See Wally Think. Think Wally Think.

Yesterday I called Wally, thinking it would be a good break from uncharacteristic Chaotic Hell that was work, and oh boy was that a mistake. The kid is all wound up. Tight like a freakin’ clock or an old man who watches too much Fox News. Which is exactly who he reminds me of just now: some old coot who watches Fox News and believes every damn word uttered. This is not to say I wouldn’t be upset if he sounded like some old hippie who was watching Rachel Maddow, either. And I sound like an old coot when I say things like: “Can’t trust the damn media, they just all want to sell ya’ their brand of politics and the flavor or the day…why can’t they just report the news, dammit. “ [insert rocking chair at full stop here so I can shake my fist in the air but careful my arm fat doesn’t hit me in the cheek]

Wally is terribly upset that “Obama is letting the Muslims build a masque at Ground Zero. “ Hey at least he worries about something other than his hair…

Who is this kid and how did I end up with such a conservative xenophobic atheist? (I believe the conservative and xenophobe part would be cured if he believed in something bigger outside of himself)

Obama is not building a mosque at Ground Zero. Its a few blocks away and it’s a Community Center. I’ve only been to one mosque but shooting hoops in the middle of it would have been frowned upon. This has a basketball court and other stuff plus a chapel. (Wally would now accuse me of being brainwashed by the “liberal media”. Um yeah…I’m completely hypnotized by Maddow…)

Forgive me but maybe I'm just so fucking worn out with bad news and stupid people that I can't get excited or upset about anything anymore. Just about everything that happens outside of my job or my home elicits a “whatever” response from me. And it’s not because my life is so horrible and difficult I can’t think of anyone but myself and I don't have the strength to worry about one group of loud mouths oppressing a group of people who don't share their beliefs. I’m just sick to death of worrying about it and getting angry about the oppression and small mindedness of it all. On both sides of the fence, too. And all the worrying, bitching, moaning and fist shaking I do doesn't change a fucking thing. All I can think to do is say a prayer that some how some where some time one of these loud people who think they embody the life of Christ with their protests wakes up and realizes it's all the same God who I'm pretty sure doesn't want us killing each other or hating one another in his name or any of his other names. And then say another prayer that all the people who think people who believe in a creative force or a God external to their own physical beings are stupid, misinformed, sheep, ignorant or dangerous (I’ve been called all those things by atheists) and realize that for the future of the Earth and human beings it would be more beneficial to just shrug off the differences and realize it doesn’t matter if we came from God or the earth or both or from a space ship. What matters is ultimately we take care of one another for the sake of human kind.

Jelly Side Down

the cute head Pocket Toast Pal was found here


If I do say so myself, I believe I deserve this vacation. Between The Girl breaking her arm last week; my own really nasty sinus infection; The Beav confessing, after six months of the rest of us playing “where’s Wally’s bike”, he sold it (without permission) and then racked up $300 in extra text messaging charges; and Wally’s adventures at the bank I ‘m pretty well done. Stick a fork in me and call me toast. I asked my Spare Girl--a single mom with probably the most spirited teenagers on the planet--if it was August yet because this summer is shaping up to be…um…challenging to say the least.

So here I am sick, whiney and pitiful. Good thing I’m alone. Because I’m not sure I even want to be in my own company. The jelly topping on the toast is today I found out I didn’t get the job I was asked to apply for. It was a good job and a good fit. I cried after I talked to the nursing recruiter and later my boss had the grace to ask me if I was going to be alright with this decision because the important thing is “you are happy in what you do.“ I will never forget that gift. Yes, some days are harder than most but everyday is an adventure and everyday I learn something new either about the human body, psyche or myself. It doesn’t get any better than that. Unless you count I get to work with a great team of nurses.

And Beav asked how he can pay me back the money. (window washing and garage cleaning plus moving the lady next door)
And Wally appeared to really listen when I told him for the third or fourth time how to balance a checkbook. But that’s a moot point because he no longer has a bank account to jack up. (he is into me large and will also be washing windows, cleaning garages and moving the lady door.
And in less than twenty-four hours I leave my life for a couple of weeks and see how the other half lives.

The lower half that is.


My guess is witnessing physical poverty unlike anything I’ve ever seen will cure my poverty of gratitude and faith. And if it doesn’t, I’m guessing this guy will kick my ass. In the spirit of love. Just like Christ would.

Next stop Siem Reap. I’m the one with my mouth hanging open in awe and wonder over the bas reliefs.

What My Hands Remember

My hands are mannish and rough. If the rest of me were not visible you would name me as Crone rather than Mother. But even as Maid I had old hands. My hands are wizened by years of hand washing and hand holding and they are not strangers to work or dirt or other hands. They have been the first hands held by countless new humans, fresh from the peaceful lair called womb. Tiny hands gripping my mawkish, oversized crooked index fingers. I hope my hand was the first of many held, for safety, strength and passion. The trust those new humans put into my hands was pure reflex response: put something in a baby’s palm and watch how the fingers close around it. One of the many subtle signs of fully functioning human-ness: you can hold hands at birth.

My hands are care worn, like my heart. My heart and hands are covered with sunspots, wrinkles, finely etched crevices from the burdens they have carried. These Icabod Crane fingers are part of a last hand held. Ugly but strong they sought the hand of the dying to offer up comfort or courage to take those last breaths. A human touch to ease the passage but whose ease is still unknown: mine or theirs? Some have gripped with powerful strength afraid to let go of this familiar plane of consciousness no matter how hostile it has become. Others offered me a quiescent clasp of mottled warmth more to assuage my own regret and sense of loss knowing they must travel to the next place and reunite with near forgotten hands, eager to welcome them and love them once more.



That’s a meditation I wrote as a response to Luis Alberto Urrea’s writing prompt he offered on his fan page at Facebook. What a gift to have a 21st century master respond to my writing. I don’t even care if he tells me to never ever EVER write anything aside a shopping list, my name or a mortgage check again. This prompt: “What My Hands Remember” could be the first step towards moving my life’s work into the right brain place of the metaphysics of Care, and away from the left brain place of tasks and deadlines. The weight of burn out I’m suffering threatens to reduce my patients to disease states rather than fellow human beings who are suffering. I hope this sticks because I am rapidly becoming the nurse I have absolutely no respect for and frankly hold in contempt: The nurse who doesn’t care. Yeah, the job is done, it’s done correctly but it’s done by an automaton and not a flesh bearing warm blooded human with a soul.

“Today's Blessing: ‘I have come out of that landscape, that mud, that silence, to roam, to go singing through the world.’ Neruda”


Naruda always manages to say it just right and I stumbled on this lovely line today which describes how I felt last night contemplating the prompt. Only I’m not a poet and couldn’t frame my emotions in such a beautiful image.

I’m not sure if I’m to the point of “singing through the world” but I’m humming and the tune is catchy.

Can I Go Home Now?

0630: I arrive at work, pick up my assignment sheet and quickly scan the written report describing the five patients the night shift charge nurse has deemed I care for during the next thirteen hours.

A: Morbidly obese, noncompliant diabetic with a really nasty wound on his backside. He’s also known for his verbal abuse. Let’s see how many times he tells me he won’t cooperate and he doesn’t need that medicine because we don’t know what we are doing in the first place. I’ll make it a “Hi Bob” game and get a beer tonight each time he tells me I’m stupid or refers to me as “girl”.

B: Her. Yeah, her. Fuck, I can’t stand this woman. I want to shake her and tell her to fucking get a shrink and get the hell over her childhood trauma that is leading to this chronic existential angst masquerading as belly pain. Twenty-five years old with chronic belly pain. Wow, all this belly pain, how did she manage to get obese? We’ve scanned her, scoped her, opened her up and have done everything but transplant her pancreas and liver. Everything is always normal. Let’s see…she refused the psychiatric consult the last time she was here. But she never EVER refuses the 2mg of dilaudid push every two hours. I thought she wouldn’t be returning to us because we no longer offer IV push phenergan on our menu of treatments at the Spa. Not enough beer if I get to take a swig each time she asks me for more dilaudid and it isn't time yet.

C: Oh for the love of God, this man is back? I knew it! I knew he would bounce back but in three days? Gah we spent hours with this daughter helping her make the decision to place her father because she can no longer take care of him. Hmm….did he fall…no…Oh great. “Weakness” Fuckin’ A we aren’t gonna get paid for this one, are we! Weakness is not a diagnosis it’s a symptom. Shit, I hope his daughter takes a respite day and stays the fuck away from the hospital. He‘s a piece of cake to care for if she isn‘t hovering over him. Such a dear sweet old demented guy. He’s funny and kind, doesn’t scream or hit. Any facility would LOVE to have this guy live with them! I wonder if we can get him a daughter transplant while he is here.

D: Son of a bitch. I thought this guy had died. I could have sworn he died last winter. “Fever” Oh great, this could be anything from liver failure to pneumonia to “I‘m hunger and some asshat beat the crap out of me under the bridge last night so I came here“. I’m voting for pneumonia and an ass kicking because I actually really like this homeless guy and I’m not sure I have the emotional fortitude today to attend to him at the end of his life. please god, let it be pneumonia pneumonia pneumonia“ Maybe I should rethink this whole drinking game so I don't end up with a liver like D's.

E: Nononono NO! We fixed you last time! You were better! And had a home! You agreed to take your meds and live at the half way house! If the case manager didn’t hook you up with enough meds and directions to the homeless clinic: she gets to come up here and sit with you, follow you around the unit making sure you don’t wander off and listen to your endless--oh thank goodness or not, your liver function is off the map. GREAT!! YAY way to go God! The meds killed her liver! Yay! Now we get to find a place for her to live. Yup, she’ll be a resident with us for a month or so because this country absolutely sucks when it comes to mental health care and well there aren’t any beds for people like this poor soul; just streets and alleyways.

After report, I start planning my first cocktail at 1955, should I stick to beer or have something stronger. . . oh yeah, I need to think about my liver.

I take a deep cleansing breath outside of A’s room.

“That goddamned nurse gave me insulin last night for my blood sugar and she gave me ten units! “
“Well good morning to you, too! Hmm…your blood sugar was 450! Of course she gave you insulin.“
“But now I’m only 200 and I feel funny! I’m too low, I’m gonna go into shock!!“

(What I want to say) “Oh boo-fucking-hoo that stupid nurse gave you insulin for a high blood sugar. Why we oughta report her to the state for...I dunno...doing her job you stupid asshat. If you don't want us to treat you then don't come to the fucking hospital and don't call 911! And, Dude, if you go into insulin shock, I will eat your nasty shoes. Yeah buddy you feel funny because your blood sugar averages at 300. But hey, you won’t have much of a brain left in about a year, so make your complaints now while you can string a coherent sentence together. Oh and I hope you aren't too attached to your toes or legs cuz those are outa here too if you keep this up.”

I do the hair patting thing through gritted teeth, and by rote explain to him what a normal blood sugar is and if he would just work with us we would bring his glucose down to manageable levels…“blah blah blah…sir…blah” Is what he hears.

I exit the room and brace myself for B’s room and ask God to deafen me against her whining. She’s sleeping soundly and I weigh not waking her up but I know her dilaudid was given exactly two hours ago and if I don’t wake her and she wakes up in an hour or so, she will see the time and realize it’s been three hours since we hooked her up with a fix and “OMG WTF I’m having a pain crisis!!” I would rather wake her up and get her high than have to explain to the patient over and over again why she can’t have an additional two milligrams of dilaudid.
“B, good morning, I’m your nurse today. How is your pain?”
“OH I DIDN’T SLEEP AT ALL LAST NIGHT I HURT SO BAD I NEED MORE DILAUDID.”
“Really? Your nurse said you were sleeping every time she rounded through the night.”
“I WAS CLOSING MY EYES AGAINST THE LIGHT BECAUSE I HURT SO BAD!”
“Why didn’t you tell the nurse?”
“I DID AND NO ONE LISTENED TO ME” (cue her tears)
“B, I trust the nurse who gave me report. I want you to think and feel carefully; how bad is your pain right now this minute. Is it the worst pain you’ve ever felt or is it just the pain you normally feel.
(cue baby voice added to tears)”It’s not the worst I’ve ever felt but it’s…it’s…really…really…bad!”

(What I want to say)”You know what you need B, you need a shrink. You need drug rehab and a shrink. I shutter to imagine the serial sexual and or physical abuse suffered upon you when you were a child or a teenager. And it makes me sick one person or a few people have broken you like this. But you know what? You are an intelligent 25 year old woman with her whole life ahead of her. Other people have gotten over these things and have gone on to more than look forward to spending a few days in the hospital! So just suck it up and go to rehab and see a shrink and move up and away from the abuse. YOU ARE LETTING THE ABUSER WIN EVERYTIME I GIVE YOU DILAUDID OR BENADRYL OR YOU ALLOW THE GI DOCS TO DO SCOPES AND THE SURGEONS TO CUT YOU OPEN. THE BAD PEOPLE ARE WINNING HERE!” (And yes I want to shout at her, because I am Nurse Tough Love in my head unlike my hero who said it out loud and to the patient. “Oh I forgot, you don’t work and have Medicaid and drug rehabs for people like you--the people who need it--are few and far between. It isn’t your fault the system is broken. So I’ll get your two milligrams of dilaudid, dear. (Insert hand pat)

After medicating B, I find myself outside of C’s room girding up for the daughter with her apologies and excuses for bringing her father back to the hospital. I luck out and she isn’t there yet. I gently stroke the top of his dear head and softly call his name. His eyes flicker open and his smile is distant and vacant. “Where am I?”
“At the hospital and I‘m lucky enough to be your nurse Mr. C.”
“Why am I here? I want to be at home in my chair.”
“I know but your daughter felt like you needed to stay with me a few days.”
“Is she here, where am I?”
(What I really want to say) “She isn’t here; It seems like she is greedy and won't sell your million dollar house in Very Prestigious Hills so you can live at a lovely Alzheimer’s facility. My guess is she is taking a well deserved spa day on your nickel because she quit her job to care for you. So she tells us you have fallen or almost fallen or might have had a stroke or were choking or couldn’t wake up or had a fever or stopped speaking or lost the feeling on one side of your body or something which will lead the ER to admit you to the hospital; when really she needs a break because it must be hard to take care of a frail elderly man who is confused and incontinent 24/7. I know I couldn’t take care of a demented loved one 24/7 for all the million dollar houses in the world. So daughter feels it is her right to contribute to the bankruptcy of the Medicare system with your frequent admissions. So you’ll stay here for 72 hours, get some fluids (when you keep your IV in); we will hover over you to make sure you don’t fall; keep your skin dry so you don’t get a wound; make placement recommendations--which will be ignored--and send you home. Again. Please don’t stop breathing or allow your heart to stop because I really don’t want to do compression on your 90 year old ribs; they will break with the first compression and it will make me physically ill. Find it somewhere in your mind to lucidly explain to your daughter you don’t want CPR because at this point, we must attempt resuscitation. Attempt is the key word here.”

D’s room is as quiet as a tomb. Damn, what if he died in the last hour and he was alone, how terrible for him he always liked lots of peo-- D interrupts my conclusion jumping with a twitch of a leg. I take his hand; it’s hot to the touch, clammy and very edematous. I say good morning and he speaks to me without opening his eyes. “I feel like crap.”
“I’m sure all this fluid is very painful. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable today. You’re burning up, too. Hey, I thought we had an agreement, the next time we saw each other it was going to be downtown on your corner!“
(What I want to say) “You look like crap, too. I think you might just die this time. Dude, you need a new liver. Hell, you need a new body. So I’m going to do my best to make you comfortable, k? And hopefully if your liver doesn’t kill you, the alcohol withdrawal won’t land you in the ICU for a few days. D, I think you just won today’s Most Medically Fragile award! And your prize is I get to treat your fever, your infection, your edema and make sure you don’t have seizure when you finally start withdrawing from the booze. And all of this with--you guessed it-drugs that could damage your liver with a side order of renal failure! Oh and another thing, I thought you were dead when I came in the room. Please don’t die today. I really want you to get well enough to tell me those crazy stories that may or may not be true.”

I press my ear to D’s door; I can hear her chanting to herself. Its quiet and a sing song repetition of the word: “camping”. Sure enough, she’s in the Veil Bed. A huge tent of a thing over the bed. It keeps us from harms way and we can sorta kinda control her behavior with limits and threats to “put her in the bed”. D doesn’t actually mind the bed and the last time she was here (cellulitis or gout or something like that) I remember she quietly approached me at the desk: “Lady I’m going to go off and I need to be put in that there bed so I don’t hurt you or anybody else what’s here today.” After I helped her to bed, she told me thank you and we had a very quiet afternoon until she called and said she felt better. It was a Zen moment. The split second before I awakened her I promised Buddha an orange slice if she had a quiet day because between crowd control in A’s room, liver control in D’s room and pain control in B’s room, E was going to have to give me a break. We don’t have the budget for a sitter so the bed and meds are going to have to keep all of us safe. I was in luck, D was smiling when she saw me and told me she was very hungry and wanted to sit in a chair because “camping” time was over.
“Camping? What do you mean?”
“Nurse yesterdee tol me I was a campin’ in this here bed! I likes to camp! Good thing too cuz wheres I lives is a sayin I cain’t come back there.”
“The group home?”
“Uh huh. The voices made ‘em tell me I couldn‘t live there no more” Tears spill from her eyes and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. I gently reach toward her, asking, “My I?” and wipe her cheeks with a Kleenex. “I don’t have any answers for you, E but I can get your breakfast set up. The case manager will see you later and you can make a plan with her.” E follows my directions and safely maneuvering around the bed’s curtain and lets me lead her to a chair. Her gait is unsteady and my hands on help keep her from falling when her knees buckle.
“I’m too fat, I shouldn’t eat.”
“It isn’t fat, it’s fluid from your liver and it’s building up around your stomach.”
“I’m not fat?”
“Nope, hardly. You’re very thin.”
(What I want to say)”You’re very thin because sometimes your thought processes are so disorganized you don’t eat. I fear for you and if I dwell too long on what your future is without a group home. I will weep for the injustice of it all because the best place for you, Fort Public Mental Institution, is closing in a few months. We treat our stray animals better than the mentally ill in this country. I’m so deeply saddened your psyche is broken. If I had a magic wand I would wave it around your heart and head and you would have the capacity and the competency to care for yourself.”
“E I will be back in thirty minutes with your medicine.”
“Oh OK lady. I’ll be here.”

*Patients A, B, C, D and E are composites of patients I care for. When I say “care” I sincerely mean this. As much as the drug seekers make me crazy and the Notreallysickjustreallysuffering people make me; I care for them. But I’m allowed to have an opinion about their stupid, self-destructive and dangerous behaviors. If you leave me a nasty comment, I’ll match your nasty. And if you keep a blog, well let’s just say you were warned. . .

I glance at the clock in the hall and the little hand is resting on the eight. Only eleven more hours. . .

I wish I could call my professional malaise burn out but it’s more like caregiver fatigue. For the most part, my fatigue isn‘t from the patients, their diseases and their demands on me but it stems from the system. Our system is hopelessly broken. If I knew the answer I would shout it from the mountains twenty miles to the west of where I’m writing and hope the powers that be hear me.

I’m fortunate my own psyche is such that just writing this blog entry helps me see the value of the work I do which in turn buoys me up I can face the five patients assigned to me tomorrow morning at 0630.

First and foremost, I will do no harm.

Delusions Of Happiness

One of my favorite blogs is here. Gretchen provides tips on Wednesday and they are always salient and timely. This week was no different. I had such a bad day on Monday, I was still reeling from it by Wednesday. A sort of numb PTSD feeling like I experience after an emergency that doesn't go well or a difficult death. Because of HPPA, I can't go into the particulars but lets just say I spent most of a twelve hour shift in one room and it wasn't because the patient was unstable and the doctor unwilling to send the patient to the ICU. Nope, this patient was completely out of control and in order to keep him off the floor I had to literally sit at his bedside and reorient him constantly. If my other four patients needed anything, the charge nurse had to come to the bedside while I threw pills and whisked bandages off and slapped them back on my other patients. I could go into a rant about this situation and why the patient was out of his mind and who it is but I would be (deservedly) fined five figures and lose my job. Anyhow, early Wednesday, cruising my blogs when I'm greeted with the "9 Tips for having a good bad day"

"Where the hell were you on Monday" I mumbled into the screen as I begrudgingly started reading. Begrudgingly, because I was in such a place that "bitter" and "angry" was starting to feel like a baseline emotion. Basically, I dumped all the water out of my half full glass so it would be empty. To be really woo-woo about it: I was giving my power over to someone else, namely to a patient with self-inflicted dementia. Who frankly, given how they have cared for themselves don't deserve the level of expertise and compassion they have received in my hospital. Anyhow, by number three (ruminating) I was hooked and realized how fruitless hanging on to the "no good terrible day" had been. To clarify, I didn't spend Tuesday in the midst of whining and moaning about my day at Crazy's bedside. I forced myself out of the house and pulled weeds, deadheaded flowers and decompressed in the dirt. But I did find myself returning to Monday's events and wishing I never EVER had to work as a nurse again. Whenever I contemplate not being a nurse I get a little sick inside. This is my calling and I'm going to let one really fucked up alcoholic borderline personality push me away from the bedside? If I did this, shame on me, I would be giving him my power.

Wednesday afternoon, I looked to number 7: "Act the way I want to feel" Which wasn't hard because we had this unseasonably cool and humid day yesterday and before I even tackled Gretchen's tips, I had been in the garden overcome with joy we have tomatoes on the verge of ripening. But I had the nagging sensation of counting down the hours before I had to return to work on Friday and I did not want to return with dread and a heavy heart. I wanted to return with hope for a better day and a patient who had the right mix of psych drugs on board so his thoughts and actions were a little more organized.

Yesterday afternoon, after Wally and Beav cleaned the house for me (beautiful job they did, too) my Ipod gave me a wonderful song I just discovered and downloaded last week. Too bad it's from a regrettably sappy movie Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Bob Schneider is a few years younger than me and maybe he is being Gen X and ironic when he wrote these words but I have taken them at face value:

There is a universe that can't be seen
It's just a feeling if you know what I mean
A delectable dimension undetectable by sight
It'll fill up your heart in the dead of the night
Some say its an astral plane
Can't be described can't be explained

The world exploded into love all around me
The world exploded into love all around me
And everytime I take a look around me
I have to smile

Oh is our life just an illusion
There is no need to figure it out
The separation exists not in your love filled heart
But only in your mind
The real story's all around you
Even now it surrounds you
Even now I feel the power

The world exploded into love all around me
The world exploded into love all around me
And everytime I take a look around me
I have to smile

I contemplated these words for a long time yesterday and I felt my spirits (aka "vibration") lift. Since I have spent eleventy thousand dollars in therapy, I find it exquisitely simple to act the way I want to feel. Once upon a time I thought acting cheerful like some sort of Little Mary Sunshine--you just need to turn that frown upside down and it will be a sunny bright day and all your problems will go away!--sort of dreck was just that: dreck. How dare I live an unauthentic emotion! To feign happiness in the face of bitterness, despair or frustration was lying to the world. Maybe it is a lie. Maybe being happy when things look bleak is a form of delusion. Or perhaps its just a way of looking around the road blocks to the place where love is exploding and the love in one's heart is not separated by the hell living in one's head.

All I know is my heart is full and love is exploding all around me. Thank you Gretchen and Bob.

Warrior Princess, Smorrior Princess. I'm just a mama protecting her youngin's

Long-standing myths are on the verge of mutating. Stories that have remained fixed for years are about to acquire unexpected wrinkles. The effects may be pretty spectacular. I suspect it'll be the equivalent of Sleeping Beauty waking up from her long sleep without the help of the prince's kiss, or like Little Red Riding Hood devouring the wolf instead of vice versa. There's something you can do, Pisces, to ensure that the new versions of the old tales are more empowering than the originals: For the foreseeable future, take on the demeanor and spirit of a noble warrior with high integrity and a fluid sense of humor.

This was my horoscope for last week. Warrior, yes; high integrity and a sense of humor was an epic fail. But it’s a place to start. Always the good thing about the bottom: you can move up. And see the stars and yadda yadda twelve step yadda.

The Beav had his wisdom teeth out last week and was a trooper about it. Wally was deployed from Alexis’ house to my house this weekend, against his will. I guess this will prepare him for the US Army to make decisions for him. Hopefully, he will accept them with more grace. Not that he has a stellar role model for that.

At least, I don’t have to continuing stuffing down how I feel about Alexis Carrington. What I was waiting to say after The Beav graduated from high school just sort of puked out of my mouth and into her ear. After she started to cry, she accused me of being: “mean”? Mean? Are we twelve or fifty here? The more apt verb would be “done”. I'm not being "mean". I'm coming from my unhappy "done" place.

But I started the week “done”. I resigned from doing charge nursing. If I didn’t have a child to finish raising I would have resigned from nursing. Too many never events in one single shift.

But my week hasn’t been without noble warrior moments.

One of my “noble warrior” moments last week was not calling security when the screaming family room physically threatened a doctor because I knew she was (a) crazy and (b) grieving. My second moment was allowing another family see my profound grief while I was at the bedside and shared the news their 48 year old sister--a vibrant, previously healthy, biologist--may never return from her vegetative state.

I owned to Alexis a few hours after my tirade of how thoughtless and self-centered she behaves, that believe it or not, I have an inkling of an idea the balance it would take to be a step parent. I also know it would never be for me. I don’t have the stones for it.

It took courage, telling Ward how Alexis has negatively affected our sons. I’ve been afraid to do this because, frankly, I’m worried about repercussions on them. It was tough to tell him things she has said to them and done to them over the years; things I’ve witnessed; the broken promises; The Beav's fear about being the kid left at Alexis' now Wally is living with me; how sincerely devastated I am to see the man he has become; so alien to the man I once loved. But then, I’m not the woman he fell for either. I’m not the nodding and bobbing “yes girl” who thinks he is an expert in everything and always right about all that is wrong with me. Tap dancing as fast as I can to make sure I change to fit into his specific mold for me because obviously what he thinks I should do and be is absolutely The Right Thing. When Ward married Alexis, he gave her a ring and his spine. I wish I could grow extra spine and gift part of it to him.

It takes a lot of grace to be a noble warrior. My reservoir of grace was temporarily empty but I can feel it slowly starting to fill again.

(I borrowed my girl Xena from boxoffice.com. She's fierce in that ep!. . .)

Dithering

Color me pissy today. Hormones maybe? A safe guess given I burst into tears when I saw a bald woman outside the middle school today. She was younger than myself and no doubt a chemo patient. Crying did help burn off some of my frustration but seeing her made me ashamed because the biggest reason I’m pissy today is I didn’t accomplish a single thing on my “to-do” list. I’m pretty sure this woman doesn’t give a shit about her to-do list and would trade places with me. On top of the horror of not accomplishing Important Tasks, I had to cook dinner and I hate to cook. I’m a terrible every day cook, give me a dinner party or holiday to cook for and I will rock a recipe. I can make beautiful food but just not on days that aren’t special. Like most Wednesdays. On top of all of this, I had to wait on Beaver after school and rather than just sitting in the parking lot I visited my crack dealer (insert Michaels link here) to pick up a few things I couldn’t live without.
Once I get there, I sort of stumble around the busy Halloween and Christmas displays. “Oh! Shiny! Look ornaments! Pretty! . . .Why am I here?” I forgot what I needed. My errand served as beautiful illustration of how my day had been going. I was supposed to get up early, walk the dog, do my laundry and go to Pilates and none of things happened. I also had great plans to finish a painting and start a massive music download for a special mix CD. Didn’t happen. So what did I do? I dithered around with images to use as transfers on shirts. But I didn’t actually do the transfers onto fabric because moving the iron and ironing board to the studio felt Herculean. I opted for sitting on my ass in front of the computer and HGTV messing around with images.

My Disregard the Body Karma came up and bit my wobbly dimpled ass this afternoon when I tried to upload a photoshopped image to flickr for this mixed media challenge. (link here). I swear my computer is possessed with gremlins playing “Hide The File“. My guess is a nine year old would have figured out where the file is because I’m all Short Bus all the way when it comes to software. I never did outsmart the Photoshop and Vista gremlins, rather I had to make a copy the appropriate size and then scan that down into a special desktop folder designated “Collage” blatantly displayed on my desktop. Given this frustration, I think my silent meltdown was appropriate when I arrived at the middle school in my gym clothes (too lazy to change) and received the: “mom-I-have-to-do-a-project-with-Tanner phone call” exactly thirty seconds after I had just made my ten mile commute.
I wanted to scream at myself for leaving the house in gym clothes, Sure I could make good use of the time and run an errand but I was in flippin’ gym clothes! I’m a Texas Girl and we don’t do anywhere in gym clothes except a jogging path and the gym. Ok, I might go to the emergency room but somebody better be Exsanguinated
I confess, once upon a time I routinely took the children to school in my robe and nightgown but this was when I lived exactly six tenths of a mile from the school. (One of my favorite people on the planet does this but she tops the robe with a beautiful scarf and makes sure she has on lipstick. I was fooled for about a decade.) Anyhow, I’m sitting in the school parking lot fuming at my kid for having the audacity of being so responsible and doing HOMEWORK after school. (It’s all so ridiculous , isn’t it?) when it occurred to me to just go to the crack dealer’s, gym clothes be damned. And so I went only to be distracted and daunted by Christmas to the point of forgetting my gold paint.
Despite my terrible attitude, everything turned out well, no one fainted at the sight of me in my stretch pants and tee-shirt; five o’clock traffic was forgiving and I cooked without whining (out loud at least).
Meanwhile, Dinner wasn’t a complete disaster and I ended up making chili out of various bits of leftovers in the ‘frig. Recently, The Girl kindly asked me to never make Sloppy Joes again. I had relied on them too many times and burnt her out. (all Klassy all the time at Chez Cleaver!) So what do we have in the ‘frig among the leftovers? Sloppy Joes and I think I did a fine job of disguising them with Other Stuff when I composed my chili. I even hit a sort of Zen space where I forgot how much I hate everyday cooking and sautéed onions in tarantella salsa and beer which added a nice kick to my Whore’s Chili.
So now that dinner is made and the dishes are washed and everyone is home; I’m feeling a little lighter. Almost ebullient. My weekly housewifery chores were done yesterday and I have one more day away from the hospital and yes, I have big plans:
Up early for a ass kicking class at the gym
Walk the dog after the boys leave for school
Meet Ms. A for a gallery tour at ten
Begin Christmas projects
Make dinner.
Dinner! Argh!