carose59: food (a life spent making mistakes)
"That's Going To Be My New Motto: Wham!"*

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I believe I've come up with a system that will help me with my buying-food-then-not-cooking issue.

I've been in the kitchen, washing dishes. I needed to do that because I need to cook because I have food that will go bad if I don't cook it and I have enough to feel guilty about. Today's a good day (so far) because I got everything I needed clean, clean. Now I can cook.

And I'm still thinking, "But when I go out, I could just pick up Boston Market." Because instant gratification. Because depression. Because I'd rather pretend I'm going to start writing any minute than chop vegetables.

I'm not going to. And if I do, I won't tell you.

Anyway, my system. I'm no longer allowed to buy food to cook if the proper dishes aren't clean. And I'm no longer allowed to buy take-away unless I then wash some dishes. If I go out for Chinese, after I eat, I have to wash dishes. If I can stick to this, I won't buy food if I'm going to have to delay cooking it until I feel good enough to wash dishes to cook it in. (I get a little high when I shop and in the moment I'm sure I'll dash right home and wash dishes. This is never the case.)

And this is the important thing, the important thing about all systems: it won't always work. I won't always be able to stick to it. I've come up with a lot of systems in my life. Some of them didn't work at all. Some of them worked for a short time before things changed in my brain. Some of them work periodically.

But every step forward is a step forward. Not coming up with system is no solution. I have to learn to be optimistic in the right places: no in the grocery but yes with systems. Even if this only works once, it's still a time I got it right. This is what happened with my last system. It didn't dig me out of the housework hole depression pushes me into, but it made the hole shallower. That might be all I can do and it might not be enough, but I can forgive myself for the rest.

Also, I made eggs for breakfast!

carose59: my mother's family (it seems to absolve us)
I Couldn't Go To A Queer Halloween Party Once Because The Only Rule Was You Couldn't Come In Costume And Darling, I Had Nothing To Wear.*

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I've written this never-ending series of Wiseguy stories called Roadhouse Blues. I sort of thought I was finished a few years ago, but other stories popped up and I wrote them and did nothing with them (except the one I wrote for Christy; I showed it to her. Considering the number of stories I have that I wrote for/dedicated to her, Christy telling me she didn't think I was her audience is abso-fucking-lutely bizarre.)

Anyway, I'm writing on them again for reasons. But I'm breaking all the characters and at three of them are having meltdowns and I'm crying. This is effect and cause; I'm doing this because I need to cry and I'm a lot Irish and crying over imaginary people is what we do.

(I once wrote a story I only worked on when I was depressed or having PMS. And one I finished right after Pat died. You could wipe out a whole dealers' room of fans with those two stories.)

And in two days it's Thanksgiving and I've been invited by my cousin.


1. I love my family.
2. The food will be good.
3. There might be a few moments of feeling like I belong.
4. It will make them happy. I guess. *shrug* They invited me.


1. It will take four hours I could use for writing.
2. It will be loud and I will come home with a headache.
3. I will feel alienated and alone.
4. There will probably be a political argument which will leave me feeling even more alienated and alone. Unless I keep my mouth shut, in which case everybody will agree.

What I get when I see my family is sarcasm and whimsy. It's the language we all share; we're good at silly.

But it's like a garnish. Would you order an expensive dinner just for the garnish? (I might, because I'm like that, and if I had a use for the rest of the meal, like giving it away.)

It makes me so sad that it's this hard, that I do not feel a part of my family.

When my cousin in Texas wrote me that he had been thinking of coming to Indianapolis to look at train stuff (don't ask) (but now he wasn't because he was punishing us for something—again, don't ask), I wrote back and told him I'd be happy to go with him to look at train stuff.

He said he didn't know I was interested in trains.

I'm not. Except for liking to listen to them, I have no interest in trains. I'm interested in him.

I didn't tell him that because he wouldn't understand it!

And so it goes. I'm supposed to be interested in their lives when they're not a bit interested in mine. I'm endlessly weird, and as such, a source of amusement. I cause endless trouble by not enjoying my role as prop in the latest holiday special, sitting on the sofa and pretending everything is fine when nobody is talking to me (except my one cousin's husband who sees me as prey and wants to argue politics. It's fun. Fun. The destruction of our country is fun).

I want to say no and I want to be honest but I don't want to hurt them (well, yes, I do, but I also don't). I want them to actually be able to see me and that will never, ever happen and I need to stop wanting it but I don't know how.

And even if I tried to be honest, how many words do you think I'd get out? How many of my meaningless, incomprehensible words is anyone willing to listen to? I've written almost seven hundred right here. Nobody's going to listen to seven hundred words. Maybe I could pare it down to four.

I won't be happy no matter what I do, but staying home is a more productive use of my time. Sonny's having some serious PTSD, and Vinnie's throwing up from stress, and I don't even know what happened to Roger. It would be more fun to stay home and untangle those tangles and watch Humphrey Bogart. And I can make my own damn food.

(I did buy food. I decided to make smoked sausage and carrots and potatoes and onion and cabbage. I'm partial to red potatoes—I like the ones that are so small, you can hold two or three in your hand at a time. So I picked out a bag of small red potatoes. And I thought I'd get red cabbage instead of green, for no particular reason. And then, of course, when it was time to get the onions, I got red ones. I don't know if you've ever cooked with red onions, but they turn a sort of pale mauve, and from what I've read, so does red cabbage. I should have a really interesting-looking dinner. And while my family might find this funny, it would be in a despairing sort of way. Pat would find it hilarious. She'd hunt me down some red carrots, without me even asking.)

*Aaron Raz Link
carose59: the rose behind the fence (Default)
"She Was Not A Fiddler, She Was A Lady Violinist. I Was Her Beau."*-:- -:- -:- -:-

I decided to try to eat better, particularly in the morning to maybe stave off my panic attacks. To this end, I hardboiled a dozen eggs. Hardboiled eggs are easy and the only preparation they require is the removal of their shells.

And it's been going really well, except for the echoey thing in my head.

I remember words. Mostly dialogue, but also song lyrics and poems and actual conversations I had with real people. It's triggered by certain words or combinations of words or just the rhythm of certain phrases.

For instance, there's a scene in Casablanca where Victor Laszlo tells Major Strasser that he could never support the Nazis. "You see," he says, "I am a Czechoslovakian."**

And the way he says it, his inflection, requires me to quote Peter Warne (Clark Gable) in It Happened One Night. He tells Ellie Andrews (Claudette Colbert) that her virtue is perfectly safe on the other side of the room—which he as divided with a blanket hanging from a rope. He declare it as sturdy as the walls of Jericho because, "You see, I have no trumpet." And he says it with exactly the same inflection.

I'm calling my diet a special hardboiled egg diet because on The Dick Van Dyke Show, Buddy tells them he's on a special hardboiled egg diet. It's just there in my head and I have to say it.

But the part that's driving me a little crazy(er) is A Night at the Opera. Because also as soon as I think two hardboiled eggs, there's the sound of Harpo's horn, followed by Groucho saying, "Make that three hardboiled eggs." Because it's there in my head and it just falls out whenever it's triggered by real life.

I wonder if this is related to earworm music. I get that, too. Right now Bob Dylan keeps repeating, "The pump don't work 'cause the vandals took the handle." That's not bad; when I think of it deliberately, it makes me laugh. The worst one I ever had was the song the children in the school sing in the The Birds when the crows are massing behind Tippi Hedren. The problem was, I wasn't hearing the words, just the tune—and I couldn't figure out what the hell it was! This was in high school, before the internet, when the most you could hope for was that you knew the right people who you could quote the words to and they'd tell you what the song was—but that only worked when you had words to quote! (I actually did have a friend good enough that I could go up to him and say, "Da-dunt, da-dunt, da-da-da-da-dun—what is that?" and he understood what I was talking about, though I don't think he recognized it. It finally came to me.

I find that the best cure for an earworm is to feed it. I listen to the song over and over until it's burned out of my brain.

While I was writing this, I looked up earworms on wikipedia, and they say musicians and people with OCD are more likely to have issues. I fall into both categories, a little. I'm certainly not musical, but I write by rhythm. And I'm what I call Comfort OCD. There are things I like to do in certain ways because the pattern-ness of the activity makes me happy—like hanging my clothes out on the line with the socks matched up. But if I can't do it that way due to time restraints, it doesn't upset me.

*Jonas Clay
**I just needed you to know that I spelled Czechoslovakian right the first time without looking it up. On the other hand, I left the h out of Jericho and had to look it up. Batting .500.
carose59: MKK (richer than i you can never be)
"I Have Been Asked To Tell You That Your Cries Of Anguish Are Keeping The Whole Neighborhood Awake!"*

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Monday night, my mother called to tell me she had a sore throat and wanted to go to the doctor the next day.

So, Tuesday morning I made her an appointment at a medcheck place. They did a strep culture on her, but she had no fever and the culture came back negative. They diagnosed allergy and gave her a prescription for a nasal spray. She enjoyed going to the doctor and talking to them.

After that, she wanted to go to to Fazolli's and pick up spaghetti. That was going fine until it wasn't; suddenly it was all too much for her and we had to go home. Of course it wasn't that easy; it took a few minutes for them to give us the food we'd paid for, and I had to actually drive home.

Once we got there, she had a hard time getting out of the car, and I was almost thinking she'd had another stroke. I asked if she wanted to go to the hospital, but no, she wanted to go into her house. Instead of her walker, I'd gotten her wheelchair and I wheeled her to the steps. (She refuses to have a ramp.) She made it up the steps and into the house, utterly exhausted. I went to work, wondering if I was doing the right thing, leaving her alone, not arguing about the hospital.

Yesterday evening, she called to have me come over because she'd fallen. One problem we have is that the wheelchair slips on the hardwood floors. (I'm going to get some rubber mats.) I don't know if that's what happened, but she seemed fine, she was herself. I got her settled in bed and came home and felt awful because everything is my responsibility and I never know what to do and she won't listen to me.

This morning, before I left for work, she called again. She was trepidatious about getting herself to the bathroom and wanted me to come over and watch her. I got dressed, went over, and watched her get herself to and from the bathroom and took her a bottle of water. She didn't want any food.

This evening, she called for me to come and watch her go to the bathroom again. After that, she wheeled herself into the dining room where her chair is. She was in good spirits, except for crying about Grandma and how hard the end of her life was. I got her a Boost and some more water. She didn't want anything to eat.

I can't make her eat.

I can't make her do anything. I can try to persuade her, but she listens to me even less than she used to.

She tells me pretty much every time we talk that this has been going on too long, that she's ready to go. I'm already mourning.

*Linus Van Pelt

Three random things

Friday, 20 May 2016 11:14 pm
carose59: crime and other violations (i read the news today oh boy)
"Yeah, Good News From My HMO. What Do You Think, I Won A Free Colonoscopy?""*

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The other day at work we had a health evaluation thing that's connected to how much our insurance costs. It consisted of a blood pressure check and a blood test for the standard stuff.

I was expecting a finger stick, but there were needles.

I'm not afraid of needles; I just loathe the whole experience, how hard it is to find a viable vein. I hate how they don't take me seriously when I tell them how hard it is; I hate getting stuck multiple times; I hate how I feel like this is my own fault for being fat.

I was lucky. The phlebotomist was very, very good and got me with one stick. He was also very nice.

The next day I got an email letting me know my results were available.

My numbers weren't anywhere near as bad as I was afraid they'd be. All the bad stuff was too high, of course, but not oh, my God, I'm going to die! bad. This is good, because it means I can do something about it without being paralyzed. That's what happens when the doctor acts like something being a little high is EMERGENCY! CODE RED! First I freeze, then I cry, then I just quit eating until I'm too hungry to think, then I eat whatever I can get fast, which is seldom the best thing. This, I can deal with.

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The other night I dreamed I was having lunch with Christy.

We were sitting outside at a restaurant in Lansing, Michigan. We were saying goodbye, in a very friendly way. We'd decided not to talk for a while—a few years—but it wasn't the "I'm never speaking to you again" situation that happened in real life. It was nice, but bittersweet. I wish that's how things had really been.

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Could somebody explain to me what happened to the word cheeseburger?

I like hamburgers. I do not like cheese on them. It used to be, you could order a hamburger and that's what you'd get. Now, if you're lucky, they ask you if you want cheese on it (which just makes me want to say, "Did I say I wanted a cheeseburger?"). But chances are they don't even ask, because it just comes with the damn cheese and if you don't say you don't want it, that's what you get.

What the hell?

They need to just keep their cheese to themselves unless they're asked for it.

*Adrian Monk
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
You Raced A Piano? Hot Damn, Herb's All Right."*

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Pat and I were driving around the west side of town, something we did pretty often when she was at Goodwill. I don't think we were that young; I think we were living together. But there was a funny hesitancy, a shyness to our relationship that never existed in real life. It was as though we had gone from being acquaintances to intimates with no gradation in between and we weren't sure how to proceed.

It was night—at least, it was dark out—but we were talking as though the day was just beginning and trying to decide what to do with it. And I don't think it was early morning, I think it really was night. We were both very reluctant to suggest anything, for fear it would throw the relationship out of whack somehow.

Finally we settled on something, I don't remember what. And then we decided to go get Chinese food.

I don't remember us actually getting the food, but then we had it and were on the road again. Pat made a left turn under an overpass, across a grassy median strip, drove a few more feet, then made another left turn—I couldn't see where—and the car disappeared. At the first left, I was no longer in the car, and I couldn't find it or Pat.

I believe I called Pat's sister, who seemed to know where Pat was, but didn't tell me. I spent some time walking around a parking lot, looking for the car.

When I woke up, I repeated the details of the dream to myself so I'd remember it. This turned out not to be a problem since I immediately had the same dream. Only this time I remembered having had it.

The feeling was the same: new and wonderful but strangely diffident. I was very happy.

Then Pat made the left turn under the overpass and I was standing at the side of the highway, watching the tail lights disappear. But this time I knew what was going on, so I took out my cell phone and called Becky while I chased the car. I ran across the street to the median strip, then crossed the highway going the other way. I'd lost the car, but I kept going after it. I wasn't going to let Pat disappear again.

But again, I didn't find the car or Pat.

*Venus Flytrap
carose59: holidays (i got a rock)
"All I Really Need Is Love, But A Little Chocolate Now And Then Doesn't Hurt!"*

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Last week, I made earrings for three of my friends at work—Irene, Juli, and Sara—and brought candy for Laine. That was a lot of fun because it seemed to take them all by surprise and make them happy.

Over the weekend, I marathoned all the Andy Hardy movies, in order. Now that's a series of movies a fan can love. There's great continuity (except for some cast changes and an older sister who disappears after the first movie) and they actually talk about things that happened in previous movies.

My favorite thing about them is the attitude about necking. Andy is always talking about it being "good, clean fun," and the girls like it as much as the boys do. Of course, kissing is as far as it goes, but still, this is not something the "Family Values" people would approve of. Oh, and Andy's sister dates a married man—and keeps seeing him even after he tells her!

Not that the "Family Values" people would approve of most of the messages the movies have: fair play, kindness to others, helping people who are less fortunate than you are, being fair and honest. It's very soothing to spend two days in Carvel.

Saturday, I cleaned out Meg's litter box. It was a big day.

Sunday, it snowed and I never left the house. In the afternoon I made cupcakes.

I found out you can replace the eggs and oil with a cup of yogurt. It makes the cupcakes more dense and muffin-like. I used yellow cake and added nutmeg and cinnamon to make spice cake. I also put in some red food coloring, in an attempt to make them pink, but you know something? Red plus yellow does not equal pink. I used two mixes, so there should have been forty-eight cupcakes, but the batter was much thicker and I only ended up with thirty-six, but it didn't matter—I couldn't carry more than thirty-two anyway. I put butter cream on them, then drew hearts with red decorating icing. I got pretty good at drawing hearts.

Monday, I took the cupcakes in to work along with candy for Pam, and a pot of tulips for Jeanne, who was coming to have lunch with us. Again, much surprise and pleasure. And lunch was a lot of fun, and I got a nice surprise when it Jeanne paid for my lunch as a birthday present.

*Lucille van Pelt

Another good day

Sunday, 7 February 2016 08:21 pm
carose59: holidays (i got a rock)
If You Want To Survive You Must Find Out How To Love What You Are.*

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Well, it's starting again. I'm cleaning. I mean, today is my birthday and I took the recycling to the park and cleaned two of the shelves in the bookcase in the hall. This is not how I usually celebrate my birthday. There was leftover pizza and chocolate cake, so that was nice. But the cleaning was a thing I wanted to do.

My mother called. Yesterday she told me to have breakfast at Texas Roadhouse which, I don't understand. They're not open for breakfast. Today she called to see how my breakfast was. I told her they don't even open until eleven, and she claimed I used to tell her all the time how I'd gone there for breakfast.

And it stopped being about a present for me and became a story I was supposed to act out because she wanted to see it. So I didn't go at all. Honestly, she's acting like my father when he was having a breakdown: we were supposed to have "fun" and be the "happy family" because he was telling us to. I don't respond well to that.

I did watch a few movies I'd been wanting to see again. First was Applause, which was on TV in 1973. I had loved it then—and I still love Lauren Bacall. But now I've seen All About Eve, and much as I love Lauren Bacall, she's not Bette Davis. She doesn't have the edge. And the rest of the cast really isn't that impressive. Nor is the music. But I'm still glad I got to see it again.

The next one is a comedy with Mary Tyler Moore and George Peppard called What's So Bad About Feeling Good? and it was as good as I remember it. It's a sixties comedy about a virus that makes people happy. Of course the government is against it because happy people aren't dependent on alcohol, tobacco, or anti-depressants, and they don't vote. It's a silly movie, and I enjoyed it very much. It was also Thelma Ritter's last movie, so there's that.

And finally there's Penelope with Natalie Wood. Another sixties comedy, this one about a bank president's wife who robs his bank to get his attention. The best part of the movie is when Peter Falk, the cop, is suspicious of her and they walk around town talking. I with she'd ended up with him, but it was still a fun movie.

Fun is the name of the game. I'm trying to be happy. And I am better. I know this because I watched a horror movie a while ago. Last month I couldn't have, I was feeling too fragile. Between that, and cleaning, and having ideas, I'm definitely better.

*Aaron Raz Link

Not a bad day

Saturday, 6 February 2016 10:58 pm
carose59: crime and other violations (i read the news today oh boy)
"A Man Was Born, He Lived And He Died. The End!"*

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I saw something odd this afternoon.

I was downtown to see Diane, parked in the parking lot for Roberts Park Church, and there was a line of men at the end of the parking lot. It wasn't readily apparent what they were lined up for; there was nothing at the beginning of the line. But a few yards away was a bench with a couple of men talking on it, and another man just standing there, a few feet away. From what I saw, it looked like the men were lined up to talk to the guy on the bench. I don't know what the man standing there was doing; maybe he was the guy's secretary.

I have no idea what this was all about.

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I walked over and got a pizza from Bazbeaux. (It's about a block from the church.) Besides having really good pizza, they're the only place I know of where I can get a shrimp and red pepper pizza.

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The session with Diane was good. I no longer feel like a sociopath. I figured out that I no longer care if my mother approves of me or is happy with me, because her disapproval and unhappiness aren't caused by anything I'm doing. It's very freeing. I'm mostly worried about feeling guilty about this later, but even if I knew how to make myself feel crappy right now, I don't think it would ward off bad feelings later. So I'm going to focus on coasting and enjoying myself. (Worrying about feeling bad later is typical manic-depressiveness, in my experience. Neither ups nor downs last forever, but the feeling that downs are payment for ups is pervasive.)

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Biting is very important to Meg, but he seems to have learned that there are acceptable ways of doing it. He bites my sleeves, and he also does this sort of mouthing thing where he only uses his lips and not his teeth. I praise him for this because it doesn't hurt and it's adorable.

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At the book sale the other day, I found a copy of one of my all-time favorite books: The Little, Brown Book of Anecdotes. I love anecdotes, and I also love that the book itself is seven hundred and fifty-one pages long with a green cover. Its title refers to the publishing company Little, Brown. And besides all that, it was edited by Clifton Fadiman.

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Tomorrow I turn fifty-seven.

*Lucy Van Pelt
carose59: crime and other violations (i read the news today oh boy)
"I Seem Very Concerned."*

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I'm supposed to care that my mother doesn't seem to care if she sees me or not. It used to be if she was upset with me, I'd fall apart. I couldn't deal with it. Now, I just don't give a shit. I buy her groceries. I do her laundry. I pick up her prescriptions. And when she starts talking to me in that tone of voice, I hang up on her.

I did that Monday. A nurse was supposed to come see her. The nurse called me to check on the time and I called my mother. My mother wasn't enthusiastic, but she agreed.

The nurse called back when it was about time for her to get there and I called my mother, who didn't answer her phone for forty-five minutes. When she did answer, she had that tone again, the LA LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU tone. The nurse couldn't come, it was lunchtime. No, she couldn't come after lunch either.

I was pissed. Not because she didn't want the nurse to come, but because she didn't just tell me this in the first place. So I hung up on her.

I didn't see her yesterday. I was supposed to arrange for people to come, but we'd just go through this all again and I'm tired. So I stayed home and peeled apples.

Peeled apples? I hear you wondering. Yes. They had golden delicious apples on sale at Kroger. I bought thirty-six of them and peeled thirty-one. Two were attacked by squirrels The other three, I just ran out of steam before. I ate one of them and the rest I cut up and cooked. It takes a long time to peel and slice thirty-one apples. I watched Dark Shadows while I did it. Well, some of the time I did it.

They've done this totally weird thing. They've edited a bunch of episodes together and are calling it The Haunting of Collinwood. Understanding what's going on is apparently not necessary. We go from David and Amy being trapped in Quentin's bricked up room to them being outside—not just outside the room, outside the house—and in different clothes, with no explanation. If you don't already know what's going on, you'll just be baffled. Also, if you're looking for Barnabas, you'll be disappointed. He's on the show a lot during this time, but mostly he's helping Chris deal with his lycanthopy. Since they're not even including all the important details of the story they're focusing on, you can't expect them to include tangential stuff like Quentin's grandson (great-grandson?)'s lycanthropy problems. At this point, we don't even know Chris is related to Quentin.

I have to admit, I didn't watch all of it; I slept through some. It was over three hours long and I was unhappy.

I'm supposed to care about my mother, but I just can't seem to. On the other hand, I think that caring about her right now would be counterproductive to looking after her.

*Willie Garson
carose59: amusements (a medley of extemporanea)
[Originally posted elsewhere May 26, 2006]

When a sign in a store window says "Please use this entrance," it probably refers to the door next to the window, rather than the window itself, even if there doesn't seem to be any other door.

Although having a hot flash while washing your hair in the kitchen sink is definitely opportune (since you can actually fulfill the desire to pour cold water over your head), that doesn't mean you can give in to the desire just stand there in the kitchen running cold water over your head until you get brain freeze. If you do, it will make you late for work.

Old people are mean. No, really. If you're standing in line at the cafeteria, getting three beef Manhattans to go, and the woman behind you goes around you because she isn't getting an entree, you will then be forced to listen to both her and her husband (who is still behind you) complain about how you're in the way, and now what are they going to do, until you start to feel like the old people are going to take you out back and shoot you. (I let him go ahead of me. Did he thank me? No. But he didn't hit me with his cane, so I guess that counts for something.)

It's stupid to cry about things like that.

There are few things in life that cannot be made better by a Sara Lee chocolate cheesecake. (Care to see my collection of aluminum Sara Lee cheesecake pie plates?) Unfortunately, my weight problem is one of those few things.

Naps are good.
carose59: cleaning & housework (it's next to impossible)
[Originally posted elsewhere December 30, 2006]

Seriously. I'm baking brownies and I added a couple of splashes of white creme de cacao. (And I'm a little buzzed because I have no tolerance for alcohol and I just finished licking the bowl. Yeah, I know, it's ridiculous. I'm not drunk though, just a little looser.)

But I've got other stuff I need to get rid of. It's insane, I have bunches and bunches and bunches of stuff that I'm keeping because I know there are other people out there who would be happy to have it. The problem is, I don't know who they are.

It's X Files stuff,i, mostly, and some Starsky & Hutch stuff. Pat was a True Believer, she loved The X Files long after I fell away from it. But we bought every fucking magazine—you know, the ones that had "The truth is in here!" on the cover. Yeah, guys, clever the first time, but you're not the first. Pat kept scrap books, and bought artwork and action figures, and trading cards, and I don't know what all. I have a bunch of the pro tapes. And there's a 1997 desk diary sitting here next to me right now. I have no idea if she ever wrote in it or not, though I suppose I could look.

I'm not saving it because it was Pat's. There are things I am saving because they were Pat's, but I've thrown things of hers away, and I've given away things of hers—given them thoughtfully, to close friends, and given them just to get them out of the house, to AmVets. I don't think AmVets would want a bunch of X Files scrapbooks, or a ten year old desk diary. The tapes, though, I could probably sell.

I keep thinking, every time I look at it, that there are things out there I would kill to have, things other people have thrown away, and I hate waste, and I hate the idea of throwing away things other people might want.

OK, the brownies are done. Between the creme de cacao and chocolate chips, it's very possible it might make me begin to levitate, so if you don't hear from me for a while, that's probably why.

[I gave the tapes to my cousin. The brownies are gone. The rest is still here.]

A post about yogurt

Saturday, 16 January 2016 07:30 pm
carose59: food (a life spent making mistakes)
The Dog Is The Sort Of Creature That Will Decide Whether It Should Put Something In Its Mouth By Putting It In Its Mouth.*

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Yesterday, I went to the grocery before work. I wanted some lemon Greek yogurt—among other things—but they didn't have it, not the kind I like. While I was looking, I saw something else: Kroger brand yogurts in some odd, disturbing flavors: blueberry/cucumber, pineapple/spinach/kiwi, cherry/beet, spiced apricot/butternut squash, and lemon/zucchini.

My first thought was, "What?" I wasn't particularly tempted to try any of them, but I found them hilarious and intriguing, and they were only seventy-seven cents a piece. They were a joke and an adventure I wanted to share. I bought one of each.

At work, I sent an email inviting people to my cubicle to share some weird yogurt. Oddly, that didn't bring people rushing over. I only got two responses. One was from someone who said she'd brought yogurt for lunch, but thanks anyway. I wrote back and said I bet she didn't have blueberry/cucumber, and while she acknowledged she didn't, she wasn't tempted.

The other was my friend, Laine. She was mostly interested in the part where I'd said I'd been to the grocery that morning. Since I was there at six a.m., she wanted to know when, exactly, I could been at the grocery. I told her four-thirty, and that I'm insane. She turned me down on the yogurt too, but only because she doesn't like yogurt. And you have to admit, nothing I was offering was likely to tempt anyone.

I managed to talk my friend Sara into coming over to try them, just for the sake of trying something new, and she talked Laine into it for the same reason.

The results were mixed. We all agreed the blueberry/cucumber was horrible. I thought it started off fine, tasting like blueberry, but there was a cucumber aftertaste. The cherry/beet just tasted like cherry. The lemon/zucchini needed something, possibly more lemon. The spiced apricot and butternut squash was pretty good, mostly because of the spice, which I think was cinnamon. The pineapple/spinach/kiwi was surprisingly good, with no spinach taste at all.

Laine said they sounded like baby food combinations, and she's right. Sara said they sounded like smoothie combinations, and she's right, too. We laughed a lot. And now we all know never to eat blueberry/cucumber anything ever for as long as we live.

*The Cat, Friskies commercial
carose59: amusements (a medley of extemporanea)
[Originally posted January 9, 2001]

I was peeling a tangerine this morning because I was feeling guilty (because somebody gave me a whole bag of tangerines and my mother gave me three grapefruits), and what kept going through my head was "Today the pits . . . tomorrow the wrinkles! Sunsweet marches on!" That and a line from a story I wrote about tangerines.

That is, the line is about tangerines. The story isn't.

I wish people wouldn't give me fruit. Except bananas. Because they're phallic, and as a slash writer, I need some phallic in my life.

I wish people would stop giving fruit to my mother, too, because my mother is mean and gives it to me to go bad at my house. (Yes, that's exactly how she says it, too. "Here, take these grapefruit, they can go bad at your house." And what do you say to that? No? If you think the answer is no, you do not know my mother.) So I take them, and after a while they look like they should have William Holden's signature on them. (I'm playing to the audience in my head today, so if you're actually following any of this, you're way ahead of the curve.)

I don't like tangerines, or oranges, or things you have to peel. They're too much work. If I'm going to have apples, I'm going to make applesauce, so I need a bunch. No, wait, that's grapes.

I'm allergic to kiwis, not that anyone has ever given me one.

Grapes are all right. And, actually, I love pears. And I love gooseberries, but when was the last time you saw a gooseberry? Have you ever seen a gooseberry? They're green, pale green, and they used to put them in fruit cocktail and tell them to pretend to be grapes. But the other grapes could always tell.

Plums . . . don't taste like anything. Peaches are nice, and so are nectarines. Peaches are sort of like biting into a small animal. So are kiwis. (The fruit. Obviously biting into a bird would be like biting into an animal; birds are animals.)

(I have no idea what's wrong with me today.)

Anyway. If you're planning on sending me food, please send chocolate. Do not send fruit or I'll just bring it to work and make everybody watch as it shrivels & dies.

ETA: Fuck! It's not William Holden, it's Richard Widmark! Jeeze, what is wrong with me today?
carose59: (tattoo was the mother of pinkle purr)
"Wait A Minute, You Don't Need A Fifty Piece Orchestra To Play For Three Chipmunks!"*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Back November I bought four cases of Friskies canned cat food: two chicken, one beef, one fish, all filets. Meg does not care for pate, which we pronounce so that it rhymes with fate. (OK, Meg doesn't say it at all, but he appreciates my expression of contempt for it.) While Meg will eat turkey or things with cheese in them, chances are he won't finish the can. So I've given up trying to widen his horizons, and now I buy lots of the thing he likes, and he eats them in rotation. He isn't any fonder of the chicken than he is of the other two, it's just that I over-estimated how much fish and beef I still had at home. I might just pick up two more cases. Right now I don't have to buy more food until sometime in March—and that's without the extra case of chicken. That was my goal: to have enough cat food to last through the winter. But it hasn't been all that wintery yet, and I'm still in nesting/hoarding mode. And I'm going to be up that way anyway. And it's not like prices will be going down. There, that's two rationalizations, I've exceeded my recommended daily amount and it's only nine a.m.

Meg's not a kitten anymore. He spends more time in the house—sometimes he doesn't go out when I leave for work, even on nice days. Sometimes he spends his nights hunting, only joining me for naps. Thought I can usually coerce him under the covers by turning the thermostat way down. Then he comes under the covers. He starts off in a little ball by my stomach, and I pet his face for a few minutes, 'til he pushes my hand away with his paw. After that we hold hands and go to sleep. As he warms up, he stretches out, his face seeking the edge of the covers where it's cooler. Usually by morning he's back out from the covers, but lying next to me.

The best part about Meg is, he's always happy to see me. He's reasonably cuddly, and reasonably independent, and he's very quiet, though he has started allowing me to see him speak. Before he'd go in another room and complain, like he was afraid if I knew it was him making that noise, I'd be upset. And if he just had a little something to say, he'd turn his head. But now he walks towards me, talking, sometimes.

Running is still one of his favorite things. And he seldom scratches at the furniture. He doesn't like scratchy things, he likes smooth things to scratch at. He found an old purse of mine to use as a scratching post thing. Obviously not really a post, as it's a purse and just lays there on the floor in a completely un-post-like manner. He also wants to scratch my car seats.

He doesn't like going places in the car, but sometimes I come home from work and sit in the car and read for a while. I cannot explain this behavior, and Meg doesn't understand it, but he likes to get in the car with me. He just likes to be with me, even when I'm inexplicable.

*Dave Seville

Two dreams

Thursday, 17 December 2015 07:38 am
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"Guess What I Found? More Nothing Than Usual."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other night I dreamed I was living in a big New York apartment with a great view. Sadly, it was just as messy as my real house is, but I was still having people over: an old friend from my Starsky & Hutch fan days, and her husband (who doesn't exist, as she's never been married).

I remember showing them the view, then my friend disappeared and I was talking to her husband about some minute, obscure subject, going on at great length. I knew he wasn't interested, but I kept talking anyway.

Somehow, I got to the kitchen, which was definitely not my kitchen—it was spacious, and even it had a remarkable view. It also had an island.

What it didn't have was food. I hadn't made anything for dinner, and I got quite frantic, trying to come up with something I could make very quickly so they wouldn't notice I'd forgotten. Pat was there in a wheelchair—for some reason she wasn't going to eat with us, and I don't think they even knew she was there, or maybe even knew she was alive. I hit on the idea of microwaving some potatoes—I had three nice potatoes—then I realized that not only hadn't I cooked for my dinner guests, I hadn't fed Pat in a very long time. (I don't know why she couldn't feed herself.) So I started cutting them up so everyone could have some. Pat seemed remarkably unconcerned about not having eaten in who-knows-how-long, and thought my potato idea was brilliant. I was also going to make sandwich steaks, which are fast.

But when I went back to the living room, my guests were gone. I decided they couldn't abide my messy house and had left. I think other things happened after that, but I don't remember what.

Then last night I dreamed I was going on vacation with a bunch of people—a couple with some kids, and an aunt of mine. Not a real aunt, just a woman who was my aunt in this dream. I've seen her in movies, but I don't remember who she is.

The father was obsessed with Friday the 13th tie-in novels.

Think about that for a second. Would you go on vacation with a man who talked about nothing but Friday the 13th tie-in novels? (Is there even such a thing? If there is, somewhere, someone is obsessed with it, but I wouldn't go on vacation with them.) He had them all with him, and he kept talking about the finer points, like character development, and comparing the different authors' writing styles. Oddly, I was not very interested, and for some reason I told him I couldn't remember what the movie was about.

My aunt had brought chair cushions. You know the kind you put on dining room table chairs, that have ties to attach them to the chair so they don't slide off. She brought about fifty of them, all of them with corduroy covers in dull shades of brown and greyish-blue. She was very excited about them, and she wanted me to keep them in my room. That was all right with me, I had lots of space.

My room turned out to be a cabin, quite spacious, with several industrial-sized fans. I could not have been happier about this. (I would love a fan like that, to pull stale air out of my house and fresh air in, but I don't think I need three of them.) I was just piling all the cushions in a corner when I woke up.

The only parts of either of these dreams I understand are Pat being in a wheelchair (I've been dealing with taking my mother home and back to the rehab place, and she's in a wheelchair) and the food thing. My mother's been complaining about them giving her too much potatoes—she's not supposed to have them at all—and when I went to Wendy's for her, I just automatically bought her a baked potato. I didn't give it to her, but I think she wanted it, because she kept looking in the bag for something more than the sandwich. I ate the potato myself.

I don't know what the hell was going on in that second dream.

*Wesley Wyndam-Price

New poem

Tuesday, 1 December 2015 06:53 am
carose59: poetry (by Henry Gibson)
Food Despair
(to be read really, really fast, as though you're trying to finish before you start crying)

Food costs money.
Food is necessary for life.
Food tastes good.
Food feels good.
Food is good for you.
Food is bad for you.
Food is natural.
How natural is it? Food is unnatural, tampered with, DNA sliced & diced, frankenfood, "Nope, nothing wrong here." Will it kill you? How will it kill you?

Food makes you healthy, food makes you sick, food is what you share at parties, funerals,
food is why you get together, just for no reason.

Are you allergic to peanuts, latex, kiwi, cat fur, tomatoes, penicillin? are you diabetic, lactose intolerant, do you have Celiac's? Are you anorexic, bulimic, are you afraid of food?

Sugar is poison;
white sugar is poison, aspartame is better;
aspartame is poison, saccharine is better;
saccharine is poison.

Cyclamates killed Fresca.

I liked Fresca.

How much sugar is too much sugar? Honey is better. Have you heard the good news about Stevia?

Do you eat food with faces?
(Pansies have faces. Do you have any cooking chrysanthemums?)
Would you eat Bambi?
Are your shoes leather?
Do you use the whole buffalo?
How many spiders do you swallow in your sleep? (The answer is zero, that's a myth.)
What about roadkill, faced-creatures, already dead, killed by accident?
My crazy cousin told me about the toxic fear enzyme an animal releases when you kill it; murdered animals will murder you in return.

And why should cows have to surrender their milk to us?
Why should animals even have to be pets, let alone do work or be food? Up with canine Americans!
And don't forget the hormones that cause breast cancer, and the antibiotics,
there's antibiotics in everything, more than strontium-90, probably.
That's how my uncle got MRSA.

And where does the food come from? China sends us poison pet food, can poison people food be far behind?

What about the workers, how are they being treated?
Are we boycotting this store because of non-food related behavior?
But it's the only place I can get my fat free dark chocolate raspberry-pomegranate ice cream bars! Can't I skip my social conscience just long enough to get my ice cream fix?

And fruit, fruit is too complicated, who picked it, are we boycotting them?
What about pesticides?
What about the bees?
I want to eat all the fruit at once, but if I eat it all at once, I get diarrhea.
(I can't spell diarrhea, I had to let spellcheck do it.)
If I save the fruit for later, it goes bad, rotten apple, bad banana, over-exposed orange.

(I hate oranges, sneaky bastards, they're more trouble than they're worth with all that peeling.)

I can't bite into apples anymore, or pears, or anything else that might break my expensive new teeth. Apples now require planning.

Eggs are bad for you, eggs are good for you, don't eat too many, don't ask how many are too many, don't think about the way chickens are treated.

All you can eat means eat like you'll never see food again because food is expensive, food is hard. People judge you when you eat, fat people are always eating too much, even when we're not eating at all. Eat a piece of candy, it must be your second, third, tenth piece, you ate the whole bag, didn't you, and hid the wrappers?
I have sometimes.
All the candy isn't enough, and if you're fat you might as well eat candy because even if you don't, everyone knows you do, even if you don't.

Sugar is poison, sugar is love, sugar is as bad as cocaine.

(Cocaine is really cheap, considering you don't feel like eating for the next three days.)

How do you even buy food?

Chocolate makes you feel like you're in love. And you are, with chocolate.

Sugar is poison, fat is poison, trans fats are poison, salt is poison, cholesterol is poison.
But our brains are 25% cholesterol, and a lack of salt can cause heart attacks and strokes, and not enough fat can weaken your bones and impair kidney function, and every cell in your body needs sugar.

How do we eat?
Fish is brain food, fish has mercury, we're over-fishing the wild fish, fish farms are bad for the environment.
Kobe beef is just a brand name, cows should eat grass, not corn, beef is full of cholesterol and antibiotics (why do you think so many people are getting MRSA?) and it's called a cow and it has a face and it goes moo and when you kill it, it releases a toxic fear enzyme that may or may not exist and when I eat it, I feel so much better, I feel such peace.
The cow goes moo.

Pork has been bad since the beginning of time, a forbidden food, unclean, unhealthy, even if you're starving, don't eat pork.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away
pesticides and breeding to make them pretty pretty pretty and taste like nothing. Maybe wax apples would be better.
The same with tomatoes, they taste like nothing, smell like nothing, are they even really good for you unless you grow them yourself?
How can you know? Everybody lies.
Don't talk about this with your friends.

My friends like chickens,
chickens smell terrible,
chickens are treated horribly,
and let's not forget the hormones and antibiotics, why do you think everybody has MRSA?

And the money wasted when I can't cook and the money wasted when I eat out.
Easier to ignore being hungry, sit in the car and eat yogurt and cry.
Is yogurt good for you? Probiotics, only there aren't enough to matter, you're just wasting your time, everything is futile.

When can we finally get those pills that contain a whole meal's worth of vitamins and nutrients?
When can we stop loving and hating food and just go on to being broken up with food, when will there be real Food Addicts Anonymous meetings? Not Overeaters—eaters. I want to go cold turkey, you should pardon the expression. I would never eat a turkey, turkeys have faces.

What about preservatives, will they even need to embalm me once the food has killed me, won't the preservatives to the job?

And eight glasses of water a day—it has to be water, other liquids need not apply. They seldom bother with pesky details, like what size these glasses should be, and of course they never tell you it's all made up, you get all the water you need from your food and cans of carbonated poison.
And coffee, which has caffeine and will kill you.
Fruit juice might as well be glasses of sugar water, you have to eat the whole fruit to be doing the right thing.

It's not the sugar, it's the carbohydrates. No bread, no white bread—and wheat bread is no better.
No white rice.
No potatoes, they're just big balls of starch.
There are no nutrients in iceberg lettuce, but eating raw celery will burn up more calories than the celery contains, cooked carrots are healthier than raw ones, potatoes are just a death trap, baby, a suicide rap.
Just have marshmallow ice cream for dinner, just snort powdered sugar, or shoot up maple syrup—it's not real maple syrup anyway, that stuff costs more than actual heroin, what you put on your pancakes high fructose corn syrup, iodine, hair tonic, and red dye #2.
High fructose corn syrup is worse than white sugar—it's the same as white sugar—
—an -ose is an -ose is an -ose.

Orange juice is just sugar water with calcium you didn't ask for added.

Live on superfoods, kale and pomegranates, blueberries and olive oil.
No butter, butter is fat and cholesterol, no margarine, margarine's just plastic with trans fats.
And what about free radicals? What are they radical about and how did they get free? Where were they before they escaped? Now they riot through our bloodstreams, breaking windows, chanting, stealing color TVs. All because you ate a hotdog.

Without potassium, we have heart attacks, with too much potassium we have heart attacks. They put potassium in everything, just because.
We're Americans, we have no way of doing things in moderation—either the food is bad and should never be eaten, or it's a super food that will change your life.
Eat like a Mediterranean,
live like a caveman—just the diet, not the lifestyle—and you'll live forever, until they decide you were wrong. Remember when Wonder bread helped build bodies 8 ways? Now Child Protective Services comes if you feed it to your six year old.

There is no winning with food, food doesn't care and the experts keep changing the rules. We should all be striving to get down to our original weight: 8 lbs., 4 oz., with a blood pressure of 0 over 0 and no cholesterol—good or bad—or blood sugar at all. Who needs a brain anyway, all they do is make you think.

There's nothing you can eat to make good cholesterol, you get it from being a good person. Bad cholesterol will kill you, if the free radicals don't get you first.

I can have a frozen dinner—
too much salt
or no dinner at all. Maybe I can get by on popcorn (air popped, no salt, but I do use butter because I want to be obese, get diabetes, have a stroke, and die).
Canned food—
too much salt,
and aluminum will give you dementia,
and the plastics, oh, please, let's not talk about the plastics, all those numbers—
why don't I just shoot myself?
Oh, I don't own a gun, and it seems like a lot of money to spend when I could just have fried pork chops for dinner. Or I could if I could cook, which I can't because I cry every time I go in my kitchen. I'm sure the nutritionist can help with that.

I'm skeptical of this whole eating business.

It's a scam.

Sure, I get hungry, but I've found if I ignore it, it goes away, and the dizziness adds spice to my life and makes the headaches worth it.
Food is just a way for farmers and grocers to make money off us, it's a deathtrap, baby, it's a pyramid scheme.
Whatever I'm eating, I'm eating the wrong thing so I don't eat at all and yet I weigh more than I ever have, so I must be lying.
Yes, I'm lying. Really, I eat four meals a day at the best restaurants in town. Anyone can, on a library salary.
I wake up in the morning and drive to work, hungry and my first and only thought is, Oh, no, now I have to think about food again.
I have to spend money I don't have on food that is only going to kill me because I am fat and don't deserve to eat.

I love food.

I have food eater's syndrome. The worse it is for me, the more I love it.

Someday I want to eat a potato chip again,
someday I want to eat a blood rare steak, with a mushroom hemlock sauce.
I deserve this, you can tell by looking at me: see, I'm fat. I must eat all the time and only the bad things, why don't I eat a salad, the portions should be the size of my hand, why don't I skip a meal?
Big, fat, ugly, I deserve this.
The food that loves me is killing me.

Don't I want to have a life, don't I want to have a life, don't I want to have a life?
carose59: it's all in my head (the wind of the wing)
And If You Must Go Insane, It's Best To Have A Reason.*

-:- -:- -:-

Things got worse during my morning on-my-way-to-work panic attack this morning. I wasn't wearing my watch-that-I-can-check-my-heart-rate with, so I don't know how fast it was going, but it was definitely worse. And it really scared me. So I got out of the left turn lane and into the right turn lane, intending on going to the ER where they would hunt for a vein while my heart beat normally because in the hospital I am fine.

But as I approached Kroger, I wondered if maybe all I needed was food, because blood sugar and racing heart (I'm not bothering with full sentences right now. I trust you can fill in the blanks). So I pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car, and was fine.

I was fine while I shopped. I was fine just about until I got to the point where I'd turned right instead of left, which I realize now is left instead of right. It's amazing I ever get to work at all. But the panic started up again, and I'd eaten some yoghurt, so it probably wasn't my blood sugar, not to mention the sudden fineness at the grocery. Just buying food shouldn't affect my blood sugar, right?

Anyway. I got to work without dying. I'm teary and feel lousy. Probably my mother isn't dead, though I haven't checked in a couple of days. And nothing is chasing Meg into the street, or cornering him and eating him. I'm sure he's fine. And no more of my friends I never hear from have died far away without me knowing about it. Probably.

Maybe it's benzodiazepine withdrawal. I'm cutting back on my klonopin, in the hopes of getting off it because my doctor doesn't want to prescribe it. I didn't take it this morning; I'm taking it this evening instead. That shouldn't be enough to make me crazy, although thinking about it is easily enough to make me crazy. And MediaWest's coming, though I'm not going, and it won't be long after that before Pat dies and I'm alone for the rest of my life.

There's nothing wrong, nothing anybody could fix except me, and all it is is, I just can't find happy.

*Care of Wooden Floors, Will Wiles
carose59: MKK (richer than i you can never be)
No Matter How Old A Mother Is, She Watches Her Middle-Aged Children For Signs Of Improvement.*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I was at work, and my mother called to ask me who I got my new central air conditioner from three years ago. Her a/c had stopped working. I gave her the name and number, and reminded her of how quickly they got my new a/c in, and how easy the payments were.

After we hung up, I grabbed my purse and told Angie (who's in charge when Jeanne's not there) that I was running home for a little while.

I have a couple of those tower-type fans that actually cool the air somewhat, and I got the big one and took it to my mother's. She was very pleased by this, and thanked me. Then she said, "I want you to go in the basement and pick your clothes up off the floor." (My clothes are on her floor because it's where I do my laundry, and I have too many clothes.) Then she added, "And while you're down there, get rid of the dead bug, and sweep up the dirt. Oh, and empty the trash can." And she handed me a trash bag.

I said, "This is all about the bug, isn't it?" She has water bugs, and they freak her out. Getting rid of a dead one takes several days of preparation. (When it's a live one, she puts a glass over it and scoots it out of the way until it either dies or she's able to cope with it. Coping consists of sliding a piece of cardboard under the glass to trap it, then throwing the bug and cardboard out in the yard.)

She didn't say anything, but she did laugh.

I went down to the basement and took care of things, then I went back to work.

The a/c guy was supposed to come between one and three, but he didn't get there until about five. (This wasn't bad service; they called her several times to keep her updated about a job that was taking longer than expected, and where he was.) Before he got there, my mother called and asked how I'd like pizza for dinner. Translation: I want pizza and I want you to order it. (I hate ordering pizza. When Pat was alive, she had to order the pizza, and I would go to the door to pay for it.) I thought that with the heat the way it was, she might like something cooler, like chicken salad from Subway, but she didn't sound enthusiastic. So I ordered us pizzas.

I was just about to take hers over to her when the phone rang—the a/c guy was there and she wanted me to come over.

So she's eating pizza while I'm waiting for the guy to come back from looking at the a/c. It ended up being a small thing, a hundred thirty-something dollars.

My mother asked him to look at the furnace—which has problems I can't begin to explain because nobody understands them. Let's just say my father had something to do with them and leave it at that. The guy came back upstairs looking completely baffled. He gave her a quote on a new furnace and a/c, and we said goodbye. She'll probably end up replacing them both in the fall, when she won't need either of them for a while.

We were talking about this, and my mother was eating her pizza. "This is comfort food," she told me. "This is what I needed." Sometimes I forget how much alike we are.

On the subject of food, she's been reading various books about women moving to Italy. This year instead of the Appalachian Trail, she's doing Italy. She bought herself a DVD about the food in various parts of Italy, and we watched it a couple of Saturdays ago (and laughed all the way through it). She told me about how my father's best friend—who's Italian-American—made ravioli one time for them. My mother grew up in a German neighborhood with an Irish father, so what little she knew about ravioli was that it was filled with meat. Only Bob's ravioli had spinach in it, which was a somewhat unpleasant surprise. (She didn't say anything, though.)

On the DVD they kept showing people making ravioli, and they were all putting spinach in them, and we were heckling them for this.

Today she told me how my aunt—whose family is Polish—used to make something like ravioli, only it had mashed potatoes inside instead of meat. "Well, that's better than spinach," I said, and she laughed. "I mean, it's not meat, but still."

*Florida Scott-Maxwell

Coming to a boil.

Wednesday, 4 August 2010 10:10 am
carose59: it's all in my head (the wind of the wing)
"No, I Definitely—I Don't Believe That. But I Have Found It To Be True."*

-:- -:- -:-

My Cymbalta hasn't been doing anything for me for a while now. It's the latest in a long line of drugs to start off promising and then renege on those promises.

Or maybe it was the doctors who made the promises. It's hard to tell. I've never been sure if any of them (besides the Great God Paxil) did anything more than help me sleep better for a while, which would make me feel better all by itself.

Cymbalta was also supposed to help with aches and pains, and I think it started off doing that. Now, not so much. And I'm on a higher dosage than when I started it, except I'm not.

I'm being non-compliant. A while back I started taking one every other day, so I'm back to my original dosage.

Then my GP recommended I start taking fish oil for my cholesterol and incipient carpal tunnel. So I've been scaling back further on the Cymbalta and taking more fish oil. (Scaling back. That's a joke, son.)

I tried telling my psychiatrist about the Cymbalta, but he wants to raise my dosage, after I'm tested for sleep apnea, which I probably have because I am, after all, fat.

Diane and I talked about the whole shame cloud that hangs over so much of this. I know that I deserve everything that's happening, even if it's not really happening, because I'm fat. Being fat is my own fault. Blaming my short, dumpy grandparents and their people is useless. If they were alive, they'd tell me how fat I am, too.

Anyway, I'm having some problems, mostly that I'm not getting enough red meat and that I'm crying a lot. I see my GP on the twelfth, and I'm going to tell him about this stuff, see if he still likes me.

I long for someone who understands all this to tell me what to do, but who understands all this? I looked for Dr. Thomas, the psychiatrist I had for a while last year, but I don't seem to be able to find him. So I'm going looking for someone new.

In the meantime, I can't seem to stop crying, particularly when I write about this stuff. I think it's all the stress that's been suppressed by the drugs, climbing out of my body the way on TV when somebody dies, you see a filmy image of them get up and leave. I haven't been up and I haven't been down, I've just been. Right now I'm feeling down, but I've also felt up lately.

*Tiffany Porter

I'm leaving comments on, but please don't think badly of me if you don't get a response this month.

July 2017

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