AFK ... or, It's Always #$%@^% Hot in Tennessee

I realize I've been neglecting my blogging duties. I hate it, too. I actually enjoy sharing my thoughts and views with all two of my readers.

Life, however, has intervened. It's brought some surprises, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and one that totally caught me offguard.

The not so pleasant first: That feeling I've had in my gut for months turns out to be physical. Pending the results of an ultrasound, there may soon be less of me as some surgeon gets the opportunity to wield his laser-surgery thingy and extract my gallbladder. With all the misery the damned thing has been causing me (if it is indeed that), I'd let him take it now. I sure as heck don't want it anymore.

The Girl is growing up way too fast for me. Now in high school, she's exploring her career options and, to my consternation, is exploring a profession very close to mine. I've guided her away from this field all her life, only to find her attracted to it. Sigh.

I helped chaperone her and 60-something teens to a band competition yesterday. It was hotter than seven hells in July. I wound up getting sick during their performance and sought solace in a shady area until sundown.

Personally, I have never thought a band festival was a place to take a date. Apparently, The Ex is not of a like mind, for he squired his latest to the one and same. It was my first look at her. And -- I'm cuter and look younger! Ha! I was even cuter with my sweaty hair, pulled back oh-so-unelegantly in a ponytail with strands falling unevenly around my face. And that's the end of this oh-so-mature and meow moment.

My good friends (and you know who you are) can read all about the offguard thing if you e-mail me. :)

I'll try to do better here. Promise!

Getting old sucks

Three weeks ago: While detailing my car, I threw out my back. It was impossible to find a comfortable sitting position. After weeks of drugs, it's finally better. Mostly.

Monday: To keep from getting a citation for an unkempt lawn, I decided after work to toil on cutting the grass. I hauled out the mower from the storage building, started to gas it up, and a bumblebee, or something that looked like one, decided my task pissed him off. Bad. He came attacking -- a sting to the right hand, another to the right elbow and a third to the left thigh. The result? A swollen, FAT hand that I had to keep on ice for 24 hours. Damned bee. I hope he's dead.

Tuesday: I was strolling through a bookstore with The Girl and a friend, when my leg started hurting. Sharp pain. Nothing unusual; I have a bum knee, and it often throbs with pain. Only, about 10 minutes into the pain, I realized it's not my knee! It's my shin, and it hurts like a mofo. (Am I the only one who freaks out and thinks "blood clot" when I get weird pains? I think that's my biggest fear of dying.)

Today: It. Still. Hurts. And my hand, while slimming, is still fat.

Back atcha, babe

I decided yesterday that I was tired of driving a trash can. So I cleaned out my car.

Cleaned the windows. Vacuumed, which sucked up the dirt but left most of the white dog hairs clinging to the seats. (The fact that this dog isn't bald -- and has no bald spots -- is one of the great mysteries of life. I continue to clean up enough hair to knit a new litter of pups.)

I even used Armor-All on the dash. I haven't done that since high school, which is longer ago than I care to remember.

My car is now spiffy on the inside.

And my thanks? An aching back, just in time for work on Monday.

Excuse me while I moan and adjust the heating pad.

Men's Health

Apparently, Men's Health magazine decided I have a subscription.

I ask you, WHY would I subscribe to Men's Health? I am not a man. The only male in my life is a 4-year-old Pekingese, and while he's adorable, the only use he'd have for Men's Health is to chew on its pages and maybe provide me with paper should he have an accident.

I found a toll-free number inside the magazine, so I called to cancel my "subscription." (I'm still rolling my eyes. Ye gads!)

I'm probably going to give the two issues they kindly sent yesterday to a co-worker. Lord knows I don't need them -- well, unless the dog has the aforementioned accident, and there's plenty of unsolicited junk mail lying around here to take care of that.

Thursday haiku ... and other ramblings

I'm tired this Thursday
But there's laundry to do--
My closet's bare.

The other editor
Makes hateful accusations--
Her life must be sad.
***
Anyone who knows my bleeding-heart liberal leanings should bookmark this for future reference, because I'm about to jump to the defense of a conservative Republican.

We're in the midst of a war, at the end of the bloodiest and deadliest month in the years since Dubya decided to jump onto an innocent country because "they picked on mah Daddy." Health care in this country is a joke. If gas prices continue to escalate I'm going to have to get a second job in order to afford to drive to my first job, and I'm not alone.

Now why, in the midst of all that needs fixing in this country, are some people picking on Mitt Romney's faith? Admittedly, I know next to nothing about Romney. I know he was governor of Massachusetts. (Wasn't he? Maybe I'd better go look -- yeah, he was. Thank goodness for Wikipedia and a tip of my hat to Michael Scott.) I'm sure I could find something I didn't like about him, what with his right leanings and my left ones.

Why do many in America have a problem with a person's religious affiliation? I would have never known what Romney's denomination was if it hadn't been for all the "Oh, gosh, he's Mormon!" squeals. Hell, I've supported John Edwards in two presidential races now, and I wouldn't even begin to guess which church he drives to on Sunday, or even if he goes to church.

Nor do I care. I want to know what a future insert-elective-office-here can do to make our world better and how dedicated he or she is to the job at hand. Their faith is between them and their God, god, goddess, Magic Conch or whatever.
***
I am so freaking tired. A vacation isn't too far away, and I can't wait. I just want to rest; the hell with the rest of it.

Even though time off will be glorious, I can't help but worry a little bit. The first few days back at work usually consist of putting out fires. I say "I'm sorry" a lot to folks who call and want to know why their insert press release here didn't make it into the newspaper. Sigh.

Time to toss in some laundry. "Clothing optional" is not a dress-code option. Although ... it would be dressing down. Of course, I'd probably get a dressing down for it. Wonder if I could formulate a persuasive argument about Casual Fridays?!? ;)

Outrage

Meredith Vieira is outraged.

She's not alone. Talking heads are filling the airwaves with their perplexities, wondering why on earth nothing was done to treat a disturbed young man before he went on a rampage that left 33 dead, including himself.

This is no surprise to those of us who have dealt with mental illness personally. Nobody takes it seriously -- except those living with it.

Insurance companies -- including Medicare and TennCare -- will only pay for so many days. I literally counted the days until the end of a six-month period, when Medicare would again pay for my mother's stay at a mental hospital.

Even those trained to deal with mental illness don't recognize it. Time and again, I would beg them to keep Mom for further evaluation and treatment.

"She's OK," they'd tell me, practically pushing the poor soul on me to take home to wallow in her personal hell.

Except she wasn't. My sweet mother, who only completed the seventh grade and spent her life doing menial jobs to support first her aging parents and then my sister and me, could give an Academy Award-worthy performance in front of others. My aunt and I, however, could look into her eyes and see the troubled soul that lurked underneath. And no matter how much we protested, they continued to tell us she was OK.

We begged her to take her medicines. She wouldn't. We'd rat her out to her doctors. They'd rail. She'd promise to do better. She wouldn't.

That's the roller coaster of mental illness, folks.

And HIPAA -- what a joke. There were times I couldn't talk one-on-one with my mother's caregivers because -- SURPRISE! -- I wasn't listed as one of the people they could talk to. THE WOMAN WAS MENTALLY ILL!!! Putting my name on a form wasn't uppermost on her mind in the river of misery that led her to treatment.

I called health officials and said, "Look -- you can't talk to me; but I can talk to you." And talk I did.

"Please don't let her out."

"Please. I found a noose in her apartment. I'm afraid she'll kill herself."

"She's not taking her medicine."

"She's conning you."

They listened, all right -- they signed release forms and sent her back to continue her path of destruction.

I wrote my congressman and begged him to re-examine the HIPAA law in relation to the mentally ill. He didn't even bother to respond with a form letter thanking me for my interest. Bastard.

The demons that haunted my mother were quieted just over two years ago. It was no thanks to the society that was meant to protect her or any physician or health-care worker who finally saw the light.

My mother took matters into her own hands. One sunny Sunday morning, she pointed a handgun between her breasts and squeezed the trigger.

The woman who gave me life silenced her demons by taking her own. A victim of a system that didn't take her illness seriously.

Now 33 are lost for the same reason. Meredith is outraged -- and so are many others.

Maybe a national outrage will force people to listen. Maybe it will lead to better care for the mentally ill.

It's the prayer I lift while asking for strength for the families of the victims -- including the parents of the gunman.

There is life after The Bug

The Bug is bad.

As one who lived to tell the tale, The Bug is debilitating. It's tiring. And it makes you feel like a queen because your new favorite seat is a throne that needs a royal flushing.

It can be beat -- but you'll never recognize that when The Bug is in your life. It turns a heating pad and Pepto into your best friend.

Kaopectate? Kid's stuff. The Bug laughs in its face.

Immodium? Don't waste your money. It's like pouring water onto The Bug.

The one good thing about The Bug is that it lives only about a week. But it's the longest, toughest week of your life.

Bet on it.

My newest hero

I'll be watching for Jonathan Alter's byline from now on. He has won my respect.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17821116/site/newsweek/?from=rss

I wouldn't dare judge this couple during this emotional time in their lives. I thank God everyday that cancer is not among the demons that have afflicted my immediate family. But with other demons afloat, I can tell you that normalcy is the one thing you long for when the world is upside down.

Politics and campaigning equal normalcy to the Edwardses. My best friend lost her mother to cancer as she was entering college. She took a year's break from her studies to care for her until the end. (Which was nearer than she thought.)

Another friend recently lost a father to cancer. She worked through until the last week. What else was she going to do? Her thoughts and heart were with her dad every second, but steadily working gave her the comfort "normalcy" offers. (And allowed her to pay the bills. Bill collectors don't care if your father is dying of cancer. They don't care about anything. They're not human, but that's a topic for another day.)

I do not cast my lot with Alter because I support Edwards in this upcoming presidential race. I found out yesterday while listening to NPR that cancer has been found in the liver of Tony Snow, press secretary to the worst president in U.S. history. I gasped, and immediately offered up a prayer for Snow and his family.

Cancer is devastating. I never want that personal experience.

I commend every syllable Alter writes in this piece. The ending, however, is something we should all take to heart:

No one can say how you-or anyone else-will react until actually faced with a devastating diagnosis. In my case-and Tony Snow's, Laura Ingraham's, Jay Monahan's (the late husband of Katie Couric) Elizabeth Edward's and hundreds of thousands of others-the choice was to try to hold onto as much of our old life as humanly possible. Don't judge that.