Long Memory?

Last year, I talked of killing a lot of Japanese Beetles in a Friday Night Massacre. I was worried because that very same evening, I sustained a bad bug bite. I was not sure if the beetles - the ones that lived - were exacting retribution upon me because of the scores that I had killed, but I wondered.

For the rest of the summer, I did not have much of an issue. I keep bug spray in a location on my kitchen counter where it is easy to reach and for the few that I saw in the following months... well, you could say that they were toast. That's the way I like my roaches. Dead.

Hot weather came early this year, and with it, the beetles have returned. My can of Raid is available at all times, and I've used it. A lot. But I'm starting to wonder what the lifespan of a beetle, exactly, is. I'm starting to wonder also whether they pass stories from one generation to the next. The war between them and me seems to have taken on a new complexity.

Now before you dismiss this notion, you should know the saga of Mom's dogs. She had a pair of Corgis in my youth, and one day they cornered a cat on the porch of a neighbor's house. They never forgot that moment and, for the rest of their doggie lives, checked that porch out each and every time they walked by. Before they left, though, younger generations of dogs joined them and so on and so on and so on. And fifteen years later and many generations of dogs, every one would check that porch just in case a cat might be lurking there.

So a couple of weeks ago, I emerged from the shower and wrapped myself up in a bath towel. (I know it's been a few years since I got on maintenance but the act of fitting a bath towel around my body has not yet grown old.) Anyway, for some reason which I can no longer remember, I decided that I needed to go into the kitchen. There I found a gigantic water beetle on my counter. I quietly edged towards the can of bug spray and picked it up. It moved towards the front of the counter. I prepared the can with my finger on the trigger. It took off and flew towards me. It was clear that it was going to land on my towel!

I shrieked of course. And hit the trigger, catching it in the mist during mid flight. Once it was hit, it dropped to the floor like a stone (thank goodness) and fell into death throes. I was unnerved. It took a while for it to die and I was too afraid to approach it to scoop it up and throw it out. I didn't deal with the carcas until the next morning.

I didn't think about that incident again until this evening. This time, I was in the guest bathroom. I've seen one of the roaches over the past few days peeking out from underneath my bookcase in there. It unnerves me, especially as when I am in the bathroom, I'm generally trapped by virtue of autoimmune disease. But fortunately, I've been able to scare it into running backwards and hiding. We ended up not interacting.

But tonight I was in the bathroom and it came completely out of hiding. I made a big movement - mostly out of fear because I was on the pot - and it ran into the corner. It froze there... probably trying to escape detection. I stared at it until I was able to get up, and following protocol, went to the kitchen to retrieve my can of bug spray. (Note to self: Get another can to keep in bathroom.) Quietly returned to the guest room, walked in, positioned myself, and sprayed.

Direct hit! I was expecting it to do the dance of death immediately but was shocked out of my complacency when it came running at me. I yelled, jumped into the air, and ran towards the door. Do you know it turned around and ran towards me there too?

I turned and sprayed again. Another direct hit. At that, it ran under the bookcase, presumably to die. I hope so.

But now I'm completely unnerved. Have they learned to attack now? Or am I overestimating their abilities to communicate and hold a grudge? Are the two incidents - in a row I might add - coincidence? Or do I have reason to worry?

I don't know. But I think I'm going to sleep with the light on tonight.

Poof!

I do a lot of laundry. Attendant with ongoing chronic illness is the issue of clothing, but also of sheets & towels. Night sweats - not associated with menopause - are a staple in my life and I often have to change my sheets once, if not twice, overnight.

A few days ago, I did a big batch. Two sets of sheets, maybe 8 or 10 towels along with assorted items of clothing. Six machine's worth. Fortunately, my condo's wash rooms each house eight, so I could get the chore done quickly and efficiently.

When you deal with public laundry facilities, you need to be more aware of your personal belongings than if the machine was housed within your own property. I used to have sheets and towels taken on occasion, but at 350 plus pounds, there were not a lot of people who filled out my clothing. Now I have to be more cognisant of the timing of my clothes... be sure to be out there before the cycle is over so that there is little lag time between when the machines stop and I collect my belongings. I accomplish this feat by means of an egg timer.

Since I do the majority of my laundering during the day, there is little theft as everyone is either at school, work, or now that it's summer, camp. And so I had no issue when I gathered up my latest round of washing.

I dragged it inside; clothing on the top of the basket, I quickly matched sock with sock, folded underwear and shorts, and put everything away. Only one unmatched sock, hallelujah! I learned a few years ago that missing socks were generally the result of overloading the washer's tub... they float off the top of the wash over the side of the barrel and are lost in the cavern of the machine. Since finding this out, I almost never have single socks anymore, and when I do, I generally find them unwashed in my closet, behind the tub in which I throw my dirty clothes.

Once the clothing was addressed, it took little time to fold and put away the towels. Then there was the sheets. Two sets.

In the pink floral set, one of the pillowcases was still damp; I hung it over the top rail in my bathroom to dry. (It's still there. I really should fold it and put it in it's place - lol.) The blue striped set was completely dry. I folded it and put it in it's basket. I folded the remainder of the pink set and put it away too. And the next morning, decided that I again needed to change my bed.

I went for the blue stripes. After all, it's hot out and it's such a cool shade of what you might call light teal. But lo and behold, the pillowcases were nowhere to be found! Now I KNOW without any doubt that I brought them inside and folded them. In fact, I was quite relieved that only the one pink case was damp and specifically checked the blue ones to be sure they were fit to be put away. And then I don't have a clue what I did with them.

Fortunately, I have some spare cases for emergencies just like this. But I'd like to know what happened to the matching ones in the set. I've looked in all the baskets. I've looked in my closet, in my armoir, in my drawers where I put my clothes. I've checked the laundry room again just in case I was nuts, but I know that I brought them in and had them.

Some of you might be thinking "Aha! Senior moment." Don't go there. You should know that I am not having any senior moments until I qualify for the senior discount, and according to Denny's own calculations, I don't meet the age minimum requirement for another 3 1/2 years.

Spinning Yarns

Some days are meant for reflection and growth. Others are for self indulgence. Today is the latter for me.

I feel like eating? I'm eating what I feel like. I feel like taking the boys for a walk, I'm about to take them. I feel like not answering the phone? Don't bother calling... I won't pick up.

I've spent the better part of the afternoon at my spinning wheel. Brainless, methodical action. Not requiring a lot of energy which I am still lacking, but productive none-the-less. I just finished an eight ounce skein of gorgeous merino-silk yarn; started spinning the little bit of beautiful hand painted wool/silk varigated blue roving left over from last year's adventure taping a segment of "That's Clever" for HGTV. Before you ask, no, I never contacted them to see when the episode is going to air. I really should get around to it sometime soon as it's probably airing right now and I don't know it.

I tried an experiment on the Richard Simmons Clubhouse bulletin boards where I would post my daily challenges and goals, my food plans, and my daily weight. It got away from me and it became about the respondants and sordid stories of their past. In detail. Of wagging penises and exposed buttocks. Man bashing at it's best.

I understand the need to vent about the past and air dirty laundry, but not on my time. I don't understand what it is about me that brings out this side of people, but need to reflect on it. Everything in it's proper time and place is fine, but why on my time?

I do not have the strength to carry others through their personal issues. I don't really have the strength to carry myself, but I'm making it anyway. I don't understand what happened over there and wonder about it. I did not post details of my past, instead I tried to focus on the here-and-now and how I am strategizing to get to where I want to be. What made them think that their kinds of responses were of support to me?

What is with people? Why is it so important to drag everyone down to the lowest common denominator? I know what kind of yarn I've been spinning this afternoon. What kind of yarns to the others want seen as their legacy?

Psychology Today

Neurosis, Psychosis, Bipolar, Depressed
How do us crazies get up and get dressed?
With meanings complex and issues refined
How do we get psychological terms defined?

Anxiety, Hysteric, Compulsive, Diseased
And into our minds they plant fertile seeds
That our viewpoints are warped and our reactions extreme
Of our therapy appointments that would be the theme.

Zoloft or Prozac, Xanax, Effixor
Which one will solve all of my problems and quicker?
Especially the ones not born in my head
But are of medications of which have been said

To cause such fatigue and such stress to extreme
That they've caused me to think and therefore do deem
That a poem will help break the cycle of doom
And give me the energy to get out of my room.

Pressure

Sometimes it's hard to write. Sometimes it's hard to just exist. I'm in one of those funks right now.

Last Sunday, I made a terrible mistake and bought too much ice cream. The act of buying ice cream was not a mistake in and of itself - it was way over triple digits out - but the quantity was. I am diabetic. I do not take medication for it because it's completely under control via diet. When I eat sugary stuff in normal quantities, I do not have an issue. But a double Hot Fudge Sundae with a brownie on the bottom for good measure was just too much.

I paid for that transgression the very same evening that I ate it. I was shakey and dizzy and nauseous and felt like my heart was racing all at the same time. I paid for the transgression yesterday afternoon into evening to when the ice cream hit my colon. And at the same time, it was time to give myself my Methotrexate injection.

The Meth is a necessary evil, but leaves me ill in a whole different way. Additionally, I know that it clouds my thinking and processing abilities. While I am able to write clearly here, in eral life, I react erratically to stimuli, and although I've become somewhat practiced at appearing calm now, internally I am anything but. I make decisions that seem irrevokable (and sometimes they are), I decide what people's motives are while knowing on an intellectual level that my thought process is not making sense, I question my sanity.

I'm back in that mode now. I've been on Prozac for three weeks and even though it's supposed to even me out, based on giving myself the shot yesterday and my reaction to it, it hasn't. The Prozac does make me nauseous though, and ultimately - according to the web sites - will be responsible for me gaining about 20 pounds.

I suppose that if I am even questioning my ability to understand the world, my concern that I have gone off the deep end is not valid. But there's a pressure in knowing that things I may say or do right now when I appear right but am not necessarily, will impact the future.

MIA

Sometimes subjects to write about come flowing out of me. Other times, I have nothing to say. For the past week, I've lived the latter scenario.

I can't say that the week has been bad. In fact, I'm on a reduced schedule for Cimzia now, and I think it's helping me. I've put a lot of focus on my food program and keeping food journals, and have started to identify those areas in which I've become temporarily weak and am shoring them up. Even though the medications seem to deaden my ability to create, I've forced myself to spin some wool and have gotten another 8 ounces spun and will ply it today. So all in all, I'm doing pretty well.

I just hope that you keep visiting. I promise to get back to my old writing form soon.

Walking Cosmos

Lest you think that all I ever have from Cosmos is trouble, you should know that he is actually a very sweet dog. A Dalmaian of questionable origin, he was found in the gutter before his eyes were even open and delivered to my doggie rescue friends. There, due to unfortunate timing and a terrific campaign by Dalmatian breeders to keep people from unthinkingly adopting these eccentric dogs around the time of the release of 101 Dalmatians, only to turn them into the pound later, he remained unwanted. For years.

The result was that when he came to me, he was still emotionally a puppy. Over the years, he's grown up and old, but his deep seated desire to please and be accepted has become, if anything, more intense than it was when he first came to me. And that takes us to our daily walks.

We go on short walks. The boys are old and I am not well. (Hence the sporatic blogging as of late.) I usually take them out of the back of my complex, walk up the alley to Reseda, make a left passing by two apartment buildings, and then make another left into the alley down there, and go around until we get back to our own complex. Because there are a lot of apartmetns and condos in my neighborhood, there are a lot of people on the street. Mostly coming and going from cars, but passing by.

Cosmos looks at these people as an opportunity. He lowers his head down between his shoulder blades in a subservient manner. He gives them his best smile and tail wag. And he looks at them beseechingly. "Will you please pet me?" he begs.

Last night as we went by the first apartment building, a very old lady of obviously European origin emerged onto the street. Aha! A target for Cosmos. Even though we were already by the front door of that particular building, he turned around and assumed the pose. She walked right by without noticing us and moved on to the street. Stood on the curb for a few seconds, and then turned around.

Cosmos saw this as his chance. He took a couple of steps forward, still begging to be noticed. She turned towards us. I thought he might have a chance. But then she saw my boy, started and backed off quickly. Cosmos did not approve.

When people refuse to pet him, he gets quite angry. Goes into a peal of barks and growls. Raises his hackes. His tail goes straight up into the air. And in the case of the old lady last night, he lunged forward to bite her. Of course, he's totally inept and fell down before taking more than two steps, but the thought process was there.

I comforted my boy. Told him that she was wearing black and probably did not want his white dog hair all over her clean outfit. Told him that we would find somebody to pet him on one or another of our walks, and that I loved him still. And then we moved on.

It didn't take us long to find our next opportunity. As we were walking up the alley, a woman was going into an apartment building, but within seconds, re-emerged carrying some kind of stroller. She saw us and Cosmos didn't even have time to assume the position. She walked right up and pet him! And Sunny too! It turns out, I learned in conversation, that she was having knee surgery on Monday and had taken her own pair of dogs to her own mother's home earlier that day. She was in doggie withdrawl and happy to see us. Cosmos ate the attention up.

While she was still fussing over my boys, another younger woman walked up to her. Clearly friends, the second woman had forgotten her key and asked the first to let her into their building. My boy's friend was just about done petting the dogs, but Cosmos saw a new victim. Assumed the position. Gave her such a nice tail wag. And I helped him along by saying to him "Cosmos, I don't know if this new lady wants to pet you or not!"

The new lady took the hint and gave him a couple of pats. Good enough to satisfy Cosmos.

We continued down and around the alley and back into our complex. We came across a homeless man scrounging through the trash looking for bottles and cans. I don't mind him; I see him all the time and he works so hard. And he helps recycle materials that would have ended up in the dump because our complexes are too lazy to have their residents sort. He pets my dogs all the time and this was not an exception. Cosmos was in heaven.

We finally came back into our own building and were heading down the courtyard, and from the other direction was a man walking quickly. Cosmos couldn't resist. He lowered his head, got a beautiful toothy smile on his face, and wagged his tail. But alas, this last attempt was for naught. When the man got closer, he was carrying a large water bottle - as in 5 gallon size - in each hand. Nothing left to pet my boy.

Well, even Cozie could see the futility in pursuing this avenue of petting. Did not get mad but instead asked to go on home.

We came inside and I gave the boys biscuits. And told Cosmos what a lucky boy he was. Three out of five attempts to be pet were successful. That's better than half!