Thursday, July 25, 2013

Pity Party for One, Please....

Today, I went to see Dr. Lyme.

I had lots to report.

Since we began the process of looking for, financing, and closing escrow on what Princess calls, "Our Forever House", things have gotten dicey.  Symptoms I hadn't seen in MONTHS were back.

Once things settled down, some of the nastier ones went away.

But, some remained.  You know, like strange bugs in the rice.  One day they appear.  And, until you feed the rice to someone you don't like, you're stuck with weird bugs.  Or something like that.


My fatigue is kicking my expanding ass, and my hands are starting to become more and more useless.

But I should be better.


I mean, I have been on antibiotics for 19 months.  MONTHS, people.

azith. doxy.  clarith.  amox. rifampin.  levoquin.  injectibles.  gulpables.

stomach aches.

And all the other joys that go with prolonged antibiotic usage. So, on paper I'm fine.  Just ask the IDSA asshole that refused a PICC line---he says "there's nothing more I can do, you've had all the drugs I would recommend.".  Fuck that guy.

In the meantime, I am SURE I get the side-eye from people that still don't know why I'm hardly ever at work.  When will I get used to working 10-15 hour weeks?

How about never?

All I want is remission.  Unfortunately, there's no test for that.  No, "if your blood work comes back between 50 and 75 whatevers, that's remission, and we will change your treatment and stop taking so much of your disposable income."

Instead, it's more like, "When you get to a place where you don't want to spork your eyeballs out CONSTANTLY, we will give it a couple months.  If a major life event doesn't put you into an emotional, financial and physical tailspin, THAT'S remission.  Enjoy."

So, for those keeping score, I'm still doped up on a variety of drugs.  I still hemorrhage cash into various doctors' student loan debts, I'm still virtually worthless at work (because when I AM there, I get tired, and can't hold a convo for more than 10 minutes without looking like a lobotomized sloth that mistakenly took Ambien instead of caffeine pills).

I still work minimally, ----can we all just take a moment to pause for my awesome job? Because if I didn't have the job I have, I'd be sitting around, applying for SSI, and waiting for my "settlement"----there's just no way to be sick and keep a roof over my head when my disease doesn't officially exist, ya know?

I AM improving.  Just not at the rate that would please an over-achieving workaholic energizer bunny.  So I'm trying to be that, less.

And, writing-wise, I haven't been feeling it.  I don't know if it's a lull, or writer's block, or just an issue of being sick of writing about the same old crap.  Health, blah blah blah.  Pills, blah blah blah.  Fat ass, blah blah blah.

I will try to do better.

Fortunately, I have this great therapist that has taught me to not beat myself up over every little thing.  It's like killing kittens, then hitting up the confessional.  Fail to write? I'm okay with that.  Forgot pills out of a passive-aggressive rage against the Lyme machine?  I'm okay with that.  Gobbled gluten with horrid gastrointestinal results?  I'm okay with that.  Easy-peasy.



Monday, July 1, 2013

Monkey Boy Scores

Yes, I know.  It has been ages.  I'm not dead.  I am, however, severely undermedicated, so this makes for a less-than-funny FFW.  I will try harder, sooner.  But there are no promises in life.  Deal.

Before I get seriously into this post, I would like to offer up a definition, for clarity.

FFW New Edition Dictionary
"Grind on"- (verb)-the process of a girl rubbing her breasts on your chest

You will see why I needed to define this, in a moment.

A couple months ago, Monkey Boy attended a Middle School Dance.  The flyer announced "formal dress encouraged".  Apparently, this means, "formal dress for everyone but the baddest mother fuckers around, y'all can hang in swim trunks".

So, I said, "If you want to get a new outfit for the dance, I need to know by Wednesday night, and then only if all your homework is done".

I guess the prospect of new gear was quite the incentive (I wish I could offer him new digs EVERY week, but alas, good grades and not screaming for homework to be completed are not the rewards in my future, at the cost of $75 per week...).

So, we headed to the mall.  On the way, negotiations began.

MB: I want a new hoodie.
Me: You have plenty of hoodies.  I'm willing to buy new shorts or pants, and a new shirt.
MB: How about shorts, a T shirt, and new shoes?
Me: New shoes under $45?
MB: Possibly.....what if the shorts are on sale?

....and so on.

I have recently morphed into a at-least-they-are-clean-and-dressed type of parent.  Sky King disagrees, and really wanted to see me coming home with a shirt with a collar, and chinos for Monkey Boy.  But, he wasn't the one stuck at the mall with a teenager.  I was.  So it was my rules.  Which are more lax than his.  Whatevs.

We came home with:
A new "DC" T-shirt (black and aqua)
A new pair of Board Shorts (gray, black and aqua)
A new pair of Nikes (He had grown a full size since the last shoe-buying expedition, so I eased up on the budget)

Now, he originally wanted a particular pair of shoes.  But they didn't have his size (because the whole world it out to get him).  Luckily, there was an upstanding young sales associate (who would be virtually unemployable if not for the advent of Zumiez, Tilly's and Spencer's Gifts) with stretched earlobes and a comb-over that rivals anything Kurt Cobain could have come up with, waiting to assist us in our time of need.  He precariously climbed a 40 foot ladder (is it legal to work while high on the latest synthetic marijuana substitute?) and procured a fabulous pair of shoes that had an amazing heat-sensitive "Swoosh".  Basically, "mood Nikes".  All wrapped up by a guy who deliberately chose to wear cut-off jorts.


Later, we got this text once the dance had ended and he was safely tucked in at a friend's house:

Us: Have fun?
MB: yep.  This girl grinded on me then left and after a while she came back and did it again and did it again im happy


Now, in my mind, my precious little (at 5 foot 7 and growing at an alarming rate) baby got dry-humped, at a Montessori-school dance, in full view of several staff members.  And, being the hip badass mom I am, I cringed.  And, because I fully embrace inconsistencies and double-standards when it suits me, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't the mother of the girl.

All kinds of things flooded my mind.  And I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, and the idea that my son got to third base at an 8th Grade dance. Truly, I KNEW things were headed downhill, rapidly.  My boy was growing up.

The next day, he came home from spending the night at a friend's house.  "How was the dance?" I inquired.  He repeated his story, complete with ear-to-ear grins.

I asked further-"so, she rubbed her privates on yours? At a dance?"

He looked confused.  "No, her boobies! What did you think I meant?"

I said, "Well, I thought 'grinded on' was, you know, south of the border."

He looked at me, with a snarled lip (almost in disgust, or maybe to imply that boobies are WAY better than vaginas).

Umm, yeah.

A boobie rub.  Still, I'm glad I'm not HER mother.

This is what I am left with:

New DC shirt: $15
New Board shorts: $32
New Nikes (with Mood swoosh): $68

Getting "grinded on" at a school dance: Priceless