Memory Well: First Dance

Lately, they've been playing a commercial with Beth by Kiss as the background (it's actually a really cute commercial, with a dad taking his boys out for a guys' day, ending up with him texting his wife with "Beth, what can I do" and her texting back "Pick up milk".  Really smart commercial, really well done, even if it is for Volkswagen.)  Anyway... brings back memories.

The first school dance I ever went to was at Franklin Jr High in Pocatello, Idaho.  I was in 7th grade, new in town (as always), but I had an "in" - I played trombone, so I was in the band.  It gave me a group of people I belonged to.  We had a sock hop - literally a sock hop, it was held in the gym and you had to take off your shoes when you entered the room to avoid tearing up the new basketball court, and the band all decided to attend en mass.  

I spent most of the evening dancing with a mass of girls, the way that you do when you're young and herded together, but finally the last song of the night came on.  Slow song, so group dancing is not possible, but then Marc sidled up to the group.  Marc played bari sax, and had the most fascinating eyes - green eyes except for one quarter of his right eye that was orange.  Anyway, he asked me to dance - at least, I think that's what he said.  He was mumbling so low I couldn't really hear him, but he held out a hand and pulled me onto the floor, so I assume that's what he said.

Now, just as an aside - I was always the tallest person in my class, up until 8th or 9th grade.  I spent my youth in the back row of class photographs.  At this point, I'd hit 5'7", and frankly, I always took it as an insult that I stopped growing and suddenly everyone shot up past me.  Marc, on the other hand, was maybe 4'9" on a good day at that point.  Not optimal for a slow dance, but hey...  we made it work.  Revolving around the dance floor, his arms reaching up to my shoulders, me looking over his head, and "Beth" playing over the creaky loudspeakers.  My first slowdance... I'll always appreciate Kiss for that, if nothing else.  

I'll Give You Workplace Violence

Pic borrowed from Clyde_Dale at Deviant Art

Today was probably not the best day for me to be taking a mandatory class on workplace violence.  Don’t get me wrong – most days I’m not that bad to work with, I’ve been told.  But today…  for the third time in 6 months, one of two programs I’m forced to work with has managed to wipe my entire user database.  All the users, all their warrant info, everything.  And despite the fact that this is happening at midnight (when the programs interface, and there are NO FREAKING HUMANS anywhere near the system), the sweethearts are refusing to admit that it could possibly be their program’s fault. 

I’m not buying it.  Once is accident, twice may be circumstance, three times is definitely enemy action.  The only things stopping me from going medieval on someone is that a) they’re located in Mississippi, I’m in Oregon.  Slight logistical issue, but I’m almost at the point where I would be willing to conquer it.  B) The knowledge that it wouldn’t do any good – they have no more control over things than I do, but at least they could be referring this up the channels faster, drat it!  C)  the training that I just took indicates that me threatening them could be considered “workplace violence”, and advises me to temper my tone, and work with my co-workers rather than going triple-dog-dare on them.  I suppose that the adult thing to do is to go ahead, fold my computer and go home to snuggle Moose.  Boy, should they be grateful that I’m too bone tired to not be an adult. 

Oh, well… tomorrow is another day.  One that might involve some concerted retraining on someone’s part, and perhaps a reminder of just who it was that purchased their computers and/or monitors, and the dangers of pissing off Contracting.

Grandma and Dixie: Two Post Mortums

Grandma is in the middle here at Grandpa's funeral

It's taken me over a year to really write about this, but I'm hoping that the wounds have scarred over sufficiently by now.  We'll see... and fair warning for those in my family who loved either or both of these wonderful females.  There will probably be crying involved, at least on my part.

Grandma Lova was an incredible woman.  She was strong, smart as a whip, dedicated, and she had a will that burned.  If you had a task you needed accomplished, you gave it to Lova, whether you were family, the community or her church.  Her community needed funding, so she was one of the founders of the pie committee - thousands and thousands of pies.  Really incredible pies, too - flaky crust, incredible filling, welcomed a fork like a lover and melted on the tongue.  I knew that there was starting to be an issue one year when she forgot to put salt in her pie crust (she was in her 80s at this point).  (I know, it's a little thing - but you don't understand Grandma's pride.)  Then there was the time she went to make tea and put the kettle on the stove - the electric kettle, with the plastic base.  At first she moved in with her daughters once Grandpa died, but finally, she had to move into a home (and that was a lot harder on the daughters than on Grandma, I think.)  Last time I talked with her, we had brief moments of conversation, interrupted every 15 minutes or so by "How old am I again?" (This was her 95th birthday party), followed by "My, that's old.  I guess God doesn't want me."  How do you reassure a good Mormon woman about that?  I honestly believe that the last 10 years of her life were just her waiting to be with her beloved Dewane again, wasting away until her body gave up and finally allowed her some peace (after a horrible, painful urinary tract infection or two.)  I love my grandma dearly, and I miss her horribly, but I am so grateful that she's finally able to rest now.

Not sure what Dixie was winking at...

Dixie, now - Dixie was my fur-sister, my mother's dog.  I've written about her before, but she was also a force of nature - a born crone, who might not like you, but if she did, she loved you absolutely.  She was a pirate dog - she'd lost one of her eyes a couple of years back to glaucoma, but that did not slow her down - she could still take out a chicken twice her size (and did - Mom used to joke that Dixie was the only one on the ranch with the will to kill a rogue chicken.)  She spent 12 years as Mom's constant companion, but by November, we noticed that she was losing sight in the other eye, and she was starting to be confused - she got lost under the kitchen table, she was having a hard time going outside, and she slept pretty much constantly.  So, just before Thanksgiving, I called our local vet, made the appointment, pre-paid for the service so that Mom didn't have to deal with anything.  We fed Dixie her favorites for her last meal, wrapped her up in her favorite blanket, and took her to Dr. Matt, who helped her cross over while she was lying in Mom's arms.  Again, I love her dearly, but I'm grateful that she's able to rest now.

I know that of the two deaths, I would vastly prefer the second one.  It was relatively quick, definitely painless and so much less confusing to her and us than the 10 year ordeal that Grandma had to go through.  I know - very different circumstances between a dog and a human, and there were moments in that 10 years that were special - certainly I cherish my last conversation with Grandma.  I just don't know that it was worth the pain she had to endure to give it to me. 

Let It Snow (Part 2)

Now I have my own house - my own place.  In Portland, Oregon, so we're not talking a heavy snow area.  We end up having to close the schools if there is more than a sprinkling of snow, but fortunately, that happens about as often as the Trailblazers win a pennant, so...

The first snowfall after we bought the place, though - that was sublime.  You see, there were a number of factors that convinced us to buy the place, but two of the big ones were the back yard landscaping, and the hot tub.  The tub is right off the back porch, in the middle of this:

Picture that, covered in snow, with flakes gently falling, and you in a hot tub, up to your shoulders in 102 degree water and a flake landing on your nose. 

Right at that moment, the whole mortgage thing seemed totally worth it.  And then Moose came along, worried that the demon plastic duck that inhabited the hot tub was threatening his mama, and ruined the moment.  But I did have a brief moment of zen.

Memory Well: Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

One of the advantages of my peripatetic childhood - my experience pool is really wide.  Not necessarily all that deep, but definitely wide.  I've had a lot of different snow days, from a lot of different viewpoints, and seeing my friends on Facebook talking about the blizzard coming in reminded me of a few of them.  

Washington, Utah - I saw snow there once.  I think it was 2 inches and it shocked the community - snow plows?  What the heck is a snow plow?  118 in the shade we can handle - anything below 32, don't even try to talk to us.  However, this was back when practically everyone there was still a rancher, so the animals were still taken care of, and everyone had a year's supply of food in their basement (or in the freezer), so there was no run on Quentin Niessen's mercantile.  Anything short of nuclear winter was not going to phase them - they were pioneer stock.

Salmon, Idaho - The only place I've ever lived where it was necessary to plug your car in at night to keep the fluids from freezing solid by morning.  I remember stepping outside and feeling the snot in my nose freeze.  This was back in the early 70s, when elephant bell bottoms were popular (don't judge me - I was 7!), and I used to love the way that little balls of snow would collect around the hem of my pants, so I sort of jingled when I walked.  There was snow on the ground pretty much from October through April, but I don't remember them ever calling a snow day - it just didn't happen. 

Washington, DC, however - I was working in Fairfax and living in McLean, and we got an unexpected 3 inches of snow.  It ended up shutting down the Metro, and I had to wait 11 hours at the office for a cab, but I was stuck with three other guys, and we made a party out of it, with boxed wine and sandwiches we got down at the corner deli.  (more to come later)

Ignore the Woman Behind the Curtain

This one I’m writing just for me – I’m not going to be publicizing it because (let’s face it) this is not a fun read, but sometimes I have to write my fears down to get them out of my head.  You’ve been warned.

Nightmares have been creeping in. I think it’s the anniversary – almost three years now, and for three years I was able to ignore it.  I survived, hell, I thrived.  Why dwell on unpleasantness?  But late at night, when my brain is trying to shut off, memories come back and mess with me. 

It all started as I was leaving the office.  I could feel something going wrong the minute I stood up from my desk.  By the time we got home, there was a huge puddle of blood on the car seat.  I tried to get into the house and get cleaned up, but it just got worse and worse (I think it was Daniel who called it a scene out of Carrie), and I knew that we needed to go to the emergency room right then.  And that’s where the nightmares start…

First off, there’s the sheer humiliation… although for me, that’s almost the least of it.  After dealing with the sheer inconvenience and shame of Hank’s pressing down on my bladder for the past three years, a bloody mess is nothing anymore, really.  But laying there for close to 24 hours, unable to get clean because anytime the blood was wiped away, a new batch would just plop out 5 minutes later, soiling me and the sheets and gloves and mats and everything in that wretched emergency cubical – ok, yeah, the humiliation is still there.

Then there’s the fear… blood, after all.  So much blood – plate-sized clots of it falling out of me every time I sat up or shifted position or breathed too heavily.  Enough blood that they eventually had to pump three pints into me, and they didn’t seem to have any clue as to how to stop it, or even be trying all that hard to stop it.  It felt like I was just left there, bleeding away, having the sheets changed occasionally.  Somehow, I doubt that a gun-shot victim would be left bleeding away on the table like that.  But then again, that’s just it – when you’re a patient, you don’t know what’s happening behind the scenes.

Then finally, Dr. Scott coming in and telling me that they were going to do an emergency D&C, almost exactly 24 hours after I had started to bleed out.  Figuring it was fibroids and the worst was over – once they let me out of the hospital in a couple of days… and then getting the Saturday phone call that meant everything was going to change.

Annual State of the Hank Address

I really, really didn't want to write this blog entry - I've been putting it off for a couple of weeks now, but it feels like the Universe is starting to get serious with its "subtle" hints.  First last week, it was the whole moonshot mention in the State of the Union, and then every single freaking day this week, it's been someone else famous dying of cancer.  Basically, it looks like I'm getting cancer shoved in my face until I deal with it, and I really don't want to be responsible for losing Tim Curry (I think he's the next of my odd idols on the list).

So, where am I at?  Still in limbo, it looks like.  I'm not cured - I still have my tumor, it's still pressing down on my bladder (drat it) and sapping my strength.  But I'm also not sure I'm dying - it's been two and a half years now, and it's not growing or spreading as far as the doctors can tell, which is just plain odd - normally ULMS is a wildfire, and mine seems to be more of a Presto-log.  I don't know if it's because we left Hank alone when he was discovered (normally they yank the uterus out immediately), or if it's because I somehow managed to arrange a detente with him (maybe he likes being referred to by a single name, kind of like Cher or Adele.)  Maybe it was the patriarchal blessing I received - I know Mom would get behind that theory.

I don't know - but I've got to figure out the rest of my life now that it looks like I'll have one.  I am still planning on retiring - it looks like probably March or April time frame, but I'll let everyone know once that's more specific.  I'm not dying, but I'm not healthy enough for 10 hour days in the office anymore, and after 26 years, it's time for a change.  I'm not sure what the second or third act is going to be - my 20s was mostly getting to know who the heck I was, my 30s was mostly career oriented, my 40s was family...  maybe my 50s will be community.  I see a lot of things out there that I might be able to help with once I'm not Hatch Act encumbered.  But first - a local comedy club is offering a class on stand up.  I'm thinking about signing up - it's one of my bucket list items to do an open mike set.  (Let's face it, Mt Everest was never my sort of thing...) 

So... that's basically it.  Limbo, retirement, possible stand up.  So, Universe - could you please stop shouting now? 

Memory Well: Star Wars/Capitalistic Urges

People of my age (ok, nerds of my age – which includes most of my social circle) all seem to have a story about the first time that they saw Star Wars – how it was mind boggling, or expanded their consciousness, or (if they are a certain type of nerd) how they thought even back then that it was no big deal.  I, on the other hand, remember Star Wars fondly, with a mercenary little glow.

You see, I was one of those little girls who grew up knowing that Prince Charming was for suckers.  I was aware that I was going to have to make my own way in this world, and in order to do that, it was going to take cash – and I didn’t have the frail, blonde looks to have that handed to me.  So, I was the first female newspaperboy in Salmon, ID at 8, and by 11, when we moved to Pocatello, I was the neighborhood go-to babysitter.  (It might have helped some that the neighborhood was a trailer park – it’s not like these children were destined for prep school.) 

But anyway… I figured out that the local parents really had no interest in seeing anything that started out “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…” so, for the next four or five weeks, I spent my Saturday and Sunday afternoons being paid to take their sproglets to the movie - $.50 an hour per kid, plus my ticket and popcorn.  It was a serious moneymaker for me – and I thank you sincerely, George Lucas.  You helped me pay off my trombone. 

I've Fallen and I Couldn't Get Up

It's been one of those days.  Well, weeks, really, but today was the topper. 

A little bit of an explanation, first.  I've got severe arthritis in my knees - I mean, to the point where I have absolutely no cartilage left anymore.  My left knee is the worst - I can't even put pressure on it, while the right knee at least lets me still go up stairs (slowly, but hey, I'll take it.)  So, what does this mean?  Other than being on a daily dose of oxycodone, normally not much, but it means that if I fall, that's it.  I'm down for the count. 

It's frustrating - when I was a kid, I ran everywhere.  I didn't own a pair of pants that didn't have a hole in the knee until I was probably 15.  (Ok, I was also a klutz, but still...)  But now, I'm cautious.  Really, really cautious.  The last time I fell down was ten years ago (and then it took six strong men and a blanket to get me up off the floor - of course, at that time, I also had a torn rotator cuff, which may have complicated things.) 

But this time, I was just getting dressed in my bedroom, leaning against my bed, and suddenly, my feet gave out and I was on the floor.  Not really hurt (ok, bruised, but nothing broken), but... stuck on the floor.  Moose, of course, immediately came to my aid by licking my face.  A lot.  We tried various things (pulling myself up, rolling over, Moose continued to try the face licking thing, assisted by Daisy and Dancer), but after about an hour, we had to give up and call 911. 

It's got to be the most humiliating call I've ever had to make in my entire life.  "You're not going to believe this, but I've fallen and I can't get up."  At least I managed to make the nice 911 operator laugh a little.  I was able to explain that I didn't need transport, I just needed help.  I had to confess my weight, but she didn't give me grief about it (thank you, 911 angel), and 10 minutes later, there was a knock at the door (luckily, Daniel had the foresight to put Moose and the girls in the back yard).

Five very burly, very cute firefighters - good to see some stereotypes still hold true.  Very efficient guys - they managed to get this sheet with handles underneath me, and with two on either side and one in front of me, it took maybe a minute and I was once again vertical (and incredibly grateful - offered to buy all of them a large drink any time they wanted one.)  And after they left, Daniel and I started looking for a portable Hoyer lift so that I never have to call them again. 

You know, I go along fine with the day to day - I make adjustments to my life and I try to ignore my disabilities as much as I can, but every once in a while they sneak up and bite me in the ass.  Fortunately, it looks like this one just left me with bruises on said ass (and ego), and an inability to ever again laugh at those stupid "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercials. 

Coming to the Defense (Well, Sort Of) of Ben Carson

Since I am a dyed-in-the-wool (and yes, that is neon-purple wool) liberal, I can chart the various fortunes of the Republican candidacies by who is getting shafted on my Facebook wall this week.  After the second debate, when it looked like Carly Fiorino might have a chance, there were a ton of negative stories about her.  Now that Marco Rubio is doing well, I'm finding out more about his finances than I ever wanted to know.  And of course, Donald Trump... well, he put the hit out on himself.  But anyway, I digress...

Ben Carson stories the past week or two all seem to be about him "embellishing" details about the past (or as they call it when regular people do it, lying.)  There's the Popeye's incident, that can't be authenticated by the Baltimore policy.  The full scholarship offer to West Point (again, can't be authenticated).  The saving the white kids in his class from a riot story that no one else in his high school that no one else seems to remember. 

But the thing is... as well as a surgeon, the man used to be a "success speaker".  Have you guys ever been sentenced by your boss to go to one of those full day Success Seminars?  I swear, none of the people at those seminars tells the truth.  They all live by the hype, die by the hype, and pumping up their story to keep people interested is in the job description. 

Furthermore, I suspect the same thing is true of most of our past presidents.  Does anyone really believe the whole cherry tree incident?  Writing your homework on the back of a shovel with a piece of coal?  Actually attending all of your commitment for the Texas Air National Guard?  Not inhaling?  Seriously?  It's just that now...these things can be checked.  And now that Brian Williams and Dan Rather have been brought down, I don't see the press being willing to give anyone a pass anymore. 

So, I don't really care that Ben Carson may have inflated his CV a little - Now, his words about single mothers being the root of all evil, that I care about.  His stupid ideas about getting rid of Medicare and Medicaid, that I really care about.  Him being nutty enough to think that Obamacare is worse than slavery - that I think disqualifies him.  But telling a few stories about his past - give the guy a break.

Memory Well: Cooking for Grandpa

I've never been much of a precision cook - my style has always been more jazz rather than classical.  I prefer to dump things in a pot or a casserole dish, take basic bones of a recipe and then add or subtract based on my feelings on the day (or my cupboards). And because I grew up in the 60s and 70s, I'm a firm believer in Campbells Cream of Whatever as a binder - I can make a basic white sauce, but why bother?  I know, it doesn't sound all that appetizing, but I haven't had many complaints, and I have had people ask for my recipes before (which can get a little embarrassing, but that's a different story).

But this one time, the family was gathered together in Ogden for some big event - I can't remember exactly what it was - might have been Mom's 50th birthday, but I'm not sure (my personal event memory is even less precise than my cooking at times.)  At any rate, because it was a special occasion, I decided that this one time, I'd go ahead and pull out all the stops, and actually follow a recipe for once.  I decided to make Beef Stroganoff, following the recipe exactly with the tomato paste and cooking sherry and caramelizing the onions and...  being very careful to measure everything, time everything.  I spent way too much time in the kitchen, frankly, for something that would normally take me about 20 minutes (and that includes boiling the egg noodles.)

Anyway, we sat down to eat, everyone is tucking away, having a great time, talking away, and Grandpa issues his pronouncement on the meal...  "Good gravy."  Yep.  Good gravy.  This is why I went back to Campbells. 

Trigger Warning - Women's Medical Issues Being Discussed

Today's exercise in medical care... (or lack there of)

Calcified Uterine Tumor - i.e. Proto-Hank

One of the biggest issues with Hank is that since he's made his appearance, I've been having issues with incontinence.  Heck, forget the delicacy - I can be sitting down, and suddenly my body will say "Ok, everybody, out of the pool".  I'm not talking a little delicate trickle when I sneeze or cough, I'm talking about standing up and having half of cup of urine escape while I run to the bathroom.  It's humiliating to talk about, it's frustrating to deal with, but it is what it is - I have a tumor the size of a grapefruit leaning on my bladder.  It's the equivalent of being permanently 8 months pregnant, without the joyful conclusion to look forward to. 

I've mentioned it to my doctors several times, but no one has really listened to me, but now that I'm pursuing the medical disability thingie, Dr Wang referred me to uro-gynocology to see if there's anything that can be done.  I don't think that there is anything, but we'll see... However, before I can see a doctor, there's a hoop.  Yet another hoop.  Yep.  I got a call from a very nice nurse to set me up to take a class.  I have to take an incontinence class.  I tried to explain to her my circumstance, that this wasn't one of those Poise commercial type moments, but nope.  No class, no doctor.  So, I'll be spending an hour or two of my life (and my increasingly dwindling sick leave time) talking about ways to avoid incontinence issues with a group of women who have no freaking idea what I'm dealing with.  Yeah, team.

Schroedinger's Sicko

Not sure how the doctor's visit today went.  I provided her with the paperwork to fill out, but she's not sure exactly what to say.  I'm not sure exactly what to tell her either.  Am I disabled?  I really don't know. 

I know I've got an incurable form of cancer, one that normally would be fatal (80% fatality rate within 5 years).  But it doesn't seem to be interested in killing me.  It is sort of like walking around 8 months preggers, and there's the whole incontinence issue, but it's not like I can't sit and type... it's just harder to focus and I tire out easily and if any little germ happens to come along, I'm down for the count.  But I am able to work, still - have been for two years now.  But I started out with the maximum 240 hours of annual leave and around the same amount of sick leave... and I'm down to the dregs now.

Other things to take into account - I have insulin-dependent diabetes, but I've had that for years and I've been managing it, so it's not something that really stops me.  There's the whole enlarged heart/losing my breath if I stand or try to walk for more than a minute or two, but again, had it for years, I've been managing it, I have my trusty Moose-Scooter to get me through.  There's the severe sleep apnea, but (thanks to the wonders of modern medicine), I've got the bi-pap that makes sure that I don't stop breathing my usual 75 times an hour while I'm sleeping - plus I get to do the cool "I'm disturbed by your lack of faith in the force" voice at Roger, so that's always a bonus. I have zero cartilage in my knees and the rest of my joints are also pretty much shot - so much so that I'm in pretty much constant pain, dumbed down by Percoset.  Fortunately, I also have a high tolerance, so I can still do my work while dumbed down by Percoset... I really would rather switch over to a non-opiate solution, though. 

The problem here is that my body has never been exactly a Cadillac.  It's been a Yugo - and I've been patching it up myself, using a lot of Bondo and WD40 (and a hell of a lot of duct tape), and forcing it to keep going.  Eventually, it's going to fall apart, but for now... yeah, it'll still do 60, if I put a brick on the gas pedal, but for how much longer?

So.  Taking all that into account... am I disabled?  And what do I tell my doctor to put down on the paperwork? 

Computer Blues

Be Thankful For What You've Got

Frustrating day.  Frustrating couple of weeks - I've been sick, and I've been having work computer problems, which always frustrates the hell out of me.  For some reason, Friday the 2nd my ID card (without which my computer is a brick) suddenly froze up and decided to stop working.  No problem, except that I can't just call the tech guys and have them remotely fix it, it has to be fixed at the District office.  And of course Monday, I come down with the plague.  Coughing fits, fever, snot building up in every orifice - your basic grotesque mess.  I think if I had tried to enter the downtown corridor, they would have instituted Godzilla measures, complete with helicopters and calling out the National Guard.

So, anyway... by today, I'm finally down to non-contagious levels of disgusting and make it into the office.  Still coughing, still weak as a kitten, but at least I'm not going to give it to anyone else at this point, and I'll be able to get my computer up and running.  Sure enough, after waiting an hour and a half (I get there at 6, they don't open the security office until 8, but fortunately, they owe me a favor), it takes all of 2 minutes to unlock my card, and I'm back up and running.  For four hours.

See, my laptop computer is close to end of life (it should have been replaced 2 years ago, but you know... budget cuts.)  For the past couple of months, it's been getting forgetful - it forgets that it has wireless capability whenever it gets jacked into a LAN server, and I try to take it back home and start it up again. It's almost like trying to talk to Bomb 20 from Dark Star.  Today I spent close to 2 hours trying various fixes suggested by the guys from our IT department, to no avail.  Hell, Lee (who is a total sweetheart, and knows my medical issues) even offered to come over and look at it on his own time.  And of course, at this point, I was dead tired, frustrated, close to breaking down, had Moose crawling up on me licking my face (he's a salt junkie)...

Fortunately, I've got my emergency back-up husband Kevin, who is a wiz with computers, and who was willing to come over and look at it for me (and Robyn could tell I needed some talking down from the edge of the cliff), so they agreed to come over after work, and I went and took a nap.  I find it works better than most solutions when things get to that point.  Of course, when Kevin and Robyn got here, and I booted the computer up, it worked perfectly, first try.

So...  things I'm grateful for.  Good friends at work and at home, who are willing to offer help, even when the help I need might just be making it through to the next day.  A husband who understands me and lets me sulk when I need to, and a puppy who won't let me sulk alone.  A forum that I can pour all this frustration out into - it's a little like lancing a wound.  This way, the puss won't stick around and fester inside me.  And music - that song up there has got me through some bad days.

Clapper Pros and Cons

We've been in our house now for 11 years, and I absolutely love it, but... for some reason, the person who built it had an absolute terror of overhead lighting.  They built an entire house with precisely two overhead light fixtures, one in the kitchen, one in the hall.  If they could have figured out a way to put a lamp in the hall, I think they would have left that out as well. 

At any rate... no overheads.  So we have lamps - lots of lamps.  For the bedroom, one of our first purchases was a clapper - one of those hi-tech ones that can run two different devices, so there's a separate lamp for each side of the bed.  Normally, it works great, except...

There are two natural enemies of the clapper.  Small, excitable, German dogs (Hi, Moose) and women with the plague.  As it happens, my coughing happens to be at the precise rate necessary to set off (and on and off and on) the clapper.  And so is Moose's barking - which is brought on by my coughing.  At one point this morning, I swear the lights were cycling like a disco. 

Worrying About Moose

He is definitely starting to show his age.  For one thing, he's getting more and more frosty - but that's not a big thing, it just makes him look more and more distinguished, kind of like Liam Neeson or Sam Elliott.  But he's also getting more and more crotchety - he's been spending more time barking at the air and grumping down the hall at nothing.

But this weekend, he stepped it up another notch.  He's starting to get a lot more demanding about active snuggling, wanting me to cuddle him like a small child, or winding himself around me like a comma, making sure that as much skin as possible is touching his mama.  Normally, he's happy just to be on my lap, passively snuggled in, occasionally getting up to make his rounds or get a light nosh.  But this weekend, he's been shoving in between me and the keyboard, making sure that I'm aware that he needs my undivided attention, or climbing up on top of my pillow in bed and shivering until I wake up and calm him down. 

It may just be the change in the weather, or it might be that I've been under the weather, or any number of weather related things, but... I'm just a little worried.  And when I'm worried, I write. 

In Which I Discover I Don't Even Do Cancer Right

So...  good news and bad news. 

Met with my oncologist today, and told her that I really needed to go ahead and file my paperwork for disability retirement.  I've been doing full-time telework, and trying to make it work, but it's time - I'm running out of leave, the office has hired someone who can fill in behind me, and I'm wiped out.  In talking with my Human Resources office, they said that I should just have her fill out the paperwork, say that I've got ULMS, that it's terminal, send it in to OPM, bing, bang, it'll be over with. 

Not so fast.  Here's the good news - well, great news really.  My doctor is starting to think that my cancer is so atypical that it may not be terminal.  She thinks that I may actually survive this, since it's been 2 1/2 years and he has not been moving.  I know - it's incredible news that frankly, I'm still processing - I've spent 2 1/2 years thinking of myself as dead girl walking, and now... I'm not.

However, it means I'm chronic girl walking.  Which means lots more paperwork.  So I've got to go to my GP and have her document all my other embarrassments - the diabetes, the incontinence, the breath thing, the arthritis, and all the rest.  It'll take a little more time, but then again, I was feeling morose about the whole prospect anyway, so... I guess it's great news and not so bad news. 

But this whole thing could have been avoided if I just had done cancer right in the first place, retired to my fainting couch and filed for disability back when they still thought I was terminal.  Or managed to be less... atypical.  Nah...  I like atypicality.  It suits me.  Kind of like being the neon-pink sheep of the family.  And guess what - Looks like I'm going to be around to be atypical for a good long time.  What the heck - Grandma managed to make it to 96 after being diagnosed at 47.  I'll have to see if I can beat her record.  Just 47 more years to go.  I can do that standing on my he... well, sitting in my comfy chair.

More Moose Issues

Yesterday, as I was giving up one of his mandatory belly rubs, I noticed something worrisome on Moose.  Now, it's not odd to find something odd on Moose's belly - between the liver spots and the raccoon scars and the odd fatty lumps of unknown origin, there's not much that's not odd, but... Right at the end of his penile sheath, there was a zit. 

I admit, I'm a horrible mother - my first thought was "Thank god he's a dog - I don't have to have "THE TALK" with him."  Relatively certain this isn't Herpes Duplex 13 or whatever the equivalent dog STD is - for one thing, he really doesn't hang with loose bitches, and for another, he's been neutered for 11 years now. 

It also led to one of the odder conversations that Roger and I have ever had...  when he got home last night, I mentioned something about it, using my usual clinical speech, and he just looked at me and said "You want me to look at my wiener's wiener?"  Yes, honey.  I want you to keep a watchful eye on your wiener's wiener. 

Aging Stud Muffin Issues

You've all seen pictures of my canine leading man, Mr Moose.  He's a handsome man - aristocratic, noble, he's even graying beautifully.  When viewed from the top, he's still absolutely gorgeous - sort of like Burt Reynolds or Sean Connery.  He has the classic dachshund profile, beautiful red fur with a subtle black racing stripe down the back, he has just a bit of a nipped in waist - perfect.  But then... like any leading man, the toupee slips.

I mean, Moose has always had issues with his underview - for one thing, there's the overbite issue.  I'm not talking a cute little overbite.  I'm talking you can see his teeth when his mouth is closed.  That's the reason why even though he's the scion of Peter the Great and Lady Zelda the Third (champions, both), he was a rescue dog, rather than a show dog - and as we've always told him, rescue dogs are so much better than show dogs.  (What the heck - he believes us.)  But now that he's getting older (he's 11 - 12 in November), when he flops over for his mandatory belly rubs, the truth comes out.

There's scars from the racoon attacks of 2006 - or as he puts it, the time he beat back the invading hordes.  There's little fatty lumps of unknown origin.  There's liver spots (because every old man needs liver spots.) There's bare spots where the fur never did come in just right. And then there's the zipper from the disc surgery - although to his doctor's credit, that is almost invisible unless you look for it.

Nevertheless... he's still gorgeous.  And no matter how liver spotted he gets, he's always going to be my little boy.

More Sleeping Habits Of The Common Dachshund

It being National Hot Dog Day, I figured Moose deserved another blog post to himself...

While laying down for a brief siesta, we went through a typical scenario today:

Settled in, everyone is comfortable, when suddenly one of his enemies appears outside (UPS guy, Fed-Ex, Garbage Truck, whatever...).
"Barkbarkbarkbarkbark" (Full throated defense of home and Mama - not, you understand, that he would bother to actually get out from under the blanket, but he's on alert...)
(brief pause, followed by the beepbeepbeep of his enemy abandoning the field)
"Bark...Bark" (half voiced, continuing the theme = sort of the canine equivalent of "that's right - you'd better run.")
(settling back into the back of my knees, relaxing into the bed)
Thirty seconds of silence...
"Wuff" (quiet little "and another thing..."
A minute later...
Subvocal, felt only through the skin "wuff", settling back into nap state.

I am fortunate to be so well protected - not every woman has a guard dragon of this quality.