Pretending to Farm

Four Years and Counting

Four years until I’m at the age Daddy was when he died, he was 52 and, in another month, I’ll be 48. This weighs heavily on me, more than it should. My inner self-loathing gets the better of me and I think of all the success he had, all the success I have not.

 

Last week, my neighbor Michelle suggested that I need Ritalin. Ritalin, like I have ADD and can’t focus on anything. But that’s wrong. I can focus on a myriad of subjects, hobbies and creative interests, reading, knitting, farming, painting, sewing, glasswork, writing, computer programming for Chrissakes. I just can’t stay interested in them for long periods of time and I don’t know why. I tell people I bore easily and I do but it’s more than that. I’m interested in learning to do something, I figure out how, and then I am no longer interested. My intellectual curiosity has been met. I know a moderate amount about many, many things, Jack of All Trades, Master of None.

 

This flaw of mine has gotten worse in recent years. I’m afraid my time is drawing nigh and, if I can’t discover that one thing, all this life will be for naught.

 

Yes, I have beautiful brilliant children who, without me, would not grace this world with their presence. Yes, I’ve made a lot of things that I have sold or given as gifts, objets d’art and craft that I’m reasonably confident are admired.

 

But honestly? I’m almost 48. Instead of a career, I pick up bartender and server jobs for needed household-running funds. I’m terrible with money management; I fail as a homemaker. Laundry piles flow like lava out the laundry room door, dog hair rests in clumps in the corners, windows are dirty, floors are worse. I’m a good but inconsistent cook. I have a good but inconsistent life.

 

When Daddy reached 50, and before he was diagnosed with the melanoma that would kill him, he commented that he had made it farther than his own dad, a binge-driven alcoholic who went to “dry out” and failed, no “rehab” in those days, at least not in its current incarnation. Part of my father doubted he would make it to 50. Perhaps, that is why he worked as hard as he did, became such an enormous success at a relatively young age. I haven’t done that.

 

Years move faster as one ages. Tempus fugit and all that. And I’m not afraid to die. I’m afraid to not live.

A Wee Vent

I've been on a diet for almost a fortnight (two weeks for you normal speaking people out there) and I have only lost two pounds! Two measly, probably-water-weight pounds. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! I have foresaken my love of alcohol and sugar, have eaten scattered mealettes of lean sustenance throughout my Ben-&-Jerry's-craving, Guinness-and-ale desiring, laundry-doing, toddler-watching, business-planning days and I can't get no satisfaction, Mick and Keith! When I was in college and wanted to lose a few pounds, I'd just barely eat for a few days, surviving instead on coffee and cigarettes and, poof!, ten pounds gone. (For the record, I had a very brief, dormitory-floor-mates-caused smoking habit but I am NOT a smoker. Don't think I haven't thought about it this past week or so of flab-losing failure, however. I went without because of impressionable youngsters, that and because I also haven't found an oxygen-equipped motorized scooter yet that brings out my inner Easy Rider.)

So, once again, Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! I'm mad as hell but I have to take it anyway because if I resume normal eating and drinking habits, I'll gain ten pounds. Ask me how I know.

Coffee Toffee Crunch, I miss your sweet java-flavored creaminess and your Heath Bar chunks. Kiltlifter Ale and Guinness Stout, you both know how I feel; don't make me tear up. Alas, poor Urich, I knew them well.

Don't Talk About Religion or Politics or Rules Are Made To Be Broken

Yesterday, I did a little Hillary bashing and I’ve been feeling a tad guilty ever since.

First, let me shell out the honest truth. I don’t care for her. Her insincere and prevaricating demeanor leads me to believe she’ll say whatever she thinks she has to say to get elected whether she believes it or not. Her recent hawkishness toward Iran frightens me. Plus, I find her manner scolding (hence the nightmares) and caustic. Finally, I think it’s wrong for two families to dominate American politics for a quarter of a century. Remember my Dynasty comment?

That said, I do not doubt her intelligence, her drive, or her work ethic. She’s tough and she needs to be. Although exceptions exist, I am hard-pressed to give examples of highly successful females that do not have the reputations of being “bitches” and/or “ball-busters.” As Tina Fey says, “Bitch is the new black.” Power is there to be assumed, and when a woman does just that, our society as a whole has yet to accept it gracefully. It still comes down to the old scenario: A successful man is tough; a successful woman is mean.

So I’m feeling a little upside down this morning, questioning my own feelings and wondering if society’s norms are affecting my views of her candidacy. Honestly, and I’ve said it before, I wish I could be more like that “A-Type” woman, organized, efficient, and hard-working with a life not ruled by emotions and wind direction. Yet, I was born with talents unappreciated in a monetary sense, particularly in a down economy, talents that are possessed by 100+ people in line before me, talents accompanied by a pitiful lack of perseverance to have them noticed. I wound easily and heal slowly and question my worth at every juncture. In short, I wish I was a bitch.

If, by some political machinations, Hillary Clinton is the Democratic nominee, I’ll support her, if only because our country cannot succeed on more of the same and, although I used to admire John McCain for bucking the establishment, lately he is embracing the party line like a hot new lover.

We, as a society, I, as a person, need to change. We need to work harder and respect those who do. We (I) need to figure out what in the world we’re doing and do it well. We need to take back the pride in ourselves and our country that has been stolen by neocons, radical right-wingers, and, for me, the person who looks back at me when I search in the mirror. It won’t be easy; but the alternative is untenable.

No matter your views, please support our Democratic process. Apathy, ignorance, and non-involvement have led us to where we are today. While you’re at it, give a bitch a hand.

UPDATE: I found this montage after writing today's blog and, as it pertained so strongly to my earlier comments, I thought I should include it. After the Howard Beale moment, the rest is basically an ad for Clinton. The conglomeration of media stars attacking her, however, is still worth watching.)

By the way, I’m thinking about temporarily beginning a separate election-based blog, at least so you aren’t subjected to this drivel here. I’d like to get your feedback if I may. I realize I lean a little more left than some (many, all?) of you but a girl wants to know. Or, in psychobabble, how does this make you feel?

The Week in Review

Call it blogger burnout; call it a lamb hangover; call it mini-boot mobility, but I had to take a week off. I probably should not have done this because when I am not venting on page, I am internalizing life’s irritations and dreaming bad things. So now, in order to sleep properly, I will venture to upchuck the week’s woes in no particular order.

1. I quit drinking alcohol and eating sugar. I like drinking alcohol and eating sugar.

2. 20% of registered Pennsylvania voters admitted to not voting for Barack Obama because of his color (remember a while back when someone questioned his blackness?). If 20% are actually admitting this, what is the true percentage? It’s a sad testament to how far we as a people have yet to evolve.

3. A lot of people are bitter and cling to a myriad of things, be it religion, guns, alcohol, pet collecting, reading junk literature, and/or knitting (not that I’m talking personally here, really, believe me). Don’t shoot the messenger.

4. Hillary Clinton keeps lecturing me about my bed not being made and the dishwasher needing to be emptied. Then she tells me to hold my shoulders back and grounds me. (I think that was a dream, sorry, and no, my mother neither looks nor currently acts anything like Hillary Clinton.)

5. I am on a diet. See #1.

6. Don’t tell anyone but I miss reading the erotica in romance novels. This shakes me to my core. Call tech support; my file has been corrupted. I must have a virus. Doctor, doctor, give me the news; I have a bad case of loving Jews (sorry, I couldn’t think of a way to rhyme news with sex and I have a lot of Jewish friends who I love so there; I could use some suggestions).

7. “Dynasty” was a bad eighties television show; it is not a way to describe presidential rule.

8. Television news sucks (except for the Newshour on PBS). ABC’s debate moderators suck worse. Lapel pins suck. (They ruin the weave.)

9. My skin is turning into tissue paper and my upper arms have a mind of their own if their constant flapping for attention is any indication. And I’ve used the Bowflex twice now!

10. Did I mention I’m on a diet and I quit drinking alcohol and eating sugar?

And now for the glass half full folks:

1. I got my knitting mojo back and am working on a linen neckline panel for a dress I plan to sew when I am the right size to make sewing a dress worth the effort. Notice I said when and not if. This is one of David’s think positive tactics.

2. The Pint-Sized Farmer is finally wearing underwear which gives our indoor plumbing a reason for being. It’s nice when pipes feel needed.

3. It’s also nice not having hangovers (not that I ever drank enough to get one, honest).

4. My triceps are sore. This is a good thing as it shows a spark of progress.

5. I like eating sautéed spinach with poached or scrambled eggs (farm fresh!) for breakfast. I love homemade fruit smoothies. I love salad with baby greens, fresh mushrooms, tomatoes, green onions, a dab of canned salmon, and miso dressing. I love plain lowfat yogurt. I love iced green tea. This diet stuff isn’t all that bad (except for the no sugar or alcohol part; I really should have done this during Lent to put some points in the “UP” column).

6. Not drinking has not made me more efficient. This could be viewed as a bad thing except that when I once again weigh 125 pounds and I allow myself to drink again, I won’t miss my new old self. When.

7. I voted my conscience and in consideration of the issues that matter to me. I was not swayed by the scurrilous and/or nonsensical claims of talking heads repeated ad nauseam by vapid pundits.

8. I’m going to get back into my skinny jeans.

9. Apollo was lost but now is found, never blind but still can see.

10. Despite all my moaning and groaning, we still live in the best country on Earth (though I still dream of my wee sheep farm in County Kerry or Cork with an Irish Pub within drinking distance, aye, I do).

UPDATE: I received a wonderful email from my dear NC friend, Bernice, and had to add an excerpt since she is woe to comment: "I gave up alcohol 2 years ago for lent. I was such a bitch, the minister even asked me to start drinking." Gotta love the woman! (I do.)

Warning: Rambling Rant Ahead

You Might Want to Skip This One.

Yesterday, Aunt Flo arrived and, with very little effort, morphed me into a bitter and bloated unemployed middle-aged hag. My resentment over something HH said the previous evening turned into anger and undeserved self-pity. Yes, he had every right to say that I needed to control my spending if I wasn’t bringing in any money. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it. And I was out of fluff books.

Undeserved Self-Pity Break: Pardon me while I glance down at my gianormous Frankenstein boot.

I’m back. I know I don’t need the use of my left leg to make money. I have a good brain and I really should use it. I know the things I should be doing, more writing, more planning, more paperwork, more work period. But I don’t, I begin to think about all these should-dos and they form a giant killer tomato rolling towards me. Then, I start to hyperventilate and I feel like crawling into bed and rolling into a ball while simultaneously sticking my fingers in my ears and chanting la la la la until the panic passes.

My tough love friend Mo told me I can do more than I think I can. This is not the first time I have heard this but I have a hard time believing it. I remember after the twins were born via C-section and I was asking to stay in the hospital another day because my stomach hurt like, well a stomach whose muscles, un-toned though they were and are, had been sliced through very recently, and the nurse to whom I had just been griping stood outside and told the other nurses that I was doing better than I thought I was. (By the way, since 1994, they have lengthened the time period one stays in hospital post cesarean. Just stating the facts, ma’am.)

Stare into space and think about Dragnet break. I loved Joe Friday with a passion beyond words. Not really but I did really like his no-nonsense ways. Opposites attract, you know.

Today, my anger has turned into a case of the blues with a dash of bitters. I want to put Robert Johnson on the stereo and stare into space.

Robert Johnson was a young black man living on a plantation in rural Mississippi. Branded with a burning desire to become a great blues musician, he was instructed to take his guitar to a crossroad near Dockery’s plantation at midnight. There he was met by a large black man (the Devil) who took the guitar from Johnson, tuned the guitar so that he could play anything that he wanted, and handed it back to him in return for his soul. Within less than a year’s time, in exchange for his everlasting soul, Robert Johnson became the king of the Delta blues singers, able to play, sing, and create the greatest blues anyone had ever heard. You can read the full Wikipedia article here.

I want to drink Diet Coke with crushed ice (well, I am doing that already) and eat junk food (which I am trying not to do because NONE OF MY FRICKIN’ CLOTHES FIT ME OR MY GIANORMOUS FRANKENSTEIN BOOT!!!) I want to stay in my nightgown and unwashed face smeared with yesterday’s makeup. I want to watch a chick flick or read chick lit. I don’t want to contemplate my future. I don't want to keep thinking about the fact that the lady who writes the Dooce.com blog makes $40,000 a month on ad revenue and supports her entire family that way. I don't want to think about the fact that when I had ads on my blog I made less than $20. I’ll think about all these things tomorrow, Scarlett.

Sometimes, I want to go back to 1981 and go to class like I was supposed to and get that degree on time and make my father proud instead of disappointing him over and over like I did.

But then I would not have my family. I feel old and unsuccessful and unable to change into someone like my friend Allene who has more energy, enthusiasm, and work ethic in her little finger than I have in my big fat bloated body.

I’ll be better tomorrow. Right now, though, I can’t eat that elephant, even one bite at a time.

UPDATE

So, I had a little elephant or took that first step in the thousand mile journey or whatever else works as a way to say I worked on accomplishing a few things. I returned some less obnoxious advertising back on the blog and, although I feel a little uncomfortable about it, I added a donation button as well. Do with it what you will, no pressure. I also read an article about making money from your blog and one of the author's suggestions was to not talk about yourself. Hmmm... how about if I try not to complain instead? With my genes, that's a challenge in itself.

By the way, I am still in my nightgown with unwashed face. I have had two Diet Cokes and three slices of pizza from the freezer section. I am reading (though not chick lit) and, now that I have done some computer work, plan on doing as little as possible (at least while the Pint is sleeping). Thanks for tolerating my trip through Bluesville.

ABA

As often as I have wished for more time in my life to prop my feet up and relax, now that I am faced with that being the only comfortable thing I can do, I find myself looking at my repose quite differently. And although I’d be lying like a rug if I said I missed doing things like household chores or laundry, I do yearn for the simple things that, BBA (before broken ankle) I had taken for granted. Shall we make a list?

1. Carrying one’s own beverages, in particular steaming hot morning coffee. I realize I touched on this briefly the other day but time hasn’t improved my technique and I am at the mercy of my family for my a.m. java fix. If they so chose, they could completely manipulate me, forcing me into letting them watch inappropriate and horrifying-even-to-me movies like “Team America: World Police” or worse “The Aristocrats.” They could coerce me into allowing them to eat candy 24/7. In HH’s case, he could use coffee delivery as leverage for sexual favors (which I admit wouldn’t be altogether bad). If I had testicles, my family would have me by them.

2. Taking a relaxing shower. Granted, I am fortunate that I am able to take my huge and heavy Frankenstein boot off in order to wash away the omnipresent desert dust and bloodhound slobber. I don’t have to deal with plastic bag application or one-leg-out baths. However, my right leg has neither the strength nor the stamina to support my too-much weight for any length of time, particularly with my right knee still bruised, swollen, and sidewalk-rashed. This leads me to barely take care of the essentials. No salt scrub and no lotion, even sometimes no conditioner. If I’m feeling like Sasquatch, I might force a quick poorly executed shave but that’s only because I do have some pride left. Yesterday, feeling peakish after such a shower, and not wanting to put the boot back on with damp feet (the x-ray technician jerk would truly be horrified by that, wouldn’t he?), I, trying to balance on my right leg whilst sitting down to get dressed, fell (again), further twisting my broken ankle, and hitting my horror flick knee with das boot. I yelled in pain but no one heard me so I guess it didn’t happen. I am a tree in the woods.

3. Standing up straight. My mother has been after me for years to do this and, after the same amount of years of ignoring her, I truly want to hold my shoulders back, push my pelvis slightly forward, and suck in my stomach. Instead, I, Quasimodo, am hunched over these implements of torture looking like a constipated cow. David has crowned me the Queen of Uncoordinated Crutch Usage and, as far as arguing with him goes, I haven’t a leg to stand on (well, maybe one but it doesn’t work very well).

4. Visiting my farm animals. This is by far the saddest aspect of ABA that there is. It’s not that I can’t make it across the farm yard because I can in an awkward, exhausting, and precarious manner. The honest and heart-wrenching truth is that, attached to these metal poles, everyone is frightened of me. I’m Lauren Crutchesarms and, unlike that Scissorhands guy, I can’t even prune the shrubbery (if those Monty Python knights would ever come back with one). Maybe the ruminants think I’m going to attract a lightning strike or perhaps they think my condition is contagious. I don’t know. What I do know is that I have to rely on camera photos and window glimpses to see my babies.

And this makes me a very sad panda.

Reflected Glory

You know when you’re in all kinds of pain/distress/some-other-life-crisis and you go to the doctor/shrink/Red Cross for relief and acknowledgement and, all of a sudden, your rescue person/agency of choice tells you you’re not that bad after all even though you hurt like a sonofabitch? And then you try to tell the aforementioned “professional” about your it’s-giving-me-the-vapors pain and he exchanges a look with your let’s-say spouse who at the time is doing Cirque du Soleil tricks with your crutches. Next thing you know, they have this male bonding moment and suddenly you’re swimming upstream in a sea of I-Am-God testosterone searching for someone/anyone to justify your feelings.

Don’t look at the x-ray technician. He’s a jerk who only converses with you when he absolutely must and when you mention to him that you’d like to have your knee x-rayed at the same time to save said time, he gives you one of those it’s-not-my-job Freddie Prinze, Sr. things and then has the audacity to tell you to wear socks with your big giant Frankenstein boot or else it will get dirty. The look on his face says it already is.

Don’t look at his assistant when he leaves the room and mutter about what a charming guy he is and wow, can I imagine his bedside manner. She feels your sarcasm but he is her boss and she has rent due tomorrow.

Above all, don’t go into the waiting room (completely sober and drug-free by the way) and announce to half the crowd that the x-ray technician is a dick (which he is) because that will make said spouse angry at you because you never know when to keep your mouth shut which will make him further prove his superiority by performing more intricate Cirque du Soleil maneuvers on your crutches.

Finally, if you happen to have a broken ankle, don’t let the testosterone twins discuss your x-ray together. Yeah, yeah, broken fibula, pulled ligaments, but “you should have seen the time when I got in the jeep accident and broke my TIBIA and then I broke it again (five broken bones altogether mind you) and had to put screws in my ankle which are still there today. Now that was real pain, pardner.” I am an invisible person living in reflected glory.

So yeah (pause while I have “Office Space” flashback) my fibula is broken and my ligaments are torn but I can stay in the very heavy Frankenstein boot (joy of joys) and even put weight on my foot because I am apparently A MASOCHIST who wants to suffer in blood-curdling screams. By the way, I tried putting weight on it and remembered all those swear words I thought I had forgotten from junior high. It was nice, in an agonizing, inhumane, Guantanamo Bay kind of way.

Ohmigod, I sure hope Dick Cheney’s wife doesn’t break one of her bones. Dick would just say,
SO?” And I betcha he can’t even do crutch acrobatics. (But he does a nice Penguin impression, hah, yah, hah, behave.)

I Yam What I Yam

It’s the simple things we take for granted, previously unthought-of tasks like carrying hot steaming morning beverages without scalding oneself or ruining the hall rug, navigating through bloodhounds in the middle of the night whilst trying to crutch to the restroom, and, for that matter, going to the restroom period. What does one do with this cumbersome faulty appendage? I can’t put it on the floor and I’m too much of a weakling to hold the somehow-it-turned-to-lead leg in the air for more than a few seconds. And then there’s the whole sleeping (or in my case not sleeping) issue. The doctor’s instructions are to keep my ankle elevated higher than my heart. In order to do this, I have to lie on my back and use four pillows for resting the thankfully-temporary-until-my-swelling-subsides heavy Frankenstein boot. Yet, I’m not a back sleeper; I lie on my stomach to fall asleep, and then on my side to stay that way. (Brief aside: my mother trained herself to sleep motionless on her back to avoid pillow-related facial wrinkles. She’s funny that way; I’d rather have sheet wrinkles.) Needless to say, I got very little sleep last night.

All this admittedly deserved discomfort/inconvenience has my mind racing to invent ways to cope for the next eight weeks. Firstly, I need to MacGyver a way to attach cup holders to my crutches and exchange my typical coffee mug for a travel one. Next, I need a leg hook in the throne room. I don’t know what, if anything, I can do about the back sleeping issue so I guess I’ll just enjoy fewer sheet wrinkles.

Did anyone read friend Allene’s “Queen of Inappropriate Attire” comment on yesterday’s yes-I-broke-my-ankle post? Although this happened years ago, it’s one of those things I’ll never live down in her eyes. Allene and her husband Jim, David and I, and Jim’s sister Toni and her then-husband went to Palm Springs together for a needed weekend away. My first mistake was packing a turtleneck (it was short-sleeved at least) as part of my hitting the town in July heat outfit. Hey, it looked good with my skirt and beauty before pain has/had up until the past few years been my mantra. This is a part of being my mother’s child. The next day, we planned to take the tram up to cooler climes and hike. As David and I arrived to meet them, I was greeted with guffaws and ribbing. Never being much of an athlete or a hiker, I chose a mini skirt and pumps as my outfit du jour. I yam what I yam.

So, as Allene implied, it should come as no surprise that I fell off my shoes and broke my ankle. Honestly, I don’t think the problem was that I wearing “inappropriate” wedge heels; the issue was that I have spent too much time as of late dressing practically. Perhaps it’s time to get back to the real me, as soon as I figure out who that is. After I finish serving my eight weeks of purgatory, please join me for a high-heeled hike. It’s obviously been too long.

I'm an Even Bigger Idiot...

...Because my ankle is broken. I had to wait until I was 45 to break my first bone. What's up with that?

And if I wasn't uncoordinated enough already, add crutches to the mix and here I am the spaz trying to make it down the aisles of Walgreen's to get my prescription (and Ben and Jerry's, thank goodness for small favors). If I don't fall again during my "recovery" and break more bones, it will be a miracle.

This is going to take some getting used to. And it's all my own damned fault though every nurse I spoke to copped to falling off her shoes at one time or another and twisting her ankle. None of them were fortunate enough to break a bone however. I guess I'm just lucky that way.

By the way, something went awry with Typepad on the previous post and, for some reason, one cannot leave a comment there. So leave them here because I LOVE to get comments (and I need extra love right now; I'm in chagrined humiliated pain after all).

I am an IDIOT

This is my very bruised and battered knee.

This is my very swollen and painful ankle.  I think it's sprained but, since I am pretty sure I cannot drive, and since HH and Jessica are both out of town for the weekend, I guess I'm not going to make it to the hospital to find out for sure.  If anyone has one of those firm and funky ankle brace boots, I'd appreciate it if you sent it my way.

I cannot tell you how this happened to me without totally humiliating myself.  Let's just say unfamiliar 3 1/2" wedge heeled shoes, the uneven sidewalks of old Scottsdale, and drinks at "The Saddle Ranch" (complete with a mechanical bull) don't mix.  In my only defense, Jessica took me down there, that and I am incredibly uncoordinated no matter the time of day, my level of imbibement or lack thereof.  I fall down a lot, just not typically on cement.

Farm chores this weekend are going to be challenging and as sparse as possible.

I'm going to miss my frequent lamb visits.

Especially with Sugarlips Finnegan  here.  He's become quite the loverboy.

I swear, the dumb things I do.  If I wasn't in so much pain already, I'd kick myself.