NEW YEAR'S EVE 2022

 I have a big night planned tonight and need help deciding what to wear...

I AM A MESS

Back along ( I won't say when because everyone will holler WTF in unison) I injured my shoulder and it has progressively gotten worse since then. I can't extend my arm in front of me nor can I raise it above my head. The pain radiates all the way down my arm to my wrist. Getting dressed and undressed is a real challenge. In November my rheumatologist ordered X-rays and a MRI, but when I went to have them done the order was written for the wrong shoulder and the place wouldn't call the doctor's office to get the order changed verbally. Initially, I had a follow-up appointment in December with my rheumatologist which I intended to get the error corrected then, but I got a call from her office and they had to reschedule my appointment for a later date. At that point I called my primary care and got an appointment and was seen quickly. My primary care doctor ordered a MRI for the correct shoulder and it's scheduled for Friday. Given all my symptoms, she thinks I have a torn rotator cuff. Needless to say, I've been in pain most of the time and sleeping is difficult. Sleeping is always difficult anyways, but I feel like I'm in a fog all the time. No, the fog isn't from smoking weed! :) It's from lack of sleep and pain. I'm wondering if the surgery I had in October 2020 that caused nerve damage and muscle wasting syndrome has in some way contributed to this injury and if it will show up on the MRI. I will definitely mention it on Friday and hopefully they can capture that area on the image. So one thing is for certain, I can start 2023 with saying Mildred is a mess!    

30 TRUTHS IN 30 DAYS - DAY EIGHTEEN

Truth #18: You never know where or when Murphy's Laws will strike next! It's usually when you're least expecting it and least prepared. I always say that it's better to be alone than to be with the wrong person. It seems my whole life has been testament to proving that theory to be correct until I put myself in a rather lengthy time-out. Just recently I've been half-ass dabbling with this online dating stuff and wouldn't you know it that I stumbled across someone quite accidently who actually tickled my fancy by what he wrote in his profile, etc. Of course, I couldn't leave well enough alone! I had to send him a message. 

In my mind I see this guy getting with a bunch of bimbos, airheads and all sorts of women who just don't get him and he's bored to death. He wants a little mental stimulation to put some pep in his step. He wants pizzazz! Some gusto! Something real! I had no intention of doing anything, but giving him some encouragement but not on my behalf but to stay in the game and to continue his hunt. So I sent him a message:

Nope! I don't want to be anyone's "Florida vacation."  The last time that happened, it put me in a lengthy time-out and I'm just starting to dig my way out of that now. You talk about a severe case of PSTD! The trouble here isn't that we wouldn't click, it's that we would and then hey, reality would set in. We live over 500 miles apart and long distance relationships rarely work. Naturally, you want to be with the person and can't be. Then the worst happens...convenience finally wins out. One or the other or both of us would find someone locally to take the loneliness away. Don't you like how I just had a whole relationship with someone I don't even know in just a few sentences? That's very insightful of me because I know myself and I see the writing on the wall. I know the far away galaxy he seeks too well and I think I could razzle dazzle him with some deep meaningful whatever and then some. But I'm not going there...I can't!!! So repeat after me, Mildred! I am not going to go there. Back off and leave it alone :)

TO MILDRED FROM MILDRED

There are few absolutes in life. With the exception of birth, death and taxes everything else falls in a hazy gray area subject to loopholes, pitfalls and mediocrity. There is however one other thing I can say with 100% certainty about my life in general. No one should ever use my life as a model for sobriety. The road I've walked to get here has been an exhausting one. I did everything the Mildred Ratched method instead of doing them in a way that would have been faster, easier and with better results. Never being able to completely surrender has always been a huge problem for me. My inability to learn by other people's mistakes and having to do everything the hard way isn't due to any genetic mule-like tendency. My real problem stems from lack of trust. When a person is damaged at a young age, they spend their entire life either trying to heal or trying to run away... or both. 

Their futile attempts of trying to gain normalcy is like some slow emotional death sentence. Somehow they manage to prove ourselves right time after time by the unhealthy relationships they form and the tangled, drama-filled situations in which they become involved. The outcome is always the same...disaster, disappointment and despair. Throughout life I have learned how to skillfully navigate through failure, but never have learned the proper keys to success. As long as I manage to remove drama and negativity from my life, I'm able to stay afloat. As long as I isolate myself from having any intimate relationships involving love and sex, my thinking stays relatively unclouded. As long as I have virtually no life, I can live drug free. So what! So what if I can say "Hey, look at me. I stopped doing drugs!" My life absent of drugs is far from what anyone would call a life. Every fiber in me screams at anyone looking at my life for answers to look elsewhere. Anyone looking at me needs to quickly come to the conclusion that they need to do things the right way and not the Mildred Ratched method. They need to find a way to let go and trust others. They need to stick with it and know anything good in life requires great patience and extreme effort.  

So here I am 50 something years old and I'm wondering when the hell that happened. How have I managed to come so far, but never leave square one? The ugly truth is that I isolate myself just to stay sane, sober and safe. Surely, there could have, should have been some other way to get here, but Miss Mildred Mule picked the path of least resistance. She picked the path where all she had to do was do what she does best...listen to herself and no one else. Trust herself and no one else. In doing so, Mildred picked the path once again of self-destruction. Mildred's addiction without drugs is like a gun. She just keep loading her gun, placing it to her head and firing away. So far, her gun has shot blanks. So far all her gun has done is numb her to its horrors. So far, all her gun has done is kept her from living, from being able to succeed and be happy, from being able to accomplish anything that requires effort, focus and stamina. Pulling that trigger everyday is the easiest thing Mildred has ever done!

* reposted from November, 18, 2011

DRIPPING ON MY KEYBOARD

I first became aware of my grandparent's disappointment of me when I was a teenager. It was deserved, but it still hurt when my grandfather told me his dog was better than me. I had done some horrible things and yes, I had deserved scorn, but I didn't deserve cruelty.  Now, as an adult I look back on that part of my life and I wonder why no one stepped up and saw that I was in crisis. I was struggling. Jesus, I had my first overdose back then. Was it so hard to figure out I had some serious problems? I'm not excusing my behavior because I was incorrigible. I hurt many people and I'm deeply ashamed of that and always will be.

Whenever I would go "home" to Maine I always spent one day visiting my deceased relatives.  My brothers always thought this was rather morbid of me, but it never struck me that way.  I ways grabbed some lunch at a fast food place and ate lunch with my father, grandfather, grandmother and aunt.  They were all buried next to each other in the same cemetery.  On one such visit, I had had an emotional awakening the entire time I was in Maine.  My feelings were raw and I needed to vent so sitting there in front of my father and grandparents who were all non-participating entities in my life growing up I blasted them with everything I had.  I'm glad I was alone because if anyone had been in earshot, they would have thought I was crazy.  My final words to my father were, "Carl Goggins, are you listening to me?" Of course, he wasn't!  He had been dead for over 30 years at that time.  My words fell on deaf ears and my tears fell on stone marker bearing his name.

My next stop was to visit my mother's parents. My heart was so heavy because I knew what a disappointment I had been to them and I had just come from having "words" with my father.  I wish I had been able to say I'm sorry to them while they were still alive.  I wish they had known the turmoil I felt inside me growing up.  I wish they knew the panic I felt.  I wish they knew that I felt I had nowhere to go and no one to talk to and how trapped I felt.  I had to keep everything inside and for a child that's a huge burden.  Eventually it's going to erupt and it did erupt.  When it did, all everyone saw was a kid acting bad and not one person questioned why I was acting that way.  I don't think anyone cared or wanted to know because no one wanted to take any responsibility.

I pulled into the small cemetery where my grandparents are buried and got out of the car.  But instead of going to their grave, I stopped dead in my tracks. On top of their headstone was a huge roll of duct tape.  There wasn't a soul in the small cemetery and why would someone leave a roll of duct tape on my grandparents headstone?  I started laughing because I have a "thing" about duct tape and I took it as my father's answer that he was listening to me. I took the roll and sat down with my grandparents and told them I was sorry for being a disappointment to them and I wept.  It hurt to say that.  It hurts to admit that I hurt so many people that I loved and I wasn't able to tell them I was sorry while they were alive.

Now, let me fast forward to the present day...my mother is 92.  I love her dearly, but we've had a what I'll call a "ruffled" relationship my entire life.  It's never been smooth.  I'm her only daughter, but I've always wondered things like why she never sat me down at a certain age and showed me how to put make up on or how to style my hair, etc. when she herself dressed to the nines and looked like a model whenever she left the house. The other day I sat down in hopes that with the time we have left together that I might try to mend our relationship somewhat and make it smoother by offering an apology.  It was so difficult for me to hand her the olive branch, but I did it. I told her that I was so sorry that I wasn't the daughter that she needed and wanted me to be.  I told her that I really wanted us to enjoy what time we had left together and that I didn't want us to keep butting our heads together all the time (that's a story for another day.) I said I didn't want to be a disappointment to her any longer. My mother sat there without any reaction whatsoever while I wept and said nothing. She said nothing. She said nothing and she has said nothing about it since. End of discussion.

I can't even begin to describe the emotions that have flooded through me lately. I feel as though she continually punishes me for things I did long ago. I know karma is a bitch, but when is enough enough? When have you paid your dues? When are you truly forgiven? I can't help, but feel that my mother's silence is her way of being cruel because at 92 she's limited in what she can actually do now. I mean she can't whack the hell out of me with a hairbrush or a wooden spoon. Oh, I guess she could try, but I'm a little faster than her. I really hate to say that I think it's her way of being cruel  because I do love her. Jesus Christ! Now, I'm crying again! And I have to go find some meme to fit this stupid ass whiny post. Blah! Blah! Blah! Oh Mildred! Dry it up! Go get a Kleenex! You're dripping all over the keyboard!

By the way, I still have that huge roll of duct tape my father gave me and I use it quite often.  Each time I use it, I think of him and I actually thank him. The last time was to tape a hole worn in the fingers of my favorite pair of gardening gloves. Don't say "get a new pair!"  I've looked and they don't make that exact same pair and that's the pair I want so when I wear a hole in the fingers...duct tape it is! Thank you, Carl Goggins!

Can I get an Amen up in here?

Addendum: written 10/23/2022 Sunday morning - My mother passed away almost six months after I wrote this blog post on 6/1/2020. Although I'm much better now grieving has been a difficult process and finding purpose in life after being a caregiver for two elderly parents for the better part of two decades of my life has been challenging. When the options are limitless, how does one choose what to do?

THE BRICK WALL

Sometime after my divorce in 1998, I tried online dating with no real success. I likened it to repeatedly beating my head against a brick wall. So why am I even comtemplating doing it again? That's a very good question! I guess the best answer to that is that I'm either a glutton for punishment or that I have some eternal optimism buried deep within me. Since I decided to throw myself into the meat market again, I decided to share a few of my online dating stories from back when I did this the first time. 

Actually, I responded to this gentlemen’s ad online. The words he had written tugged at my heart and I felt almost duty bound to respond. After e-mailing and talking on the phone for several weeks, one Saturday evening about 6:30 p.m. he called me and asked me out to dinner. I explained I had been cleaning house all day, hadn’t even had a shower yet and was worn out. He said it didn’t matter and to just throw on a pair of jeans and we’d have casual dinner. Although it was on the spur of the moment, I love spontaneity, so I accepted with the stipulation he had to give me at least an hour to get ready. His drive to pick me up would be at least that long, so he said that wouldn’t be a problem.

As he drove, he called me on his cell phone a few times with the last time being about 10 minutes from my house. We talked until he arrived at my place. During this last conversation he told me he was allergic to strawberries and had inadvertently consumed some in a drink the day before and had broken out in a rash. This was not a problem and I asked him out of concern about the allergy and how he treated the rash. He also, at this point mentioned that his office staff referred to him as looking like a retired football player. That certainly wasn’t a problem. That just meant he was a rugged man. Well, let me tell you that when he got out of his car I almost fell over. If it had been daylight, he would have blocked out the sun!

When Jimmy Johnson was the coach for the Dallas Cowboys, he had a thing for BIG men on his offensive line.....somewhere in the neighborhood of 350lbs each. This guy made them look tiny!!!!! Okay, I’m not into looks and knew I could handle sitting through dinner with this man so his size was unimportant, but when we went inside the restaurant and I saw his allergic reaction, I lost my appetite. I’m no doctor, but whatever was all over his skin was more than one day old. It was scaly patches covering all visible skin with some of the patches having scabs. Not to sound gross, but some patches had scabs that were open and looked like they were oozing. Now, being the person I am...I could have probably even handled that, but as he sat through dinner telling me what I should and shouldn’t do with my poor dismal life and nothing I said was right in his eyes, he suddenly transformed from a very sweet, compassionate person I had gotten to know on the phone to an overbearing egotistical tyrant.

Everything I had done, he had done better. I got to the point where I just wanted to get through dinner and go home, but he had other ideas. He prolonged the agony by insisting on dessert which included showing me a portfolio of pictures of his ex-wife he still had in his wallet. He took extreme pride in pointing out how good she looks in a bikini. I sat in amazement wondering how much more I could tolerate when he started telling me he couldn’t stay out late because he had to fly out to DC early that next morning to testify before the Congress or Senate on some subject. At that point I was so tone deaf, I really couldn’t do anything more than try to imagine this HUGE OOZING male sitting in front of them speaking about anything. I smiled and told him I would make sure I turned the TV on in the morning so I could watch him testify......needless to say, he never appeared on TV and I never got asked out for a second date. As broken hearted as I was, I managed to pull myself together and struggle onward to be captivated by the next perfect man.

ADDING INSULT TO INJURY

We all do stupid things at times, but when I do something stupid, I always take it to a new level. My stupidity is almost like an art form...a thing of beauty to be remembered and talked about for decades. My newest act of stupidity started 3 days ago and I'm still shaking my head in amazement each time I think about it. Why bother doing that? Well, in part it has to do with being an "emotional cutter" plus I freely admit I'm a glutton for punishment! Seriously, just ask anyone who knows me! Load it on, baby! I can handle anything!

My colonoscopy and upper endoscopy was scheduled for 11:40am on Thursday, March 28th with a 10:40am check-in. Monday, I made sure I had all the necessary implements of torture to cleanse my system of all the bubblegum I swallowed back in 8th grade:

• a package of Dulcolax Tablets
• a 8.3 ounce bottle of Miralax
• two 32 ounce bottles of Gatorade
• all the suggested "clear" liquids to consume during the day before my colonoscopy

I chose the Miralax prep because the prep I used for my two previous colonoscopies were almost unbearable to drink. As we used to say in the days of my youth, it was enough to gag a maggot. They say to refrigerate the prep so it's easier to drink. Ha! If it tastes that bad cold, I can only imagine what it tastes like at room temperature. That'll bring tears to your eyes...and not in a joyful way!

On the day of my prep, I did everything as instructed:

•  I consumed NO food all day
•  I forced clear liquids only
•  At 12 noon, I took 4 Dulcolax tablets and then I mixed the whole bottle of Miralax with the Gatorade, then placed it in the refrigerator to chill
• At 6pm I drank one 8ounce glass of the Miralax/Gatorade mixture and continued to drink 8 ounces every 15 minutes until the entire 64 ounces were gone.
• And then I waited patiently and gave everyone in the house instructions to not dillydally in the downstairs bathroom or else they'd clean up the mess.

By 7:30pm a little ahead of schedule, I had consumed all the mixture. I had never drank Gatorade before, so I didn't know what to expect, but I have to admit it wasn't awful. The taste reminded me of what a salty/sweet, watered-down, orange-flavored Kool-aid might taste like. About an hour after I had finished, I felt a little nauseous, but that quickly passed, but nothing else passed at that time unfortunately.

8 o'clock came and went. 9 o'clock came and went. 10 o'clock, 11 o'clock, 12 o'clock came and went. By 1am, I was starting to get really tired. When 2am came, I was starting to get concerned. Of course, I googled how long it takes a Miralax colonoscopy prep to start working. All that did was make me more anxious. From what I read, the concoction starts working fairly fast. Yes, I have gastroparesis and my digestive system works at a crawl, but this prep was all liquid so there wasn't anything to digest. It should have been a straight shot from end to end. What was the delay?

At about 2:15am, my gut started rumbling so loud that it woke up the dogs. They looked startled as I scurried off to the bathroom. For the next hour, I ran to the bathroom every few minutes. By 3:30am, my gut felt a little better, so I laid down. I felt really fatigued and before I knew it I had fallen sound asleep. 

At about 4am, my sound sleep was interrupted by a gurgling brook. When I awoke, I was a little disoriented at first. I felt wet and there was a foul stench I couldn't quite identify. At first, I thought one of my dogs had had an accident, but as I became fully awake I realized what had happened. I laid there for a moment and rolled my eyes and shook my head! The wet sensation I felt was a gurgling fecal eruption that had happened while I slumbered. Oh yes! While I snoozed, my bowels oozed. I couldn't blame that on the dogs. I laid there trying to figure out how I was going to roll over and get out of bed without creating a bigger mess than there already was.

As I sat up, my gurgling brook started oozing down my legs. I quickly tried to stop it from reaching the floor by tightening the bottoms of my pajamas legs to hold the mess in. It had a tourniquet effect and prevented me from leaving a trail all the way to the bathroom. As I reached the bathroom walking slowly and quite bow-legged, I decided that I didn't like my black capri-length pajamas enough to salvage them. After I took a shower, I discarded my badly soiled pjs in a lavender-scented garbage bag. Ha! [Note to self: write to garbage bag company and tell them they need a stronger scent] I actually managed to tie a neat bow on top of the garbage bag with its bright red plastic ties. After all, it was like a gift going to the local landfill. If I had thought about it, I would have marked the white bag as being "Hazardous Waste" or "WARNING! OPEN AT YOUR OWN RISK!" Between being exhausted and trying to be as quiet as possible, my twisted sense of humor failed me. 

Before I left my house just after 10am to meet my 10:40am check-in time, I had one more eruption followed by another shower. I was beginning to wonder how they were ever going to give me a colonoscopy since I was nowhere near being cleaned out. All sorts of images flashed through my head and none of them were pleasant, yet all of them were quite comical. I could actually envision the words "prolific shitter" being documented in my medical records as a warning/reminder to the future medical staff members.

 

Because anyone getting a colonoscopy/endoscopy requires a person 18 years or older to accompany them to the facility and be their designated driver after the procedure, I brought my youngest son, Matthew with me. As I told him the events of my colonoscopy prep, the thought of his mother falling asleep and losing control of her bowels filled him with a sense that something was right with the world after all.

The story gets really intense here, so pay attention. When we entered the facility to check-in, I was told that my appointment was the next day. I just stood there speechless staring at the woman behind the counter. Somehow I had got my days mixed up and went through the prep for nothing. Does that qualify me as being a dumbass? I wonder how many people have done that exact same thing. 

At this point, my options were to wait around until after 5pm and let the other doctor do my procedures since my doctor wasn't on site that day, but I was told that the other doctor was already an hour and a half behind and it wasn't even 11am. They were even nice enough to call around to see if my doctor was at one of the other facilities, but alas, he was in the office all day and had no procedures scheduled. My other options were to continue to push clear liquids all day and to come back the next day to do my scheduled procedure or to reschedule my appointment. And the winner is...I chose to reschedule because I'm diabetic and felt it wasn't smart to go for two day without food. 

Now, to add insult to injury, when I left The Endoscopy Center I was famished so I had my son stop at one of my favorite restaurants for lunch...a Mexican place. I ordered fajitas. They were savagely devoured like I hadn't eaten in a month. I followed that by having an order of Nachos Bellgrande, two beef MexiMelts and two soft beef tacos from Taco Hell (Taco Bell) the very next day because nothing says glutton for punishment quite like eating food from Taco Hell. My already compromised digestive system was screaming, "WTF are you doing?" Yesterday afternoon, I finally completed my clean out by taking Imodium to quiet my bowels. They weren't just singing! They had gotten to the fever pitch of a heavy metal band. My intestines felt like they were in a crowded mosh pit with no way out. 

Things are back to normal now and my next appointment is scheduled for May 2nd. The moral to this story is DO NOT fall asleep after doing a colonoscopy prep and always know what day of the week it is.

*reposted and edited from March 19, 2019

MY HERO

I awoke this morning needing exactly this post written by daughter years ago. As I read the words she wrote about me, I wept knowing how lately I have failed miserably to live up to her words by sinking into some self-imposed abyss. Honestly, I don't know if I have the courage or the strength to pull myself from the crevise in which I've fallen. I may need Lassie to come bring me a rope to help hoist me out of here...

"Wimpy Daughter" aka Christina was given an assignment to write a paper about her hero for one of her college classes 7 years ago (2004). The following is the paper she wrote:

By definition a hero is somebody who is admired and looked up to for outstanding qualities or achievements, somebody who commits acts of remarkable bravery or who has shown great courage, strength of character or another admirable quality. I find all these traits in my hero. "Try to picture a person who stands apart from the crowd who sees things not in black or white, but in varying shades of gray. Try to picture a person who closes their eyes and hears the beat of a different drummer, then marches proudly and eagerly away to do their own thing regardless of the consequences or popular opinion. Try to picture a person who is not a polished gem, but a diamond in the rough...someone who believes true beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and that the best things in life are free." (an excerpt from blogsite, Abnormally Normal People written by Red Kitten aka Mildred Ratched) When I picture this person, I see my mother and she is my hero.

Ever since I was little, I always knew my mother was different. It was not until I grew up that I later could appreciate the “difference” in her versus the stereotypical normal mother everyone else seemed to have. My mother raised us to be leaders not followers, to chart our own destiny and to be no one’s fool. This was daunting to a young child whose only desire was to fit in and have what everyone else had, a normal mom. My mother always taught my two brothers and me that the mind was a wonderful thing and we should use it. As far back as I can remember, probably to when I was three, I was told, “you are a smart person, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Now I realize that all mothers will tell their children that, but most would not have done what she did. She let us use those brains instead of thinking for us. She told us that God gave us a brain and to use it, if we made a mistake or got into trouble we were to use our brain and figure out a solution. We had to, she was not going to suffer our foolishness and molly coddle any of us. Does this make her different? At the time I certainly thought so. When all my friends bragged about their parents giving them the answers to homework problems, kids picking on us at school or about how so and so parents was screaming at someone about their child’s actions my mother sat back and said to us, “You figure it out.” How I hated that, I wanted normal so bad and I didn’t have it, but it taught us to use those brains and boy did we figure it out.

Normalcy was not ever in abundance with my mother. Living in an area where racial slurs were the norm, my mother taught us to respect everyone equally as a human being regardless of skin color. She taught us to look beneath the surface of a person’s outer skin and find the true essence of who that person really was. I never knew what racial discrimination was until I became an adult and heard it. It was shocking to realize that the person making those remarks was so narrow minded. I guess witnessing such narrow mindedness opened my eyes to the fact that once again my mother defied what was normal and instead of seeing things in the standard black and white, she saw those gray areas. I never realized as I was growing up that she taught us from those gray matters more than from the black and white. As a young child I was allowed to watch what I wanted to on television. Most parents shudder to think what a child would choose, not my mother; she just sat back and allowed us to make those choices on our own. Instead of choosing stupidly we chose wisely and by doing so were taught a valuable lesson, the reward system. If you show that I can trust you, I will extend your freedom, but if you mess up you lose that freedom. I can honestly say our freedom wasn’t yanked away very often.

My mother will never be a polished gem; she will always be a diamond in the rough. Like an uncut diamond she has many flaws that I once saw as imperfections and now badges of courage, lack of selfishness and a kindness that is so overwhelmingly generous. I was taught it is better to give than to receive and always thought, "you’ve got to be kidding, right? You can’t really believe that bull!" But time and time again, we learned through her actions she meant just that. Her kindness and generosity to family as well as strangers will linger forever in my mind. What I saw as a weakness in character, thinking she was being taken advantage of, was an error on my part. You can only be taken advantage of if you let someone do so and she never allowed that. She showed strength in choosing to help those in need instead of doing the easier thing and ignoring them. She did without when others needed because she felt they needed more than she did. She didn’t just talk to us about these things, we saw her doing them time and time again. My mother taught us about the beauty found in the art of giving, the courage to love when you wanted to hate, to be strong when you wanted to be weak and to have the strength to go on when you feel that you are failing.

Christina (Wimpy Daughter) and Karen (Mildred Ratched)

My mother has not lived an easy life. The choices she has made are choices she has to bear, but bear them she does. Sometimes in frustration, in wishing she had done different, sometimes with laughter as she recalls a happy moment, but however she does it, she always bears them with honesty. She explains, not lectures, about her mistakes she has made along the way, in hopes that we will not have to go through the same things. I don’t look at them as mistakes though, because without the things she has witnessed and gone through herself, she would not be the person she is today and that person is my hero.

 Repost and edited from 12/01/2011

THE LAST MILE

This is dedicated to Helen Evancheck who recently passed away at 98 years young on September 21, 2022. 

When I walked away there was no turning back. I knew from that point on my life would never be the same. Yes, I longed for the familiar surroundings I called home, yet that house would always remain with me no matter where I went. Running away only made the things I loved no longer a physical part of my life. I could hold them close in my mind and take them with me.

Looking back on it, I know now that my decision to leave was totally wrong, yet at the time it seemed I was trapped and had no other choice. That few weeks I spent on the psych ward after my first overdose, made me realize I had very few real friends. Each night when Wayne's mother came on duty, I would sit with her at the nurse's station and talk until I could fall asleep. We never once discussed her son or why I was on her floor. I knew she had read my chart and was familiar with all the notes written in it. What was there to discuss? I know I should have been ashamed, but she never made me feel uncomfortable. She talked to me as if she truly cared for my well-being and I always appreciated that. She was kind and gentle: warm and loving...all the things I needed most at that time.

I acted horrible during the day...defiant and always questioning authority. I refused to participate in any group therapy and used any recreation time to create weird things to decorate my room. My pride and joy were the bats I had made from modeling clay. I had painted them black with red eyes and then hung them with sewing thread from the pipe near the ceiling in my room. It seemed everything I did was aimed at getting a reaction. But no matter how outrageous I acted Mrs. Evancheck treated me the same way she treated me from the first time she met me when Wayne brought me home to meet his parents. She treated me like one of her own. 

I still remember the outrage I felt when my mother had brought me an electric razor so I could shave my legs and underarms and it was immediately taken away from me. I quickly challenged them by asking if they thought I was going to shave myself to death. Surely, they couldn't think I would try to hang myself with the cord...it wasn't long enough for that and besides hanging just wasn't my style. They never did give me a reason why they took it. They didn't have to give me a reason, so I went on being my usual obnoxious self. Why they didn't just medicate me was a mystery to me, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I would have enjoyed zoning out on some good psychiatric drugs. 

The law required any drug overdoses to be sent to the psych ward for 2 weeks of observation after surviving the ER and the ICU, but many people weren't that lucky. For most the only trip they took was to the morgue! The two weeks I was on C-4 was some of the hardest decision making time I have ever had. Due to my impaired judgment and being so screwed up, I made all the wrong decisions at that time! I had no adult I could turn to for guidance.  I just didn't trust anyone that way.

So I was alive! The overdose had not been intentional...I simply was out of control and on a very self-destructive path. I loved getting high and staying high. I feared nothing...not even death itself. I slowly retreated into a silent, safe place where I no longer felt any pain. Along with feeling no pain, I discovered I also felt no happiness, joy or love. Wayne had threatened to leave me if I didn't stop getting high as if that was going to stop me! Ha! Now, he was gone and I was truly alone...except for my drugs. Somehow they had replaced everything that was good or right in my life. They dulled the pain and I learned how to live being comfortable numb. 

Lynne, someone I considered a friend, offered me a way out and I took it.  I believed that nothing could be worse than what I had been experiencing. It wasn't until much later until I discovered that things always can get worse. It only took me a few days after being discharged from the hospital to realize going back to school and trying to straighten out my life was just not going to happen like everyone else wanted it to happen. The day I left home, I took one last look at Wayne's house before I walked down my street and walked towards the interstate with Lynne. That last mile was my point of no return. As we set out on the road, I left some of my pain behind but the biggest portion was something I would carry with me until I learned how to forgive.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost-

I'VE BEEN NOMINATED!

I won't bore anyone with where I've been or why I've been there. I know I've been neglectful and probably deserve a good flogging! Who's up for the task? The line forms out back behind the art studio. Take a number and wait for your turn!

OMG! I can’t stop laughing! I just got an email this morning letting me know I was nominated to be in the Professional Who’s Who. Ordinarily this might be considered an honor, but I (Karen) wasn’t the one nominated! Mildred Ratched was the one they want to include in their publication! I have half a mind to go for it, but then the other half...that seldomly used rational side of my brain, wants to know who nominated me and why. Hmmm! Perhaps I can offer a free shock treatment and an enema to the person who nominated me!

FOREVER YOUNG

I just realized something. The thought really did just pop into my head from out in the cosmos somewhere floating amongst the galactic matter that I, Mildred Ratched have gotten old.  How this happened I don't quite know. I'm puzzled! Confused! Vexed! Flummoxed! Just good old plain mind-blown. I have become THAT OLD WOMAN who bitches and criticizes and complains. When did I start disliking people so much? Is it everyone that I dislike? Am I becoming a crabby troglodyte again? I'll really start to worry if I feel the urge to paint my bedroom Bohemian Red like my previous "cave" was painted. When did I get old? It seems like it happened overnight. Yesterday, I was young and vibrant and today, I'm The Sea Hag. My body doesn't seem to know what muscle tone and tight flesh means anymore. Things grow where they shouldn't and stuff falls out that I wish would stay put. I'm the female version of Archie Bunker, except I'm more pitiful because I don't have anyone to call "Meathead" and unfortunately, Mildred doesn't have a "Judith" or a "Jack/John/Joe or who really cares"...that is, unless one of you dear creatures want to fix me up so I'll have someone of my very own to love, honor and abuse.  I'll bring my own recliner and remote control, of course. Geez! It sounds like a righteous deal to me and on a good day I might even cook a meal. What more could anyone dream for or expect from a relationship? 

Mildred's Makeover

Just so everyone won't think my life is totally bleak all the time, my daughter gave me a makeover not long ago.  This old gal can still rock it when I have to! Unfortunately, the times I have to rock it aren't that often anymore. After she did this to me, she instructed me to go to Lowe's and pick up a contractor (I don't do bars or online dating and I desperately need a lot of home repairs done.) She assumed I'd work something out in trade. To that thought, I just rolled my eyes. Aren't I getting a little too old for those fun and games? Besides, is the barter system still used in this country? If so, what's the going rate for home repairs? 

Surgery on the 9th

Instead of remaining MIA, I felt a short explanation was appropriate.  This surgery is something I've been putting off for quite awhile and I'll post more details about it after I have it done on the 9th.  Right now, I've been trying to finish up all the hurricane clean-up, etc. and to prepare myself mentally for having more surgery.  

A CRACK IN MY WHEEL BARROW

The birds were squawking at me as soon as I let the dogs out at 6am. They wanted to be fed. That meant I needed to go get 60lbs of bird seed out of the trunk of my car. I debated whether or not to go get dressed first because it had rained in the night and trudging through the wet grass and cleaning out the feeders would probably get messy. But I opted to stay as is and get wet. Getting wet is always fun. Right?

Part way through the task, two of my dogs wanted to go back in the house because they do not like the humidity. The other dog seems resistant to the presence of humidity and will stay outside all day with me.  He's my little helper! It's a shame I can't teach him how to prune shrubbery and do other outside tasks. We have detailed conversations about the plants, the birds and other happenings in the yard. After finishing up with the birds, I decided I'm going to start working on my next rock statue. In order to do this, I need to make a trip to Lowe's to purchase a new wheel barrow. My old one has had a nervous breakdown. It's been fixed so many times, it's gotten way beyond repair and can't haul heavy rocks in it. I could carry them, but I'd rather save my back and let a wheel barrow do the work.

I went in the house to clean up a bit and to ask my son to accompany me to Lowe's.  I knew which wheel barrow I wanted so the trip would be a short one. They have them lined up right outside the front of the store so all I needed to do is go inside and pay for one and a clerk will come out and unlock the chain and I can get my wheelbarrow and we can go. When we first got there, we looked at the wheel barrow I wanted and we discussed whether or not we thought it would fit in the car. We both thought it would, so off we went to purchase it. The line wasn't too brutal...everyone was wearing masks. The sun was out and Sunday looked like it was going to be a wonderful day.

I finally get up to the register, I pay for the wheel barrow, the clerk meets us outside and we can't get it in the car. Nope! It's not going to fit anyway we try it. I asked my son to go inside to see if they have one unassembled we can bring home and put together ourselves. While he's inside I'm standing there looking at the wheel barrow and this gentleman walks over to me and asks me if I need help putting the wheel barrow in my car. I look up at him and I almost fell over. There before me is this tall, handsome older man with the bluest eyes I've ever seen. I smiled at him and told him that my son and I had already tried numerous ways to get it in the car and it wouldn't fit. He asked me how far I lived from Lowe's. I told him that I only lived about 5 minutes away. He then offered the use of his truck if we trusted him. He said we could take a photo of his tag on his truck. I couldn't believe that people still helped one another out like that. He almost renewed my faith in humanity just in that small gesture of kindness.

Okay now, that I have your attention! All that really did happen except it wasn't a tall, good-looking older gentlemen who came over to me. In my dreams!!! SIGH!!! It was a couple and they were so nice. I really was amazed at their generosity. They put my wheel barrow on the back of their truck and brought it to my house. My son tried to pay them, but they refused. To pay it forward, we figured we would find some charity and donate some money to it. I think I'd like to donate to an animal charity. Maybe I'll ask my vet when I bring my Shih Tzu for blood work this week if they know of a local rescue place or something that needs a donation. I just hate giving money to places that don't use the money for the cause.

Anyway, so as soon as we get the wheel barrow unloaded, we load it up with the rocks I'm going to use for my statue and take the load to the spot in the backyard I want to build the statue. Then we go get the other load. In the process of doing this I find a two huge colonies of fire ants. I had my yard treated about 3 weeks ago for fire ants and it's supposed to be good for one year. I make a mental note to call Florida Pest Control in the morning and get them back out here.  After all, the treatment was rather pricey and it's guaranteed for one year. The wheel barrow I chose was one of those wheel barrows with two wheels and the bed is made of some kind of hard durable plastic.  I figured for what I would be using it for in my yard it would be fine. Oh Mildred, you need to just stop thinking and when you do think, do the complete opposite.

My son started tossing the rocks (some of them are really large) into the wheel barrow before I could tell him to take it easy that it isn't made of metal. The next thing I know the base of the wheel barrow had a large crack in it. Oops! I ended up having to call Lowe's and had to set up a date to have them come pick up this wheel barrow and have them issue me a refund, then I had to buy a new wheel barrow that is made of metal and pay a hefty delivery fee that is as much as what the wheel barrow costs. So when they come to pick up the the "old" wheel barrow, they'll bring me my new wheel barrow and all this is supposed to happen on the 30th.

Hallelujah! I'm having a Wheel Barrow Party on the 30th. I'm going to get drunk and sleep in my new wheel barrow or better yet, I'm going to get stoned and sleep in my new wheel barrow.  Or maybe I'll get drunk and stoned and maybe some tall, handsome older gentleman will wheel me off somewhere...but, ONLY if he has a toolbelt and a truck and he knows how to use his tools! The S.O.B. better know how to use his tools or else he's outta here... Mildred isn't fooling around!

THE FACE OF A KILLER

My little 12 lb. doodle (dachshund/poodle mix) is a total love bug. The first thing he does whenever anyone comes to my house is brings them one of his toys so they can play with him. He loves to play fetch. Now, if the person doesn't follow his lead then he starts coaxing the person by "talking" to them by making his cute noises until the person pays attention. Hey, wake up! You're in my house and there's certain rules one must abide by in this house and playing with the doodle is one of them. It's mandatory.

His name is B.A. which doesn't mean anything. B. A. = Be Anything, but after the other night I think it needs to stand for BADASS.  My Shih Tzu, Fenway is the Queen and the alpha dog of the house. She runs the roost.  Fenway weighs about 16 lbs. Libby is a Dandie Dinmont Terrier and she weighs about 16 lbs. Although Fenway runs the roosts, she doesn't have what I would say is an aggressive personality. She's just bossy! Libby is generally pretty laid back until she's provoked or agitated and then she becomes very aggressive. 

One of the first things a person notices when they come here is the amount of toys my dogs have, but the toys aren't for my dogs. They belong to B.A.!!! You see, if B.A. didn't have those toys to chew on, we wouldn't have a house. When he was younger, he chewed everything! And when I say everything. I mean EVERYTHING! He ate my box spring to my bed. He ate the living room carpet. He ate countless comforters on my bed. He ate eyeglasses. He ate my mother's false teeth. He ate furniture like he was a beaver. The question should be what didn't he eat?  He doesn't do that stuff now, but he has his toys to chew on and he "husks" his toys.  By husking them I mean he pulls all the stuffing and the squeakers out of them. And once he husks them we can't throw them away. So we have a toy box filled with toys in various stages of being destroyed, but to B.A. they're still great. He still drags them around like they're brand new.

One of B.A.'s duties is to protect the house and the yard and he takes that job very seriously. He has no idea that he's only a 12 pound lean mean fighting machine. Each time he goes outside he patrols the backyard and the inside of the garage. It's really funny to watch him follow the same route each time.  He goes in back of each bush and sniffs everything all over. Nothing happens in the yard that he doesn't know about. He's on top of everything! Once he killed a mole and brought it inside for us to praise him. When we tried to take it away from him he took it under the bed. Yuck! He doesn't bother the birds or squirrels and that surprises me. But I think that may be because he sees me interact with them. Libby chases the squirrels, but they're too quick for her to catch. Fenway wouldn't care if an elephant was standing in the middle of the yard, but she will bark if she hears a dog down the street barking. She wants them to know where the queen lives. I suppose in their own way they do their jobs and that's what they're supposed to do.

The other evening after dinner I took all three dogs. I go out with them even though I do have a large fenced backyard. Before we knew it Libby and B.A. had cornered a raccoon, and then B. A. got it and killed it. I tried my best to intercede and tried to get B.A. to release the raccoon, but he wouldn't let go of it. He had a death grip on it and kept shaking it. By the time he did let go, it was dead. The other racoon kept trying to crawl up my pant leg because it was terrorized. I finally got it to leave before Libby noticed it and I hope it got scared enough to not come back in the yard again.

What freaked me out was how ferocious B.A. was. He's only 12 pounds...he kills rats, he kills moles. Who knows what else he kills. I know he runs off feral cats, but I think he'd have his hands full with a feral cat if he got in a fight with one. I realized once I started feeding the birds, the birdseed would attract other creatures, but I don't want a whole zoo in my yard and I definitely don't want my dogs fighting with wild animals. Sigh! I guess I need to start paying closer attention to what's happening outside in the menagerie before I let the killer hounds outside at dusk.

And I still feel horrible about the raccoon...
I'm an animal lover
Well, I don't love rats and stuff like that, but raccoons are cute.
And I know B.A. was only doing what his instinct told him to do, but it still made me feel bad...

Is There A Contractor In The House?

I was just sitting here scanning over my adult life in respect to the serious relationships I've had and well...it didn't paint a very pretty picture. It probably most resembled a Jackson Pollack masterpiece "Male and Female."  Understand that and you might understand the jumbled mess inside my head. I can't say I've ever had a healthy, intimate relationship with the opposite sex.  Once sex got thrown into the picture all bets came off the table.  Why that is I most likely can come up with a fairly accurate answer, but at this stage in my life I'm wondering how much does it really matter. Don't we all have baggage? Some suitcases just weigh more than others.

When my last relationship ended, I put myself in what I called "time out."   I guess for most people after a break up, they need time to adjust before they get back out there and throw their line back in the water to do some fishing again, but my time out has lasted 15+ years. Oh yes, you read that right. I have been celibate for 15+ years and I'll go a step further...I haven't even been on a date in that time period. Before all of you scream "WHY?" in unison, I'll give you my five cent explanation. It's rather hard to go on a date or to meet anyone if you've become a hermit. I had a rather cozy cave.

I jokingly referred to myself as a hermit on my blog over the years, but I don't know how many people actually took me seriously or knew to what extent my being an actual hermit had become a reality.  I think I was really on the verge of developing agoraphobia. When someone once called me a troglodyte as an insult, I adopted the word because I liked it better than the word 'hermit". Hermit sounded too common and who likes being thought of as being common or ordinary...or normal? Certainly, not me!

Anyway, in January of 2019 my hermit days abruptly came to an end. A childhood friend, came for a visit and ended up moving in right next door to me. Martha (Linda) was the little red-headed girl who lived next door to me in Maine and we grew up together. We've known each other since we were 4 years old and did typical Mildred and Martha secret, naughty things growing up.  Having Martha back in my life was a much needed wake up call. It was one that I hadn't fully realized I needed until now.

Physically, I was barely living when she arrived. I couldn't stand up for more than a few minutes without the pain being too intense for me to bear.  In fact, I struggled to stand up from a sitting position and sitting was uncomfortable. Doing anything seemed like a struggle.  I had fallen down the stairs and fractured my vertebrae and the recovery was very slow.  Sometimes I wondered if I was ever going to recover. My legs and feet were swollen to the size of tree trunks, but not from the fall. I didn't find out until later that I had fluid around my heart. Before Martha moved here I went days without getting out of bed and I just didn't care about myself anymore. I had given up and no one was getting on my ass about it.  Nobody wanted to deal with the wrath of Mildred so my family just left me alone unless it dealt with my safety like when my adult children banded together and moved my bedroom downstairs after I fell. They banded together because they expected me to give them a real hard time about it, but I fooled them when I never said a word.  I knew I couldn't walk up and down the stairs and they were doing the right thing. I would have been a real bitch if I had given them a hard time about being concerned about my well-being. I'm a lot of things, but being a real bitch isn't one of them. All you assholes out there who think I'm a real bitch better keep your opinions to yourself or else Mildred will have her way with you! lol 

After Martha got here, I started doing more physical things and now I can work outside all day long in the heat and humidity of Florida like I did when I was younger. In fact, I'm in better shape now than I have been in 20 or 25 years. I've lost a ton of weight and I feel good physically and mentally most of the time.  And when I don't, I smoke some weed and then I feel better. When my back hurts, the weed comes out.  When I have trouble sleeping, you know the drill. And when I just feel like kicking back and getting stoned, well I kick back and get stoned. What can I say? I'm a hedonist!

When a person becomes a hermit they forsake their need for other people.  When I went into "time out" I went into time out all the way. I wanted to cushion myself from the world and I did a great job of it for 15+ years. Nobody came knocking until Martha rapped on my door. You see, I thought it was just going to be a visit and then she left to move to South Florida. but when she left I knew she was going to move back here even though she didn't know it at the time. It was just a feeling I had and I was okay with that feeling. It didn't put me in a panic to think about not being a hermit anymore. 

And I was right! She moved here shortly after she left for South Florida. Who wants to live in South Florida with all those people anyway? (There goes that hermit in me talking!) When the house next door to me came up for rent, Martha jumped on it and moved in. What I discovered is that I'm not a hermit after all. I enjoyed having a friend to do stuff with and even when we weren't doing anything, but goofing off doing nothing we still had a good time doing it. You know why? Because we're Mildred and Martha and Martha and Mildred, that's why! We're one hell of a team!

Unfortunately, Martha moved back to Maine about a week ago.  Sometimes things happen and make it so we have to make difficult decisions.  Doing the right thing is rarely easy.  Right now, we all live in difficult times.

I'm empty now and I'm scared. I definitely know how to be a hermit, but I don't want to be a hermit again.  Is it wrong that I want someone? That I need someone?  Oh, I know we're in a pandemic...blah, blah...BLAH and social distancing and all that hoopla and I have to be a hermit to some extent and yeah, I can do that. I'm good excellent at it, remember? I did it for a very long time! Geez! I thought something was wrong with me when I kept reading on other people's blogs about how blue they were about being locked down during the coronavirus. I was afraid to tell anyone that I was okay with it because I had been doing it for so long that it was just second nature to me. It was no big deal. But now, what?

My grand plan that Martha and I used laugh about was that when the pandemic was over and I felt I was back to my old running shape I was going to start hanging out....not in bars...fuck that! but I'd go to Lowe's or Home Depot in the Contractor's section and pick-up a contractor so I could get someone to help me to fix my house (you know we could work something out in trade...). I'd say, "Baby, show me your tool belt, your tools and your truck...and definitely your financial statement!"  He'd probably call security on me and have me kicked out of the store.  Hey, it's been awhile since I've picked someone up, but I bet I can still do it.  My daughter gets aggravated whenever we go anywhere together and men flirt with me and not with her. ha! I think it's hysterical.  My pheromones must be stronger than hers.

Anyway, I miss my Martha. I talk to my dogs. I talk to the birds and of course, Cecil. I talk to all the plants I planted in my backyard. I talk to myself. That's a trip. Damn it! I need a person. Maybe I should buy a mannequin or a blow-up doll. What do you think?  Does anyone want to volunteer to be my person?  Mildred does not bite! Much :)

My Rut Deepens

Trust me, this has nothing to do with the coronavirus. I think if it did, solving it would be simple. Everyone is blue these days, but my blue seems to be changing colors. Fuck, no! I'm not turning red! Except when I get mad and then I turn a nice bright shade of red. I just have something I need to work through and process. I'm attempting to write about it, but it's difficult. So far what I've written makes absolutely no sense. I'm sad and I don't do sad very well. I never have. Sad usually gets me in trouble. Imagine that! Mildred in trouble??? Help! Lassie go get a rope! Mildred has fallen in a well...

The Wetter The Better

There's a few rules in life and one of them is to never make me the bartender...NEVER!  I don't follow recipes very well. I'm a do my own thing type of person after I get the basics down. 

You see we had a rather small family gathering for my daughter's birthday and it involved strawberry daiquiris and social distancing and cupcakes that my son-in-law couldn't believe I made because they looked like they had been professionally made. Oh yeah, I'm that good when I want to be! The birthday party was great, but my "normal" evening consists of sitting in my backyard, listening to music and shooting the shit with Martha while we social distance across the chain link fence lit by tiki torches. 

After the birthday party, I made a "special" blender full of daiquiris just for Martha and me and I don't drink or I should say I may drink something maybe once a year so this was designated as "my once a year."  After four strong drinks and some tsunami strength Surfing in a Hurricane weed for medicinal purposes only (I see you rolling your eyes as you read this) I was one with the world and ready to boogaloo down Broadway in my flamingo mask, but Pensacola doesn't have a Broadway unfortunately or maybe it was a fortunate thing for the inhabitants of Northwest Florida. I've never gotten the feeling that the South has ever been quite ready for this Yankee all the years I've lived here. I've always felt like a fish out of water or a flamingo amongst a flock of geese.

Martha almost got the hose after me last night because I threatened to jump...no, not off a bridge or a building. I jumped up and down one night not long ago when I was pretty baked and I felt like dancing and it was the WRONG thing to do. Someone with as many disc/spinal problems as I have shouldn't jump...EVER! I found that out after the second or third jump. I was in so much pain I whimpered that I needed to sit down NOW and that jumping was the wrong thing to do. Enlightenment always comes quickly with pain! Martha's husband told her to get the hose if I ever tried to jump again, so she run and got the hose last night. She was ready to blast me with it. I kept telling her I was going to do it, but I was just yanking her chain. Imagine that! Me yanking someone's chain? You see, if I were her I would have soaked me just on general principles and laughed at me while I screamed and hollered as the cold water baptized me. The wetter the better I say and Martha could have put this fish back in the water where I belong!

QUARANTINED AND BEYOND

No, I'm not stranded on some tropical island! That would be nice, but I'm still here in good old Pensacola, Florida. Well, I never got my test results and I don't know who to contact to get them so I just said fuck it. Lately. I've said fuck it to lots of things. I feel fine and just chalked it up to another amazing clusterfuck. Go figure! I've just been hanging out in my backyard and doing lots of hard physical work weather permitting and when Mother Nature drives me inside I have lots of inside projects. 

I'm slowly redoing my upstairs cave, but I promise this time I won't fall downstairs and fracture a vertebrae.  Another change to my cave is that it's in a different room and it has 8 windows in it so it has plenty of wonderful natural light. I guess it really isn't much of a cave compared to my last cave that was painted a deep Bohemian red and rarely saw the light of day blinds closed and heavy drapes drawn. I look back on that rather long period of my life and I really was a hermit or a "troglodyte" as the dreaded Psychedelic Pariah used to call me. I guess none of you remember him and that's a good thing! 

Another change to my cave is that my cave now is strictly for creative use and I won't be sleeping there. Now my bedroom is downstairs. So, in my cave I'll be able to paint, write, sew, do crafts, wood burn when the kit arrives in the mail (if it ever does) and probably talk to myself and my dogs and cat, listen to music and wish the world was a better place to live and so forth and so on...

Several weeks ago I witnessed a butterfly emerge from its cocoon. I held the new butterfly in my hand before it flew away. My fence and area around it was covered with chrysalis waiting to emerge with beautiful butterflies. Other than hating fire ants, I feel like a real nature's child.  I feed the birds. I talk to the birds. I swear at the squirrels and the various insects. I talk to my flowers. My dogs started to eat the suet that I give to the birds. I swear they'll eat just about anything. I better watch out they might start flying around with the birds. I think I'd like to see that just as long as they didn't poop on me when they fly around. Martha talked about cutting down trees and the next thing she knew she had birds pooping on her. I'm thinking that they knew what she was talking about and was just giving her their opinion on the matter. 

Also on the whole bird situation...I have a ton on baby cardinals that are ravenous. I swear they can empty a birdfeeder before I walk back to my chair. I keep telling them to go get a job to pay for the bird seed! Or better yet I think mom and dad need to get a second or third job to pay for the dozens of babies I'm feeding. Does anyone know how many babies a cardinal has?

So that's about it. I have good days and bad days like everyone else.  I hope all of you are safe and well and staying sane throughout all this madness.

Quarantined Day #7

I think my body may just make it through all this yardwork I'm doing. EVERYTHING pertaining to my house has been sorely neglected for so long that it makes me feel so ashamed and so sad, but everyone I say that to just looks at me like I'm crazy or thinks I'm just making an excuse for being lazy. Well, I'm neither, I care about where I live, but I simply haven't been physically able to do the work and I can't afford to hire it to be done by some else. It's a hell of a situation to be in and one I never dreamed I'd be experiencing. I also never dreamed I'd get to the point I'm at now, but I've really pushed myself and here I am and now, I have my hands full. Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed when I look around me and see all the work I have to do. I have to keep reminding myself ONE DAY AT A TIME, MILDRED! One day at a time...and then when it gets too hot (I live in Florida) move inside and start some projects in there because there's as many inside as there's outside! Lucky me! I think Cecil, the partridge and I need to go to Lowe's and start hanging out in the contractor's section and start picking up contractors! To hell with bars! I'm to old for bars and besides my tail feathers don't shake like they shook 30 years ago. But I have a flashy hammer and a cool partridge...lol

So, each day before I go outside to do hard physical work which includes cutting down trees and cutting them up, I put on my back brace because without it I wouldn't be able to do anything but sit there and look at everything that needs to be done.  A few years ago, after I fell down my stairs and fractured a vertebrae which just added to all the other things that's wrong with my back I struggled to be able to stand and walk.  In fact, I couldn't stand for more than a minute or two before I needed to sit down. It really sucked and frustrated the hell out of me and although everyone kept telling to accept my limitations, I just couldn't do that. I wouldn't that. Over time, gradually, I pushed myself to the point of being able to do things again. It took me a few years to get there, but I was determined. I didn't announce to anyone that was my goal because I knew I most likely would have been vetoed on my decision to fight through my pain, ditch pain management and all the narcotics after years and years of using them and then gradually try to get my life back. Once I accomplished that, I started working towards getting my diabetes under control which had never been under control.

Since last May I've lost about 70 pounds and my A1C is where it's supposed to be for the first time since I was diagnosed with diabetes in 2002.  The only thing that concerns me now is that the last time I went to my endocrinologist, he switched my injectable meds to something new. You see, since I had started losing weight, I hadn't had to inject any fast-acting insulin and that's something I never dreamed I would ever stop doing. I injected Tresiba (long-acting insulin) at bedtime and Victoza in the morning after checking my fasting blood sugar. So my doctor decided to start me on Soliqua which supposedly combines the two in one injection.  I thought that was great  because it was going to only be one shot a day, but like any new medication your body takes time to adjust to it and my blood sugar has crept up somewhat. It's not a giant spike, but I worked hard to get it down and well...I know the story. The drug rep walks into the doctor's office with a new drug and wants the  doctor to push it and so the doctor starts prescribing to his patients. I happened to be one of those patients. I think when I go to my primary care doctor in a few weeks, I'm going to discuss the matter and try to get back on what I was on. I don't mind two shots a day and I wasn't asked if I wanted to switch, the other doctor just switched me over to the new drug. I would go back to the endocrinologist, BUT he's harder than hell to get in to see. It's like asking for an appointment with God. I guess things could be worse...

Now, as for my results from my coronavirus testing, there still are none, but Martha told me yesterday that I was supposed to have set up some kind of account and it was explained on the paperwork they gave me. I said, "What paperwork????" Since she and I went to different testing sites I guess I went to the shit show site where they handed me a mask and stuck a swab up my nose and tickled my grey matter, but I don't remember getting any paperwork. It's all included in Murphy's Laws and those are the Laws I live by every day of my life. So Martha is going to take a picture of the paperwork and text it to me so I can see what she received so MAYBE I can go from there and find something out soon.