blunt. He's a doctor, after all...he can handle it. So he comes in, and asks what is wrong. I tell him I'm pretty sure I'm dying of Polymyalgia Rheumatica, because I've ignored it for 2 years, and now it's really here, and there's nothing we can do. He looks pained. And slightly annoyed. But just slightly. He looks at my arm, moves it around a bit, which was VERY PAINFUL, BY THE WAY. He says he doesn't think it's broken, but will take an X-ray just in case. He informs me that I have pretty good range of motion in my arm, though. Well, it hurt like hell him moving it around for that good range of motion. Glad to know that it will move.
So the nurse comes in and takes me to get X-rayed. She had me stand in various positions and hold my hand and arm different ways. I think this is an interesting thing to ask of a dying person. But I acquiesce....because that's what I do. I'm like Peter Frampton in that way... you know, I believe the lyrics go something like..... someone drops a cup and he submerges. Well.... I submerge as well. And in that song, I think his ears are ringing too..... I'm just like Peter Frampton in "Show Me the Way". Great. God, he looks terrible. Just like me. And he used to be cute! Oh well, at least I still have my hair.
But back to the doctor. So, they do the X-rays. And they send me to my room. I shouldn't have looked, but I saw one of the x-rays. There was a black spot on what appeared to be my rib cage. Probably a black spot on my lung, I thought. See? I knew I was dying. There's a spot on my lung. Thank GOD I came in here. They would've never known. So I wait for the inevitable news. The doctor comes in. He looks at me. I see it written all over his face. I see it. I feel for him, having to tell me this. It's Sunday, after all. So he says.... "well, there's absolutely nothing wrong with your arm". What do you mean? How can I be in such pain and there be nothing wrong? I have undiagnosed Polymyalgia Rheumatica! Wake up! So, this is the speech he gave me. Almost exactly:
Doctor: "How old are you?"
me: "47".... "I know...I'm old"
Doctor: "You're not that old"
me: "Right"
Doctor: "How long has it been since you've been in a gym?"
me: (really? we need to ask this?) "It's been forever"
Doctor: Go to a gym. Get some physical therapy. Build up your rotator cuff.
me: " ? "
Doctor: "You have no obvious signs of anything rheumatological going on. Check with your regular doctor, but in any case, get to the gym". "Work out".
me: "That's it"?
Doctor: "Yep. That's it." (and turns to walk out)
So...I sit there stunned. I mean, this doctor must be an idiot. Right? What the hell does he know anyway? I'm dying, dammit. He probably just didn't want to tell me. I can't blame him. Bless his heart. He's actually kind of nice. He's probably very religious, and didn't want to inform me of my death on a Sunday. That's so sweet. Maybe he's right, though. Maybe I'm NOT dying. I mean, he IS a doctor. I should trust him. Shouldn't I ? He WAS awfully young, though. And I could tell he works out. Probably one of those health nuts. That bastard. I'm sure he's wrong.
After some mental anguish, I decide that maybe just for today... or a week or so, I will attempt to believe him. But he'll see. He's gonna feel really stupid when I turn up dead. Of nothing specific.
I'm dying. I know it. I've resigned myself to that fact, and I'm doing my best to get through without complaining too much. I'm such a wonderful martyr.
I've known my death was coming for a couple of years now. In late November 2008, I got a flu shot. Two days after the shot, I knew something was wrong. I just didn't feel right. I had gone to one of those Quick Medical Clinic things that had opened up near my house. They were giving away free flu shots. So I figured....why not? I could not even pronounce the doctor's name there. But it was spelled something like Dr. Jflmyzhan. Right away, I should've been suspicious, because as soon as I walked in the door, the receptionist informed me that the doctor lived right down the street, (a.k.a. was a part time waiter at La Parrilla Mexican restaurant), and she would have to page him to come in. Ok, this is not good. But because it was free.... I got the shot. How annoying, by the way, if you were the doctor....to be called in to give a "free" flu shot? But with a name like Dr. Jflmyzhan....what do you expect? I think his medical license was printed out very nicely with the "Disney" font...showing people not to worry...he was a "fun" doctor.
So by February, I actually went in to see my regular doctor, with varying symptoms of pain. After a ridiculous amount of blood work, it was determined that I must go see a Rheumatologist. Shit. See? I'm dying. I knew it. So I go to the Rheumatologist....they do 127 blood tests and came up with nothing specific. That's what it will say on my grave. "She died of nothing specific". --- So, I just decided I would live with this pain, whatever it was. And I did. For two years.
Fast forward to March 2011. The last couple of weeks, I have had new pain symptoms. Oh, I forgot to mention that I also saw a Neurologist back in '09......he diagnosed me with Neuropathic pain, from the Shingles in '05. Ok, back to 2011. I've been having arm and shoulder pain, and excruciating headaches. So I go online, like any respectable person would who is dying. And it pretty much told me that I had Polymyalgia Rheumatica.......and I was dying. I'm pretty sure it said that right in the middle of the explanation of the disease. Great.....so here I have ignored my health for two years, and I really truly am dying now. Had I just continued to find out what was wrong back in '09, I probably would be able to live. But again, I effed everything up, and now, I'm definitely dying. Perfect.
So last night, I could not sleep. My arm literally felt like it was off the hinges. Does an arm have hinges? I don't know, but mine is off them. No matter how I held the arm, it hurt. If I laid on it, it hurt....if I didn't lay on it, it hurt. So, I thought I was probably having a heart attack. Then, I remembered it was my right arm. So maybe I wasn't having a heart attack. But maybe I was....who knows? I could not find any way to sleep comfortably. Even my head was hurting. Geez, this is it. This is it. It's happening.
Somehow, I made it through the night. But I was determined to go to the Urgent Care center this morning, as I was dying. So I walk in, and manage to walk to the reception desk and sign in. My arm weighed 240 lbs, so it was kind of tough. But I did it. They asked me what was wrong. I told them I was pretty sure I was dying. Oh, yes...and my arm hurts. So they kind of laughed, like they were trying to be polite, but they gave each other a look that said it all.... "This lady is nuts. Oh, and she's dying". So, they took me back to the room where they check your blood pressure and temp, and get all your symptoms. Well, the first thing that happened is that I blew up the blood pressure machine. This is true. The thing just fell apart when it took my blood pressure. That's it. It's a sign, I know it. But they took me to another machine, and this one worked just fine. After my 24 minute explanation of my symptoms, the nurse rushed me into a waiting room. It was waiting room #1, so I figured that was serious. They don't put just regular stuff into room #1. Room #1 is for REALLY BAD STUFF.
So I sat in that room dreading the arrival of the doctor. I mean, how do you tell a doctor you're dying? I decided the best tactic was just to be blunt. He's a doctor, after all...he can handle it. So he comes in, and asks what is wrong. I tell him I'm pretty sure I'm dying of Polymyalgia Rheumatica, because I've ignored it for 2 years, and now it's really here, and there's nothing we can do. He looks pained. And slightly annoyed. But just slightly. He looks at my arm, moves it around a bit, which was VERY PAINFUL, BY THE WAY. He says he doesn't think it's broken, but will take an X-ray just in case. He informs me that I have pretty good range of motion in my arm, though. Well, it hurt like hell him moving it around for that good range of motion. Glad to know that it will move.
So the nurse comes in and takes me to get X-rayed. She had me stand in various positions and hold my hand and arm different ways. I think this is an interesting thing to ask of a dying person. But I acquiesce....because that's what I do. I'm like Peter Frampton in that way... you know, I believe the lyrics go something like..... someone drops a cup and he submerges. Well.... I submerge as well. And in that song, I think his ears are ringing too..... I'm just like Peter Frampton in "Show Me the Way". Great. God, he looks terrible. Just like me. And he used to be cute! Oh well, at least I still have my hair.
But back to the doctor. So, they do the X-rays. And they send me to my room. I shouldn't have looked, but I saw one of the x-rays. There was a black spot on what appeared to be my rib cage. Probably a black spot on my lung, I thought. See? I knew I was dying. There's a spot on my lung. Thank GOD I came in here. They would've never known. So I wait for the inevitable news. The doctor comes in. He looks at me. I see it written all over his face. I see it. I feel for him, having to tell me this. It's Sunday, after all. So he says.... "well, there's absolutely nothing wrong with your arm". What do you mean? How can I be in such pain and there be nothing wrong? I have undiagnosed Polymyalgia Rheumatica! Wake up! So, this is the speech he gave me. Almost exactly:
Doctor: "How old are you?"
me: "47".... "I know...I'm old"
Doctor: "You're not that old"
me: "Right"
Doctor: "How long has it been since you've been in a gym?"
me: (really? we need to ask this?) "It's been forever"
Doctor: Go to a gym. Get some physical therapy. Build up your rotator cuff.
me: " ? "
Doctor: "You have no obvious signs of anything rheumatological going on. Check with your regular doctor, but in any case, get to the gym". "Work out".
me: "That's it"?
Doctor: "Yep. That's it." (and turns to walk out)
So...I sit there stunned. I mean, this doctor must be an idiot. Right? What the hell does he know anyway? I'm dying, dammit. He probably just didn't want to tell me. I can't blame him. Bless his heart. He's actually kind of nice. He's probably very religious, and didn't want to inform me of my death on a Sunday. That's so sweet. Maybe he's right, though. Maybe I'm NOT dying. I mean, he IS a doctor. I should trust him. Shouldn't I ? He WAS awfully young, though. And I could tell he works out. Probably one of those health nuts. That bastard. I'm sure he's wrong.
After some mental anguish, I decide that maybe just for today... or a week or so, I will attempt to believe him. But he'll see. He's gonna feel really stupid when I turn up dead. Of nothing specific.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Got into an argument on Farmtown, and other reasons I probably need a job
For those of you who are not familiar, Farmtown is a game on Facebook. It's a virtual interactive game in which the player is a farmer, and has his/her own farm. You can have houses, buildings, trees, flowers, animals, and of course, crops on your farm. You plant everything, and when the crops "come in", you go to the virtual marketplace (where you will find other farmers, a.k.a. losers like yourself) and hire them to "harvest" your fake crops for you. Believe it or not, it can be very addictive. There are levels of farmers, in that you receive experience points and money for either harvesting or plowing in others' farms. Each level is indicated by a number, and a title....levels range anywhere from 1 to around 120.....currently, I am what is known as a level 50, or "Green Dazzler". On some sick level, I am both proud, and embarrassed by the title of "Green Dazzler". Proud, in the sense that I am WAY more experienced than, say, a level 20 farmer....and EQUALLY proud, that I am LESS experienced than a level 100 farmer, because that must mean that I have SOME sort of life, right? But then logic quickly takes over, and I realize that the fact that I have ANY experience points proves beyond a reasonable doubt... that I indeed, have NO LIFE.
Since taking Katie to college, in between crying bouts, I have been spending more and more time in Farmtown. I already spent too much time there as it was....so now, it's really ridiculous. Never has it been more clear to me than today. Imagine this scene...... I log on to Facebook and go into Farmtown. I go into the virtual marketplace, because I want to "work" on someone's farm and make "money". As I'm sitting there with probably 25 other virtual farmers, all trying to get work, we all begin to realize that no one is hiring. So everyone just sits there and types stupid stuff like....JOBB PLEEASSE. And this is the way people type in Farmtown, because I think they all must be morons. Except me, of course. So, finally I decide to break the ice and I type.... "Any Howard Stern fans in here?" I wait with anticipation. Finally, some farmer named "Mammie" pipes up. I forgot to mention that we all get to name ourselves something clever, like "Billy Bob", or "Daisy Mae"....smart stuff like that. Anyway, so this "Mammie" types to me... "NO". Ok, well that's simple enough. But it's not good enough for me. I want to know why. So I say... "Why not, Mammie"? And she says "hes rude". Hmmm.....Ok. I press further. "No he's not, he's hilarious", I say. So Mammie says... "if your into that junk....my life is much better than that junk". Ok, so now I really press.. "Mammie, have you actually listened to even one of his radio shows?" Then she says... "dont need to. i got better things than that junk to do". (like take a grammar class?) So then I get annoyed...and say..."Oh, like what? Sit here on a fake farm game? How can you sit and say you don't like Howard when you've never listened to him?" She never responds. Just ignores me. And it doesn't matter, because then I get hired to work at "Nerd Farm"...seriously. So, when I get to "Nerd Farm", he has maybe 24 crops to harvest. And he's hired 3 of us to do this job . So we each get 8 crops. 8 crops....and they're worth about 14 cents a piece. So I find myself just getting more and more angry at this "Nerd Farm" guy. In fact, I'm so angry that as I'm leaving his farm to go back into the marketplace, I type..."Why in the hell would you hire 3 people for 24 crops.....you're a dumbass". And that's when I realized.....I need a job. I really, REALLY need a job.
Something else I've learned about Farmtown.....it is a direct reflection of society today, and the economic problems our nation is facing. It's really very interesting watching the interactions that take place. Farmtown is not just for people in the United States....it has people from every nation. Anyone who has a Facebook account can play Farmtown. When I first started playing Farmtown, over a year ago, there were unspoken rules. If you were hired to work someone's farm, you considered yourself lucky. You thanked that Farmer for the work, and you didn't leave until the job was finished. Sounds silly, I know. But that's the way it worked. Eventually, it has morphed into a whole other type of place. Now, when you're in the Marketplace trying to get hired, you will see Farmers come in and demand work. For example, they will come in and bark a variety of demands, such as.... "solo work only"...."will only harvest wheat"...."no plowing, only harvesting"....and many other strange dictations. It's almost like the workers are now controlling the game, telling employers what they will and won't do. I mean, do they realize they're trying to get work? Americans are guilty of the same thing. They are "too good" to do some jobs.
And the employing farmers are equal offenders, I think. In example, my "Nerd Farm" guy who hired 3 people for 24 crops. Why? Because he wanted to spread the wealth around. That's right. We're all equal....everyone should get the same. Nevermind that some farmers have been there longer, have played more, have worked harder.....doesn't matter. We should spread it around equally. So where is our reward for success? Why work hard for what you have, only to have it given to those less fortunate.....or even worse, those less driven?
So there it is. In black and white. Non-disputable, and crystal clear. My brain is going to waste. And I need a job. And not in "Nerd Farm".
Since taking Katie to college, in between crying bouts, I have been spending more and more time in Farmtown. I already spent too much time there as it was....so now, it's really ridiculous. Never has it been more clear to me than today. Imagine this scene...... I log on to Facebook and go into Farmtown. I go into the virtual marketplace, because I want to "work" on someone's farm and make "money". As I'm sitting there with probably 25 other virtual farmers, all trying to get work, we all begin to realize that no one is hiring. So everyone just sits there and types stupid stuff like....JOBB PLEEASSE. And this is the way people type in Farmtown, because I think they all must be morons. Except me, of course. So, finally I decide to break the ice and I type.... "Any Howard Stern fans in here?" I wait with anticipation. Finally, some farmer named "Mammie" pipes up. I forgot to mention that we all get to name ourselves something clever, like "Billy Bob", or "Daisy Mae"....smart stuff like that. Anyway, so this "Mammie" types to me... "NO". Ok, well that's simple enough. But it's not good enough for me. I want to know why. So I say... "Why not, Mammie"? And she says "hes rude". Hmmm.....Ok. I press further. "No he's not, he's hilarious", I say. So Mammie says... "if your into that junk....my life is much better than that junk". Ok, so now I really press.. "Mammie, have you actually listened to even one of his radio shows?" Then she says... "dont need to. i got better things than that junk to do". (like take a grammar class?) So then I get annoyed...and say..."Oh, like what? Sit here on a fake farm game? How can you sit and say you don't like Howard when you've never listened to him?" She never responds. Just ignores me. And it doesn't matter, because then I get hired to work at "Nerd Farm"...seriously. So, when I get to "Nerd Farm", he has maybe 24 crops to harvest. And he's hired 3 of us to do this job . So we each get 8 crops. 8 crops....and they're worth about 14 cents a piece. So I find myself just getting more and more angry at this "Nerd Farm" guy. In fact, I'm so angry that as I'm leaving his farm to go back into the marketplace, I type..."Why in the hell would you hire 3 people for 24 crops.....you're a dumbass". And that's when I realized.....I need a job. I really, REALLY need a job.
Something else I've learned about Farmtown.....it is a direct reflection of society today, and the economic problems our nation is facing. It's really very interesting watching the interactions that take place. Farmtown is not just for people in the United States....it has people from every nation. Anyone who has a Facebook account can play Farmtown. When I first started playing Farmtown, over a year ago, there were unspoken rules. If you were hired to work someone's farm, you considered yourself lucky. You thanked that Farmer for the work, and you didn't leave until the job was finished. Sounds silly, I know. But that's the way it worked. Eventually, it has morphed into a whole other type of place. Now, when you're in the Marketplace trying to get hired, you will see Farmers come in and demand work. For example, they will come in and bark a variety of demands, such as.... "solo work only"...."will only harvest wheat"...."no plowing, only harvesting"....and many other strange dictations. It's almost like the workers are now controlling the game, telling employers what they will and won't do. I mean, do they realize they're trying to get work? Americans are guilty of the same thing. They are "too good" to do some jobs.
And the employing farmers are equal offenders, I think. In example, my "Nerd Farm" guy who hired 3 people for 24 crops. Why? Because he wanted to spread the wealth around. That's right. We're all equal....everyone should get the same. Nevermind that some farmers have been there longer, have played more, have worked harder.....doesn't matter. We should spread it around equally. So where is our reward for success? Why work hard for what you have, only to have it given to those less fortunate.....or even worse, those less driven?
So there it is. In black and white. Non-disputable, and crystal clear. My brain is going to waste. And I need a job. And not in "Nerd Farm".
Friday, July 16, 2010
Stop the rocking chair. I'm dizzy.
Well, here I am almost 2 months into 47. ------Ok, that's it. Thanks for reading.
So, my daughter is going off to UGA in the Fall. First of all, the word Fall is totally misleading. Fall now means August 15, right in the middle of "dog days". But in any case, she is heading there in August. Going through the rigors of trying to get her there has made me stop and reflect on my life. Not something I typically enjoy. But I have noticed a few interesting things regarding the different stages of life. It's amazing what 28 years can do to you. Yes, this is one of those stupid comparative lists that old people make talking about the good ole' days, and how things have changed. So just do yourself a favor and stop reading now. It's really not that clever. But I'm putting it here anyway.
As a college Freshman
1) I had no idea how much fun I was about to have
2) I could eat pretty much anything and it didn't really "stick".
3) I didn't mind sleeping on a 3" mattress covered in industrial strength plastic.
4) The "meal plan" seemed institutional and boring.
5) Hearing the song "Superfreak" over and over and over again didn't annoy me.
6) I didn't die from not having air conditioning, and somehow the humidity didn't ruin my hair.
7) Walking to class up and down hills seemed normal.
8) Going to class was a chore.
9) Waking up was generally pain free, except for hangovers.
10) Everyone wanted to borrow my clothes.
11) I paid for nothing, and did everything I wanted.
12) Dominique Wilkins was a campus superstar and made the girls giggle in the Creswell dorm elevator.
13) High Anxiety was a fairly recent Mel Brooks movie.
14) Wearing a size 9 was pretty fat, and a size 11 was downright embarrassing.
As a 47 year old:
1) I had no idea how quickly the fun would STOP after college
2) EVERYTHING I eat "sticks"
3) There's no way I'm sleeping on anything but a Beautyrest
4) I AM the "meal plan"----and it sux
5) Hearing "Superfreak" over and over again....well, that's still kinda fun.
6) No air conditioning is not an option. Period.
7) Walking up and down hills is not an option. Period.
8) Going to class sounds invigorating, even refreshing.
9) Waking up is never pain free, and hangovers start the night before.
10) No one would be caught dead in my clothes.--even me.
11) I pay for everything, and do nothing I want.
12) Dominique Wilkins now whores himself out for Zaxby's, and no one under the age of 30 knows who he is....just plain sad.
13) High Anxiety is a daily occurrence.
14) Wearing a size 9 is anorexic.
Where did 28 years go? Why is youth wasted on the young? Why can't we be like Cocoon, without the aliens? Just young forever and never grow old. Part of me (a pretty big part) would like to go back to 1982 and stop the clock. And just keep re-living that year over and over again.....or perhaps just start at 1982, and live out the rest of my life....again....this time with all the knowledge that I currently have gathered. I wonder what I would do? I imagine that I would buy up as much Microsoft stock as I could, and then sell it and make gazillions of dollars...never work....and just sit by the pool drinking strawberry daiquiris all day. And of course I would be tan and beautiful. And rich. But cool. And nice. Rich and cool and nice.....like my friend Sondra Boone. And in the evenings, when it was nice and cool out, I could sit on my huge front porch in my fine rocking chair....... but I'm pretty sure I would still have to stop rocking...BECAUSE I WOULD BE OLD AND DIZZY. Even in my richest dreams, I can't escape being dizzy. Or the Shingles. Or the Gout. Or the Bursitis. Or the Rheumatism..........you know how it is.
So, my daughter is going off to UGA in the Fall. First of all, the word Fall is totally misleading. Fall now means August 15, right in the middle of "dog days". But in any case, she is heading there in August. Going through the rigors of trying to get her there has made me stop and reflect on my life. Not something I typically enjoy. But I have noticed a few interesting things regarding the different stages of life. It's amazing what 28 years can do to you. Yes, this is one of those stupid comparative lists that old people make talking about the good ole' days, and how things have changed. So just do yourself a favor and stop reading now. It's really not that clever. But I'm putting it here anyway.
As a college Freshman
1) I had no idea how much fun I was about to have
2) I could eat pretty much anything and it didn't really "stick".
3) I didn't mind sleeping on a 3" mattress covered in industrial strength plastic.
4) The "meal plan" seemed institutional and boring.
5) Hearing the song "Superfreak" over and over and over again didn't annoy me.
6) I didn't die from not having air conditioning, and somehow the humidity didn't ruin my hair.
7) Walking to class up and down hills seemed normal.
8) Going to class was a chore.
9) Waking up was generally pain free, except for hangovers.
10) Everyone wanted to borrow my clothes.
11) I paid for nothing, and did everything I wanted.
12) Dominique Wilkins was a campus superstar and made the girls giggle in the Creswell dorm elevator.
13) High Anxiety was a fairly recent Mel Brooks movie.
14) Wearing a size 9 was pretty fat, and a size 11 was downright embarrassing.
As a 47 year old:
1) I had no idea how quickly the fun would STOP after college
2) EVERYTHING I eat "sticks"
3) There's no way I'm sleeping on anything but a Beautyrest
4) I AM the "meal plan"----and it sux
5) Hearing "Superfreak" over and over again....well, that's still kinda fun.
6) No air conditioning is not an option. Period.
7) Walking up and down hills is not an option. Period.
8) Going to class sounds invigorating, even refreshing.
9) Waking up is never pain free, and hangovers start the night before.
10) No one would be caught dead in my clothes.--even me.
11) I pay for everything, and do nothing I want.
12) Dominique Wilkins now whores himself out for Zaxby's, and no one under the age of 30 knows who he is....just plain sad.
13) High Anxiety is a daily occurrence.
14) Wearing a size 9 is anorexic.
Where did 28 years go? Why is youth wasted on the young? Why can't we be like Cocoon, without the aliens? Just young forever and never grow old. Part of me (a pretty big part) would like to go back to 1982 and stop the clock. And just keep re-living that year over and over again.....or perhaps just start at 1982, and live out the rest of my life....again....this time with all the knowledge that I currently have gathered. I wonder what I would do? I imagine that I would buy up as much Microsoft stock as I could, and then sell it and make gazillions of dollars...never work....and just sit by the pool drinking strawberry daiquiris all day. And of course I would be tan and beautiful. And rich. But cool. And nice. Rich and cool and nice.....like my friend Sondra Boone. And in the evenings, when it was nice and cool out, I could sit on my huge front porch in my fine rocking chair....... but I'm pretty sure I would still have to stop rocking...BECAUSE I WOULD BE OLD AND DIZZY. Even in my richest dreams, I can't escape being dizzy. Or the Shingles. Or the Gout. Or the Bursitis. Or the Rheumatism..........you know how it is.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Anatomy of a Funeral.
So my dad died a couple of months ago. I said, "So my dad died a couple of months ago". It's so odd, that sentence. And although the actual date of death was March 5, 2010, he's almost always been kind of dead to me.
I have lots of memories of my dad. The first time I actually remember seeing him, I was probably 3 or 4 years old. Don't get me wrong, I lived with my dad since birth. But I only remember him after age 3 or 4. He was this man who worked a lot, and when he did come home, most of the time he was either in bed, or watching TV, or cutting grass. When he would cut grass, I would always make him a glass of lemonade, or ice water and bring it out to him. I can remember being really proud of myself for doing that. And I think he appreciated it. One day, I thought I would take him his drink, and as he drank it, I had the great idea of doing a ballet dance for him, since I was taking ballet. He just waved his hand in a dismissive manner, and told me not to dance. He seemed really embarrassed, like I had committed a crime right there in the yard. I really couldn't understand why he didn't want me to dance for him. I thought I was putting on a show. My mom and my grandparents seemed to really like it when I performed for them. He was different.
When I was 6, I stayed with the neighbors after school, because both of my parents worked. On Fridays, my dad would pick me up, and take me to get a toy. He did it almost every Friday. I really enjoyed that. And because he knew I liked going to Fairs, sometimes on a weekend, just out of the blue, he would say... "let's go find a Fair somewhere".. and we would get in the car and drive around Atlanta looking for some sort of Fair. We hardly ever found one, but I didn't care. One time, he bought me a kiddie car with a real motor, and gas pedal. I thought it was the most awesome thing ever.
But as I got older, things changed. His motto, which he told anyone who would listen, was "children are to be seen and not heard". He was almost never home, and if he happened to be home, he wasn't happy. When I was 11, he skipped Christmas. Did you even know that was possible? For a dad to just skip Christmas? Well, he did. When I got up that morning to see what gifts were under the tree, he just stayed in bed. So it was me and my mom. We have the film of it and everything. Finally, after a couple of hours, he decided to come in briefly. We got that on film, too. Years later, he would describe me as a child to one of his friends. And he said this as a compliment.....he said...."Terri was a great kid. I never knew she was even there." And he meant it in the best possible way. To him, that was the ultimate compliment. I was invisible.
And I continued to stay that way after my parents divorce. I must've REALLY been great at that point, because he almost NEVER saw me. I would say that is when my dad started his slow, and painful death to me. For years, he ignored me almost completely. He did what he had to do, as was dictated by divorce papers. Other than that, visits from him were rare, and often included various girlfriends whom I had never met until the day they were included in our "visits". So for 35 years, I lived in almost certain invisibility where he was concerned. I never got used to it, and even up until last year, was still surprised when he completely forgot my birthday again. I always was dumbfounded by this. If you only have ONE child, how can you not remember their birthday? It was very painful each and every year. I thought I was numb to the pain. Little did I know the REAL pain would start in March of 2010.
On March 4, I felt compelled to visit my dad in the hospice care facility he had been in for 3 months. Something just told me to go, and I did. March 5, he died. Silly me; I thought the pain died with him. When, in fact, it was as if someone had stuck a knife in me, twisted it a billion times, and left it there to bleed. It started with the way I was informed of his death. For practical purposes only, I will refer to my dad's wife, as..... my dad's wife. So, my dad's wife called our house. My husband answered. She said...exact words..."Kevin, Papa has died". My husband knew who she was, so he started to say something nice, like...."I'm sorry"....but before he could even say anything, she hung up. "Papa has died". Well, who the hell is this Papa person, I wondered? This is how much I DIDN'T know about my dad. Apparently, his name was now Papa.
2 weeks prior to his death, his wife was extremely concerned that I provide pictures to the funeral home, so that she would have lots of pictures to show on a television set during the "wake". So I went through all my pictures, and picked out the very few I had of him with me in the picture. I think there were two. One when I was about 3, and another when I was 36. So the funeral was practically planned before he ever drew his last breath. The day before the funeral, she called to ask me if I wanted to get up and speak at the funeral. Absolutely not. I did not want to get up in front of all those people and speak about "Papa". She informed me that one of her daughters was going to speak at the funeral. Later on that night, my daughter, who was also completely ignored by this "Papa" person, had told me she would like to sing a song at his funeral. I was surprised that she would want to, but also completely proud of her. She's light years ahead of me in maturity and kindness. I called my dad's wife and proudly told her that Katie wanted to sing a song at the funeral. I was almost in tears when I told her this, because I thought it was just so incredibly forgiving of her to want to sing at someone's funeral who completely ignored her her entire life. Not surprisingly, "the wife" told me she would check with the preacher and funeral home director, and call me back. For reasons unknown to me, I was completely shocked when 5 minutes later, she called and said that Katie couldn't sing a song. There was just too much already scheduled for the funeral to fit in a song. Have you ever heard of a funeral that was so packed with material that a 2 1/2 minute song wouldn't fit in the program? No...neither have I. But none the less, I listened to her, and hung up the phone. I was furious. Apparently, though, she had second thoughts about it, because 20 minutes later, she called to say that she had somehow figured out a way for Katie to sing this song, provided of course, that she dedicate it to 'Papa'. Well, why WOULDN'T she dedicate it to him, means it was at HIS funeral? I think the only reason she called back was because she knew that she would be unable to explain to all of our family members why she wouldn't allow my dad's only grandchild to sing at his funeral.
During the "action packed" funeral, one of my dad's wife's daughters did get up and speak. She told what a wonderful guy my dad was, how great he was to all of them. At the end of her speech, she looked at me (I was the one on the second row, along with the alcoholic step sister, and various other "second-tier" family members) and said... "So, Terri....thank you for giving us your dad all these years". Um........ok. Honestly, at that moment, I thought I was going to have a heart attack or something. I had never actually experienced a heart attack, but I was absolutely certain this was what one felt like. Quickly I scanned the room to see if paramedics were available. They were not. I don't know how I did it, but I managed to make it without my heart bursting out of my body. I don't remember the rest of the day, really. It was a blur. Except for the fact that as we were sitting in the funeral procession in our car, one of the wife's son in law's came to my window, and informed me that I had to remove a large plant from the church that was sent by a friend of mine. This was a HUMONGOUS plant. And it needed to be removed now? Are you kidding me? But ok. We got the plant.
It has been 2 months. The woman has never called to see if I wanted anything of my dad's. All of my dad's jewelry she gave to my uncle. She has never given me anything. And she won't. Again, I am somehow still surprised at her incredibly insensitive and vindictive behavior.
I've always heard it. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord." I really, truly hope this is still in effect. I've also heard you should bless the people who persecute you, and not curse them. I'm finding this one a little tough. VERY tough. But I'm going to do the best I can to abide by this. I've been in therapy ever since my dad's death. I have spent the past 7 weeks talking solely about my dad's 35-year-long death and the effect it has had on me. There is so much anger, I cannot process it all. It will probably take me months and months to be able to do so. But I'll say this....I'm sooo tired of spending my money and time on my dad and his wife. Bless their hearts.
I have lots of memories of my dad. The first time I actually remember seeing him, I was probably 3 or 4 years old. Don't get me wrong, I lived with my dad since birth. But I only remember him after age 3 or 4. He was this man who worked a lot, and when he did come home, most of the time he was either in bed, or watching TV, or cutting grass. When he would cut grass, I would always make him a glass of lemonade, or ice water and bring it out to him. I can remember being really proud of myself for doing that. And I think he appreciated it. One day, I thought I would take him his drink, and as he drank it, I had the great idea of doing a ballet dance for him, since I was taking ballet. He just waved his hand in a dismissive manner, and told me not to dance. He seemed really embarrassed, like I had committed a crime right there in the yard. I really couldn't understand why he didn't want me to dance for him. I thought I was putting on a show. My mom and my grandparents seemed to really like it when I performed for them. He was different.
When I was 6, I stayed with the neighbors after school, because both of my parents worked. On Fridays, my dad would pick me up, and take me to get a toy. He did it almost every Friday. I really enjoyed that. And because he knew I liked going to Fairs, sometimes on a weekend, just out of the blue, he would say... "let's go find a Fair somewhere".. and we would get in the car and drive around Atlanta looking for some sort of Fair. We hardly ever found one, but I didn't care. One time, he bought me a kiddie car with a real motor, and gas pedal. I thought it was the most awesome thing ever.
But as I got older, things changed. His motto, which he told anyone who would listen, was "children are to be seen and not heard". He was almost never home, and if he happened to be home, he wasn't happy. When I was 11, he skipped Christmas. Did you even know that was possible? For a dad to just skip Christmas? Well, he did. When I got up that morning to see what gifts were under the tree, he just stayed in bed. So it was me and my mom. We have the film of it and everything. Finally, after a couple of hours, he decided to come in briefly. We got that on film, too. Years later, he would describe me as a child to one of his friends. And he said this as a compliment.....he said...."Terri was a great kid. I never knew she was even there." And he meant it in the best possible way. To him, that was the ultimate compliment. I was invisible.
And I continued to stay that way after my parents divorce. I must've REALLY been great at that point, because he almost NEVER saw me. I would say that is when my dad started his slow, and painful death to me. For years, he ignored me almost completely. He did what he had to do, as was dictated by divorce papers. Other than that, visits from him were rare, and often included various girlfriends whom I had never met until the day they were included in our "visits". So for 35 years, I lived in almost certain invisibility where he was concerned. I never got used to it, and even up until last year, was still surprised when he completely forgot my birthday again. I always was dumbfounded by this. If you only have ONE child, how can you not remember their birthday? It was very painful each and every year. I thought I was numb to the pain. Little did I know the REAL pain would start in March of 2010.
On March 4, I felt compelled to visit my dad in the hospice care facility he had been in for 3 months. Something just told me to go, and I did. March 5, he died. Silly me; I thought the pain died with him. When, in fact, it was as if someone had stuck a knife in me, twisted it a billion times, and left it there to bleed. It started with the way I was informed of his death. For practical purposes only, I will refer to my dad's wife, as..... my dad's wife. So, my dad's wife called our house. My husband answered. She said...exact words..."Kevin, Papa has died". My husband knew who she was, so he started to say something nice, like...."I'm sorry"....but before he could even say anything, she hung up. "Papa has died". Well, who the hell is this Papa person, I wondered? This is how much I DIDN'T know about my dad. Apparently, his name was now Papa.
2 weeks prior to his death, his wife was extremely concerned that I provide pictures to the funeral home, so that she would have lots of pictures to show on a television set during the "wake". So I went through all my pictures, and picked out the very few I had of him with me in the picture. I think there were two. One when I was about 3, and another when I was 36. So the funeral was practically planned before he ever drew his last breath. The day before the funeral, she called to ask me if I wanted to get up and speak at the funeral. Absolutely not. I did not want to get up in front of all those people and speak about "Papa". She informed me that one of her daughters was going to speak at the funeral. Later on that night, my daughter, who was also completely ignored by this "Papa" person, had told me she would like to sing a song at his funeral. I was surprised that she would want to, but also completely proud of her. She's light years ahead of me in maturity and kindness. I called my dad's wife and proudly told her that Katie wanted to sing a song at the funeral. I was almost in tears when I told her this, because I thought it was just so incredibly forgiving of her to want to sing at someone's funeral who completely ignored her her entire life. Not surprisingly, "the wife" told me she would check with the preacher and funeral home director, and call me back. For reasons unknown to me, I was completely shocked when 5 minutes later, she called and said that Katie couldn't sing a song. There was just too much already scheduled for the funeral to fit in a song. Have you ever heard of a funeral that was so packed with material that a 2 1/2 minute song wouldn't fit in the program? No...neither have I. But none the less, I listened to her, and hung up the phone. I was furious. Apparently, though, she had second thoughts about it, because 20 minutes later, she called to say that she had somehow figured out a way for Katie to sing this song, provided of course, that she dedicate it to 'Papa'. Well, why WOULDN'T she dedicate it to him, means it was at HIS funeral? I think the only reason she called back was because she knew that she would be unable to explain to all of our family members why she wouldn't allow my dad's only grandchild to sing at his funeral.
During the "action packed" funeral, one of my dad's wife's daughters did get up and speak. She told what a wonderful guy my dad was, how great he was to all of them. At the end of her speech, she looked at me (I was the one on the second row, along with the alcoholic step sister, and various other "second-tier" family members) and said... "So, Terri....thank you for giving us your dad all these years". Um........ok. Honestly, at that moment, I thought I was going to have a heart attack or something. I had never actually experienced a heart attack, but I was absolutely certain this was what one felt like. Quickly I scanned the room to see if paramedics were available. They were not. I don't know how I did it, but I managed to make it without my heart bursting out of my body. I don't remember the rest of the day, really. It was a blur. Except for the fact that as we were sitting in the funeral procession in our car, one of the wife's son in law's came to my window, and informed me that I had to remove a large plant from the church that was sent by a friend of mine. This was a HUMONGOUS plant. And it needed to be removed now? Are you kidding me? But ok. We got the plant.
It has been 2 months. The woman has never called to see if I wanted anything of my dad's. All of my dad's jewelry she gave to my uncle. She has never given me anything. And she won't. Again, I am somehow still surprised at her incredibly insensitive and vindictive behavior.
I've always heard it. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord." I really, truly hope this is still in effect. I've also heard you should bless the people who persecute you, and not curse them. I'm finding this one a little tough. VERY tough. But I'm going to do the best I can to abide by this. I've been in therapy ever since my dad's death. I have spent the past 7 weeks talking solely about my dad's 35-year-long death and the effect it has had on me. There is so much anger, I cannot process it all. It will probably take me months and months to be able to do so. But I'll say this....I'm sooo tired of spending my money and time on my dad and his wife. Bless their hearts.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Today is not the day.
Well, here I sit. Again. Ears ringing out of my head. Is it from listening to loud music? Is it from wax buildup? Is it from some mysterious disease or cancer that they just haven't found yet? I suspect it's the latter. Which is probably why I sit here yet again with a glazed look. I'm so tired of just existing. Just keeping the peace. Just making it till tomorrow. For more years than I care to remember, that's been my answer when asked the question... "What are you doing today"? My answer has been.. "Oh, nothing. Just making it through the day". Seriously, that's been my answer. What kind of an answer is that? And why am I still just making it through the day?
I guess it beats NOT making it through the day. But I'm not exactly sure what has happened to me over the years. I feel tired. Just tired of all the BS of regular life. Tired of phone calls. Tired of "things I have to do". It has gotten to the point that I get annoyed when it becomes time for a meal. Because I know that I will have to decide what I and everyone else in my house is going to eat. I dread it each and every day. I don't recall my mother or my grandmother dreading meals. We just ate. It was not this big of a deal. Why is it such a deal now?
My dad is dying. He is in a nursing home/hospice until his death is official. I went to see him on Friday. I had avoided this visit for as long as I could. Finally, he specifically asked to see me, and I relented. I had mentally prepared myself for the worst, but even with all the preparation, it was still very sad. He is in a semi-private room, with another man who is dying of cancer. My dad seemed to recognize me, but had very few words to say. This was not any different than when he was not "sick". But what haunted me the most, was watching the circus-like atmosphere that was going on in his room. His current wife is in charge of his care, and it has never been more apparent to me than on Friday as to why my mom and dad divorced in the first place. The reason is..... he didn't like us, me and my mom. I know this because his wife cares for him in an entirely different way than we would have. Her idea is to be in denial, and to make every day a loud party. My idea is to be quiet and restful and calm. I'm not saying either one is right......they're just different. Very, very different. But to watch what was going on with him....with all the visitors, and the loud talk, and the moving of his bed, and just on and on activity.....it just almost made me ill. I felt so sorry for him. But this is what he chose, so it must be what he likes. I hope it makes his final days enjoyable. I asked about the possibility of getting him a private room. It would cost more every month to get one, but I felt like it would make things more peaceful for him.....and for the poor man next to him. I was told that his wife would rather him be in this semi-private room, because when she's not there, she wants the cancer-ridden man to look out for my dad and call the nurse if anything happens to my dad. God, it's just too much.
And that's when I realized...... I have no control. I am not in control of the situation, so I have to just let it go. I am trying, but I find myself thinking of it night and day. Wondering if anything can be done to make him more comfortable during his last days. But I don't think there is. I think he's had all the good times, all the Varsity chili dogs and all the laughter he's going to have.
There is something that I can do for myself, though. I can get up, wipe the dust off my brain and everything else....and start a new life. Enjoy it. Do things that make me feel good, if I can think of any. Laugh. Act like I'm 20 again. That's what I CAN do. And I WILL do that. SOMEday. I'm sure of it.
But today is not the day.
I guess it beats NOT making it through the day. But I'm not exactly sure what has happened to me over the years. I feel tired. Just tired of all the BS of regular life. Tired of phone calls. Tired of "things I have to do". It has gotten to the point that I get annoyed when it becomes time for a meal. Because I know that I will have to decide what I and everyone else in my house is going to eat. I dread it each and every day. I don't recall my mother or my grandmother dreading meals. We just ate. It was not this big of a deal. Why is it such a deal now?
My dad is dying. He is in a nursing home/hospice until his death is official. I went to see him on Friday. I had avoided this visit for as long as I could. Finally, he specifically asked to see me, and I relented. I had mentally prepared myself for the worst, but even with all the preparation, it was still very sad. He is in a semi-private room, with another man who is dying of cancer. My dad seemed to recognize me, but had very few words to say. This was not any different than when he was not "sick". But what haunted me the most, was watching the circus-like atmosphere that was going on in his room. His current wife is in charge of his care, and it has never been more apparent to me than on Friday as to why my mom and dad divorced in the first place. The reason is..... he didn't like us, me and my mom. I know this because his wife cares for him in an entirely different way than we would have. Her idea is to be in denial, and to make every day a loud party. My idea is to be quiet and restful and calm. I'm not saying either one is right......they're just different. Very, very different. But to watch what was going on with him....with all the visitors, and the loud talk, and the moving of his bed, and just on and on activity.....it just almost made me ill. I felt so sorry for him. But this is what he chose, so it must be what he likes. I hope it makes his final days enjoyable. I asked about the possibility of getting him a private room. It would cost more every month to get one, but I felt like it would make things more peaceful for him.....and for the poor man next to him. I was told that his wife would rather him be in this semi-private room, because when she's not there, she wants the cancer-ridden man to look out for my dad and call the nurse if anything happens to my dad. God, it's just too much.
And that's when I realized...... I have no control. I am not in control of the situation, so I have to just let it go. I am trying, but I find myself thinking of it night and day. Wondering if anything can be done to make him more comfortable during his last days. But I don't think there is. I think he's had all the good times, all the Varsity chili dogs and all the laughter he's going to have.
There is something that I can do for myself, though. I can get up, wipe the dust off my brain and everything else....and start a new life. Enjoy it. Do things that make me feel good, if I can think of any. Laugh. Act like I'm 20 again. That's what I CAN do. And I WILL do that. SOMEday. I'm sure of it.
But today is not the day.
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