Cringe

Do we all (or most of us) have an ex-
friend/boss/beau/whatever with whom we behaved badly or at least embarrassingly? Then, eons later when the person comes to mind, serious cringe action re-ignites. C’mon, I can’t be the only one!

I had a dream last night about one of these—an ex-boss. Jim was genuinely nice and kind. He was smart and terrifically competent too. My excuse for the wincingly crap behavior? I was between surgeries, still had hearing but knew the ax was gonna fall any minute. I was tense and nervous and more than a little whacked out. I probably owe everyone I knew from that time an apology.

Okay, if I’m honest with myself and shit, I was probably jealous too.

Jim had, to my mind, a picture perfect life. He and his wife owned a duplex in Cambridge. Awesome enough but they also had the knowledge and skills to renovate and friends to help them do it too.

Once they had kids, there was enough dosh, from rent and wife’s high paying gig, to move to a posh suburb and buy a Cape vacation home too. All this PLUS ex-boss was able to quit his job. He could stay home to take care of the kids.

Yeah, I was jealous.

Not that I wanted children (never have) but I totally would’ve LOVED the luxury of staying home. I could paint, pot and have the time and space to market them as well.

I feel that I owe my ex-boss a sorry-I-was-such-jerk email but, honestly, I don’t imagine he remembers me.

Good?

Nothing to Say

But, somehow, I fail to shut the hell up. Huh.

There’s no reason to speak. I have nothing to say.
~ Julie Anne Peters

Yup.

I feel like I’m just passing through life. But then there’s this voice in my head telling me to do something, to create something, to make something, and I want to listen to it, but I don’t know how. I want to be able to say something, but I have nothing to say. I want something extraordinary, but I’m ordinary in every way-I just read books about other people and browse the lives of my Facebook friends all day.
~ Nick Miller

Nailed it.

Wisdom does not always talk, it talks at the right time, saying the right words.
~ Olaotan Fawehinmi

Which is not to say that, in anyone’s universe, I am, in any way chock full of wisdom. I’m just fresh out of words today. Coco will attest to this.

We usually say of ancient persons, that they have already one foot in the grave, and the rest of their life is nothing else but the bringing of these feet together.
~ John Pearson

Yes I’m ancient. No I’m not thinking about having one of my feetsies in the grave (ok, maybe occasionally). I’m just kinda sick and tired of all this motherfucking recovery work. Today I need to do two rounds of bed level exercises, some walking and other strength building shit…as uszh.

I want a bloody vaca NOW. Ya know, one where I can float in a warm, quiet lagoon and think about nada. I wanna become one with nada.

Jesus Pilates Christ, is this too damn much to ask!? Don’t answer that—I already know the answer and it’s not what I was hoping for.

 I’ve whined about this A LOT already. Sick of me yet? I am.

What defines us is what we do when we become too sick to work.
~ Steven Magee

What will I do? Continue to write, doodle, exercise and, undoubtedly, annoy the shit out of my loved ones with my demands, cries and paranoia.

 SCONES. I must have SCONES!
All this staying in bed is making me FAT!
My left foot is freezing—have I grown another blood clot? I’m scared!

Christ Almighty, I’m less than a treat to be around.

PT, Books and TeeVee

Yesterday’s PT appointment was challenging and semi-satisfying. I didn’t kill it, as hoped, but neither did I suck frozen Bantha wang. Not totally anyway. I NEED to keep up my three times a day at home exercises and NOT just rely on these twice weekly exhaust-a-thons for my rehabbing. That’s the path to Fail City.

My big disappointment was the walk-as-far-as-you-can-in-six-minutes exercise. I did NOT go a mile (to be fair, I’ve never done a six minute mile) or even an eighth of a mile. I may have done a sixteenth with no less than TWO sit down rest stops. #embarrassing

Friday’s my next shot at the track. Maybe I can work up to a mile by then?
#notbettingonit
~~~
My big order of used books from Powell’s in Portland, Oregon has STILL not arrived (due this past Friday). The book sad continues!
~~~
On Sunday in Tea Time World, we watched an ep of Star Trek: Discovery (totally BRILL) and, also, The Flash. Gotta say, I’m enjoying Flash a little less with each viewed episode. There are too many flawed characters.  OK, maybe just one.

Iris, the daughter of a police detective, adopted sister to The Flash (though she doesn’t know he’s The Flash) and girlfriend of her police detective father's, partner (stupidly BAD and abysmally selfish move). She’s seems incapable of seeing the world, even for a brief moment, from anyone else’s doorstep. Nothing’s ever her fault or responsibility and everyone should immediately support her plans and deeds even when they reek of Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.

Honesty, who wrote this character? Is the writer from a two dimensional universe? Or did they grow up in a home of narcissists and has never worked out their anger in therapy? Who’s Iris standing in for? Evil stepmother? Sister? Stepsib? If Iris’s character doesn’t seriously evolve and fast, we’ll need to move on to a different show.

Jen’s suggested that Iris is just a radically clumsy plot device. She’s probably right but then, she always is.

I wonder, is scripting the show with consistent character development too much to ask or is D.C.’s budget just that small? ‘You can have special effects or good writers but not both.’ Also, all the white women look nearly identical. Is this 2D, spectacularly unimaginative hiring or does the casting director have some serious familial issues he/she has yet to work through?

Enough of all that and back to Discovery. With an anachronistic character, a sweet nod to the original Trek was deployed. Carl was a chubby old fellow, neatly dressed in a 1930’s style tweed suit. He was sitting in a wooden folding chair in the middle of a snow field, reading a newspaper. Carl proffers enigmatic and ambiguous advice. Loved him!

Also *SPOILER ALERT* Carl is the Guardian of Forever.

Up

I’m up early as uszh but today's different. The problem here is that I’ve got to not only be awake but out of the damn house and across town....by an obscenely bright and sparkly hour too. NINE, 9AM! I have a PT appointment. 

Yes, I ‘hear’ you—nine’s not so early, Donna. Sure, sure, I understand—it’s not really THAT much of an ungodly hour. BUT, ya see, between all the years of working from home and all my time spent in Recovery Town it’s been a long bloody time since I’ve had to put a bra on and be out the door in time to get anywhere by NINE AM. This may take a coordinated effort which I no longer possess.

So, ‘scuse me, I gotta go find a cuppa and a bra that still fits. //groan//

Sleep Horrors

Nothing better than the first night with a clean pair of sheets.

Despite feeling all cozy and fresh, I woke in the darkest, wee hours from a horrifying nightmare of revenge and savagery. The R&S wasn't on me or even by me. I was an outside viewer and couldn’t help in any way. Yeah, like an ultra scary movie where you can only scream/advise ‘don’t go into that dark house’ or ‘take your high heels off, start running away NOW and don’t look back! You wanna get away ASAP.’

This was more along the subtle lines of ‘don’t drink that water your ex-wife just handed you.’ Why not? The water was actually an anti-grav solution. Like all scary movie protagonists, he did exactly the wrong thing.

The man’s son was having a sleepover. A big bunch of his, supposedly, best school buds were there. As soon as the father was stuck on the ceiling though, the boys went Lord of the Flies. It was a zillion miles from pretty—monstrous even.

I could NOT get back to sleep and Coco was no help at all. She was all ‘c’mon, I’m sleeping here. Leave me ‘lone.’ Oh, but it’s OK for you to wake ME at obscene hours? Right. Gotcha.

When I finally got to sleep I dreamed of being at a fabulous sale at the old, original Filene’s Basement. I was with an utterly mixed bag of people—some friends and acquaintances, my beloved TAB and a woman from High School who, inexplicably, befriended me on ShoutyFace. Why inexplicably? She’s always made it clear, from HS and now, that while it was OK for me to be within her orbit, it was def unacceptable for me to enter her thermosphere. Why the ShoutyFace ‘friend’ request then? Beats the fuck outta me. Maybe she’s one of those insecure types who think ‘friend’ numbers are real and matter.

In any case, after a big lunch we all boarded the bus back to Boston’s Brighton neighborhood. The ancient bus, however, broke down halfway there. I kept expecting TAB to show up in front of me on the replacement ride. I scrubbed and shined the seat next to me so it’d be nice for him to sit on. Problem though, I was the only one who made the transfer. The bus pulled away from the curb without him. (Allegory much, Donna?)

I got off the bus (Gus?) in Allston, thinking I’d wait there for TAB. Wandering the artsy shops, I discovered one with funky ceramic figures, cups and vases. The artist himself was minding the store. We hit it off and made a date. What about TAB? I understood that he wouldn’t mind.

There was a third weird ass dream in there that I’ve now forgotten. I get it though. This was a night about fear and journeys. Also, great  shopping and persistently conundrumatic people.

Nothing and Something

I performed obscene amounts of nothing at all yesterday. Okay, not entirely true. I made:

• An ultra brief and decidedly disappointing attempt at my myriad ‘bed level’ exercises
• There was a frustrating search for the status of my Powell’s book order—WHERE IS IT! The site said it should’ve arrived 9/24. It did not.
• I finished my cozy Scooby gang mystery which was a lot more complicated AND more enjoyable than any other I’ve read (i.e, ones that don’t also include witches, demons, vampires and/or zombies). This one, set in an assisted senior living village really got me thinking.
  

If I was in a position (financially, physically and socially) to move into a joint like that what would I want/need it to be like?

Matisse-View of Notre Dame

There'd need to be lots of interesting great art (real OR framed reproductions) on the walls in the common areas.

Basquiat

My father had nothing but complaints about the food in the places he stayed. It was all painfully bland and boring. So, interesting food selections taken from resident’s recipe books PLUS:

Monday—Mongolian BBQ
Tuesday—Tacos (of fucking course)
Wednesday—pasta (e.g. Parmesan Spinach Gnocchi and more)
Thursday—SUSHI!
Friday—Indian (can I interest anyone in a little saag paneer, hmmmm?)
Saturday—Ethiopian
Sunday—Chinese food and keep it coming

This can all be changed around—more and different variations added in. Food should be fun and exciting.

We could have cocktail nights, whisky weekends (I’ll take Lagavulin for 500, Alex) and vino tastings.

Dance lesson days. Learn to Tango, Boogie, Two-Step and Twerk.

Game night—Confession time; I know less than nothing about games. If it’s not Monopoly, I’m in the dark. Do people still play Dungeons and Dragons? How about Zork?

Music every day/evening, should anyone still have hearing. It could be live or recorded. We could have rockers, folkers, rappers, live pianists (a la Ray Manzarek, Alicia Keys, Mingus, Saint-Saëns, Gershwin and everyone else in between), quartets (Pavel Haas to Kronos Quartet). We can run the gauntlet but NO country music (unless you’re in your own room with the volume turned down to 0)!

Caveat—no music during meals. Everyones tastes are different and, I guaran-damn-tee, no one wants to listen to what I can still feel/hear (Kodo Drummers of Japan) while they’re trying to enjoy a nice plate of Baingan Bharta.

There’ll be movie nights. Everyone puts their favorites on a slip of paper in an empty fishbowl. A fresh flick is chosen each movie night. NO John Wayne and Bruce Willis is strictly limited to once a year.

Massage therapists (but NO ‘happy endings’).

Acupuncture which is NOT a replacement for regular Western med doc visits.

Talk therapists will be available because, face it, we’ve all come down some rough roads by this age and need to talk some (all?) of it out.

There’ll be shared, nonjudgemental studio space for painting, ceramics, weaving and whatever else (no installations though. Sorry, not enough room).

Not a social beastie? That’s OK. You can stay in your room, reading, doodling, watching old eps of Bonanza, eating Oreos and talking to your cat. Yes, cats are allowed—encouraged, in fact. Dogs? Not so much unless they’re quiet, respectful of the feline population and their owners always scoop the poops immediately.

Did I mention cats? They’re free to roam the halls and visit residents in their cat door equipped suites/apartments.  

Also, if we're not on the ocean, we'll be in a gorgeous deep forest. Why? Because I said so!

Good/Bad News

Looks like a wee mouse, doesn't it?

I’ve got a three month reprieve. I still need to do something about the meningioma du jour. Sadly, it hasn’t evaporated in a happy cloud of sparkling fairy dust. That’s the bad news but, rilly now, I wasn’t actually expecting the sparkly fairy clouds. Having said that, neither has it grown much in the past few months.

This is wicked GOOD news (as they say around these here parts)!

If this devious, motherfucking, rat bastid of a tumor holds off on its next demonic growth spurt I may be able to take it down with radiation versus surgery. As much as I love my awesome surgeon, Fred Barker, I’d really like to stop meeting him in ORs. (a nice pub would be my preference, ya know!?)

The down side to radiation is that I’d need to step into the magic claustrophobia machine again. I’m having minor freakage at the very thought of it. Can I make it through the tube in order to avoid surgery? Fred, unlike the radiation dudes, only needs the CT scans. Why? Not sure but I think it’s because he’s been in my bean enough recently that he knows where everything’s at.

In case I need to get into evil the MRI, I’ll lorazepam myself up, do a mess of deep breathing ex and hope.

In other possible good news from yesterday, I found other sparkly silver shoes that MAY fit over my goddamned brace. They’re glittery silver crocs. From what I’ve been told, crocs aren’t hip. My answer to that is SO WHAT. If they’re comfy, fit over my brace and are sparkly silver, I’m good. Also, I’m 63 bloody years old—a little past my hip years (if I ever even had any of those). If these aren’t fab enough I can always, as a friend suggested, bling them up. Oh, yes I can!

From Here to Timbuktu

I’m traveling from home, here in Valhalla, to MGH (may as well be Timbuktu) this morning.

As I mentioned the other day, this morning I’ll be having a CT scan (versus an MRI—YEA!) to see what’s up with the giant tumor on my bean’s front right hand side. I’m not happy about this but it’s gotta be done.

Mega-bummedness will descend if I need more surgery before I’ve had a chance to recover from this last go ‘round. 

Here’s one thing I’ve noticed, Big-Sad affects my physical functioning. i.e. I’ve been trying so hard to be strong in order to deal with possible results and directives of this morning’s test. I’ve totally quashed my emotions—headed them off at the pass even. That shit’s gonna find a way to come out though. You know, one way or another. In this case, I’ve been ridiculously weak—so damn weak that I had to cancel yesterday’s PT.

The Big-Sad was also fueled by the book I’ve been reading. It’s, in part, about a bunch of people in a senior living community—most in their 80s. Some are fine. Mentally sharp as tacks. Physically? Not as strong or swift as they once were but not bad. Other residents are missing more than a few vital steps. I hate that I’m 20+ years younger than the healthiest characters and in such crap shape. Of  fucking course. 

So, I had a good cry last night and find, this morning, I’m stronger, more limber and a bit more agile (AKA not such a stiff klutz). Is this how shit works for you or is it just yurs truly?

Back to Timbuktu though—it’s a real fucking place and Ten’s been there! OK, he's been to the one in Texas not Mali.

From 650 to 1600, nearly five million enslaved people from sub-Saharan Africa were transported through Timbuktu and other desert trading centers for destinations along the Mediterranean Sea, Red Sea, and Indian Ocean.

Timbuktu also served as an intellectual center and an important synapse in the transmission of Islam into West Africa. The city housed famous libraries whose archivists collected and preserved Islamic texts that attracted students and scholars from throughout the region.
(source)

Slave trade, huh? I wonder how many of my friends ancestors hailed from or at least passed through Timbuktu.

I don’t really have a yen to visit there, ‘cept for the bragging rights. HEY, I’ve been to Timbuktu and back.

 Meanwhile, here's a lovely cat, watching out for birdies. Yur welcome. 

Art and Stuff

I’ve got this tune in my head this morning for the most absurd reason. My second pair of glitter cons came in the mail yesterday, the ones that the brace would, theoretically, fit into. It doesn’t. It won’t. Cons are built thin and just won’t accommodate my fat brace. I'm totes heartbroken—fer reals. Look at the brace below and high tops at right—they're absolutely STUNNING together!

Also, I don’t go out much at all now, except to the doc’s office and MGH—it struck me that there’s an awful lot of lacing just to go to the can, downstairs to read in my dark green velvet chair and/or over to Jen and Oni’s to watch teevee. Way too much lacing. Now I’m, once more, on the hunt for happiness-inspiring, stylish, silver sneaks. They've gotta be low tops that are relatively easy to put on and off.

I haz a giant sad which brought me to a great line in Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club.

If you don’t cry sometimes, you’ll end up crying all the time.

Truth!

The book’s a cozy mystery more or less. It’s not grizzly, the amateur sleuths are older (even older than yurs truly!), comfortable (not rich, not poor). The stories are as much about lovely twists and turns of friendship as they are about untimely, violent, unexpected deaths and nailing the killers. Often they not only solve murders but fix up a couple of sweet, lonely and unaccountably single 20 or 30-somethings. Think Miss Marple, Hannah Swensen, Jenna Quin and on and on.

Yeah, I’m always embarrassed to say I love these. Why? They’re not exactly deep or profound. Hey, you know me—Queen of Escapism.

What’s different about this one is that there’s not just one amateur PI. There’s a whole elderly Scooby gang. It’s fabulous.

Finally, I saw this incredible piece of street art on the bird app yesterday. No artist was listed but my own sleuthing led me to the French artist Abys Osmoz. Dunno if it’s still there but it was on Long Art Street in Montpellior, France in 2018.

Want more! 

PT and Selfies

Coco takes a selfie—blurry but deep and emotive—right?

My first non-eval day in outpatient physical therapy did not go well. No, I didn’t splat on my face or anything typical like that but, in the piddling few weeks between home and outpatient, I’ve lost a lot of strength. I did my bed level exercises nearly every day but I didn’t get in as much walking. Plus, my fall-a-thon coincided with home PT’s end. Yup, it was a weakness sparking tempête de merde. So, where to now Saint Peter? Outpatient PT only lasts a couple months and I don’t want to spend all of it trying to reach where home PT left off.

First, I’m gonna do walking (with walker) laps of the first floor every day. This is a small house but it’s a start. Once I’m up to a half dozen rounds maybe Ten can wheel me down to the seawall (the seawall’s sidewalk is nice and smooth) for an extended (for me) jaunt.

Equally deep dragon selfie

Second—marching in place. I need my walker and Ten spotting me but I gotta do this daily. My home PTs didn’t want me doing this without them BUT I think Ten can spot me just fine. OK, maybe a combo of Ten and Jen.

I’m trying to duck getting all disheartened and shit. If I’m gonna walk again, be able to go to the can on my own, stand at my easel and paint once more, etc., etc., I need to get on the stick—NOT let any more time pass me by.

I see my neurologist, Doc Plotkin, on Thursday. I’ll get the scoop on my next mondo meningioma then. I’m hoping, of course, that he won’t be sending me, tout de suite, to see my fave cutter, Doc Barker. At this point I’d welcome a ‘let’s wait and see.’

I need to catch the fuck up, recovery wise, before I jump back in the OR ring.

Cookies and Whatnot

Ten went to the store and bought me a box of not quite full grown Oreos. They have an orange center. Dunno what the flavor is supposed to be but they’re tasty as all Hell.
~~~

My friend Mark inspired me to look at these insane Venice Beach-ish male kangaroos this morning. Did you know? A party of kangaroos (10 or more) is called a mob.

Not so unlike humans, eh?
~~~
Jen, Oni and I watched a few eps of Love, Death + Rockets yesterday. It’s a collection of short stories in animated (for adults, not kiddles) form.

Terrifying creatures, wicked surprises and dark comedy converge in this NSFW anthology of animated stories presented by Tim Miller and David Fincher. (source)

It’s like eating visual buttered popcorn—you could consume a giant tubful in one sitting but you probably shouldn’t. A few handfuls at a time is better.
~~~
I dreamed I was wandering around a vinyl adhesive sign shop. Instead of simple lettering, their banners and posters were renderings of R. Crumb's artwork with a hefty dose of Seurat’s pointillism thrown in.
~~~
Recovery is still, very much, up and down. Those four falls over the past month didn’t help (which I’m certain I’ve mentioned already). I’m so afraid of falling now that I’m ultra timid about moving about at all. Everytime I get out of bed, visions of tumbling down the stairs, taking Ten with me, play on my bean's flat screen video. Hello, self-fulfilling prophecy much?

I’m doing my best to ambulate slowly and carefully—still move, exercise and not overdo but be as active as possible. Finding balance is NOT easy for yurs truly.
~~~
I‘m fresh outta thoughts and words this AM. Here, have some flowers and memes. Yur welcome.

More on the Hoax: UPDATE!

THE STRIKE IS OVER!!! I can buy my awesome Oreos again! (see Oreo info below)

 The population of the US in 2019 was 328.2 million (not including our beloved four legged family members). There have been, approximately (definitely under-reported), 674,000 deaths from COVID SO FAR. That's .2% of the population dead from Trump’s disease. Ya know, the one that was going to disappear like a miracle. It was going to go away as April’s heat came in. But it didn’t.

Now, 1 in every 500 U.S.citizens have died from this non-disappearing virus. 

And, as of this past Thursday, September 16, Mississippi has achieved the monstrous title of Virus Queen by having the highest COVID death rate in the country. 1 in every 320 Mississippi residents needlessly die of this disease 

Wear a mask. Get vaccinated. Don’t go to parties.

Related, Nabisco is still on strike.

Union leaders say Nabisco is trying to squeeze more hours out of its staff while paying less overtime, even as some workers are taking 16-hour shifts to help meet a pandemic-fueled surge in snack food sales. (source)

I’m enduring this slow-ass brain surgery recovery. I’ve spent most of the last couple of years in various stages of rehab from one neurosurgery after another. Now I can’t get my Oreos because a bunch of greedbrained suits need a third vacation home and a fourth mistress? By the by, the CEO of Mondelez International (maker of Oreos) is Dirk van de Put. His salary is $16,842,693. I think he can afford to pay his workers a fair wage.

Laura Loomer—who’s that?. Isn't she that SNL character from the late '70s-early'80s?

Wait a second, I’m confusing her with the lovely, forever drippy nosed, Lisa Loopner—right?

Loomer's apparently some crazy-ass, right-wing (I know, that’s redundant) anti-mask, anti-vax, COVID’s-a-hoax, conspiracy believing and promoting, obvs mentally ill and bin-brained attention seeker.

And she’s caught the ‘hoax.’ Karma strikes again!

Whenever I read Loomer’s name, I wonder if Gilda Radner’s character has walked off the stage. She’s real and grew up twisted? Ah…no.

Bits and Pics

It’s now six months since March’s life altering surgery. I had my first, long awaited outpatient rehab appointment yesterday. It was an eval session—who am I, how much did surgery affect my pre-OR world, have I been doing the bed exercises, what are my rehab goals, etc., etc. 

My next session is Monday. We’ll get down to the biz of more, greater strength building workouts then. I’m starting to regain some optimism. It helps that I’m beginning to physically come back from all the recent falls (four, count ‘em, four of those rat bastids) and there’s been no midnight rides into the ER in a few months. YEA!

 It’s difficult to reign in my impulsive, independent nature now that I’m beginning to feel less weak. The fear of falling and how long it takes to come back from those splats, are effective motivators though.
~~~

Speaking of Fall, it’s almost on us. The  autumnal equinox is Wednesday, September 22. This feels weird. I want a do-over of the summer. I didn’t hit Nantasket even once and rolled across the street, to our own seawall, twice at best. Aside from not falling, I’d add in, at minimum, weekly wheelchair rides to our seawall and dawn rides to Nantasket. I miss the electric orange, purple early morning sky and deep cerulean water.

The temps here in Valhalla generally don’t cruise into the 80s anymore. Thank the little baby Bast! To my friends in the South and SouthWest, I just DO NOT know how you do it!

~~~
The other evening we watched Cruella with the two Emmas (Stone and Watson). It put John Gardner’s', Grendel, in mind. You know, Beowulf told from the monster’s perspective. No real give-aways here, just, it was fabulous and the spotty dogs don’t die. Def worth seeing.
~~~
I’ve begun reading Matt Ruff’s Bad Monkeys. It’s nearly impossible to put down. Odd, creepy and bizarre as all hell. I def recommend.
~~~
We must have a pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.
~ David Mamet, Boston Marriage

To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan and not quite enough time.
~ Leonard Bernstein

“Come back!" the Caterpillar called after her. "I've something important to say."
This sounded promising, certainly. Alice turned and came back again.
"Keep your temper," said the Caterpillar.
~ Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

Life was easier when you stopped caring, when you stopped expecting things to get better.
~ Cora Carmack, Finding It

I am not "cured"--I know I never will be. I will always crave that pain to keep me centered. I will always be just a little astounded when I get through a crisis without putting a blade to my flesh.
~ J. Kenner, Complete Me

The storm before the calm.
~ Cameron Conaway, Caged: Memoirs of a Cage-Fighting Poet
~~~
Glass art over at Jen and Oni’s (above).

And I’m out—happy Saturday

Why Can’t We Be Friends

One of the BIG drawbacks of being on the move as a child (every year or two anyway) is that I never got the hang of this thing called friendship. Yeah, I got the general gist of things as I grew farther into adultness but it’s taken me an obscene amount of time.

Here are some things I wish I’d known from the get go.

There are levels of friendships.

Bestie—you know, Jen. I can count on her for anything and everything. She’s there for surgeries and recoveries, travel adventures, ugly crying and unending laughter. Oh, we can talk about poops and other delicate subjects too. Need a kidney? Here, take one of mine!

Close—learns a little ASL or, on their own, finds a good voice to text app to ease communication, understands where I’m coming from, supportive, forgiving and fun. Maybe we don’t talk bathroom matters so much but other ticklish topics are still on the table. MGH, in pre-pandemic times? Of course! Kidney? Same as above.

 Good—I see them less frequently than a close friend but otherwise similar. Sensitive subjects? It depends. If they can, I may see them at MGH next time I’m getting sliced up. They bring Fratelli’s over when I’m recovering though—YES!

Warm—love them! We don’t get into anything serious but, when we still threw parties, they were DEF on the guest list.

 Casual—totes enjoy having a cocktail and chitchatting together. We have some common interests. They’re on the party guest list too.

Acquaintance—I remember their name (usually) and smile when I see them.

Who?—they might remember me but…I have a terrible memory. Sometimes that’s on purpose. Not always.

Don’t confuse the categories, mine or your own.

Then there are all the chums who fall between the lines. Maybe most.

Next wish-I’d-known is this—who’s a friend and who’s not. This one’s tricky. I wasn’t born with self awareness or discrimination and you need those tools to make the calls. For a few of my early adult years, I was just thrilled and grateful that anyone wanted me as a friend. Yeah, how sad is that!?

I got over it, more or less.

Have you found yourself in a sitch where a ‘friend’ is not really who you’d thought or hoped for? You need to break up or, at least, insert distance. How? Stop replying to emails. If you answer phone calls, be brief and find a way to cut them off and hang up. If that doesn’t work, give it to them straight and as non-confrontationally as you can. NOT it’s-not-you-it’s-me—christ that’s lame. Do the chat as honestly and peacefully as you can. Avoid blame bombs. This doesn’t need to be an hour(s) long discussion.

Also, friends and friendship levels aren’t necessarily rock-solid and forever. They rise and fall, come and go. Why? Life is fucking tumultuous and fluid.

I wish I’d known all this as a kid.

Why Can’t We Be Friends—War

Rainy Days and Thursdays

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling all:
Vindictive
    adjective
disposed to seek revenge

Petty (using the slang definition)     adjective
someone who is childish, overreacts to little things, or does things for a reaction

One could even say my mood is:

Maleficent
    adjective
working or productive of harm or evil

That would be ever so much
Hyperbole though
    noun
exaggerated statements or claims not meant to be taken literally.

Not unlike the book I just finished, Hyperbole and a Half.

What got me going? Eh, remembrance of things past. Specifically, the two coworkers who gave me such a hard time when I expressed concern about my tumor garden and impending deafness. Yes, these two shitheelian asswipes, who I once considered friends, attempted to guilt trip me for having the cheek to express concern and worry about myself. Why? The Amazing Bob’s health wasn’t spectacular and 'other people have it harder than you.' To them, I was just hard of hearing. They couldn’t SEE my tumors so I might just be making them up—ya know, for attention..

• I was caring for my sweet TAB—doing all I could for that wonderful man. I take a minute to confide my own health worries and that makes me a cold, heartless twatzilla? 'scuse me, FUCK YOU!
  
• Last time I checked, neither of these callous, social simpletons were docs who specialized in rare neurological diseases. Yeah, they could just fuck the whole way off.
  

I didn't get revenge. They, mostly, sunk themselves by being themselves. When the company changed hands, layoffs began. They got pink slips, I did not. I could have talked them up to the new owners (I had their ears). I didn’t. A wee bit of vengeance was a lovely thing.

Why, this many years later, does this still bother me? In my current wretched state it’s easy to remember the ice-hearted, fraudulent friends I’ve come across.

Holding a grudge—one of my greater superpowers. I’m not proud of this.

In an effort to change my change my state of being, here have some pics.

She looks like an after dinner mint on that chair, doesn't she?

Jen and Oni went to Nantasket yesterday

From Ten's morning walk yesterday

Our visitor cat Zeus