Lexiphilia

Words.  I love words.  I love reading them, I love listening to them, boy do I love speaking them... I think I got the bug from my mother, who has the same affliction - the need for le mot juste, the perfect rejoinder.  When most kids were hearing Dr Seuss or The Hungry Caterpillar, I was listening to Ogden Nash or Robert Frost. (I can still recite all the words to Richard Cory from memory.)

Which is why it drives me nuts when I can't remember a word - especially one that I've made an effort to commit to memory.  I have this skin condition - it's not a big deal, especially in the grand scheme of things, but it means that blotches of my already beyond pale skin are even paler (we're talking into the phosphorescent range here), and my stomach is basically pie-bald.  I've had the condition all my life, I've researched it (because that's my default mode for any oddity), and yet, I can never remember the damned name. 

Thank god for Google. Otherwise, I'd be spending most of my morning trying to remember the word Vitiligo. 

Sick Day Today

Taking a sick day today - trust me, you don't want me to get into details, but let's just say that I'm not going to be using that particular brand of laxative again any time soon.

I'm also adjusting to a new medication - started on Qsymia Tuesday.  Jenny Craig has been great for my blood sugar (went from 10.7 to 8.2 on my A1C, which is great, although I'd like to get lower), but I haven't managed to lose any weight, so we're trying this now.  I want to get back to the point where I can safely get the PET/CT scan, not just the CT scan, so that's going to be approximately 35 pounds (well, 29 now - I've already lost 6, so I'm feeling happy, although a lot of that could have gone down the toilet...)  However, one of the side effects that they have been very careful to warn Daniel and Roger about is potential depression - suicidal thoughts (or in my case homicidal thoughts - depression for me usually takes the form of irrational anger.)  So far, I seem to be doing fine, but I have noticed the guys eyeballing me a little.  We'll see...

Memory Well: Summertime

When I was a kid, I used to love the July holidays (July 4^th and July 24^th – in Utah, the second one was a much bigger deal.  Kind of like the 4^th, but with the addition of smugly knowing that it was just for us.)  I was almost always in Washington for the holidays, and there’s nothing like a small town in a patriotic fervor when you’re a little kid.  

First, there was the parade.  Fortunately, the main drag was not that long, because it was always in the 90s (or 100s), and Grandma would dress me up in semi-authentic pioneer woman drag – long calico dress (with long sleeves), bonnet, etc. and Grandpa had converted a Radio Flyer into a Conestoga wagon for me to drag along behind.  Justin had it easy – she made him buckskins, but I was hotter than heck (looked good, though.)  And there was always enough candy to put us all in a pixie-sticks high for a week.

Then there was the carnival – sack races, greased pig chasing, hopping around (and falling down) in the three-legged race, pie contests, a cake walk…  the only ride would be a really sad looking couple of ponies tethered to a pole, but there were all kinds of booths sponsored by the Rotary, or the Lions, or whomever.  Once I got old enough, I graduated to helping run the “fishing” booth for the Lions (Grandpa’s club of choice) – the kid would cast his line over the curtain, someone would peek and figure out how old and what gender they were, and we’d slip an appropriate toy on the line for them and tug. 

Of course, there were also the important political races – cans strategically annotated with the names and photos of local girls who were in the running for Miss Washington, with the winner determined by the cash accumulated (pennies only, please…) 

Later, after the sun went down, there would usually be a Disney movie shown on a sheet hanging outside the Wardhouse, and we’d sit and watch, our stomachs distended from munching on ProntoPups and pie and punch. 

I still celebrated some when I grew up – we’d get together with friends, eat barbeque and set off fireworks in our driveway, but in the past few years, I’ve even given up the fireworks – the pretty sparkles weren’t worth the noise and smell you had to put up with to get them, especially since my godchild isn’t around to appreciate them with anymore (I miss you, Brigid!) 

The View From The Group W Bench

For those of you who don't recognize the allusion (most of you under 30, I suspect), it's from Arlo Guthrie's 17 minute long classic "Alice's Restaurant" - at one point he goes in for his draft board hearing, and gets placed on the Group W bench because he had been arrested and convicted of littering:

• Group W's where they put you if you may not be moral enough to join the army after committing your special crime, and there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly looking people on the bench there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers!

• And the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one, the meanest father raper of them all, was coming over to me and he was mean 'n' ugly 'n' nasty 'n' horrible and all kind of things and he sat down next to me and said, "Kid, whad'ya get?" I said, "I didn't get nothing, I had to pay $50 and pick up the garbage." He said, "What were you arrested for, kid?" And I said, "Littering." And they all moved away from me on the bench there, and the hairy eyeball and all kinds of mean nasty things, till I said, "And creating a nuisance." And they all came back, shook my hand, and we had a great time on the bench.

I frequently find myself wondering what a good little hippie peace-freak like myself is doing working for the US Army Corps of Engineers (I'm good with the Engineers part of it - I speak fluent geek, after all, but the US Army occasionally chafes a bit.)  Especially what the heck I've been doing working for them for almost 26 years now - more than half my life in the same office, even the same phone number.

For the most part, I'm good with it - after all, Portland District is one of the few Corps offices that has a strictly civil works mission.  We keep the harbors and rivers up and down the West Coast navigable, we generate serious amounts of hydropower, we have really awesome parks, we cleaned up after both Mt St Helens and the Exxon Valdez - we do good work, and don't have to shoot anyone to do it (although don't ask me about what we would like to do to the blasted sea lions that keep messing with the salmon at our dams.)  It's a red-headed stepchild of a district, and I've always been Queen of the Weirdos, so we fit well together.

But today.  Today we got yet another reminder memo from our District Commander that even though I've got medical issues that would easily qualify me for medical marijuana, even though recreational marijuana is about to be legal in my state (in two days)...  not for me.  Not until I retire.  Because even though I already take painkillers for my knees that would put the average person to sleep for a couple of days, and work right through it, trying a joint would render me "not moral enough to join the army after committing my special crime..."  Retirement can not come fast enough.

Another Reason Why I'm *From* Utah

Don't get me wrong - I'm not ranking on my home state.  It's a very nice state - emphasis on the "nice".  Most of my relatives are still there, the people are friendly, the food is incredible, the air is lovely (if a little thin - once you get used to living at 50 feet above sea level, 7,000 feet is a little hard to take.)  But I never really quite fit in - as I often say, I'm the neon-purple sheep of the family.  It's not that I'm the black sheep, shunned and banned by the rest.  No, I'm the one that they just kind of look at out of the side of their eyes (and every once in a while one of them will sidle up and ask me where I buy my hair dye.)

Mostly though, the state itself has let me know in various subtle ways that I'm really not their kind of people.  There's the air thing, for example.  Then there's the heat.  I was born in Washington, Utah - just south of St. George.  For you non-Utahns, think Vegas without the lights, the booze or the strippers.  Lovely in the wintertime, but God-awful in the summer.  I'm talking 115 in the shade kind of God-awful.  I remember riding Grandpa's motorcycle down to the fields one day - it was so hot that the breeze wouldn't cool you, because it was hotter than the sweat it was trying to evaporate. I, on the other hand, am a) one shade beyond phosphorescent and tend to burst into flame after 15 minutes in the sun, and b) get heat headaches to the point where it feels like my brain is expanding outside my skull every time the temp gets up over 90.  So not built for that kind of weather...

Normally, it's ok - my adopted home of Oregon treats me well, with 222 cloudy days a year.  But every once in a while... like this weekend, we're talking up over 100, and not a cloud in sight. So... I guess what I'm saying here, Oregon, is that you can ask Utah.  I'm a fickle bitch.  Don't make me move to Alaska.

"Lift Up Your Hearts And Sing"

One of my friends on Facebook posted this link today - but it's nothing that I didn't already know:

http://elitedaily.com/life/culture/sing-in-car-happier-healthier-live-longer/1089113/

I can't remember not singing in the car - it's almost an autonomic system for me.  Close door, turn key, open mouth... Part of it I can blame on my mother.  When you're the only child of a working, single mother in the 60s and 70s, you spend a lot of time in the car with her.  It seemed like we were always heading somewhere, and we didn't have the luxury of Sirius or XM (heck, we didn't have an 8-track until I was 14 or so - and then the only tape my mom had was Diamonds and Rust by Joan Baez.  That was a hell trip from northern Oregon down to southern Utah.) 

So, we'd sing.  Anything and everything - if the radio happened to be working, great, if not, we'd improvise.  Fortunately, I have a weird memory, filled with song lyrics - the part of my brain that should be devoted to nuclear physics or curing cancer has all the words to Crocodile Rock or Leaving on a Jet Plane in it.  And we wouldn't sing quietly - we'd belt it out, not always in the same key, but always confidently. 

In fact, that's one of the ways I knew Roger was the one for me - driving down the highway with mom, and I realized we were all singing along to Willie Nelson.  3 different keys, but all the same lyrics.  And the way I know that I'm the one for him is that he puts up with my singing, even when he really would rather just listen to the actual artist.  That's true love. 

Fun With Medications

I'm a firm believer in better living through chemistry - well, forget better living, just plain managing to stay alive with the judicious amount of pills and shots and... But the side effects do tend to build.  For example, I don't remember what it's like not to have a dry mouth, and then there's the night sweats - love waking up in a puddle. 

But the biggest pain is digestion.  Have you ever noticed that every single list of side effects either includes constipation or diarrhea (or sometimes both?)  Trying to titrate the perfect balance between a brick stuck in your abdomen and Old Faithful shooting out the back end is tricky, to say the least.  There's laxatives and stool softeners galore, but for my money, the best option is Russell Stover's sugar-free chocolates.  However, you have to respect the Stover's.  One won't do the trick, two... sometimes, but three seems to be the magic number.  Do not - I repeat, DO NOT go for five, thinking that the first three don't seem to be working, might as well add a couple more.  I spent most of last night in the bathroom, regretting that decision intensely.  You would think I would have learned my lesson before now, but no - I seem doomed to repeat it.

Doing Much Better

I've come back to terms with my life and its limitations.  (And spent the past couple of days being schooled in faith and grace - it's one amazing church that can turn out congregants that are that loving and truly Christian in the best sense of the word in the most horrible of circumstances.) 

Plus, I've spent part of today indulging in soul-reparation therapy.  A lazy Saturday afternoon nap with my man and my boy...  A warm, soft snuggle in a cool, dark room - nothing in the world is so luxurious.  Just laying there, curled together (and with a little warm heater of love wormed up between us - Moose will not be left out), nowhere to go, nothing to do until later in the day, the world shut out behind the bedroom door.  I am a lucky woman - I just need to keep reminding myself of that. 

Minor Medical Meltdown

Sitting here, crying my eyes out, not sure why - I figured it would be best to try to write it out. 

You all know I've been trying to lose weight to help with getting rid of Hank.  One of the things that I'm trying is Qsymia - it's this weight-loss drug that's a combination of a couple of drugs.  Of course, since it's a weight-loss drug, heaven forbid that it be easy to acquire, and they won't pay any for it - I'm on my own there.  But since I have to get it through the Kaiser Pharmacy, and they want to make sure it safe (I'm ok there), after waiting 4 weeks for them to get back to me, now they want me to go get a pregnancy test done.

Yeah.  A pregnancy test.  They have access to my files there.  They know that I'm two years into having a kobold invade my uterus and start trying to claw his way out.  They know that I'm 50 years old, and my one attempt at pregnancy ended in a miscarriage before I actually knew I was pregnant.  They know that at this point, it's more likely that Mary will rise from her grave, head back to Bethlehem and give birth in another manger than I will get pregnant.

But let's just go ahead and rub my nose in my failure as a female just one more time.  If my doctor weren't on leave, I don't think this would have happened - she's great at protecting me from Kaiser's more insane contradictions, but sadly, she's out this week, so I'm left sitting here, crying.

Starting A New Diet (Again)

I'm working on getting my A1C back under control, so for the next few months, I'm trying (shudder) Jenny Craig.  I know, I know... but it makes sense for me right now to be able to positively track everything I eat, be able to identify exactly what carbs I have and when I have them, not have to think about and plan food - basically, exactly what Jenny Craig was set up for. 

I started today, and so far, it's not nearly as bad as I had feared - the food is edible (ok, the chocolate shake tastes a little like a brown crayon dipped in tepid water, but the chicken fajita bowl was surprisingly good).  Mostly just surprised at the amount of food... they've got me on 2300 calories a day, which seems like a lot more than I was eating, but we'll see how it works out. 

But I'm mostly posting because I've got to brag on our roommate, Daniel.  He's my emergency back-up husband and I figured I was going to need his help to get through this (that, and he really needed to be warned - I am sometimes not a pleasant person to be around when I'm food-deprived.)  At any rate, I hired him to be my diet concierge - do the shopping for me so that I don't have to get close to a grocery store, help me keep track, etc... and he made me the most incredible thing.

Yep.  That's right.  I have a sticker board!  And I've already earned a sticker for going through with this and getting started.  It's no wonder that Mom keeps threatening to steal Daniel and take him away to the wilds of Utah - he's the best Diet Concierge ever! 

Random Updates, Thoughts, And A Rant

I talked with my diabetic nurse yesterday - my A1C has been heading skyward ever since Hank moved in, and my last reading was 10.7 (most people are between 5 and 6, and before Hank showed up, my level was generally in the 7s.)  She wants me to switch over to a new type of insulin that's 5 times more concentrated than the stuff I've been using - it's worth a try (and I'm hoping that if I can get the blood sugar under control, I'll feel much, much better.

Dr Steiner had also ordered an FSH test for me - it's a test that can tell where you are in your ovulation cycle (or if you've gone into menopause.)  The higher you score, the more likely you are menopausal - I scored a 1.  Yep.  1 doesn't even show up on the results sheet - the lowest it goes is 2.  Atypical, yet again.  But apparently, I'm not menopausal yet, so the weird fevers I've been getting aren't hot flashes.  I've got an appointment next Wednesday with Dr. Wang, so...

Now for the rant... First, a little background.  Mornings are not my friend.  I have never in my life been a morning person - I used to be the person in the office that worked the 9 to 5:30 shift (which is odd for a fed - most of them seem to be disgustingly happy being morning people.)  It was nice, though - after 4:00, when the office starts to clear out, you can get a surprising amount of work done.  But then I married Roger, and started carpooling with him.  His office starts work at 7, which means he dropped me off at my office around 6:15 (he works about half an hour south of Portland.)  And he works a 5-4-9 schedule, which means that he gets off work at 4:30, picks me up around 5:30 (half an hour turns into an hour when you're in Portland evening rush hour).  It's part of the reason why I have to telework - I used to be able to do 11 hours in the office, no problem, but not with Hank weighing me down. 

But at any rate... our alarm clock is set for 5:00 am.  Not my choice, you understand, but by necessity.

For the past month and a half, 2 or 3 times a week, I've been getting a call from a fax machine at 4:36.  AM.  I repeat, A freaking M.  Apparently, this particular number (866-324-8417) has been pissing people off since 2007 - there's a 8 year old thread about it on one of the 800 number tracking websites, ascribing the number to various publicity/magazine/info sites.  I also received a call from a non-800 number (same fax machine, same freaking early hour of the morning) registered to Mobius/365 Media, so being the diligent googler than I am, I thought I would do some research and see if I could get off the list.  But it looks like 365 Media (the American part of the "synergistic" merger") has gone bust - all the information on the website leads to either out of service or passed-off phone numbers.  I did identify the American partners, and was really tempted to stalk them, but then I realized I was falling down Alice's rabbit hole, and instead spent 45 minutes talking to CenturyLink and getting them to block the number.  We'll see if it helps..

The Song Of Their People - No Caffeine, No Alcohol

D and I both had doctors' appointments yesterday.  Completely different issues, different body parts acting up, different systems, but the first thing both of them came up with was "no caffeine, no alcohol." 

Now, D and I are both insulin dependent diabetics (and I'm genetically Mormon), so neither one of us drink alcohol, and neither one of us like the taste of coffee, so caffeine isn't a big thing with either of us.  But it got me thinking - anytime I go in to a doctor with any complaint, the first thing (well, not the first thing.  The first thing is "did you know you're overweight") but the second thing is "no caffeine, no alcohol." 

Just wondering why those two are singled out - and why, if they're so bad for you, they're even allowed to be sold over the counter?

Memory Well: When Shadow Met Tawny

I went into the office again today - it was the first time since Mom went back to Utah.  Moose was naturally devastated (well, he was devastated between long naps), and he had his normal reaction to being parted from his Mama for more than 5 minutes (even if it's just in sleep) - my normally sedate (to the point of indolence) boy becomes a whirling dervish, determined to hump some body part - any body part.  He settles down fairly quickly, but it reminded me of Shadow.

Shadow in his "I rule this roost" pose - if you look up on Mom's lap, you get a glimpse of Tawny

Shadow was Mom's first dachshund, and I think the reason why we fixated on a) doxies and b) rescue dogs.  He had been found abandoned in a ditch as a tiny pup - half starved and with cracked ribs - and nursed back to health by a wonderful older couple, but they were taking off around the country in a motor home, and Shadow couldn't bring himself to trust the male half of the couple long enough to be lifted up into the home (and the female couldn't lift him.)  So, he came to Mom...  lucky, lucky dog.  Mom loved him like he was my brother - well, for all intents and purposes, he was.  In fact, he chewed up the seatbelts in the back of her new car, and got in less trouble for it than I did when I got into a car accident that was ABSOLUTELY not my fault.  But sibling rivalry issues aside...

Shadow normally was very comfortable living a sensible old man's life.  He had his rounds (the condo Mom lived in had a puppy happy hour every evening, where they would go visiting, collecting snacks from the neighbors), his comfy spots, his routine.  But then he met Tawny. 

I know - Frank from Men in Black, right?  But without the personality.

You know how sometimes they say that pugs are so ugly they are cute?  Tawny never quite made the cute stage.  But to Shadow, she was Botticelli's Venus, rising from the waves.  Apparently, she was in heat when they first met - about to be taken to the vet to take care of that sort of thing - and though Shadow had been... let's say de-interested in that sort of thing as a pup, she brought back species memories in him.  Boy did she bring back species memories.  The problem was that while his body was willing, his mind had no freaking clue about the whole process. 

He would spy Tawny from across the room, lumber over and commence to humping as though his life depended on it.  Now, I'm not saying that he was productively humping - 9 times out of 10, he would come in from the side, or the front, or the bottom, or anyway but standard doggy-style, but he was giving it the old college try.  For about 15 seconds.  Then he would forget what he was doing, wander off to get some kibble, or bask in the sun, or whatever, until 10 or 15 minutes later, he would notice her again, and the whole process repeated. For her part, Tawny mostly just seemed to regard him as a hazard that had to be dealt with in order to visit Mom, who had a superior level of treats.  I'm not sure what this says about the relationship between man and woman (or mutt and bitch, even).  But the memory can still make me giggle, so...

Placeholder/Bathroom Pron

Warning: Disgusting Medical Information Ahead

Time for the quarterly Hank the Tumor update:

So, for ULMS, he's being surprisingly polite - he has yet to start to redecorate any other major organ, and it looks like he hasn't grown much.  Unfortunately, having him hang around in the uterus is causing my cervix to start overgrowing again, which means it's only a matter of time until I recreate the whole Carrie paint-the-walls-red scenario that started this whole thing. Plus, it may help my whole "there's a rock leaning against my bladder" continence issue...

So, my doctor wants me to undergo vaginal surgery to remove the overgrowth, which I would be down with except:

a)  The whole sedation thing. Between the cancer, the diabetes, the apnea, the arthritis, the acne (ok, maybe not the acne), but as a whole, my body should have fallen apart 20 years back.  I'm nervous about not waking up, frankly.

b)  I'm two years in now, and the normal survival rate for ULMS is 50% at 2 years (that's with a total hysterectomy as soon as you're diagnosed.  The 5 year survival rate is 20%.)  As my doctor says, I'm atypical.  I'm nervous about poking Hank with a stick - it might wake him up, and I am enjoying the respite I've been given. 

So...  I'm going to go in and discuss it with her, see what she says.  Well, and go through the pre-surgical thing - I'm pretty sure they're going to tell me to go away and come back when I lose a couple of hundred pounds.  I'm ok with that.  But we'll see.

Mom's Left - Again

Since I was two (well, with a brief Bob interlude that we do not discuss), I've been an only child of a single mother.  Trust me, back in 1967 in Utah, we were bleeding edge.  I used to spend some time with Dad (not a lot), more time with Grandma and Grandpa... my point is, there was always leaving (and coming back), and I was generally the one doing the going. 

Then came my twenties and thirties - we lived together for a while, got to know each other as adults.  I learned to truly like her as well as love her - I'm lucky enough to be able to consider my mom one of my best friends, and I know and appreciate how rare that is.  At any rate, I would go visit her as often as we could manage - wherever she was, was home, but again, I'd always have to leave.

Now moving into my 40s - Mom started spending time at my house - at first it was just a couple of months each year, during the winter, but with the advent of Hank, she moved in to help me deal with cancer.  At first, we were afraid it was going to be a "help me die with dignity", but since Hank has been a courtly guest, taking his own time about things, it's kind of evolved into a Persephone-like 6 months with me, 6 months in Utah.  It's turned into her being the one who leaves.

Frankly, being the one left behind, sucks.  I hug her, watch her go, then immediately get dropped back into my life without her - a quieter life, one with less projects, less conversation, less shopping, blander food, less puppies... well, less Mom.  I'll get over it, readjust, get used to having more space - Moose has already gotten over it and is looking forward to being an only child again.  But it's easier to transition when there's movement, and being the one left behind just sucks. 

Guess I'll just have to look forward to November.

Back From The Beach

The family on our balcony

We had a really terrific time at the beach - managed to get four rooms all attached, so we had our own little hallway (which the puppies loved).  I really love going to Seaside - we parked the truck and then didn't see it again until we were ready to go.  Of course, Riley and Cassidy (and Ron) were more adventurous - they went zip lining and over to Fort Clatsop, but Roger and I were fine with just exploring the boardwalk and the beach.

The last night we were there, I was getting ready to go out for dinner, when everyone showed up at my room with a surprise party for me.  Such a wonderful surprise!  Well, for one thing, my birthday was back on April Fools Day, so it follows tradition, but also, I had no freaking idea they were planning anything like this.  We had purple forks, plates, a purple mardi gras boa for me... it was terrific!  Pizza and red velvet cake - you can't beat that.

Moose nervous someone is going to try to dress him in something

 

More tomorrow, but for tonight, I think my own bed is calling me - there's nothing like a hotel bed to make you really appreciate your own king size waterbed.

I Will Not Bow Down To My TurboTax Overlords!

Let's get this out of the way real quick - yes, Mother, I should have filed my taxes much sooner.  You taught me better than this.  I'll do better next year.  That being said...

I went to file my taxes using TurboTax - same as I have done for the past 20 years or so.  I typed in my username and password, same as always - when they come back with something like "For your safety, we need you to verify your identity by either using this old email address that you haven't used since 1995 (seriously, it was an @msn.com address) or answer this random set of questions about your life." 

Well, I didn't have access to the old email address (actually, it doesn't exist anymore - I think it was wiped out by Y2K), so I chose to go with the series of questions - and I failed.  Seriously - I don't know enough about my own freaking life to convince a computer that I'm me.  It doesn't help that I have this weird mental thingy where I can't remember events in my own life unless I'm reminded about them.  It also doesn't help that I've lived in way upwards of 30 different cities, most before I was 25.  I may have lived in Ventura briefly when I was 3 months old (actually, no - three months old, we were living a few blocks outside of Watts when the riots broke out - but I digress).  But mostly, do not try to check me on whether or not I'm related to a Delores Humphries.  Dad is one of 12, Mother is one of 4, they've both been married multiple times - last time I tried to count, I had more than 200 cousins... one of them is bound to be named Delores, I guess. 

So... I've lost my account - this would be the account that I had the username and password for.  I could get it back by putting in for a change of email, but considering that I've been using my work email with them for upwards of 20 years, and they aren't recognizing it - it's not worth it.  Way to waste 20 years of customer loyalty. 

Just A Quickie

It was a long day today, so Mom finally called it a night about half an hour ago and headed off to bed with Daisy, while Rog and I (and Moose and Dancer) stayed up to watch @Midnight.  (The thrills of being an old married couple never cease.)  Anyway, the MooseMan was acting restless, so I asked him (quietly) if he wanted an "outside".  By the time Roger had the door open, I saw this white flash of fur that I swore beat Moose outside by a good couple of feet - Daisy managed to get from the back of the house faster than Moose got off the couch.  She never passes up a good opportunity to give Roady (the dog next door who I swear has a head bigger than her entire body) a good barking to.  I would say she gets that from me, but let's face it - I come from a long line of mouthy broads. 

In other news, I'm feeling much better (fever finally broke), and I'm now learning how to make yarn baskets along with Mom and Daniel, so there's that.

Rough Day

It's storming, outside and in.  I've got one of those back of the head type headaches - not migraine level, just enough to make me hate most of humanity when I stop to think about it.  The low grade thunder is not helping any.  And while Moose and the girls are doing their best to help, this is more than their abilities can help with.

I've hit the wall when it comes to change. It's not that I can't deal with change - I spent most of my early life being marinated in it. But change can wear you out.  I'm down to the nub right now.  With both of my bosses leaving, and my family coming in to rip out my tub, and retirement heading my way...

Oh, hell.  It's not any of that.  Well, it's some of that.  But mostly, it's Hank.  I'm so damned tired of going around with this grenade inside me, wondering when it's going to burst.  Two years now of balancing between life and death, watching every footstep.  I'm already worn out, and any little thing can push me over the edge, both physically and mentally.  Sleep.  Maybe what I need is sleep.