NIGHTMARE ON MOMS STREET

I had a bad nightmare tonight...

I haven't had one of these in ages.  I don't get much rem sleep, so dreams are rare.  Nightmares, more rare.

I have this recurring dream where I am in a Hotel and all kinds of things happen there.  It isn't always bad, often I am searching for something, which takes me out on to some large city street.

This nightmare, I cut my leg and then set down and pulled my leg bone half way out.  The visual was so disturbing that I awoke from my dream screaming in pain.  My neighbors must have loved it.

Don't you hate nightmares?  It is always such a relief to wake up and know it was just a dream.

I read that to dream that you have a cut, refers to feminine sexuality and feminine attitudes toward sex. In particular, if the cuts are on your legs, then it symbolizes an imbalance. You are unable to stand up for yourself. It goes on to state that to dream that you are cutting yourself, indicates that you are experiencing some overwhelming turmoil or problems in your waking life. You are trying to disconnect yourself from the unbearable pain you are experiencing. And, to see bones in your dream is symbolic of your underlying strengths that you have not yet recognized.

So ... my feminine sexual side is unbalanced, not being able to stand up for itself thus causing turmoil during the day because my underlying strengths are not getting attention...?

Hmmmm .... maybe I just need to be more of a bitch.

Hell...I'll scream at birds if it keeps these kind of nightmares at bay.

Maybe it is some sort of reaction from working out at Curves.  Being around all that chatter made me want to pull my bones out - rather than my hair.

God, I love my bike.

Until next time-

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

 

CURVES UNNERVES

Do I start this blog entry with "Why I can't stand Curves gym"?  Because I have only been going for a month and a half and I hate it.  Not the working out part - I am loving working out.  It's this fluffy odd female place, that is like the Stepford Wives of gyms.  I don't like the Curves version of a workout place for women.  I think knitting burns more calories.

I am odd I admit it.  But when I pay money to go work out I WANT TO WORK OUT!  I don't want to chat, socialize or pretend to move.  I want pain, sweat and a lot of grunting.  I want results.

Apparently this is not what Curves gym is for.

At Curves (at least the one here) they arrange the workout sequence in a circle so that women can face each other to chat.  The instructors (who don't instruct) walk around the middle asking you about your day.  I am counting reps I DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY DAY.  It takes me back to my ballet years where if you talked in class the coach would throw resin at you, or a shoe and the pianist would stop playing.  It was focus, focus, focus. I am wishing my old coach was in Curves to shout "Be quiet" and throw something at the chatters.  But alas, I only scream in my head.

I am told this is the idea of Curves.  To socialize.  Some sort of corporate cult that thinks that all women want to do is chat instead of actually working out hard.  I feel like I am in the Wal Mart of gym experiences and I am done.

Apparently I am not alone:

http://www.diet-blog.com/archives/2005/03/15/curves_for_women_a_lot_of_hype.php

The America's Council on Exercise writes the following about Curves:

"Greany warns that women should avoidthe temptation to turn their Curves workout into a social hour. Although the camaraderie and social reinforcement is an integral part of the franchise's success at attracting and motivating non-exercisers, on many occasions the researchers noted that some women seemed more interested in chatting than exercising. "Sometimes it really is kind of like an old fashion beauty salon where women go and catch up on what's going on," says Greany."

I am just not interested in this kind of Curves experience.  I think the women that go - keep their Curves.  I have run into quite a few women outside of the gym who also complain about the same.  They loved the concept, hated all the chatting and lack of professionalism.  Curves advertises that it is affordable, but around here for just 30 dollars more a month, you could join the Montecito Health Club and gain access to two pools (one in a hotel), tennis courts, weight room, classes in yoga, spinning and the like, sauna, jacuzzi, shower, lockers etc.  I think your dollar buys more at Montecito.

And at least if you are in a class with an instructor you don't have to worry about anyone bugging you during your workout - including the instructor.  So in frustration...

I bought a Retro bike!

And it is a blast.  Her name is Betty.  I have decided to ride her every day with Brian.  Brian has been bugging me to work out with him as football season fast approaches.  Now we can ride all over together and I am not hunched over on my nasty mountain bike.

The office is just a few blocks from his school, both only about a 10 minute ride from my place.  I can now bike everywhere.

And this bike feels like a Scooter ride,  It is so damn fun.

Also, our broker is paying for a YMCA membership for us all, So Brian and I can go lift weights during the children's time in the weight room.  I can now kiss this goofy workout place of Curves goodbye. 

You know, no wonder men think all we do is talk.  I can see where we drive men nuts with our blah blah blah.  I am canceling a gym membership to get away from the constant talking.  I bet men have moved far away from women just to get peace.  I think some of those women work out at this gym.  No men would ever join Curves - the talking would drive them screaming from the building.

With me right behind them.

Now we will have the adventures of Catherine as seen from the seat of a Retro bike.

Until next time-

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

http://www.aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com

Tags: http://www.aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com

DOES IT ALL HAVE TO BE LIKE WAL MART?

This time each year the Bohemian Grove is in full swing and the Sonoma County Fair opens with the Champagne Preview of the Flower Show.  My mother calls her children to gather around her...one would think to take in the amazing display of delicate floral beauty that abounds ... but mostly it is a mother's desire to have her children near.

My brother brings his girlfriend Terry and I invite Stephanie, as McYummy is in Ashland Oregon and I share a common spirit with this friend:  we both have mothers who are Gemini.  Forgive me KB, but it's true...

In sweltering heat that touched 110 and felt like the surface of the sun, we drank champagne and dripped sweat.  The humidity filled the showroom floor and the flowers stood at attention.  I am thinking the contestants should have filled their landscape entries with flowers of a tropical nature, because I wonder how the flower show exhibit will last the length of the fair.

Sonoma County is rapidly changing.  It is readily apparent in this local fair.  It used to be the Flower Show Preview was hosted by the Welfare League.  The Welfare League was a local volunteer organization - a virtual who's who of old Santa Rosa money.  It was a honor to be a volunteer associated with this charity group.  We used to joke that you had to have a foundation in your honor just to be a member.  Each year the Flower Show preview was their grand ball of events.

Local caterers prepared the hor d'eovers in some secret back room.  The Welfare League volunteers served the paying patrons in full-length black tuxedos and ball gowns.  Diamonds dripped like the tulips that bare their namesake.  The Flower Show Preview sold out every year and you were lucky if you made it into this grand event.  And, of course, my mother invited me back then too.  I think she loved seeing what kind of gown I was going to wear and hoped I'd marry a doctor's son.  Unfortunately for her I always liked the guys that got their hands dirty for a living.

The Flower Show Preview was one of those events where you couldn't walk three feet without seeing someone you knew, in the packed crowd of 1400 and it could take 30 minutes to move 25 feet.  It was wicked fun.  Sometime back in the early 90s the Fair Director changed and a fight broke out between this Director and the Welfare League.  The Welfare League stopped hosting the event, and since then it has never been the same.

The flowers are always beautiful of course.  But, the original designer of this Hall of Flowers died some years back.  His designs were breathtaking.  He like to suspend art from the ceiling and make it the backdrop to the floral gardens.  One year, he built a replica of the Golden Gate bridge that hung across the ceiling from one end of the building to the other.  His water falls were legendary.  You'd swear you were entering Niagara Falls when your feet touched the ground at the enterence to the Hall of Flowers.

Now patrons wear shorts and jeans, there are lines for the food and no one walks around in a tux filling your glass with champagne over the roar of laughter, chatting and the famous water fall.  The exhibits are pretty, but don't take your breath away, or force a gasp and "wow!" from your mouth.

The back room off the floral showroom floor used to be filled with ammetuer entries from local gardens.  Now, it only carries a small assortment of succulents.  The room was once filled with roses of all varieties.  I guess there are no more women (or men) raising roses for competition at the fair.   Is this now a lost art?  The caterer use this room as an overflow, so the presentation of having a treat served to you from a plate from somewhere unseen is now gone.  People stand in line like cattle waiting for a feeding.  Now, I usually eat dinner before I attend, as I have no desire to stand in line for food.

The local wineries know what they are doing and step away from their serving tables to pour you a glass as you stand admiring a local landscape entry.  I don't know many people.  I am now among a few hundred strangers.  It is fun to be with family and friends among the smell of flowers.  But, I miss the endless stream of old Santa Rosans stopping to say hello, introducing you to someone new.  Sonoma County was a tight knit community.  Everyone helped each other, everyone liked each other. It was a forgiving place.

My family was always one of the last to leave every year...walking along with employees from Rosenburgs.  Mr. McNeany's voice bellowing somewhere in the distance. It is just the ghost of memories past that remind me of the days we were all friends in this community.  There was a sense of grace, trust and the feeling of being a part of a town that embraced and supported you - through all the stupid things we do growing up.

Like the Vegas of old, with it's dress codes and style the Preview of the Flower show has changed its grandeur to appeal to the masses.  Funny, it has never once sold out since they changed it...

Until next time-

C 

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

SALAGA-DOOLA, MENCHIKA-BOOLA, BIBBIDI-BOBBIDI-BOOB

Only in my world, is humor mixed within tragedy...

Saturday, Dale stops by my home to drop off some financials and commercial development deals for me to work through while he is up North dealing with his father's death.

Now mind you, I didn't know he was coming, so there I was in house cleaning mode. Cleaning mode is no shower, hair up in a high bent pigtail, ugly sweats, barefoot, no make up and some god awful holy t-shirt.  Oh yes, and my worst bra.

You see ... I am one of those old-fashioned cleaning types, who scrubs everything on their hands and knees.  The very last thing I do is take a shower. I clean the tub just before I bathe.  I end the cleaning day all clean myself, and sit down to a nice glass of Pinot.

However, Dale arrives at 11:00 am, just after I scrubbed the kitchen floor and am in the bathroom cleaning the toilet.  This is definitely not clean, Pinot Catherine. Visualize bright green rubber gloves with your lovely picture of my cleaning self and you can imagine what I look like as I round the corner to the sound of his "Hello" coming through the screen door.

There he is all 6 foot, god-of-something feet tall, dark Amazon man in shorts, a pressed t-shirt - sporting a tan.  I'd smile big to distract him, but I haven't brushed my teeth.  I don't want to turn him to stone.

In he comes right into my mid-morning cleaning.  I notice Brian has dirty underwear at the entrance to his bedroom.  I am hoping Dale won't look that way, as I wonder how they missed the laundry I just completed.

Dale sits right down at my dining room table piled high with folded laundry.  He opens his leather bag and begins pulling out documents.  We make small talk, as I try to smell myself when he's not looking.  I am sure I smell something of laundry soap, boys old socks, pinesol and dirty water.

Then my heart stops.

His left arm is resting on the pile of my folded underwear. 

To the left of his hand, my folded bra - looking like some white boob laying face up on the table. 

"Please God strike me with lightning at this moment and remove me from this place - NOW!"

God rarely listens to me these days.

Luckily Dale doesn't seem to notice, or he is ignoring the pile.  I, however cease to hear another word he says, because my eyes are mortifiably fixated on my folded panties and white lace boob sitting on the table.  Good God I am in hell.

After what seems like three years, Dale finally has to leave.  He gets up and says goodbye.  To my relief my underwear isn't clinging to his arm hair. Brian begins to come out of his room and steps on his dirty underwear while saying bye to Dale.  Of course, Dale glances down at Brian's feet.  He grins.  Well... Dale does have 5 children - 4 boys and 1 girl.  He says nothing but a "Bye" to Brian. 

Is there is big hole for me to jump into yet?

As he walks away I check out his backside to make sure none of my laundry is sticking to him.  I am sure Cinderella had it better.  At least no mice ran across Dale's path as he walked out the door...

Until next time-

C

PS.  Now ... what in the hell am I suppose to do with his stack of papers?    

 

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

GONE IN A FLASH

Man killed in collision with semi on U.S. 93

Thursday, July 13, 2006 5:38 PM PDT

ELKO — A California man was killed Wednesday after his vehicle hit a tractor-trailer rig on U.S. 93 about 15 miles south of Jackpot.

Eugene Edmund Palsson, 74, of Myers Flat, Calif., died at the scene, according to a Nevada Highway Patrol report.

Palsson had been driving south at 12:30 p.m. when he allowed his pickup to drift into the northbound lane and into the path of a semi.

The semi driver, Darryl Troy Wendlund, 37, of Calgary, Alberta, attempted to avoid a collision by steering to the right but the pickup’s left front struck the left front of the tractor trailer, according to the report.

Upon impact the pickup rotated violently counterclockwise and came to a stop on its wheels. The tractor-trailer stopped on the east shoulder.

Wendlund and Palsson’s passenger, Dustin Brown, 23, of Sacramento, both were injured and transported to Magic Valley Regional Medical Center in Twin Falls.

A SUMMER CAROL

We've all seen them, those contemptibly narrow in outlook people with 'petty little comments or deeds' who disgust us with their small-minded pettiness.  Those passive aggressive fits they have over relatively nothing... the obsessing over crap that just doesn't matter.  The girl that uses her keys to mark cars she thinks are parking in the spot she wants.  The the guy who pees on another's gym bag because he got the starting shot.  The the woman who must email other women they believe their boyfriend might have an affair with, even though the other women live 5 million miles away.  The the person who slows down when you are in a hurry.  The co-worker who tries to sabotage your work.  Sometimes it shows itself in people who get upset over nothing of great importance.  They take their anger to a level few understand, twisting and turning over and over in their heads the deed that gave them their self righteous indignation over something trivial.  Leaving the rest of us to scratch our heads in a "Huh?" as we slowly back away and try to distance ourselves.

I don't know if it is the full moon this week, but I noticed this petty mindedness and pondered what makes people like this.  You'd think they'd understand life is just too damn short.  My theory is people like this are so miserably unhappy in their life with no goals, plans, or real thoughts for their life (and taking the necessary steps to implement their dreams) so they stand around and stare out at the world through a very pessimistic and jealous view.  Some have a grandiose view of their importance in this world and have no clue that we don't give a shit.

I notice that my friend Stephanie, who is very fit and very beautiful, deals with women who immediately don't like her because of what she looks like.  I have seen it happen to her first hand and it blows me away.  I think beautiful, wonderful women are great.  So are men of the same type for that matter.  I guess there is prejudice of varying degrees no matter who or what you are. I prefer to admire a person's soul, not what they look like or what they drive, wear, etc.  It is the inner person you end up hanging out with - the other fades with time. When Stephanie notices the looks and comments from other women I am at a loss for words to comfort her and want to apologize for the small minded women everywhere.

This week I was also thinking about the loss of my dad, and how terribly short life is.  Maybe when you get sick and have to take tiny little pills the rest of your life you begin to really value your whole entire life - even the itty bitty details.  Every day I thank the heavens above for Brian and every aspect of my life.  It only takes a day for everything to change.  Do I want more from life?  Sure, but every day that I take a breath and walk this earth is a piece of heaven spent - no matter how difficult or laborious.

Maybe I was feeling signs of things to come as Stephanie calls to inform me that a friend's sister was in a car accident and the sister's boyfriend died.  The sister is in the hospital.  They were in a car accident leaving the party Saturday night.  I said my prayers for the family and then thanked God for my life as it is thank you very much.

Today Dale, my boss, friend and hero calls me.  "I need your help with some things" he says beginning the call.  I reply in humor "I'm BUSY!! Leave me alone!" as we both laugh.  He stops, "Cath, my father died last night."  A pin drops.  "What?" respond, as I go into shock, "He wasn't sick was he?" I ask.  "No, he was driving back from Utah and fell asleep at the wheel and hit a semi head on.  He died instantly."  Tears begin to fall down my face as I say, "I am so sorry, oh my dear God, I am so sorry."  We talk for a while about his dad, my dad and the loss of those we love.  He lost his mother at the beginning of this year.  Years like this knock you to the floor.  I still remember all to well the year my father died.  We swam in the mud swamps of hell.  The sticky mud of pain clinging like glue.  One bad experience after another, slapping us back down into the mud.  You begin to think you will never laugh again, or be free.  The mud seems to cling to you forever.  Until one day you remember how precious life is, and suddenly you hear the sound of your own laughter.  The magic that is life returns.

So there it was with Dale, the moment that makes us remember what really matters in life.  The story that makes us remember the mud and how everything can change in just one instant.  The love I feel for Brian, my mother, brother, family and friends is all that matters.  The things we do that make people remember our love for a lifetime is the most important gift.  Nothing else.  Not the who-is-parked-where-I-want-to-park so called problems, or who-did-what-to-whom prejudices, or the pouting-for-what-we-think-we-want behavior.  It's about trying to experience love every free breathing day we have.  There is an end to everyone's life.  The story does finish.  It doesn't matter if you are the President or the homeless man on the corner - it will end the same for both.  I make sure every time I say goodbye to someone I care for, I include those precious three words, "I love you."   

How do you want to remember life or be remembered?

I want to remember how much love I gave away and how lucky I was to be loved by the people who love me - past and present.  I don't need some Christmas Ghost of past or present rattling his chains on Christmas Eve to remind me the value of this life, and how unimportant so many things are.

My dear Dale, how my heart goes out to him and his family.  "God bless us, everyone."

C

PS.  I love you too.

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

I INTEND TO LIVE FOREVER...SO FAR SO GOOD...

I once was told birthday celebrations came to be in ancient Ireland where evil spirits were thought to be more attracted to people on their birthdays. In order to keep away the evil spirits, big celebrations full of joy and well wishes were thrown for the birthday person.  I think the Irish side of my family believe the Irish created everything...

Oh, and there is also this silly Irish tradition of holding a child by their feet and bouncing their head on the ground the number of times equal to the child's age.  I am guessing this is why Irish men love Rugby.  Luckily Brian was born the weight and thickness of a football player, so no head bouncing in his world...yet.

But maybe the head bouncing thing does explain a great deal about MY personality...

Speaking of rugby, Brian begins summer school and football camp next week.  Frank Scalercio, an old high school friend will be coaching him at camp.  I swear we are not this old.

Luckily Frank is Korean - not Irish.

My fourth of July birthday always seems to stretch over a week or two like some pagan celebration. Rarely is it celebrated only on the fourth itself.  This year, it began with the Pennegrove Parade on July 2nd, a funky little home town parade in the city of Pennegrove.  It lasts one city block - well Pennegrove is really one city block.  All the bars are open (there are three on this farm town block) serving cocktails at half price in plastic cups.  I think they start serving at 8 that morning.

If we are in town (not away on vacation), my entire family, along with a group of cousins, meet there and treat me like the parade Marshall.  I am given this posh seat with a table and a front row view of the parade. This year Brian brought a friend and they caught so much candy it appeared as if they had gone trick-or-treating.  I was cool because basically I was allowing them candy for breakfast.

Once the parade is over, everyone in town walks down the street to the Pennegrove Park where a traditional fourth of July celebration begins.  There is a chicken, steak, hot dog, hamburger, and oyster bar-b-que.  There is a margarita bar, beer and wine.  A country western band serenades the crowd to dance.  Cotton candy abounds and the local FFA kids provide homemade desserts.  There are more cowboy hats than sandals.  Families pack the large checkered picnic tables, relaxing and enjoying the day.  The kids run wild among the buried large tractor tires, swings and vast blond fields of un-cut hay.  It is a child's paradise and I love watching how dirty Brian gets by the end of the day.

While seated on our circle of camping chairs, enjoying our drinks and telling family stories, I am approached by the photographer and journalist for the Village Voice.  The Village Voice is the Pennegrove newspaper, which is smaller than most high school newspapers.  He has heard the fourth is also my birthday and wants to know what represents a traditional fourth of July to me.  I tell him that besides the fireworks, it is corn on the cob, bar-b-que and sunshine.  I ask him if they need a free lance writer.  Hey - I never stop pursuing this dream.  He was a nice kid.  When I get a copy of the article I will try and scan it here and give everyone a good laugh.

The day ends at my mother's place where she serves her traditional cheese cake and gives me a gift.  This year it was a shirt that looks like something she would wear and a new make up mirror.  I swear I am not this old.  Brian is so dirty he looks like he is black.  These wonderful years with him are going by too fast.

For my birthday itself, Brian insists I take him to the beach.  Funny how our birthdays also become about the kids.  I finally agree, only if he is willing to wake up early and go at breakfast time.  Me and my big mouth... on my birthday morning he awakes me with a shake at 6:30am.  My bad, I guess I need to clarify breakfast time on a holiday.

I fix breakfast through sleepy, half open eyes and pack a picnic lunch.  Brian gathers Boonie the dog, blankets, pillows and anything he can get his hands on that qualifies as a digging tool - including my garden shovel.  We are out the door at 8am heading west through fog to the Pacific Ocean and a wonderful state park beach: Doran Beach.  By the time we reach the state park entrance, the fog has lifted exposing a beautiful sunny blue day.  Happy birthday to me. 

We have our choice of parking spots and unload our beach gear.  We hike over the soft sand dunes on to a wide white sand beach.  We are almost alone except for the local runners and hikers that exercise by the waters shore everyday.  What a life they lead.  Brian runs about finding just the "right" spot and we set up camp.  Before running down to the waters edge with the dog, he pulls a small bag from his things and hands me a birthday gift.  "Here mom, I love you" he says as he darts off in a dead run to the water.  I don't even have time to say a "Thank you".  I open the card.  He has written about a hundred "I love you's" inside.  I start to cry.  He is such a great kid.  I am so lucky.

Inside the bag is a digital camera.  He comes running back up from the water and dives on his knees to the blanket, sending sand everywhere.  "Isn't that cool?  Now you can take pictures for your blog like you want to", he smiles at me as he grabs the package ready to explain what a digital camera is.  Yes folks we are approaching the age where he thinks he knows more than me.  I let him explain until the dog is barking at him to return to the water.  Up he jumps with shovel in hand heading back to the softly cresting waves. "COME ON MOM" he yells back at me. 

I arise and look at this perfect morning at the beach.  Brian is truly brilliant sometimes at knowing exactly what my soul requires.  This ideal setting is precisely what I need.  I run down to the shore.  I chase Boonie and collect shells to remember the day.  Handsome men hike by remarking at the site of mother, dog and boy.  They see it is a classic Norman Rockwell morning for us ... and likely remembering their lost boy days of years past.

We wrap it up at about two o'clock as the beach becomes crowded for the fourth.  I am having my mother over for dinner and a group of us are walking up the street to watch the fireworks from the side of the hill.  Brian plans on making me a cake and helping me cook the dinner.  We need time for this project.  I thank him for a perfect birthday,  He grins and looks away from me.

Later that night as I am fretting over the fact that he is growing up, due to his ability to cook, chose presents and think of others ... he walks over at the beginning of the fireworks and sits on my lap.  He is almost the size of me now, but in this moment he is my little boy again.  I love the fact that cities all over set off fireworks just for me.  I remember last year we were with my cousin Mitch on the reservation setting off illegal fireworks.  No wonder Brian loves me.

I roll into my office on Wednesday to presents all over my desk.  Andrea has left me a bushel of hand picked lavender.  Barbara sends me a bouquet of flowers with a card saying she is making my x husband buy all of us lunch.  Stephanie stops by with a bag full of shoe desk accessories.  It is mostly a day of laughter.  Too bad work isn't like this everyday...

Thursday evening Stephanie takes me out for cocktails at the restaurant up the street and Friday is "Girls Night With Johnny".  Saturday I am invited with Stephanie to a private party up in the hills of Santa Rosa.  Jaysus, I need a vacation from my birthday.

I am another year older and so the fight continues...

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

THIS SITE IS A MEMBER OF WEBRING

This site is a member of WebRing.
To browse visit
here

 

This site is a member of Search4blog.   To browse visit: http://www.search4blogs.com/bloggers/index.php

 

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

COMPUTER FLU

Ok, either it is my computer, AOL, or both, but I am having one hell of a time updating this journal.  I am working on my computer issues, but the AOHELL thing is out of my control.  I know it is time to move this journal to my own web site, but my x husband's business is booming (thanks to my marketing savvy and business knowledge).  Then add in Brian, family, friends and working out.  It is difficult to find the time to create and manage my own web site.  Plus, I want to go back to night school.  I used to always take college courses every year - just for fun.  Since Brian was born I have not been able.  He is now old enough, and my relationship is good enough with my x to start back taking fun college classes again.  I am feeling healthy enough to handle it all.

So bear with me as I try to update this journal without canceling AOL or throwing the CPU across the room-

C

PITSTOP

I know...I know.

I am not writing.  It isn't that I don't have ramblings to type - good lord you should hear my head.  My mind is a constant scrabble game of words.  It's just that I have been busy. 

And...I have developed this new thing where my legs are so exhausted at night they keep me awake.  It's like I must get up and dance, but really I recognize it as exhaustion without the ability to relax.  I cannot relax.  What the hell is up with that?  My legs require movement and they drive me nuts.

Then I find out this is called "Restless Leg Syndrome".  Oh fuck me for yet feeling just one more thing with my body.  What in the hell did I ever do to my body to piss it off in such a way that it makes every day living like a hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with a 50 pound pack on my back and four inch heels?

So once again I am not sleeping through the night.  If I was married I could drive my husband nuts through the night, but alas I only have the TV remote to torture. 

I have received some emails from a few people wondering if I am ok.  I guess if one doesn't go back into the old archives, they wouldn't know that I have been dealing with Hashimotos disease for three years now.  Each day is a fight for me, I just don't always show it or talk about it.  People don't want to hear about someone's illness.  It makes them uncomfortable.  Sometimes when I am at work, without makeup, hair in a pig tail and gym clothes, I wonder if anyone realizes the effort it took just to be there.

No, instead it is as if everyone wait for me to arrive to get things moving.  I am followed about like a dog being chased by fleas.  Perfectly healthy people needing me as their touchstone to their day, including my x husband. 

Does anyone notice when I go off to a couch and lay down "just to rest a bit" ... or cut an evening short to go home to bed?  Or that I often have to sit down to take in a conversation?  No, I don't believe they do,because I am always laughing and making fun.  I love to laugh.  It's wonderful if I can get people to laugh at my craziness.

Maybe they need to think I will always be fine... that I am not sick... or note that I am in a fight for my life - especially the quality of my life.  Maybe it scares them, so to pretend not to see my suffering makes them believe it will go away.  Catherine the great always triumphs at everything - she won't let us down.

Now... my mother on the other hand just looks at me and always says "When was your last bowel movement?"  I would rather she pretend I am fine, but no, she looks me over and grills me with medical questions.  "Are those bruises on the back of your legs above those shoes?  Are you going to wear those shoes?"

Or, "I see a lot of cleavage there , do you have a safety pin?"  "No mom, we are not safety pinning my top" ...

It is the week of my birthday.  Happy fourth of July to me.   Yes, I was born at 5:30pm on the fourth of July many years ago.  I was to go out of town this weekend, but I am not feeling up to it.  Instead, I will surround myself with family and friends and look forward to a new birth year.  Maybe we will cure this disease yet ...

I am thinking of college in the Fall....

C