Tool Time!

There is a cool country song out right now by Rascal Flatts that is my theme song and my motto and my anthem. It's called Every Day.

I come around all broken down and
Crowded out
And you're a comfort
Sometimes the place I go
Is so deep and dark and desperate
I don't know, I don't know

Every day, every day
You save me
Every day you save my life.

Okay, now some folks are singing that about Jesus and some are singing that about their significant other, but I'm singing it about the wonder drug LYRICA.

It's the definitive drug for fibromyalgia pain, which isn't affected by normal pills like Advil or Ibuprofin or Vicodan or Demerol or Opium. I love it and I say it saves my life. Every Day.

But there's just this one thing that bothers me about Lyrica: THE COMMERCIALS.

The ones on television depict a spiffy middle aged woman prancing around in a flea market with a big heavy bag slung over her shoulder. Or dancing into the wee hours with the ubiquitous grey haired man who in real life would just be GAY he looks so good. Or standing in a windy field of daisies leaning on a white rail fence jabbering on about how she has just hoofed it over 40 acres with her mule. That's right, 40 acres and a MULE.

I think they should show it like it really is: Every day it's like somebody took one of these:

and pulverized the hell out of every soft tissue and muscle in my body. Every day. And I mean beat me up good, too, not some light percussion massage.

So when I saw this latest print ad I laughed in Wild Peals of Angry Mirth...

Because I'm like: PUSH PINS????? PUSH PINS????? Is this somebodys idea of an understated joke? Because for ME, what is sticking into my feet all over are THESE:

And it feels like THIS:

And what's worse? I have to WALK AROUND LIKE THAT.

Memory Malfunction! Must Recharge!

I was comparing memory loss stories with my friend who just had breast cancer. She said that chemo brain is just as bad as fibro fog, and I believe her! Chemo would tend to kill off those vital little critters called brain cells.

She said that the worst is when you are supposed to remember something in a pinch but your brain just won't cough it up.

"That's when I implement my most vital survival skill, " she said. "It's called Guess and Go!"

T Veeeeeee

This made me laugh! It's about cats!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMXCuW9LDps

I love the show BONES. It's like Joan of Arcadia meets The X Files. I loved both those shows so I love BONES. It's one of those rare tv shows where I ended up loving Each and Every character! Usually, like in the case of Grey's Anatomy, I end up being bored and hating on a few of the sub-plot lines because I het the actors. But with Bones I love them all and am so happy to find out the next chapter in their lives. Like when Booth gave Bones the little Smurf. And not the Smurfette that she had always wanted but the Brains Smurf because she is so much more than a cutesy female.

But the highlight of the night was when Dr. Hodgins says, after digging up a time capsule and finding a gigantic floppy disk and a 'Classic Coke': "That is so 80's it makes me want to push up my jacket sleeves."

That is soooo Miami Vice!

And then there is KITCHEN NIGHTMARES. You know, I really like that Chef Ramsey. I know he is a hard ass but he is so cool! Last night's episode was practically a 'feel good' experience! The family loved each other! They turned their food around! And I wanted me some of them pretty piped mashed potatoes on top of that Irish Stew. Who does that in real life? PIPES out of a pastry bag? Mashed potatoes? Onto the top of an Irish Stew?

AND! That odious Cameron the Bare Chested Soap Opera Star got booted from the competition on D.W.T.Stars! It was such a win-win week in T Vee!

And now an excruciatingly personal self-remark that the men will please leave the room for: After 500 months of doing without, I am having a REAL period. I say, YIPPEE! I still have HORMONES!

And NO WHISKERS!!!!!!

1 Burner Shy of a Full Stovetop

Yeah. I am really dragging my carcass around this morning. Fibromyalgia, as I have learned, likes to sneak up on me and give me a smackdown once in a while. The weather is changing into the wet season, and that affects how I move and think, as well.

Almost first thing in the morning I like to put the kettle on to boil so I can make my pot of tea.

This morning was no different. Except as I entered the kitchen I heard the tick-tick-click-click sound that these old burners make when they are turned on. It almost sounds like a gas stove, but its not. Its the sound of electricity.

And to my horror I discovered that I'd left the large right rear burner on ALL NIGHT LONG!

What's that going to do to my electric bill, I wonder? Worse yet, what does that say about my scrambled brains that I cannot remember when was the last time I cooked anything on that burner!

I suppose I will have to start double-checking this at night to make sure it's really turned off. Unless I could get Obsessive-Compulsive Neighbor to come up and do it for me.

One Pill Makes You Larger...

Anytime I get a new medicine prescribed I like to read up on it so I can get an idea of what to expect. Here's an excerpt from an independant review of the drug:

Killopill (killyou deadacus) is notorious for two things - making you sleep until next Tuesday, and giving you a hangover when you eventually wake up.

Otherwise expect the usual short-term side effects for atypical antipsychotics - headache, nausea, dry mouth, sleepiness or insomnia, diarrhea or constipation, not giving a damn about anything (a.k.a. the zombification effect). Most, if not all of these will go away in a couple of weeks. Except for the excessive sleepiness, which could hang around for as long as you take this med. The other big issue with a lot of people is weight gain. While not as bad as Zyprexa (olanzapine), like that med Killopill is a potential triple threat when it comes to weight gain, as it could slow your metabolism, may make you want to sleep 10 or more hours a day, and often make you want to eat more. And since it hits the H1 histamine receptor, and hard, it's going to make you crave carbohydrates like there's no tomorrow, so good luck sticking to that Atkins diet. But, hey, at least it's the damn med's fault and not any lack of willpower on your part.

Well, that's not good. Let's see what the manufacturer says! That should be more positive, right?

SIDE EFFECTS that may occur while taking this medicine include blurred or
double vision, constipation, decreased coordination, diarrhea, dizziness, drowsiness, headache, nausea, runny or stuffy nose, stomach upset, trouble sleeping, vomiting, or weakness or fatigue.

DISCONTINUE USE if you experience painful urination, persistent sore throat,
involuntary trembling, swelling of the hands, ankles or feet, unusual weakness or fatigue, vaginal itch or discharge, vision changes or weight gain, calf pain, chest pain, dark urine, fast or irregular heartbeat, anxiety or depression, restlessness, irritability, or panic attacks; new or worsening seizures, pale stools, red swollen or blistered skin, severe or persistent stomach pain, severe muscle pain or tenderness, shortness of breath, sores in the mouth or around the eyes, suicidal thoughts or attempts, swelling of your hands, lets, face, lips, eyes, throat or tongue; difficulty swallowing or breathing, hoarseness, swollen lymph glands, unusual bruising or bleeding; or yellowing of the eyes or skin; or a rash.

But those are the symptoms I had already! Welcome to my world...

Farsighted????

I was such a biddable child! Always affable! Willing to please! Yes, Uncle Augie! I'm delighted to hold these two fresh-kill pheasant carcasses up by their feet for a photo op! Let me just park my convertible under this tree over here and then I'll pose! Smile Pretty!!!!

I think my early childhood programming has snapped like a brittle twig and is no longer in effect. Or at least it's bent like a stalk of limp celery soaked in gin. I still perceive that others have expectations of me they would like me to fill, but the will to comply is missing.

Yesterday, I had yet another social security medical review, this time I got to take the same arithmetic tests I took before. All over again. And answer problematical questions such as:

You are in a movie theatre and you are the first one to notice smoke and fire. What do you do?

My answer did not please the psychologist: " I would get the hell out of there!"

She frowned at me, No! "You are in a crowded movie theatre. You are the FIRST one to notice smoke and fire. What do you do?"

I tried and tried to figure out what she wanted me to say. Did she want me to say I'd stay and be trampled by a crowd? Or perhaps duck and cover? Or lay low and crawl to the nearest exit? Or was I supposed to sit there and die of smoke inhalation while waiting to be rescued?

"I would get the hell out of the theatre. That's what I'd do. Final Answer."

Later, I realized she wanted me to say I'd yell FIRE! Oops. Thousands of burning women and children with cell phones will perish now because I wasn't quick enough to do the altruistic thing! I just chose to save myself! Sorry, humanity! Can I get a refund on my movie ticket?

The next question was even tougher: You are stranded in the Denver Airport with only one dollar. What do you do?

I told her there would be nothing I could do. Nothing. She didn't like THAT answer, either. So I told her, "Look. What would I be doing in Denver anyway? I don't know anybody there. There would be nobody to call. Do I have a plane ticket? If I do, I'll just wait for my connecting flight and board it. " I was so frustrated. She didn't give me any back-story. Was I on my way to Paris, perhaps?Did I have a good book with me? Was it winter or summer? Because if it was winter in Denver, I'd probably freeze to death in the airport lobby right away and that would be the end of my need to problem solve. Can we change the airport? Couldn't I be stranded in the Mexico City Airport instead? Because in Mexico that dollar could be converted to pesos and I could buy a 3rd class bus ticket to Oaxaca and still have money left over for a hot chocolate in the zocolo.

Later, I realized she wanted me to say I'd use the dollar to make a phone call. As If! Is that supposed to be a test of my common sense? Because frankly, a person hanging out for too long at the Denver Airport is going to have more to worry about than only having a dollar in her pocket. After a few hours, she'd have all kinds of airport and Homeland Security all over her ass! She'd probably spend the night in an FBI detention Facility and be shipped to Guantanamo Bay where she would receive free medical, dental and therapy and probably horseback riding lessons as well.

(And yes, I saw Sicko and I loved it! It was BRILLIANT!)

Then, she showed me a picture of a door on a blank wall and asked me what was missing. I told her some pictures on the wall, maybe a shelf and some quilted wall-hangings. She interrupted me and said, NO! Look at the picture and tell me what's missing!

Really, there was no pleasing this woman! She wants my answers, but all my answers are wrong! So why have me there at all? If she wanted the correct answers she could have just filled them in herself and I could have stayed home in bed. It turns out the door was missing a doorknob. I would have spotted it eventually, but who notices a doorknob when there is a WALL, a completely blank WALL in need of some clutter and chatchkes and geegaw's?

Well, if she thought I did badly on the common sense interpretive skills, she was really sorry when she started giving me math tests and sequences of numbers to repeat back to her. I couldn't do math even before my stroke, so forget about it, now! I told her, "I guess you won't be hiring me to balance your checkbook."

Finally, she gave me pairs of words and told me how they were similar. I did okay with pen/pencil because they are writing implements. And banana/apple because they are both fruit. But she stumped me with mosquito/tree. I told her I couldn't see any similarity at all. Of course, she didn't like that answer. I finally told her they are from the earth. THE EARTH? She practically YELLED at me.

"Well, one is a BUG and the other is a VEGETATIONAL LIFE FORM, so the only thing they have in common is they are both LIVING ON THIS EARTH" Really, that woman was so stupid, didn't she see the connection? What other connection could there be?

Then, as if that was not enough torture for one day, I had my 1 month exam for my post-surgery cataract eye. I was fully expecting to be given the go-ahead to get a contact lens so I could SEE again! But NOooooo!

After the girl did all the tests, the opthamalogist came into the room looking at my chart and saying, "hhhmmmmm." I asked him, "Are you hmmmmming at me?" He said, "Yes, it appears your eyes have taken an odd turn. When before you were nearsighted with astigmatism, now you are FARSIGHTED. I wasn't expecting this! But, this will correct itself in about a month, but it means your eyesight isn't stable enough to bother fitting you with a lens right now."

Okay. Still Blind. And stuck in the Denver Airport. With a tree, a bug, and all the wrong answers. But at least I'm not on fire.

Happy 10th Birthday, Mackie Manns!

Perpendicular

When you are a really, really good cook, (as all my friends say I am) you are also subject to some really, really big failures. Yesterday, for instance, I made two batches of no-bake cookies because the first one turned to gritty sugar and had to be disposed of promptly in the rubbish bin. As much as I hate throwing away perfectly good ingredients like butter and 2 cups of oatmeal, there was no salvaging them. Because I tried! When I saw the way they were going, due to the scorched cocoa in the bottom of the pan and the ominous way they were looking kind of sand papery, I scraped them into a cake pan and poured heavy cream all over them. Then I pressed the cream through them with wax paper and put them in the fridge to cool. I thought the cream might reconstitute the gravel and melt it, sort of. What I ended up with was a top layer of slime and a bottom layer of scorched, sugared, inedible rock-hard oatmeal lumps.

C'est Lavie! So I made another batch and the outcome was so good that you only see half a plate of them because I had most of them eaten before I could take the picture.

Growing up, my Dad was very fond of teaching us how to use the dictionary. He would often use a word we didn't know and when we asked what it meant, he would tell us to look it up in the dictionary.

*Groan*. Just tell us, Dad.

But Dad's way of teaching independence and building vocabulary skills was to have us get the big dictionary from the sideboard where he kept it right at his elbow when he sat in his spot at the kitchen table. And his ploy worked, too. None of his kids turned out to be pea-brains, and we are all quite well-spoken except for perhaps my baby brother who drops the first few consonants of words like 'think' and 'that' and substitutes them with the letter 'H'. It's a Hoosier thing. "I hink I'll go down to 'at there car wash today and tell 'at biddy what I hink of her!"

I, on the other hand, take great pride in my case of enlarged vocabulary and made it a practice early on to use the biggest, most expressive word I could find to describe anything I was talking about at the time. So that a hippity-hop to the drug-dealer became an extraordinary journey to the pharmaceutical entrepreneur. (Not that I ever had truck with a drug dealer, but I just wanted to find a way to use the appellation "pharmaceutical entrepreneur" in a sentence!)

So it really sucks that since getting fibromyalgia my vocabulary has gone to dust and ruin. Sometimes I am reduced to pointing and grunting the way men do, when I want something as simple as to ask for the remote control. "Hand me that thingee. You know, the thingee."

Yesterday I met my new neighbors in #4. They are a cute and exuberant couple fresh from Santa Barbara and when I apologized for the nasty golden-brown shag carpeting still in that particular unit, they waxed ecstatic about it! So they are totally into the retro look. Whereas I am so old that shag carpeting makes me think of cigarette ashes and tie-dye and harvest gold appliances. And smoked glass mirrored wall tiles with gold veins running through it. Ewww!

I was telling those kids where things are in the neighborhood, and at one point the guy asked, "Does that street run perpendicular to Folsom Blvd?" and I was absolutely stumped. I had no idea what perpendicular meant! I could drum up horizontal and vertical in my mind, but no definition for perpendicular would surface for me to grasp. He could see I was floundering so he made his arms into the universal symbol for a crossroads, the letter T. And I was able to grasp it and say that, yes indeed, Alhambra ran perpendicular to the entire midtown area. It's a perpendicular type of street. Utterly perpendicular. Almost at odds in a perpendicular way with the whole world! At that point they started to back away from my dementia and excused themselves to finish unloading their moving van.

Don't Look at Me!

I'm not looking at you!

I realize I could probably get written up and given a citation by the Internet Police for neglecting to post a blog for almost the entire month of July. Well, here I am on Aug. 1st, ready to make amends. My only excuse is sloth and illness. Is that one excuse or two?

I've got one eye on the TV right now, watching the coverage about the Minneapolis Bridge Collapse. I'm sure I've driven across that bridge a time or two on my cross-country treks. I think of all the times I've sat on a bridge or crossed it and thought about it collapsing. I think about the Bay Bridge collapsing all the time! I just pray that I'm not on the under layer when it happens. Being squished like a pancake is not my idea of a good death option.

What with laying around all the time because of an upsurge/recurrence of my fibromyalgia, I've had the benefit of the almost constant companionship of Mackie. He's just stuck to me like glue. If I move to the sofa, he moves there with me. If I move to my desk, he comes on over and plants himself at my feet. I always tell him, 'You could have stayed where you were, I'm going right back over there." but he just looks at me with scorn. As if to say, "Lady, I take my companionship duties seriously. I intend to be within a 2 foot radius of you at ALL TIMES until you get it that my food dish needs to be filled with that wet stuff. The dry stuff isn't cutting it."

So just for fun I point the camera at him and play the "Don't Look at Me!" game. I say 'Don't look at me! Mackie! Don't Look at me!" for as many times and in as many inflections as I can stand, and eventually, just to humor me, he will stop ignoring me and give me a peek.

I'm not looking at you.

This is how I amuse myself in the long, summer months.

Love Sweet Love

Well, I don't give a fig for cataract surgery, let me just tell you that right now! A lot of hoopla for nothing. The surgeon did say that what with the fibromyalgia and health issues, I will heal slower than usual and everyone heals differently anyway. I was just expecting the patch to come off and then Bwa-La! But there was NO Bwa-LA! I can't see a thing, my eye throbs like a...hurty throbby thingee, and I look like I've got quite the shiner.

And I didn't even get it in a beer brawl!

A gentleman aquaintance called me to see how my surgery went and after chatting awhile about that subject, he told me some things about his various dates and girlfriends through the ages. He has a very upbeat attitude about romance, and when I asked him how this could be, he replied, "Because Love will Never be Without Me."

You know I thought that was such a sweet sentiment. I thought about it for a moment and then I said, "And Love will not touch me with a ten foot pole and a Latex Glove."

Walking on Teapots

Every once in a while, just to be arbitrary and annoying, Google signs me out of my account so I can't access anything, including my blogger dashboard. And then it's like pulling teeth to get logged back in again. Today was one of those days, so not only have I forgotten how to log in, I have forgotten what I was going to say that was clever enough in the first place to make me want to write a post.

Sigh.

I had to go over to the Primary Care Clinic to pick up yet another prescription and so I FINALLY remembered to take a picture or two of the mosaic entryway to the clinic. I think this is so amazing. I mean, most clinic's have sterile, ugly floors, and certainly nothing pretty, feminine and welcoming like this!

Garbage Nazi!

You'd think what with my fibromyalgia and my memory problems (for instance: I can't find Tuesday. It's totally GONE. I know what I did Monday and I know what I did on Wednesday. Tuesday is just...Bye-Bye!) (Oh, and I couldn't figure out how to lock my own front door yesterday. It just looked foreign to me, and I didn't know which way to turn the key! Creepy, huh?) I would have bigger things to do with my time other than snark about garbage. But it seems it's not just the whale-watchers garbage that is troubling me, it's the new guy at the end of the building who thinks the patio near the laundry room is his OWN PRIVATE SPACE. Which it's not. We all used to share it.

He moved in, put up a table chair and ashtray, and from that day forth it's his smoking patio. Recently, it's become a lumber yard.

And, as soon as he moved in, the garbage started to end up BESIDE the dumpster instead of INSIDE the dumpster. Arrrgggh!

How can people live like this? It's a mystery to me!

Poverty Cooking Show!

I got up this morning and made the most glorious turkey meatloaf! I don't know why I take pictures of my food but I do. Well, yes I do know why, it's because my entire family always takes a picture of the holiday spread before we dig into it. Just to preserve the glorious bounty that the Good Lord has provided. And Dad's Paycheck, of course.


So although I live alone with my cat and rarely cook for masses of people, I still like to take a quick snapshot of what I've made. Because if I don't, once it's gone, I always think, "Gosh! I wish I'd taken a picture of that before I ate it all!" Maybe I am just trying to convince people that I really can cook! Ha ha! Here's Proof!

Because I still wish I had a picture of the fillet Mignon mini-pizza with cheddar cheese that I made the other night. It was so pretty!


When I am preparing my meals, the ones that take a lot of slicing and dicing, I like to talk to myself in the accent of the nationality of the food itself. This meatloaf was assembled using my Midwestern, natural accent: "Now, Vidalia, you get onto this chopping block so I can dice you'ins into fine pieces for the pot."

The other day when I made this succulent dish of shrimps scampi in caper-butter sauce I cooked with an Italian accent the entire time!

"Thats-a Riiight, Capers. I'm making you an offer you-a cannot refuse-a!"

I decided that what I would be really good at would be hosting a cooking show on the Eating Network (Otherwise known as the Food Network, I believe) called Poverty Cooking! It would feature great recipes using only ingredients I got from the free food bank. For instance, what do you do with those pesky packets of Top ramen that keep piling up? I ditch the powdery and unpalatable noodles and keep the spice packet for use in other things. And the 3 or 4 loaves of really, really, really, really stale bread they always give me, a family of one? Bread pudding, of course!

I figure they could give me the late night slot after everyone but the crank-ho's and party animals had gone to bed and I'd be a hit in my own little poverty world.

Although do crank ho's and party animals watch cooking shows? Sometimes my flights of fancy end up smashed on the turf of common sense Earth.

One thing for certain, life is filled with little inconvenient truths like that. I recently spoke to cousin Tivo-Jane who also has fibromyalgia, and she offered me some advice about handling my meds to alleviate the hangover effect of one of them. She suggested cutting the sleeping pill in half and taking half at night and half in the morning so that I would ease myself out of the shores of sleep rather than spending half the morning face down with sand in my mouth feeling like I'd been beaten by Undersea Thugs.

So I raced right out and bought myself one of those little pill cutters. It works just like a wee, Lilliputian guillotine! I was tickled to death until I realized I now owned a geriatric device.

The first of many, I'm sure. Once you are fifty you stop dreaming of romance and living large, and start contriving to manage bifocals, pill cutters and low-sodium diets. It's okay. It's the Tilt-O-Whirl ride of life. You can't have the long, free-flying swinging spin of it without the gut-wrenching, neck-jerking, slow-down of it.

Unless you are a cat. And then it's all good, all the time!

Finger Puppet

Lately, I've come to the conclusion that if I went to the doctor and said I had a brain tumor and some athletes foot, he'd fix me right up with antifungal foot cream right away. Brain tumor? Let's take care of that natty little foot fungus first, shall we? Take two aspirin and call me next year and we'll look into that tumor thingee.

Although I had an MRI weeks ago, I have yet to find out the results (because the results were lost, or at least they never reached any of the clinics that needed a copy) and in the meantime I guess they want to keep me happy with little amusements.

Like this electronic finger puppet!

Now, this little gadget is supposed to measure how much oxygen I'm being deprived of in my sleep. I suspect it has a hidden agenda: to deprive me of sleep ENTIRELY. It has bright red lights and a flashing green and yellow light. VERY bright. So bright that I had to bury it under the pillow last night or I was afraid I'd get hypnotized like a chicken and slowly starve to death because I'd be unable to break the trance.

At least Mackie loved it. I wish I could have gotten a picture of him staring at it. He just could not figure out what those flashing Christmas lights were doing in our bed! He sniffed at it and stared at it and finally figured out that if he lay down on it, he could make the lights go away. So he tried to lay on the thing every chance he got.

I'm waiting for the lady to come and pick up this gadget and take it away. It was just a one night stand! Supposedly inside the meter is a recording device that will tell my neurologist the astounding and amazing fact that I don't sleep well.

fibromiasma

Well, I had all kinds of clever things to say today but when I logged into my account I was forced into an upgrade. That took all my energy and wiped out my memory banks so that I lost all my data. That's not unusual these days, actually.

I'm sorry I haven't written much. Last night a pack of frightened, rioting villagers bearing lit torches and various sharp pointy farm implements stormed my keep and said that if I didn't write a blog update soon they were going to Parole me to Jesus, and right now, too. So I promised to at least post a small update, with or without photos.

As I've been saying for some time now, my health sucks and my memory vacuums, and it's taken nearly 4 months just to get in to see a neurologist. Although my MD thinks I have multiple sclerosis, the neurologist says fibromyalgia. Although the two are radically different as to treatment and even the mode of diagnosis, so far nobody has convinced me which is which and which is the which that I have.

But this is why I can barely shuffle through my days, much less sit and be witty on a blog. But I miss it, and I miss all of you, so I am going to try posting, even if it is about awful medical things for a while. Soon, soon, I hope to be in new digs, with a new diagnosis, and new meds to fix me right up, and then I can write about decorating and how Mackie likes or dislikes his new surroundings and all that. So hang in there with me, if you DARE.

Kindly,
Miss Pink Ponsonby