Husband is in the doghouse.
I put him there but, like most males, he probably doesn’t have a clue why. He’s currently sleeping the sleep of the dead while I’m sitting here, stewing in my resentment and letting the perceived hurt fuel my little dark cloud of doom. That is why I am unable to write today. I could write all his wrongs - list every single one - but that would be a one-sided argument. the one-sided argument I’ve been having all night in my head. So read this about Batkid. It’s a much healthier, happier start to your day. Now I’ve got to go wrap up and stretch. The cold shoulder can be a difficult move to implement and I don’t want to be hurting and resentful. That would be just stupid.
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I have just experienced the wonder of my first Dollar Tree shopping spree and it, very randomly, reminded me of a worried phone call from Brother about Mom’s nipples. Confused? Yeah, you should be. It’s not what I expected either. You see, I’m making an ugly Christmas sweater and figured I’d give the Dollar Tree a go for supplies. This lovely, rotund man who couldn’t have been more on fire if he tried, made some fantastic suggestions in the Christmas aisle and then sashayed down to crafts to show me the glitter glue possibilities. If I just pin the wonders I’ve found onto a sweater, I’m a sure for the win. All for the lovely price of ten bucks. Picture will be posted when I finish. And notice I said ‘when I finish’ and not ‘if I finish?’ The challenge has been accepted and I’ll be ugliest sweater for the win or bleed trying. I digress. While standing in the line for checkout, my eyes darting about the store to see what else I might possibly need for a dollar or less, and I spotted this... When I was nineteen and living in New York, phone calls home were always on a Saturday morning. Mom and I would chat and, if Brother was awake, I’d get a few moments with him. We didn’t have much to say to each other, Brother and I. He was popular and I was this weird sister he was trying to ignore but, this one Saturday, he wanted to chat so Mom passed him the phone. She waited until she moved away and then uncomfortably whispered into the phone something about the lotion mom had on the counter. It was hard to hear him and Mom was in the room so the following was said in an utter, (or udder. Sorry.), hushed whisper.
BROTHER: Mom’s got something wrong with her nipples. ME: What? BROTHER: Mom has this cream. For nipples. ME: What?? BROTHER: It says it’s for sore cow nipples. ME: WHAT??? BROTHER: Mom has this cream. For sore cow nipples. What’s going on? What is wrong with her? I was bent over laughing by this point. It was by far the weirdest conversation we’d ever had. Then. We’ve since had way weirder. Anyway, I finally had him put Mom on the phone. Turns out Mom was using Udderly Smooth for her dry hands. Her nipples were fine. Brother was mortified we laughed and totally mortified I’d told Mom he’d been worried about her nipples. Mom and I were both totally amused by my teenage brother’s angst over her potential boob issues. When I was home for Christmas, I finally got a look at the label understood why he might have been confused. Udderly Smooth WAS for cow teats and udders. Brother hadn’t misunderstood the label at all. And we didn't have a cow anymore so... This is what Brother read, what the label said: Directions Wash udder and teat parts thoroughly with clean water and soap before each milking to avoid contamination of milk. Use clean individual towels for this purpose. Apply to the udder after each milking, massaging into the skin. For teat cracks apply in sufficient quantity to fill crack and cover surrounding area. Apply uniformly to chafed area and bruises to maintain skin suppleness. For aid in softening swollen udders following calving, apply liberally twice daily with gentle massage. I wonder how he’s not scared for life. I love that there are moments in my day, lots of moments in my life, that can bring me back a memory like this one - a chuckle over a nipple memory while in line for cheap Christmas decor. I love my family. I’m not sure if it was the quick slice I saw of Dax Shepard on Conan explaining what he would do if a meteor was heading toward earth or it was a story I read that led me to look up awful end stage cancer pictures. Either way, I had a hard time falling asleep last night.
We’re here in Nashville because we’ve realized life is short, too short to not live the life you want to, to follow the dreams you have always had. But last night’s sleeplessness brought up a different scenario than the one that led us to choose to live our life not work our life. Last night I wondered what I would do if my time on earth was limited. If the deadline was clear and there was no wiggle room. Being a pessimistic optimist, I tried to calm my brain spiral with a solid plan to combat the “What if…” scenarios. It’s two different situations to my mind, one urgent, one – well, okay, both urgent but time is a factor in the first. If the world is going to end in seven days, I’m not as likely to fly to a beach and watch the sunsets. Airport travel is a nightmare at any time and I imagine an approaching meteor isn’t going to make it any easier. And who wants to spend the last of their days fighting with folks for a seat on a plane? I’ve seen enough movies - Planes, Trains and Automobiles, Due Date – to know that, while I might end up with a buddy for the rest of my short life, it’s going to be a very miserable trip and some body part is likely to get broken bruised or bloody. With that in mind, flying, driving or training home is out. Sorry Mom. I would, however, take the time to call or face time or email everyone I love, to make sure they know how I feel about them. I’d like to think they already do, that I take time to tell people they matter but who knows what people hear. Maybe, with the world coming to an end, a Facebook private message isn’t enough. (Kidding.) My family isn’t the hugging kissing kind – only those who have married in are - so I’d tell them I love them and then we’d all likely shrug and make a face and tell an inappropriate joke or an embarrassing story to make the moment less sappy. We’re awkward like that. With family and friends loved up and cackling, I’d finish writing my plays. And I’d finish writing my books of poetry. And I’d finally finish writing my mystery novel. Not that anyone would be around to read them but there is nothing like a solid deadline to get me to finish something. And you can’t get more solid than the world imploding. Then, I think I’d just sit somewhere beautiful, like my back yard, and drink something yummy and fruity or warm and chocolaty. Hopefully Husband would be sitting right next to me, playing some of his songs on his guitar and arguing with me that I’m singing off key. We'd sit there and just be at peace waiting for the fireworks. An end stage cancer diagnosis would be different. I’d still do the same things but hopefully the deadline would be further off and I would have time to travel. I’d like to see Kenya again and my pet lion. I’d like to sit myself on a white sand beach and let the sun and a fruity drink melt the panic away. I’d like to awkwardly hug my mother and my brother and my friends at a big 'goodbye to me' party. I’d like to tell the asshats in my life that they are indeed asshats, perhaps even with a fist to a face as punctuation to the statement. And I’d like to leave on my own terms, knowing I mattered. Who would have thought a five second blip while scanning channels last night would lead me down this murky path? And that, surprise surprise, having a plan for my last days on earth has not, in anyway, inspired me to finish any writing or tell any one how much they mean to me. Heck, I haven’t even gotten off my butt to take out the recycling. Ah well, not a real deadline. No need to rush… When the mall shooting in Kenya happened, I glued myself to my computer screen for days. Every new picture, every news update I saw minutes after it was posted. I studied the photos to see if I could spot family, if I could see something that might make sense of the craziness, the deaths, and the total disregard for life. The photos, the stories dropped me into a depression that was hard to surface from, one I might have had an easier time shaking off if we’d been in California and I’d been surrounding by family, by distractions. Here I wallowed. I sank to the bottom of the murk and I stayed there for days, not doing much but breathing. It’s hard to move forward after a darkness like that. It’s hard to, it’s terrifying to know it might happen again, it will happen again. With me, the darkness hovers, much like the migraines, just on the edges, not actually causing the pain but letting me know it could. I look backwards often, just to check it is still in it’s place behind me, measuring the distance away I saw it last, worrying it might be closer, hoping it hasn’t crept closer and knowing some day it might. This week, the typhoon in the Philippines happened and I had to decide - spend my time pouring over ever picture, every bit of news or hide and pretend that it hasn't happened. Spend my time watching silly shows and concentrating on the happy endings of pretend people to keep the darkness away or actively participate in watching something I can fix, I can't change. We were in the Philippines last year for Husband’s work. I had quit my awful job with the world’s evilest person and was free to go with him when he asked me to come with him. It was adventure we never thought we'd have, one we never thought would lead us to Nashville, that would show us we could function out of our tiny part of the world, an adventure that changed our lives. A bit dramatic, I know, but it did, thankfully, it did. We had no idea what the Philippines would be like. Folks at work warned Husband about kidnappings. We were warned to never go anywhere alone. We all teased Husband about his food issues and what that would mean to his diet in a place without the FDA, sure that he’d be unable to eat a thing. He joked, quite seriously, that I was going to be his food taster. The doctor gave us shots for all sorts of scary diseases that might kill us quickly and pills for ones that might kill us slowly. We packed for weather that might include typhoons or heat and high humidity with the added bonus of large killer mosquitos and we set off for an adventure that was nothing like we expected. Sure, we were met at the hotel with heavily armed guards; bomb sniffing dogs and were searched before entering the lobby. Sure, there was a guard with a big scary machine gun at the entrance to the Starbucks and the mall and Husband’s work. Sure, the food was surprising and husband limited himself to burgers and pizza and we both actually gained weight. Sure, there was no toilet paper in public bathrooms, and more people than seats on every Jeepney, and the scariest driving I’ve every been part of but, it was a beautiful place with absolutely beautiful people and I am so heartsick at the devastation from Typhoon Haiyan, I cannot watch the news or look at pictures. So, keeping the darkness at bay and I’m sharing a few pictures - and only a few I promise - from our trip, our grand adventure that let us see that life was possible outside our bubble.
I’m currently recovering from my first winter cold. Thankfully it’s been a mild one; painful sore throat one day, creeping cruds the next, and it’s moving pretty quickly through all its stages. Right now I’m in the ‘breath shallowly and you might not hack up a lung’ stage. Good times.
When we’re sick, we all go through some sort of ritual, usually one ingrained in us by our parents and how they treated us in illness. Husband will pronounce he has "the cold” then pop Paracetamal like it’s water, look up deadly disease he might have, decide he’s dying from one of them but refuse to ever go to the doctor. My mother will pretend she isn’t sick and proceed about her day like she isn’t dying of cancer, or whatever she's not told me she has. I fall somewhere between the two. Having a mother that was as pragmatic as Mom was, as Mom is, it’s impossible to not to be a bit like her. I’ll tell folks I’m fine. I’ll work if I can, slipping my coughs down a sleeve and sneaking away to wipe my nose in the bathroom. But, I have my dramatic side and so I’m sure I’ve got a hidden disease, one of those unknown ones that only one in a billion have that will kill me. I don’t medicate myself in case it will mask the symptoms. And I treat myself the way Mom trained me, when the time comes to admit I really am sick, I put myself to bed with socks on my feet and a good trashy book. The only thing Husband has to do, and I mean the world ends if he doesn’t, is feel my head. It’s the one thing that makes me feel like I’m being taken care of, both emotionally and physically. If he has felt my head, I am loved and I can follow through with healing. Or at least, lying in bed or in front of the TV filling myself with trashy happy endings in predictable movies and books, which I consider the best medicine of all. When I started to get sick last week, I was reading Gone Girl, a book with a decidedly unhappy ending. I’m pretty sure it is what pushed this from a bad day and into a full-blown cold because, the night I finished the book was a restless, sleepless one. One I spent lying awake trying to work out a new ending for the book, for Nick Dunn, one with sunsets and roses in the end. No dice. I just ended up with cold feet and a sore throat that is now the plague. Now that I’m officially sick, I have spent the weekend self-medicating the right way, with sappy movies filled with happy sappy endings. Yesterday was a Lifetime Christmas Movie Extravaganza. That's not what it's really called, just what I call it in my head. The LCME is loads of totally sappy movies filled with missed connections and angels bringing unhappy single parents together. Each moment underscored with beautiful sweeping orchestrations, in dramatic moments, music and tears. And there are beautifully lit Christmas lights in the background at the climax of each movie, perfectly framing the first kiss or kiss or forgiveness or kiss of acceptance or kiss of forever love. And not one kiss so hot they forget that their parents or children or grandma angel person are looking on. These movies are so perfectly awesome; Husband will leave the room and leave me to watch them on my own. I can sniff and sob and snark to my hearts content at the perfect shiny couples and their perfect shiny lives. I find my self-medication is much better than popping pills or going to the doctor. I don’t need to look up what I might have on WebMD, and compare my symptoms to various diseases I might have like Husband does. I just sniff and cough and suffer through my own personal Lifetime movie, only the overdramatic music is in my head and Husband is unaware he’s co-staring with me and just doesn’t follow the plot of the movie I’ve written. He ends up, often totally bewildered by the deep sighs and tearful looks I shoot him as I look at him as if it’s the last time I might see him. Because it just might be. Sniff. Sniff. Deep sigh. But then, just like in the movies, when all hope is lost, Husband will lean over and feel my head and all will be right with my world. I'm not at a 100% yet. I might need another day in bed. Grab the tissue box and cue the music, I am not well. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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