Christmas sucks because:
We only give gifts because we have to, not because we necessarily are inspired or can afford to. This is not exactly the way Jesus showed up, "Oh, ok...I'll save ya'll...and you get socks too!"
It happens in the winter, which at least where I live, is cold. This makes, shopping (see above) suck. And all that frolicking in the snow...only in the Gap ads, people, only in the Gap ads...
There is not enough time for all the baking, shopping (again, see above), church attending/choir practicing, working (again, see shopping), and still be sane enough to handle the actual day-to-day living. I don't think that anyone gave Jesus sugar cookies and fruitcake. Certainly we could do with more church attending and choir practicing (although, the lady that actually called and YELLED at me this year when I didn't the kids there on TIME this year, maybe she could do with less practicing...) Just...take a chill pill and a V-8 people. It's kids all dressed up at Christmas...and we think it's kinda cute when they mess up. If you practice them into perfection and the parents into stress, all that happens is that no one wants to come to church!
If you do not possess the "fond memories" of Christmas that the pastor refers to in his sermons all during Advent, it makes you feel not only like you are really screwed up, but also makes you worry about whether your kids are lacking them just like you are...yikes! Double whammy, straight to Hell, do not collect $200.
Singles can feel singled out at the holidays. And the unhappily married...well, I can't say there is "nothing lonelier", but being honestly alone can be easier than faking togetherness. I have had years when I had a great time with friends and well I can't say much other than that, but I know that some people have great husbands, and I have it on good authority that some people make great husbands: if you are one of them out there...hats off to you!
Trees! Dragging a perfectly healthy tree that has been chopped down in its prime so that it can sit around and become a mess and fire hazard...I would blame the pagans, but I'm not sure if that was their idea, or just something I heard on TV. Hard to tell anymore. Anyway, fake trees are really no better. I have one, since I am allergic to pine and resented getting sick from them every year (now I just get regular sick.)
My sons had their first experience putting up the tree this year, and complained when our kitten almost tore it down. I assured them that they could get the tree put back together, since only 5 feet of me had put up over 8 feet of tree in years past, there were two of them...and they were well over 5'7" EACH! When they argued that the cat would just destroy the tree again, I argued that if years of trees had survived twin boys, one tree would survive one kitten. The tree got put back up, and stayed up pretty well, in spite of them and the cat. But back to Christmas suckage...
Christmas...well, I guess it doesn't totally suck. Jesus, well, He's cool, and it is about Him. And my kids are cool (most of the time...which is about as often as I accomplish coolness either), and I am fortunate to have a "dearest"...whose non-husbandness makes him cool too. And so, I suppose Christmas is cool...and we will try to make it to choir practice on time, every time next year (yeah, right)!
Monday, December 28, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Morning 10
My morning 10 pills, not morning 10 minutes of break time, as most people would be taking at this of day in the "working world." I feel as though I'm doing because I really have something to say, but it is yet another prescription. This one from Marcel*. Not his real name of course. Nothing and no one has a real name of course...not my therapist, who is the one who prescribed resurrecting my blog, and the doctors are the ones who have prescribed the many pills that I take. The writing is trying to get done before I get to loopy to get the writing done. Sword is beyond double edged, it is threatening to leap into my hands and tempt me greatly to navigate from this page to one hari-kari, or however you spell it. Perhaps spell checking that one is not such a great idea.
Anyway, no one seems to have a real name anymore. Not Marcel, the therapist who prescribes blogging. I imagine he would be better as a merciless Frenchman, chain smoking through our sessions and then with a thick French accent, saying only "Hmph," and "You, get to yer computer. Tell these problems to the Internet. Perhaps you will find someone in cyberspace who cares. As for me, I must go get cafe. See you in two weeks. Au revoir." I hate the French. But Marcel, he is actually pretty cool, even though he isn't French, and doesn't chain smoke. Maybe I can ask him to at my next appointment.
Even my pills go by pet names. Moby Dick is my anti-inflammatory, which I find strange, since it is the smallest of them all. But, I think that is because it's real name is Mobic and I couldn't keep it straight. Again, ironic since it has the shortest name, too. Not easy when you're dealing with mashed potato brain from so much Xanax (the only medication that is also a palindrome. Therefore Xanax is my pal.) Gabapentin is just too big a mouthful, literally and figuratively, and so is just Gabby (and is nice in public, when my friend asks me if I "Have Gabby with me." Sounds more like we are checking to see which of us is making social plans, than if I have meds.) The one that makes me laugh the most is Flomax. I started taking Protonix, which, not surprisingly, is to handle stomach upset. I was struggling for about 6 weeks with such stomach pains that I had finally gotten to a diet of just bananas and rice cereal, which seemed ok to me, but to my boyfriend seemed to be a sign that perhaps something was terribly wrong. That, and I was gassing him out of the bedroom so badly every night that he was keeping air freshener by the beside just to survive.
After just a day or two on the Flomax...I was FINE. Apparently it heals up torn up gut stuff, and all those other pills: the Moby Dick, Pal, Gabby, and all of the other pain stuff, muscle relaxants, anti-depressants, ADD meds, etc. that they've got me taking just to keep me from doing the hari-kari thing that gets so tempting on the days that they don't work tend to rip up the stomach lining in the process. It didn't even take a day before Protonix became Flomax. So, my apologies to all the drug companies out there: but your stuff just doesn't really matter that much, as far as what it's called. What it does, is keep me sitting up, sometimes walking, and apparently from killing myself. That's good. And Shakespeare already covered all that "What's in a name?" stuff a loooong time ago, so don't get all in a huff over copyright infringement, and be glad you're making sure folks walk, talk, digest lasagna and keep from jumping out windows.
Even Marcel probably doesn't probably care what he's called, as long as he keeps people from killing themselves. How he keeps from killing himself after the patients walk out his door is a whole 'nother story. Maybe he does chain smoke. This is probably why he never has an office higher than the second floor: it's not just for the safety for his patients, it's for himself, too. I wonder what he does for his Morning 10?
Anyway, no one seems to have a real name anymore. Not Marcel, the therapist who prescribes blogging. I imagine he would be better as a merciless Frenchman, chain smoking through our sessions and then with a thick French accent, saying only "Hmph," and "You, get to yer computer. Tell these problems to the Internet. Perhaps you will find someone in cyberspace who cares. As for me, I must go get cafe. See you in two weeks. Au revoir." I hate the French. But Marcel, he is actually pretty cool, even though he isn't French, and doesn't chain smoke. Maybe I can ask him to at my next appointment.
Even my pills go by pet names. Moby Dick is my anti-inflammatory, which I find strange, since it is the smallest of them all. But, I think that is because it's real name is Mobic and I couldn't keep it straight. Again, ironic since it has the shortest name, too. Not easy when you're dealing with mashed potato brain from so much Xanax (the only medication that is also a palindrome. Therefore Xanax is my pal.) Gabapentin is just too big a mouthful, literally and figuratively, and so is just Gabby (and is nice in public, when my friend asks me if I "Have Gabby with me." Sounds more like we are checking to see which of us is making social plans, than if I have meds.) The one that makes me laugh the most is Flomax. I started taking Protonix, which, not surprisingly, is to handle stomach upset. I was struggling for about 6 weeks with such stomach pains that I had finally gotten to a diet of just bananas and rice cereal, which seemed ok to me, but to my boyfriend seemed to be a sign that perhaps something was terribly wrong. That, and I was gassing him out of the bedroom so badly every night that he was keeping air freshener by the beside just to survive.
After just a day or two on the Flomax...I was FINE. Apparently it heals up torn up gut stuff, and all those other pills: the Moby Dick, Pal, Gabby, and all of the other pain stuff, muscle relaxants, anti-depressants, ADD meds, etc. that they've got me taking just to keep me from doing the hari-kari thing that gets so tempting on the days that they don't work tend to rip up the stomach lining in the process. It didn't even take a day before Protonix became Flomax. So, my apologies to all the drug companies out there: but your stuff just doesn't really matter that much, as far as what it's called. What it does, is keep me sitting up, sometimes walking, and apparently from killing myself. That's good. And Shakespeare already covered all that "What's in a name?" stuff a loooong time ago, so don't get all in a huff over copyright infringement, and be glad you're making sure folks walk, talk, digest lasagna and keep from jumping out windows.
Even Marcel probably doesn't probably care what he's called, as long as he keeps people from killing themselves. How he keeps from killing himself after the patients walk out his door is a whole 'nother story. Maybe he does chain smoke. This is probably why he never has an office higher than the second floor: it's not just for the safety for his patients, it's for himself, too. I wonder what he does for his Morning 10?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Bottle of Brains
Under the gun to do something besides sit and watch yet another hour of the National Geographic Channel, since apparently neither my children nor my therapist want to hear anything more about volcanoes, submarines, how a guy survived a free-fall to earth after his parachute didn't open, or how the girl with 8 limbs is doing now (who knew there even WAS a girl with 8 limbs, let alone that we could get an update about her?), here I sit, blogging. Well, it's not only because my family is tired of my recounting my hours of reality TV addiction, but I have joined a group that I thought I never would (hey,I actually multi-tasked and joined two at the same time): the unemployed and disabled. Cool, huh?
It's funny how if you have no job and can't really go anywhere without someone to help...well...I don't know how to finish that sentence, actually. There's nothing really that funny about it. I hafta say, I am not a noble, patient, cool person to look up to right now. I am not bearing all this crap like those people you read about in magazines and stuff (great, so I am asking you to read about me? Well, no, but if you are, sit down, have a cuppa coffee and try to bear with me. I could use the company.) So the thing of it is, I am surprised, I will admit, at my own lack of bravado. I thought I would be one of those cool people. Nope!
Instead, I watch the aforementioned TV, drink a lot of coffee, and don't write all of the cool books I swore I would if I were ever confined to bed (which I feared I would be if my back ever gave up on me, which it apparently has...at least for now...even though I still haven't given up on it. We'll see who is more stubborn in the end.)
I am shocked at the weird thoughts that jump into my head when I am all alone, all day long, with just the cat to hang out with. I don't even know why it is, that the longer you're with yourself, the closer you get to wanting scream out the window, just to check and make sure the rest of the world can still hear you. But believe me, all it takes is one missed car payment to let you know that you're very much missed.
There's no way to know whether it'll be a month or 6 months or more til I begin getting better. And that's just for my back. Then there's the rest of me they'll hafta fix. Anyone have a bottle of brains out there?
It's funny how if you have no job and can't really go anywhere without someone to help...well...I don't know how to finish that sentence, actually. There's nothing really that funny about it. I hafta say, I am not a noble, patient, cool person to look up to right now. I am not bearing all this crap like those people you read about in magazines and stuff (great, so I am asking you to read about me? Well, no, but if you are, sit down, have a cuppa coffee and try to bear with me. I could use the company.) So the thing of it is, I am surprised, I will admit, at my own lack of bravado. I thought I would be one of those cool people. Nope!
Instead, I watch the aforementioned TV, drink a lot of coffee, and don't write all of the cool books I swore I would if I were ever confined to bed (which I feared I would be if my back ever gave up on me, which it apparently has...at least for now...even though I still haven't given up on it. We'll see who is more stubborn in the end.)
I am shocked at the weird thoughts that jump into my head when I am all alone, all day long, with just the cat to hang out with. I don't even know why it is, that the longer you're with yourself, the closer you get to wanting scream out the window, just to check and make sure the rest of the world can still hear you. But believe me, all it takes is one missed car payment to let you know that you're very much missed.
There's no way to know whether it'll be a month or 6 months or more til I begin getting better. And that's just for my back. Then there's the rest of me they'll hafta fix. Anyone have a bottle of brains out there?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)