Where Could I Be? Believe It Or Not, It's Me!

Okay, you know that thing where when you smack something so hard that as soon as you look at the affected area, a bruise has already formed?  Well, this morning, the golf cart grabbed my beautiful hunting whip, literally whipping it out of the cart with the knob end whacking me on the shin.  Just exactly above my work boots.  Huzzah.  Fortunately my whip, made by a local artist/equestrian, is fine.  Given the location of the bruise, I am able to wear an ice pack but still continue to wander about - although I feel rather like Lindsay Lohan under house arrest.

Oh, well now I've jumped way too far ahead...

I went to a small, private women's liberal arts college on the east coast that folded in 1977 leaving us with no alumnae association.  We all scattered to the wind as happens during several decades. Once I had the internet, I tried looking for a couple of my friends - the ones whose married names I knew. Whose weddings I'd been to.  This was still during dial-up days when you would put your words into the search box and then you'd go, say, make a meal and then come back to see if anything came up.  The first one I found was my friend, PK. Funny, smart, loving, lovely, beautiful PK.  Her obituary from just 3 years or so prior - breast cancer.  I wept for 2 weeks and then stopped looking anymore for a while.  

A few years ago, I heard via my old colleagues on Anguilla that someone was looking for me and I gave them permission to give out my personal info.  

In the meantime, I  tried putting some names into the facebook search box again and finally a couple of them came up!  One was for the friend who was looking for me and another confirmed that the info I had recently come across for another bff had been correct - she did live in Arkansas. Dee (not her real name - forgot to ask her if I can use her name in my blog) asked me if I travelled and would I come & visit?  Well, I hadn't gotten on a plane in almost a decade because A) I hate it and 2) for much of that time, I was too large to fit into those seats but I said "Sure" and along with another friend (and roommate of almost 5 years from NYC days) we agreed to meet at Dee's farm to celebrate the Royal Wedding of Wills & Kate  - AND as it turned out the capture of Osama Bin Laden as well. We'd also spent the NY black-out of 1977 together.

None of us had seen each other in over 30 years but within 30 minutes it felt as though it had only been 30 days - not a whole lifetime!  

Over the next few visits, Dee & I had discussed me moving down here in a sort of hypothetical scenario but since my housemates in Montana were putting their house on the market and I was going to have to pack up all of my stuff anyway, it seemed to be a sign that it might just be time for a new adventure.  Dee's friend and tenant had an extra bedroom in his house and he was willing to share with me so I thought, "why not?".  After all, isn't it what almost every little girl and her bff decide around 9 or 10 years old, "Hey, if neither of us is married when we are old (generally deemed at that point to be 35) then we should live in the same town and grow old together".  Sort of Golden Girls in The Ozarks. My friend Nici, has been a great inspiration in having faith in leaps of faith.  So here I am.

Foxhunting is a big deal here and Dee is Master of the Foxhounds.  Holy crap, this is no job for sissies.  There is a ton of work involved in running the farm and over the years, she has learned a great deal about veterinary medicine as well and I am just generally in total awe of her.  If they were to make a movie of Dee's life - Barbara Stanwyck would've been the best choice to play her - except for the fact that she is way, way older than Dee and also, quite dead.

I am trying my best to learn things so that I can maybe be useful and give her a hand whenever she needs it.

In the off-season, the hounds are "walked out" (or exercised) twice a week (generally the same days as the hunts in season).  Today I was asked to lead the walkout (just the 3rd time I've done it).  We (the golf cart - usually with with Dee & me in it and generally anywhere from 2-4 people on horseback) travel about part of the farm from pond to pond and also keep the hounds used to hearing and responding to the commands that Dee gives them during the hunt. The hounds are told to "Come behind!" (the golf cart now but Dee on her horse during the hunt) and then with the command "Ok Boys!" they are off like a shot.  It's very cool.

The cutting of wheat is just beginning so in most of the fields the grass/wheat is getting really tall. The hounds would go running off and then come running back looking at me like, "Where are we going? We can't see! The grass is TOO HIGH!" When it was time to get them behind the cart - I had to stand on the golf cart so they could see me and I could crack my whip to get their attention.

About three-quarters through the course, the end of my hunting whip got caught in the golf cart wheel and was snapped off the seat next to me and the rounded knob-like handle whacked me in the shin for good measure.  Hurt like a mofo but am happy I didn't harm the whip.  Fortunately, it is made of ash, a hard wood.  Unfortunately for my shin, my whip is made of ash, a hard wood.

As always, when something doesn't necessarily go my way, I try my best to find something optimistic in the situation (I don't know why - I have pharmaceuticals).  Anyway, at least my legs are no longer winter white which would make this bruise (about 6 inches long at the moment, still early days) MUCH more apparent and dramatic.  Also, I believe that I have clothing in black, blue, purple, green and yellow so that I might colour coordinate my outfits over the next few weeks as this bruise waxes and wanes.

I do so love a good colour theme...

Smoke More Pot, Play More Music.

The older one gets, the longer the general cocktail party patter becomes about one's health or lack thereof. 

I would like to take this moment to address my young and able-bodied friends and family - I am SO not shitting you when I tell you to not take even one moment of your youth for granted.  That "perky" might be used to describe any of your body parts whatsoever is a time period that goes by SO fast that it is startling in hindsight.  And to have a body that works pretty much the way it was meant to, is a gift. 

Don't fuck it up.

My knees were already on their way out by the time I was 20 from playing sports and by 21, I had ruptured a disc in my back and now, at this point, my body is pretty much just straight up giving me the finger. 

About 35 years ago, I was high and listening to my beloved Supertramp, specifically the bass-line to "Even in the Quietest Moments", in headphones.  Really loud.  I realized at that time that I had totally forgotten about the stupid sciatica pain while I was concentrating on the music.  So, for me - I find it a useful tool and have used marijuana and music (listening or playing) for both stress and pain management since that time. 

I am fortunate to live in a state where medicinal marijuana is legal.  Unfortunately they are now trying to make it as difficult as possible - but that is a story for another time.  Fortunately (I guess) my brokenness does qualify me for a "green card" so I still use this method, lo these many years later.

Obviously there are pills involved as well.  I'm not insane (legally). 

As I now travel the maze of medical personnel, I am having to remember to do or say things to avoid the looks of grave concern on their faces.  It's mostly my blood pressure.  It really is okay - unless I am in a doctor's office.  I now make a record of my blood pressure for a few days before the appointment to hand in. Medical homework.

I was having a discussion with a friend today and said that I had done an experiment the night before my last doc appointment. Earlier that evening I had come home from the adorable preschool presentation of one of my tiniest bffs, so I got stoned (Bob Dylan said we must) and played my guitar for a half an hour or so and then took my blood pressure.  It was extra low. 

"What do you take from this?", my friend asked.

"Mostly that I should smoke more pot and play more music", I replied.

Easter: Now With Zombies!

Dear Vatican Department of Marketing & PR:

I am writing to you as an RC (Recovering Catholic - although let's be honest - who amongst us actually recovers fully?).  Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, the guilt alone - oy!

I've mentioned in the past that I feel about religion the same way I feel about camping - I am glad that these activities exist for the many who find them enjoyable - please just leave me the hell out of it.

You pretty much lost me when I found out that the end of The Lord's Prayer was not, in fact  "And lead us not into Penn Station" but rather "And lead us not into temptation".  I still think I was right...

The Goddess only knows that during these times when religion has almost become a dirty word; a shield, behind which people try to hide to justify the most heinous of behaviours, that you guys have one extra big-ass PR problem on your hands.

It seems to me that you are missing a golden marketing opportunity to drum up membership and maintain loyalty amongst today's younger parishioners  - Yo! You two with the pointy hats over there, stop the winking and giggling.  You're not helping yourselves in the slightest, you know.  You people need to step into the, I don't know, 17th or 18th Century at very least. 

First of all - stop fixing that which isn't broken - why the hell would you strip some perfectly good Saints of their sainthood?  The ones that people had heard of and knew what they did? Like St. Christopher and St. Patrick - now travellers and Ireland are screwed. Great. Not really the way to win friends and influence people, IMHO.

You de-commissioned (or whatever) Limbo.  Mr. Harry Belafonte had always made it sound so fun.  Perhaps that was the problem - it was just sort of "Hell Lite", really.

Now that we have hit Holy Week and are sliding into the home base that is Easter - in order to attract the coveted 18-34 demographic - you should really be playing up the abundant gore factor of this otherwise pastel coloured holiday. 

It's all the rage now, vampires, zombies and the like.  You already have the whole crown of thorns and crucifiction bits plus you are also trying to sell the "See, he died on this one day and then three days later - Voilà! Apparently, he was rather less dead than originally thought and he rose again" theory.  Looking at this from a purely, uh, logical point of view: dead one day + not dead three days later = the undead or zombie. 

Also, if one guy rises from the dead three days later - who is to say that it didn't happen to others?  Certainly not all the time but clearly the mortuary sciences in general and embalming in particular were still a bit "hit and miss" back then but not to worry - you can totally use this to your advantage.

So, you can still keep the pastel coloured outfits avec chapeaux, the chicks (both real & marshmallow) & bunnies (both real & chocolate) - but in order to catch the attention of the preferred demographic you need to take advantage of the elephant (who coincidentally also used to be dead a few days ago and then now isn't) in the middle of the room and use it as your new catchphrase: 

Easter: Now With Zombies!

You're welcome.

Jesus Has Two Daddies

Hark, the herald angels shout!
One goddamn string of lights is out!

Well, 'tis the season - at night, other than the Great Wall of China, the only other thing that can be seen from outer space is: our house (although it is a very, very, very fine house). 

My housemates, of 20 years, John & Tony, LOVE to decorate the house at Christmas.  Tony is sent up on to the roof, generally in October to put all of the outside house lights in place (before weather makes that a suicide mission).  The outside trees and bushes can then be done at leisure.

Right after Thanksgiving and once poor Tony (the only one still agile enough) brings all of the boxes of ornaments up from the basement - they fill up the guest bedroom in its entirety.  Christmas, especially for gay men (I don't mean to call out any one group, but if you can name another who is, in a preternaturally large percentage, associated with good taste and creativity then please do keep me posted) as Christmas allows for the very tasteful to dip their toes in, dare I say it, the Sea of Gaudy. 

As long as taste and elegance have been restored by Epiphany.

In fact, it is a widely held belief, amongst a very large group of our friends, that any house, any where, that has Christmas decorations up after the 6th of January, must sadly be the home of people who drink way too much to care.  Although strands of just white lights are always in good taste.  In a car of any size, with any combination and permutation of our friends, the ones we see all the time and the ones we see once every few years, if we pass a house with Christmas stuff happening outside of the allotted time period, all conversation stops, and just like a Greek chorus, we cast our eyes downwards, and whisper, out of the sides of our mouths, "Alcoholics".

Anyway, this year is rather low-key and we have just the one tree.  Perfectly shaped and decorated, precisely as John's mother taught him - small ornaments at the top and then growing in size with the very largest baubles at the bottom.  It truly is magnificent and I have seen more than one straight man clutch his pearls and mutter "stunning" under his breath.  This year is a "bubble lights" year which Tony & I adore (and John does not).

Last year had been a non-bubble light year and so we hung the movie star ornaments on the main tree as well (they have often had their own tree in other years).  Ours, I can absolutely guarantee you, is the only household, in the world, in which it is possible for the following exchange to have actually happened last year:

Me: Uh-oh
John: What?
Me: I believe Myrna Loy just fell off the tree.

And sure enough she had.  This year, the movie stars are adorning the oleander.

For the first ten years that we lived here - I was always away at work, hearing Christmas carols played on the steel drum.  Really never did get used to that.  Anyway, at some point, John had decided to go through my boxes of Christmas ornaments which I had packed up when mummy died and never looked at again.  Lo and behold, he found the little wooden crèche that had belonged to my mother's mother and perhaps went even further back to Ireland.  The house here had been always been manger-free until then but for some reason John brought it out. 

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Now, this is "Crèche Fucking Central".  The boys have collected either whole manger scenes or parts thereof in their travels over the last 20 years.  I was quite moved, the first year I was living here on a full-time basis, to see the crèche of my childhood that had always been on our mantle at home.  Upon closer inspection however, I found that a pink Cadillac and a turkey, that is way larger than scale, had apparently also made their way to Bethlehem.  Part of the reason for the turkey being so large is that once you lift up the turkey, there is a couple illustrating one of the many, many positions of the kama-sutra.  Oh, holy night, indeed!

Now, there is one Nativity that is all gold (which would be OTT at any other time of year, but is perfectly perfect just now).  There was another that was basically just three large wisemen, so we always thought of that one as them packing for their road trip to Bethlehem.  Sadly, Tony took out two of those wisemen last year when he fell down the steps and cracked a couple of his ribs.  A couple of other manger scenes are also scattered about the house.

Santa Claus? I cannot even begin to guess the number but there is not a place to cast one's eye in the kitchen in which there is nary a Santa.  But then again, the kitchen is black & white with red accents so it was just made for Santamania.

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We are having a very small sit-down tomorrow night and I must remember to point out two things to our guests - one would be to not let the dessert I have made get anywhere near the candles.  The bourbon content is high.

And the other, is to point out our favourite of all of the nativity scenes.  It is a wee, small one and was brought back from one of John & Tony's many trips to Italy but sadly, the Blessed Mother had been decapitated on the trip home.  No worries though, we hooked Joseph up with one of the wisemen and voilà -

Jesus has two daddies!

Merries & Ho's to one and all!

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Why Can't I Think Of Something That Stupid?

Whoever said, "There's a sucker born every minute" (and to those, who even as you are reading this are thinking, "P.T. Barnum, ya stupid git" or words to that effect and to whom I must counter, "Nuh-uh, s'not - Google it") now, where was I?  Oh yes, an illiteracy of idiots, a confederacy of dunces - well, let's just say they abound.

The vastness of the very vapid first became apparent to me in the mid-70's when the "Pet Rock" became such a sensation.   I could see how it might've had limited appeal in say, New York City.  Although let's be realistic, if, for reasons I still cannot fathom, we wanted to add a rock to the family, we would've had to go either all the way (three blocks) to Central Park or "to the country" to pick one out. We could however go and view them at The Met (four blocks), or on our very exciting forays (in taxi cabs through the park) to The West Side and The Museum of Natural History.  This way we could visit them without all the responsibility and emotional attachment that might come with having a pet one.

I have, of course, now found, over several decades of not living in New York, that rocks are every-fucking-where!  Not a day has passed since then that I haven't kicked, trod upon, tripped over, driven over or had ricochet off my windscreen, gravel, pebbles and rocks.  This is Montana - we grow rocks here.

And yet - quite successful were those rocks in a box.  Go figure.

At the moment, I am greatly perturbed by the popularity of something called a "Snuggie".  Can there really be THAT many people who are ill-equipped to use a normal blanket?  Except for the polyester part, back in the day, my people used to have the same thing - except we turned it around, added a smart little belt and called it a robe, FFS!

But wait - there's more!

Now there is some new thing that is a one piece body suit, that looks good on absolutely not. one. single. person in the commercial.  It appears to be made of 151% fully flammable polyester and there is absolutely no way that anyone wearing this ensemble can look dignified.  Ever.  And yet, they'd have you think that it's what everyone is wearing now.  There's at least one guy in the ad who, in a smart suit, could totally pull off Captain of Industry but alas, just as with the rest of the poor people in the ad, the only vision that this one piece suit really conjurs up is Polyester Cult Member.

Why am I talking such smack about polyester? Well, A) I really only like natural fibers - mostly cotton (I have a love/hate relationship with fleece and will only wear that which is either 100% cotton or has the very smallest amount of polyester) and 2) Other than that, what can I say - it's the same thing with Mandy Patinkin.  Neither Mandy nor polyester have ever done anything to me personally, it's just that they both give me the creeps.

Let's face it, I ain't gettin' any younger and not only are the chances almost non-existent that I will ever get to retire - I may actually still have to work for another three years after I am dead - so it is clearly becoming incumbent upon me to come up with a better plan than the daily entry into the Publisher's Clearing House dealio.  I wonder if they reanimate Ed McMahon now to give the winner the giant cheque or if it is someone else?

So, pet rocks, backwards robes and an outfit that screams, "Help me, I am being held hostage in some sort of wintery Jonestown.  They're going to make us drink the hot spiced cider tonight". 

I'm reasonably smart, why can't I think of something that stupid?

Nigel Tufnel pain scale

My body came up with a way to celebrate both Veteran's Day as well as Nigel Tufnel Day.  Unfortunately, it was an executive decision in which I had not been consulted.  I so would've voted no.

Anyone who has been playing along knows that I have rather a lot of body parts that have just packed it in.  I don't mean to be whiny, just catching other people up. It started with a ruptured disc and sciatica in 1978 and it's just been downhill from there. I wondered if my doc's assistant (a lovely woman, really) was taking acting lessons on the side after calling me with the results of my x-ray's to tell me, in a rather dramatic delivery that I had "severe osteoarthritis" in my knees.  No cartilage. Nada. Zip.  Alright then, good to know. Thanks.

At the time of my heart attack, two and a half years ago - I would say that my daily pain, on the old 1-10 scale was maybe 5.  I think that because my body has been falling apart gradually rather than all at once it has allowed me to develop a fairly high threshold of pain.  I also think that like our parents' generation, we still hold a sort of "suck-it up and walk-it off" ethic.  I tried to walk off my heart attack for 20 hours before I finally thought "Yeah, this can't be good".  I just got lucky.

I was faithful about going to the physical therapy, but
unfortunately finally had to quit because they didn't listen to me.  When I explained that my knees and back no longer work all that well, I'd get, "Why don't we just do a mile on the treadmill?" We?  WE??  OK, well first, even when I had hit "Circus Fat" did I ever refer to myself in the first person plural. Please do not "we" me, lady.  I've been living in this body for almost 51 and a half years and I don't recall ever seeing you there.

Anyway, in my effort to be a good and compliant patient, I went along with it until finally I couldn't deal with the collateral damage that was being done to other parts. When I told them that we would be parting ways, the always upbeat lady said "Oh, that's too bad - we were doing so well" and all I could think was, "Yeah, well I'm beginning to feel like an only slightly more ambulatory version of James Caan to your Kathy Bates".  My daily average pain had wandered up to about 6.

Now I just go with stretching, five pound weights and dancing.  Just put on my iPod and rock out.  It's both cathartic and is flexible enough so that on the days that the same can not be said for you, you can just use the other parts that seem to be acting reasonably.

This past spring my body decided to give me a little something new to take out for a spin: bursitis in my right hip.  How craptastic.  It was pretty hideous for a couple of weeks and then faded back a bit.  It never went away completely but was behaving rather like a sibling who is waving his fingers 1/32 of an inch away from your face thus inciting the ballad of the back seat: "Make him stop touching me", "Nuh-uh, not touching, not touching".  Anyway, it never went completely away, it was no where near what it was in the beginning but it would continue to make its presence known.  I believe that I was being stalked quite frankly.  Up we go to 6.5 now being the very best for which I can hope.   Oh well, suck it up.

Just this past Monday, at some point in the mid-day, BOOM, full-on, "Hi, didja miss me? I'm baaack" in my right hip.  I am trying to maintain my sense of humour and remember that Maya Angelou said something to the effect of "Just because I have pain, doesn't mean I have to be one".

On Tuesday morning, I put in for refills of my pain meds because it can sometimes take a couple of days and I wanted to make sure I was covered for the weekend.  Today's pain is brought to you by the number 8.

Check-in at the pharmacy Tuesday on the way home from work.  Yes for my muscle relaxers, No for the hydrocodone.  Oh well, that was just a crap-shoot anyway. I still have a couple of my pills left. 

Wednesday morning, closing in on 9 territory.  I really hate when that happens.  Had to go do one thing that absolutely had to be done for work, went to check back at the Drug store. Nein.  Alright, still have another day or so.

Thursday - this is going to be my lucky day, I can just feel it in my bones.  And joints.  And tendons.  And muscles. And nerves.  No worries, I have two pills left (although three is what it takes to make even the slightest difference).  I get through the things that I absolutely, positively had to get sorted out at work and then on my way home at around 3:00pm, I was going to suck it up, put my head phones on loud, get food for the weekend, pick-up my pain meds, go home, make a nest of the 9 pillows I seem to require and spend the weekend laying on ices packs, etc. and really commit to not doing all of that ADD wandering about - just for a couple of days.

The prescription still has not come back - very frustrating because they really are usually quite good on both ends.  No pain meds on Thursday night. Ow.

Guess what happened this morning?  Did anyone guess bursitis in the other hip as well?  Alright then - gold stars on your foreheads.

Called the Pharmacy, the prescription is in, oh, wait but there is a hold on it because insurance won't pay for it until the 15th.  I only wished that this sort of thing surprised me anymore but I am, more often than not, the living embodiment of "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all".  The young lady (they know me well there, and really always do their best to try to sort something out) said though that she could give me some of the prescription if I wanted to just pay the regular non-insurance rate.  Hell yeah, I'll pay anything.  Seriously, I'm at 9.5 and sinking.

Now, how to get there with the least amount of sceaming and swearing? ........Nope, never mind, there is no way - just off you go.  9.5 was my resting pain rate, certain movements, going up and down the stairs and in and out of the car for example, had me letting go with some humdingers.  No one can compete with a private catholic school girl when it comes to swearing. No. One.  

I was seeing stars at this point but made it to the shop, picked-up my meds and took them immediately when I got home.  I'm down to about a 7.5 which doesn't sound all that great but believe me, I am grateful since a couple of times today certain movements made me hit 11, just for a second, but still...

The irony of hitting an 11 on 1-10 scale on 11/11/11 has not been lost to me. It does not amuse me but I accept it.

Do not attempt to adjust your regular pain scale. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Nigel Tufnel pain scale.

If Only My Metabolism Matched My Attention Span.

I used to have an attention span.  Really, I did.  As a child I could spend hours reading a book, or playing cards, or backgammon or whatever.  Now, there is absolutely no question that I have ADHD.  Or ADD.  Or, quite simply, JWTFiGoH (Just WTF is Going on Here)?

I no longer seem to be able to go from Point A to Point B in one straight line.  Either physically or mentally.  My last 15 minutes have been as follows: I should really write a post about something. I think I'll nuke some broccoli.  Type in the name of the post and part of the first paragraph.  Go to iTunes, download a song.  Think about downloading some more.  Nope, let me go back to writing the post.  WTF am I watching on TV at the moment?  Comment on someone's post on facebook.  Type a bit more.  Oh, I should take my empty broccoli bowl to the kitchen. Get up (or slide down, my bed is a bit higher than standard but then again, I am a bit shorter than standard) and let loose with the usual string of invectives that accompany any movement made once all of my joints have frozen up from sitting for all of 6 minutes.  Return from the kitchen with some pistachio nuts.  It's the lowest fat nut you know. Seriously, what is on my TV?  Scroll through the channel channel.  Switch over to "Little Miss Sunshine".  Oh shucks, man - why isn't this one of the High Def channels?  Crap, now I need a fresh Diet Coke.  Exchange empty can for full one.  Alright then, what was I writing about?

Oh yes, then there are the times I find myself in a room but have no idea why I am there.  The small lounge off of my bedroom is a room that I refer to as "The Room of French Farce".  It is maybe 8 x 10 but there are five (yeah, I said it, FIVE) doors off of this room - so when I come to the inevitable halt in that room and ask myself what in the fresh hell is it that I was going to do, this room is of no help whatsoever.  It is merely a portal to several other places.  Am I doing laundry?  Was I getting something from the kitchen?  From the bathroom? From the cupboard?  From the back fridge? Am I leaving the house?  It often just ends up with me back in my bedroom trying to remember what it was I was trying to accomplish in the first place. 

Oh, sorry I'm back again, just went over to fb for a minute. 

Hey, look - the guy  from "Breaking Bad" is in "Little Miss Sunshine". 

Right, the attention span thing - I blame it on the whole "multi-tasking" movement.  What the hell happened to just tasking?

Why do we need to move faster? Why do we have to have everything right now?  Patience used to be a virtue - now the three minutes it takes to boil a cup of water for tea just seems WAY too long.  As foretold in the book of Eagle: "Life in the fast lane - surely makes you lose your mind.  Life in the fast lane - everything - all the time".

I believe that the philosopher, West, summed it up nicely when he said:

Work it, make it, do it, makes us
Harder, better, faster, stronger

N-n-now that that don't kill me
Can only make me stronger
I need you to hurry up now
Cause I can't wait much longer

I have already wandered aimlessly for over a half a mile in a very small space today. 

I have also just gone back to iTunes and downloaded that Kanye song.  Now I am listening to it, dancing from the waist up and typing...

Nope, wait here - full dance break!

I have the attention span of a hummingbird - if only my metabolism matched my attention span...