Reader

Get outta here

2009-03-21T20:21:00.001-04:00

Most of you know where to find me. If you don't, email me and I will clue you in. Now go. There's nothing to see here.

Considering, considering

2009-01-18T15:09:00.003-05:00

I miss the old way. The old... place.

I miss it a lot.

I want to go back there. Perhaps not a great idea... but the old place is calling me.

What say you? Shall we go back to where we were?

Time

2009-01-16T17:02:00.003-05:00

Just a quick note today: Go see dear Lisa and wish her well. She is one of the bravest, kindest, and smartest people I know. She could use a boost (to put it mildly) so go on over there and give her one.

Things are decidedly better over here - almost good enough that I feel capable and even likely to begin my slavish and groveling campaign to win back the respect and affection of Avitable, whom I have treated monstrously in the last few months. Very badly. Indeed worse even than... well. Perhaps I won't describe it. But if Avi forgives me by the time we both turn a year older (this is not long for either of us, I am certain) I will count myself truly blessed. Because I have behaved... oh forget it. We'll talk about it later.

In other news, of the mind numbingly boring sort, I had the last piece of metal dental work removed from my head today. I now have enough "invested" in my teeth to make dying any younger than, say 90 a complete waste of funds. Ha ha.

Guess I better get on with all that living.

Love,

A

Sooner

2009-01-08T22:15:00.002-05:00

(s).

My darling Woodrow has just informed me that the OK Sooners are tied at the half and so need intercessory intervention of a time sensitive nature. Light a candle for recently departed excellent priests and Oklahoman football victory.

(Gracias).

Proof I am still Catholic

2009-01-08T20:48:00.004-05:00

Actually, not. It's more like proof I am still willing to cry a little bit.

Father Neuhaus died today of cancer. His book Death on a Friday Afternoon is has not left my nightstand for six years, events and contingencies notwithstanding. And that's saying something.

If you are a praying type, do what you do. If not, think of someone who inspires you and give thanks.

Love,

A

Clarification

2009-01-06T20:32:00.002-05:00

To be fair, I should explain that I see Excellent doctor frequently. Why? Because she is a true PCP. She is the hub around with all my other medical specialists operate. In a given year I see her at least three times - usually more like six. Between all my various specialists, I see her to review all the wreckage. And last year when I made my first trip to what might rightly be called a developing country, she chose what immunizations I should have. When she rattled off the list of hepatitis vaccines, I stopped her and told her that I was determined, despite all my human frailty, not to do it with any Moroccan men - or any other men of any other nationality. As I announced this, she chuckled in a way that only a doctor who knows far more than you do can chuckle. Then she started cracking jokes about me smoking hashish and whoring my way across the Sahara desert. At the time it was hilarious. I laughed so hard it hurt.

Since then, every time she gets a chance to obliquely suggest I get laid, she takes the opportunity. And we giggle, and it is all very funny. Ha ha.

Only this time she wasn't laughing. This time I think what she meant, as usual, was not that I engage in all manner of inappropriate reproductive behavior with any creature not dragging his knuckles and drooling onto his shirtfront. She meant that I ought to move the fuck (pun very intended) on. And that moving on might mean making my own family, somehow, someway, so that the destruction of the one I was born into can be left firmly behind.

I suppose, since I am in a clarifying mood, that I should explain further what I meant by getting the information about my current fertility or lack thereof. I meant only that I know now that if I have children, it will be alone. Since that is the last option open to a woman two weeks shy of 39 years old, I thought I should at least know if even that is possible. I do not mean to say that I am determined to do it alone; merely that I want to know if even that is possible.

Other news is otherwise good, but I don't have to stamina to write about other things. Be assured I am better every day.

Love,

Aelalea

Normal people

2009-01-05T15:23:00.004-05:00

Today at the doctor's office, my doctor and I reviewed my recent blood work. We noted the absence of two results: TSH and FSH. TSH is thyroid stimulating hormone and FSH is follicle stimulating hormone. My doctor is interested in my TSH because although my blood work is otherwise unremarkable, she wants a benchmark for "later." Also, she believes my thyroid function might not be as speedy as it should be. To which I say: whatever.

The other number interests me more. A low FSH would mean that I am still theoretically able to have children. Never in the history of reproductive ideas has my having a baby been a good idea. It is right at this moment the worst possible idea in the realm of any and all possible ideas. However, however bad an idea it is, I suspect that right about now is the last time I will be able to entertain it. So I want to know if it is even possible. My doctor, having heard my reasoning for being desirous of the information, said the following:

Excellent doctor: "There are other tests you can perform all by yourself that are far more accurate."

Ordinary Me: "Oh good. What can I do?"

enter *pregnant* silence

Excellent doctor: "You could find out much more easily than I can by changing your lifestyle."

enter *total* bewilderment

Ordinary Me: "I can't do that."

Excellent doctor flips through my file while my bewilderment grows more complicated. She looks up at the ceiling as she performs a few simple mathematics problems.

Excellent doctor: "Your mother got sick when you were sixteen and died when you were twenty-five. Your dad then got sick when you were thirty-five. That means your entire reproductive life has been bookended by the deaths of your parents."

enter super-pregnant silence

Ordinary Me: "It has?"

Excellent doctor "You do the math."

Ordinary Me: "Oh."

Excellent doctor: "It's time to start living for you. And in case you are not sure what I meant, the easiest way to determine whether you can get pregnant is to have sex."

Ordinary Me: "You are kidding, right?"

Excellent doctor: "Normal people do it all the time."

What I meant to say

2008-12-22T18:22:00.004-05:00

Perhaps I could have managed yesterday's post with a little more class and a lot less whine.

I am okay. Things are okay. I guess. No one new has gotten sick or died, and I haven't racked up any more catastrophes. I am okay. Except not, which I will now try to splain.

A few weeks ago I decided it was time to exhale and clean up the wreckage of the past four years. I gave it a name: Season of Badness (SOB)*. I declared the season over and attempted to reclaim my former personality, reorganize my life, and rejoin society without reference to the SOB. I got off my ass, flossed, exfoliated, applied a little elbow grease to my inner beauty and resolved to leave SOB behind.

It so didn't work.

My first clue was that with just a moment or two of reflection, I discerned that good intentions notwithstanding, I still required one (and sometimes two) of four things in order to sleep: a) alcohol, b) anti-histimines, c) xanax or d) piles of prescription sleep medication. Not applying one (or two) of the above to my brain is 100% certain to end in me being awake literally all night. Not sleeping at all. And no, it's not because I am busy twisting the heads off the voodoo dolls. I do not lay awake thinking about "it". But sleep and I have not been together in, oh, four years.

My second clue was that despite every good intention of groveling my way back into the good graces of all my friends, I persisted in failing to call any of them. Note: if you knew me in real life, you would know that I have not been able to handle even perfunctory friendship responsibilities, such as returning phone calls, showing up at the gym, and expressing interest in other people's affairs. For about a month after the funeral, I kept up with my friends. And then I went underground. And since they have seen this kind of behavior from me before, they don't track me down. They know I'll be back around when I have enough emotional chee to at least feign interest. But no amount of flossing or exfoliating makes me feel capable of behaving like a normal citizen. So I am awol from my friends for, oh nearly six months. That even includes some of you who live in the computer.

Oh and that final clue? That would be that I wake up (please note this would be after I intoxicate myself by one means or another) in the middle of the night crying. I apologize. There is no way of reporting that information that doesn't sound ass-dragging pathetic. (Just be grateful you are not my boyfriend).

So what does all this data tell me? Does it tell me that the weather hasn't changed? Does it tell me that SOB is not yet over?

Oddly, no. The weather has changed quite a bit and the flossing will surely get me on the lower half of the waiting list for heaven. My skin looks much better, even if I am no more nice a person. SOB is definitely over.

The data, in short, tells me that reclaiming my former personality, reorganizing my life, and rejoining society is not going to work. Whoever I was before the SOB is not someone I can be again. That me is over. And while you might assume the news would be distressing, it isn't really. More than anything, I am just confused.

When I say I am not okay, therefore, what I am saying is that I do not know who I am anymore. I can't go back to the way I was, and I literally do not know how to proceed with the post-SOB season. I don't know how to behave, and I don't know what to think, and I don't know what to do. So do I hate everything, like I said? Not exactly. I just don't know anything anymore and it's disorienting and scary. Just go with it for now. I have to go with it, too.

* Pronounced "Saab" - only at the end you have a huge ass and brain damage from all the crying - not the European luxury car we would all prefer.

Come back later maybe

2008-12-21T13:41:00.003-05:00

Things have been chaotic, even on the best of days. Rest assured, there IS a fairy and there WILL be a post describing her. I will also describe (sorry) my deteriorating brainal health and my intense desire to trade lives with someone, anyone else. Even six months later, this has proven too much for me.

I will post when I am feeling better. That's not now, obviously. And probably you are wishing I had kept my mouth shut until I had something else to say besides, "I hate everything." I don't know what to say except please lord Jesus get me through Christmas and I will try to feel not like by New Years.

Gracias.

Elevator music

2008-12-08T12:33:00.005-05:00

Why do we call it elevator music? When was the last time you were riding in an elevator and had the pleasure of listening to familiar melodies piped into the elevator car as you ascended or descended?

Never, right?

So why do we call it elevator music? Why?

We hear elevator music when we are on hold with the credit card companies or the IRS or the brokerage holding our shrinking IRA accounts. We hear it in department stores but never in department store elevators.

From whence did this term come? Seriously. From whence?

A big step forward has been made in the reclamation process. I have not had the time to describe it yet, but I will describe it on, I think, Wednesday after my first appointment with the archetypal therapist (who thinks and behaves just like a little fairy and has thoughts and opinions similar to those one might expect from one). She is a piece of work and a half. I'll describe her for you Wednesday.

Love,

Aelalea

Where I have been

2008-12-03T10:52:00.017-05:00

One odd thing about this new blog is that I am not officially signed up with Blog365, which makes me less spastic about making sure I post every day. I know I should be anyway. But I am busy busy busy. Plus privacy issues related to the place I live plus my determination to keep my anonymity this time causes me some confusion about what to post. I am choosing not to over-analyze today.

I spent the weekend at my brother's house. I do not have authorization to post pictures of my brother Buzz, his wife Leta, and their son Liam. But here is their fireplace, which has, I am almost certain, no right to privacy.

I also finished my kitchen, but you've already seen pictures of that. You probably have not seen, however, my new knitting/yoga area. It is the landing of third floor. It used to look like this:

Now it looks like this:

Here is my yarn stash:

Yes, that is a canvas shoe holder. Yes, I am working with what I have. Yes, this place is far more livable now that it's clean. And yes, the pool table is now usable.

Today marks the end of the "Make situation livable" initiative. Tomorrow, I will describe my next initiative: the "Aelalea Reclamation Project." (Just throw in my old name there if you are still thinking of me in that way). (I still think of me in that way most of the time too).

Have a good Wednesday.

Kitchen during part 2

2008-11-28T16:35:00.009-05:00

And because Rome wasn't built in a day (or even three) the side of the kitchen I still can't manage:

Tomorrow I expect, I hope, I pray to get curtains up around the counters (to hide all that stuff there I can't even begin to deal with) and the cover the remaining counter tops and wash all that stuff in the sink.

What do you y'all think? Better, no?

Love,

Aelalea

Kitchen during

2008-11-24T18:39:00.004-05:00

(This is the post where you are supposed to praise me for my bravery and prowess. Or something).

I moved that inexplicable piece of furniture into the "other" room - not yet pictured because not even a camera will fit in there.

The result is something resembling "space".

Tomorrow - or later tonight depending on how much noise I am willing to risk - I will move even more crap around in Bob and Kate's wonderland of the grotesque.

I am happy. How are you?

Kitchen before

2008-11-22T18:13:00.008-05:00

I started dealing with the upstairs kitchen today. Since this little slip of a room has not been used in many years, and since all those years ago its primary function was "dark room," I have to pick and paw through many bottles of toxic chemicals, all of which are contained in glass or plastic and are, in my opinion, more toxic than ever since they are at least twenty years old. Without further adjective, my kitchen:

And here is one of the cabinets filled with toxic agents:

And here is one of the inexplicably placed piece of what I am guessing is dining room furniture (it is filled with moth balls - open this thing and you will singe your eyeballs):

Here is one of the opposite counter top:

And the finale, the roach cemetery that is the sink:

Yes, I really do get to clean all this up. I have to work on this project as quietly as possible so as no to alert Bob and Kate that I might be throwing out something that belongs to them, even the corpses of their roaches; therefore, I have to empty out this space and box every worthless thing in it, find a way to store all the garbage, and then clean the hell out of the cabinets and counters and THEN put in a microwave, a toaster oven, and a dish drain all without them detecting my activities. None of these installations can be accomplished until Thanksgiving Day, when Bob and Kate will be out of the house (thank you Jesus) and I can get away with buying these things and bringing them home. (Note: if I buy so much as a Q-tip, they give me a hard time for wasting my money on Q-tips when they would have been happy to give me theirs. More on that issue later).

Love,

Aelalea

In which I tell a funny story several times

2008-11-22T13:00:00.008-05:00

Recall the reasons I live with Bob and Kate: a) because I am broke and need somewhere to live that is cheap (in this case, free) and b) because they need help straightening out their 40 years worth of marital possessions.

These circumstances give rise to some humorous incongruities.

On one hand, if I pick up a dusty plastic carnation that I found half melted next to the boiler - all the way down in the cellar - ... well, before I am permitted to deposit that runny, dust-encrusted tragedy of a whatever into a trash can, I must listen to a full history of the flower's acquisition, complete with a side-commentary on the romantic feelings engendered by the flower at the time of its introduction to their household, followed by a detailed history of all the carefully considered storage strategies for said flower, especially the one that caused someone, with every noble sentiment and careful consideration, to place the flower on the floor about four and one half inches from the boiler. In 1977. After this information has been related to me, we all heave a melancholy sigh and agree to deposit the flower into a trash receptacle.

On the other hand, while these people may be relied upon to give a full history of every worthless piece of garbage in their entire four story house, they have - at least once a week - no idea why I live with them. Wait - let me rephrase. They know I am there to do all manner of whatever they can think of for them. What they can't remember is why I am reduced to agreeing to perform whatever duties they can think of at any given moment of any given day, amen.

At least once a week, I have the same conversation with Bob.

"Where is your mother?" he asks.

"She has already passed on," I reply.

"Why?" he asks.

"Breast cancer," I say. Big pause while he thinks of breasts and big scary tumors.

"Mother fucker," he says.

"Indeed," I reply.

"What about your daddy?" he says.

"He has also passed on," I say.

"What happened to him?" he says.

"Leukemia," I say. Big pause while he considers bad cells running around in the blood of my father.

"How old?" he says.

"Sixty-seven" I reply.

"God damn it," he says.

Bob and I had this conversation three times before I decided to spice it up a bit by using the word "dead" instead of the phrase "passed on." When we rounded the corner to conversation number five, I decided I would throw in the part about how the root cause of me living there is all the bills I accumulated because of my dad's illness. But then yesterday, he forgot all of it all over again and forgot the part about me being broke, too.

"Where are your parents, honey?" he asked. Big pause while Lalea thinks what to say.

"My parents are dead. They died and we burned them up and put their ashes into urns. The reason I live here is because I spent so much money trying to see my dad when he was sick and when he died, and got all burned up and put into an urn, the family's money was all gone," I said.

Bob took a moment to sift through this information. The mental image is one of my father's ashes slipping through his fingers onto the ground.

"Where did all the money go?" Big pause while Lalea thinks of what to say.

"He gave it to people who are not in our family," I said.

"Mother fucker," said Bob. No pause.

It is unclear what Bob meant - ie, whether life is a mother fucker or my dad is a mother fucker, but Lalea simply nodded in agreement and continued doing what she was doing, ie, some stupid task assigned to her by one of the two of them.

No doubt I will have to explain at least two or three more times where my parents are and why I live in their attic. Next time maybe I'll include a more graphic description of cremation, ie, a drip pan and a bone crushing phase to ensure the consistency of the "cremains," so as to make the idea really stick in his long term memory.

Have an excellent Saturday.

Love,

Aelalea

Organizer for hire: free to a good home.

2008-11-19T19:09:00.005-05:00

In four hours, I turned a space that looked like this:

into a place that looked like this:

Furthermore, I threw nothing away and can show the owners of the building precisely where their belongings have been stored.

(I realize the after picture is underwhelming; but where do you put a piece of sheet glass and a double sized futon without the owners of the properly flipping their lids over it?

At least now I can sort of use the space. Perhaps tomorrow, I will be brave and post pictures of the other rooms I occupy. They have been similarly transformed.

The full treatment

2008-11-19T10:30:00.009-05:00

Pre-post disclaimer: I like Bob and Kate. I like them a lot, in fact. It verges on love, to be more exact. I will be forever grateful to them for saving my life. However, I find that in spite of my good fortune, I want to describe some of the peculiarities of living at Bob and Kate's, and doing so will inevitably make me look bad. (Very). Starting right now.

Ever since I moved into Bob and Kate's* house (a month ago), I have been familiarizing myself with the habits, likes and dislikes of these fine people who are putting me up for free for an indefinite period of time. (If you are unfamiliar with the circumstances that brought me to Bob and Kate's Asylum for Broke, Nomadic, Middle-Aged Women, you were not reading my other blog and I can't direct you there because then there would be a discernible relationship between that blog and this one and then everything would be ruined and I would have to start a whole other new blog. Anyone curious about the circumstances that would reduce a 38 year old independent, successful woman to a broke, nomadic, heavily medicated house pet is welcome to email said house pet (me) for a 10 sentence synopsis of the last two years of my life. It's no trouble. Really).

Let me start over.

The idea was I would live here for some number of months, probably years, and in exchange for a rent-free room on the third floor, I would help them sort through their accumulated forty years worth of possessions in preparation for their move to a smaller house. (Their current house is huge).

As with all good things that seem simple and straightforward, this arrangement is turning out to be the opposite of simple and straightforward. I am discovering because both Bob and Kate are well into their seventies and one of them has serious health problems, I can't go up or down the stairs without paying what I call "the toll."

The toll is measured in minutes and fluctuates wildly. On good days, the toll is a ten minute shoulder massage. Other days it is what I refer to as a full treatment: shoulder massage, hot wash cloth on face and neck to "improve complexion," massaging lotion into feet, ankles and legs (up to the knee) followed by stretching out and massaging of arms, followed by 10 minutes of head scratching. The toll is thusly forty minutes.

Now, if I happen to be engaged in the full treatment, and the phone rings or someone comes to the door, I have to get the phone or the door and then start the full treatment over again. (I don't know - don't ask).

If you are wondering what the other half of this couple is doing while I am performing these tasks, it is this: getting relief from performing them his (or her) self, as that is just what he (or she) would be doing if I was not there to do it. (I have not yet discerned whether he (or she) would tell the other half of this couple to shove it if I were not around to be a witness).

Lest I sound like an ungrateful, spoiled child, let me assure you that I mind all this very little but for one thing: time. I am still teaching ten classes. I am still having to spend time sorting through their things. And the toll, on the very worst of days, stretches into hours.

In short, I have less control of my time than ever before. (One of the other reasons I had to flee the old blog address was that if I did get ten minutes to myself to blog, I could write about any of this).

If I decide to go out to the store for a bottle of diet soda (bad, bad, bad, I know), I have to budget for up to three hours of toll - and if I am lucky, the whole operation involves nothing harder than a ten minute shoulder massage.

But then when I get home with my bottle of diet soda, both members of the duo comment on the fact that I just wasted $1.79 on a bottle of soda when I could have just asked them for soda because they always keep it around the house.

Tune in tomorrow if you don't understand why I wouldn't drink their soda instead of going out and getting my own.

Oh wait. Come back no matter what. Tomorrow I might post something funny and I don't want us to miss it.

* I can never reveal the real names or any identifying characteristics of these people until, say, 100 years after their deaths. Obviously, I have to protect their privacy, but more important, I have to keep them and myself anonymous so as to avoid the necessity of creating yet another blog. Good lord, I hated to do that. So I don't have to do it again, please play along. Thank you.

Well, that was bullshit

2008-11-17T11:59:00.001-05:00

Hi.

You have (probably) landed here because a coward (named Ni-na) quit writing her blog because she knew she might insult all kinds of people if she continued writing.

She was completely full of it.

She wanted a new place to write where no one she knew in real life could find her and crease their frontal lobes at her because she swears so much, because she is so ungrateful, because she is so finger on the trigger ready to blame everyone in the whole wide universe for anything that does not suit her. (This might be a good time to stop talking about Nina in the third person).

Welcome to my new blog about nothing. Well, sometimes it will be about something, but if you were reading the old one, you know know that one day might net you a post about chicken torture and then next day might be pictures of me rock climbing. Then you might get vicious ridicule of my students or if I am not quite in that mood, a mitten haiku.

Welcome. This is my (our) new home, and here we need not worry who is reading. (It's just us. Doesn't it feel good to be just us again)?

Love,

Aelalea