A Light At The End Of The Spoon

Have you ever had one of those weeks where things are "meh", and even though things go a little bit crappy, you still manage to hold it together?

Me neither, til now.  I have had a rough couple weeks, starting a while back with Princess' dental apocalypse. 

This week, the building I run my business in is trying to control how and when I do my thang.  I will not go quietly into the night, however. When I know more, I will share more. Just know that, right now, I'm lacing up my gloves, and those mofos won't know what hit them.

My hormones are freaking out, and one of my docs thinks it's early menopause.  Which would be great if this meant I would stop getting a period.  But instead it means I get it MORE OFTEN (WTF, body?) and sweat about a pound of sweat an hour, without the ACTUAL weight loss.

My home is owned by Satan's mistress, who is horrifically unreasonable, and we already want to move.  We have only been here 4 months.

Still, I haven't stabbed ANYONE despite the growing list of potential victims.

And school is almost out, which means I won't have to do 7th Grade ever again.  Until Princess is in 7th Grade. 

And I got utter happiness in the mail today.  Which made it all sunshine and cupcakes.

A friend of mine that I have known since we were both schlepping burgers and bottomless fries many many moons ago reads my blog.

Somewhere in my rants and excessive commas, she has found some things that have made her smile when she didn't seem to have a reason.  So she picked up a necklace that screamed, "Aimee", and popped it into the mail.

This is a horrible picture, but it is a teeny tiny cute-ass little spoon on a chain.

I have been looking for something like this for quite some time. No one knew that, however.

Sometimes, I need an extra spoon or two to get through the day, and now I have one. See? It's like my friend Tanna KNEW people might die by my hand, and stopped it, single-handedly.  She's like a pet-loving Superhero. Without the tights.

I know a few assholes that owe her a "Thank You" note.

Tanna Banana, you are Uh-Maze-ing!   :::muah:::

My Friends Are Better Than Yours

I really have the most amazing friends.  And if you're friends with me in REALITY, so do you, because we probably share the same friends.  If you only stalk me from your computer, you must now also deal with the realization that ours friends are sub-par.  Sorry.

Do you remember The Spoon Theory, by Christine Miserandino?  The one that describes how people with invisible illnesses (fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, PTSD, Chronic Lyme, lupus, etc.) have a limited number of "stores of energy" with which to live life?  If not, go check it out.  I'll wait.

Took you long enough.

Anyways---something about that story really resonated with me, when I was struggling with my diagnoses and had a hard time describing it to people.  I was ahead of the game, by knowing that many people could not relate.  All they knew was that a person with superhuman energy was all of a sudden a couch lump.  I couldn't even describe it myself. But Christine helped me, and I shared it with others. I'd like to think that I helped "The Spoon Theory" go viral.  I don't know if it has, and it certainly would not have been my influence, but like I said, I'd like to think so. In the same way I'd like to have a pet monkey--super awesome, but more of a fantastical fantasy rather than something seated in some semblance of reality.

Where was I?

Oh, spoons.  I like spoons.  And not just because of their obvious connection to ice cream, although that helps.

Spoons to me represent the ever-changing reality of my health-spoons are a tangible reminder that my life has flip turned upside down (thank you, Fresh Prince) and that each day brings a new set of challenges.  I can say, "damn, spoons all gone.  What's on Lifetime?" or "look!  I found an extra spoon! Let's hit the buffet!" or even, "I better save some spoons for the her wedding this weekend, so I can stay up later than the ring bearer".

Because I am so creative and funny, I have inside jokes.  Even some inside jokes with myself-I'm that awesome. For instance, some mornings I wake up and I'm all, "shit.  Out of spoons already? How can that be?  I better put my superhero spoon ring on..." and then I smile at me.  And all day long when I feel like I'm about to drop, I look down at my spoon ring and I smile.  I still drop, but I and me share a moment.

Many friends have begun to understand my "thing" with spoons--they have seen my Pinterest Board, "Spoons that are Bad-Ass", and they "get" my obsession with all things spoon.

So when some friends came by for Princess' party and brought a gift, I was dumbfounded-they had helped me move, offered to take Princess off my hands during parts of the move, put together horrifically strange IKEA contraptions for my children to sleep on, AND had left before the requisite pizza-and-beer payday. Truly amazing friends.

Then they go and bring this:

They made it.  They didn't find it at some strange spoon crafts expo.  They made it.  For me.  :::tear, sniffle:::


Here is the detail of the top, which they inscribed with a quote:

"May you be blessed today with all you need! May there always be extra! May you never run out!"

I hung it had Sky King hang it immediately, and it makes the most beautiful sounds.



I can send you their info if you need better friends. PM me.

Proper Table Setting and Other Useless Knowledge

Today, while holding down a couch in case gravity reversed, some friends of ours and we were enjoying some greasy post-drinking grub. Football was on, my jersey was shiny and red, and Sky King was sulking to the sound of penalty flags hitting the field.

Out of the blue, our friend Tommy Bahama said, "What side does the spork go on"? Instead of reprimanding him for ending a sentence with a preposition (because one of my resolutions was to be more compassionate), I told him the answer was quite easy.  Easy, if I knew the way a table is supposed to be set.

A long time ago, my mom spent an entire summer teaching me to be domestic in order to snag a husband so that I could learn to live among humans without causing too many embarrassing moments. Actually, I'm not altogether sure why she did this, but it was incredibly handy. And, I have drawn upon these things she taught me in various times of my life. I have also tried to teach many of these things to my children-thanks, Mom, for such a great idea!

Anywho, during our domestic summer, I did many things: meal planning, shopping, ironing, sewing on a button.  And, I am sure, learning how to set a proper table. Things that have to do with spatial orientation are not my strong suit however, so the lesson did not stick. I know the spoon and knife go together, and you work from the outside, in, during a dining experience. But I can never recall on which side the fork goes, nor which water glass is mine. Being left-handed hasn't helped, either.

But I digress. Let's find out, shall we?

 Aside from the fact that, sign me up for a meal with 4 glasses of wine, there is a clear lack of direction, in reference to the almighty spork. Taco Bell and school lunch programs global-wide did not invent it, however.

Let's break this down.  Spork.  Spoon + fork.  Spoon being the first reference, you could argue that the spoon is more dominant, therefore it is a variety of a spoon.  Or, you could argue that it's a catch-all utensil but has tines, and as such would go where the forks go.  Both are wrong. Or right.  Because I like to argue, and I like to win. But, I also have the answer!  When I told them, Tommy Bahama and his wife both looked at me like I was insane.  Not that this is a new development, but this time, it was a look of, "what the hell did you just say, what does it mean, and how do you even know that" kind of look.

I said, "It goes wherever the spoon goes, because it's a spoon. A runcible spoon.". (I wish you could see my computer screen, because even Word doesn't know what I know-I can tell because it is giving me the angry red line of disapproval under the word "runcible". Hey, I'm smarter than A COMPUTER!)

Anyways-in addition to teaching me how to do a bunch of chores she likely was planning on assigning to me, my mom also had this amazingly annoying habit of referring me to a dictionary whenever I wanted to know what a word meant.

Me: Hey, mom. What's a "sexton"?
Mom: Look it up.

I'd slink off.  Then, about an hour later, she would be all, "So, what's a sexton?" and I'd be all, I gave up.  And she would make me go look it up and come back to her, with the answer.  Super annoying. So then I'd have to dig the stupid book out of the trash, because I didn't like things that irritated me then any more than I do now.  And I would have to look it up. Then I would have to go back to her, and we would discuss it.

Me: Mom, what's "shat"?
Mom:  Ha!  Look it up! I'd like to see you put THAT on your vocab worksheet for the week!  (I did, it's the past tense of "shit" as in, "that dog shat on my lawn" or "while I now use convenient restroom facilities, it is true that I spent the first couple years of my life encased in cotton cloth diapers, in which I had shat")

Me: Mom? What's a runcible spoon?
Mom: LOOK. IT. UP.  And why are you reading poetry from the 19th Century, anyway?
Me: Because you put me in a classroom for gifted kids, instead of in the fun classes that get to do art. (See? I had "Future Evil Genius" on my permanent record, even then!)-Actually, I probably didn't say that, because she would have said, "Aimee, why are you being so damned dramatic?" and I would have had to sulk some more, and I STILL would have to look up the answer to my question once I was done sulking, so I probably said, "I dunno".

So, because I am totally nicer than my mom (unless you are one of my kids, then I am WAY meaner), here you go:
 

From Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat

They dined on mince and slices of quince,

which they ate with a runcible spoon. 

While I was sitting around avoiding ironing and waiting for Atari to be invented, I was reading poetry. And it seems that there was an owl and a cat in a boat, chowing on some grub. With some crazy-ass tool I had never heard of.

So the next day, I got to go to school and be extremely informative at lunch time. While we were all eating our greasy slab of pizza and slurping our chocolate milk out of paper cartons, I said, "Hey guys!  THIS is a runcible spoon!"

It's amazing I didn't get my ass kicked more as a child.

Or maybe I did, and I suppressed it, and all my therapy sessions are going to uncover years of physical and emotional wounds. And then, I will have to spend years in intense psychotherapy, trying to get my childhood back.

In case it takes too long, the runcible spoon goes on the right, to the right of the knife.

Dude-who do you think I am, The Oatmeal?  Or Allie from Hyperbole and a Half? (Like either one of them need more links to their already-completely-adored blogs, but I love them both, so there ya go)  This is the best it gets-y'all are lucky I figured out how to do THIS much. If I knew how to use my scanner, I would've done it on paper with crayons, so consider yourself lucky.

See? In 2012, if you resolved to learn new and interesting things, you can now totally cross that shit off your list.  You're welcome.

Spoon Art

WARNING:  This post *may* require alcohol to completely appreciate/understand.

You've been warned.


Ever since I read the story, Spoonies by Christine Miserando, I have been wanting to find a piece of jewelry that incorporated a spoon.  You, know, so I could wake up feeling like crap, yank up my big-girl panties and put on my spoon necklace/ring/bracelet, and be all, "phew, good thing I had that extra spoon today :::chuckle to myself:::".

Okay, "wanting to find" might be a little mild.  Let's say, "massively obsessed".  There---better.

Anywho.  One night, I was hanging out, highly medicated.  Full flare.  I was on Facebook, which led me to Regretsy, a slightly off-kilter (or MAJORLY off-kilter) site devoted to all that is craptastic on Etsy (a very serious website devoted to artists that would like to sell their homemade wares to the truly deserving, thankyouverymuch.)

I was inspired by Lisa Winchell's ability to find such amazing items on Etsy, worthy of her praise and/or :::ahem::: notice.  My foggy brain decided I MUST BE HER.

So, I did what any hopped-up crazy person would do.  I created an account, and even took some special quizzes designed to help them understand my individual tastes, thereby showing me items that would meet my unique needs as an appreciator of fine crafts.  (Do not do this impaired in any way.  You will be startled/alarmed the next day.)

I searched, "spoon jewelry, and went through pages and pages of items.  Nothing spoke to me.  Until I saw it.  THE ONE.

I was elated, and clicked "BUY" before Sky King could stop me.  (Incidentally, he has lost some respect for me.  It could be unrelated to this shopping expedition.  There's no way to know for sure.)

I was eagerly anticipating the item in all its spoon-a-licious glory.  I had even gone so far as to send a special message to the user..."OMG!  You are artistic GENIUS!!! Thank you soooo much!!!".

Days later, (It felt like months, people!) I arrived at work to a curious item on my desk:

Quite a curious box.


I opened it, and found a pile of dried flowers. Now, I have never packed an item to ship with dried flowers. But, that doesn't mean I wouldn't.  She certainly gets points for creativity, and the whole reduce/reuse thing.

And there, in all it's glory, was my new necklace.

The original picture actually made it look better.  However, Sky King noted there was no possible way to make a mouse skull, or a disembodied baby arm for that matter, look "better".  Creepy is creepy, I think were his words.  Huh.

I have had some serious second thoughts about this necklace.  Maybe it would be better in a smaller spoon? Maybe I have dashed the dreams of an aspiring artist with my nasty words. Maybe I will contract Hantavirus from the mouse skull.  Maybe my husband will leave me if I wear it.  Ever.  I have questions, people.  Important musings that must have closure.

I hope that the artist is not a reader of my blog.  If she is, I would be devastated to know that my drug-addled musings caused her any pain.  She could be sitting at home right now, ready to stab herself in the eyeballs with knitting needles.  Or, she could be saying to the lazy, good-for-nothing son that lives in her basement, "See!!!  I TOLD you that people would love my art!  Hand over that $20 you owe me, you doubting Thomas!"  One of those.

Spoon Secrets

The other day, I woke up without any spoons.  It was as if a giant band of roving spoon thieves had snuck in the fairy door in my daughter's bedroom wall, and hijacked my ability to deal.
And, I needed extra that day. What a bitch, right?

Well, I ignored the lack of spoons, and began the morning. After about 40 minutes (I know, I'm getting quicker on the uptake), I talked to my husband about what was stuck in my craw. We negotiated, and I went about acquiring a spoon or two, so that the family would live to see another day.

I meditated. I went into the bedroom after explaining to the kids that I needed some peace time, and worked with the CD my therapist had given me two weeks ago to begin my Mindfulness training. So, I cracked the CD open, and began. Sometime in the middle, I heard the kids fighting in the hallway-I supressed the urge to open the door and scream, "I'm trying to F#%KING MEDITATE in here, shut your yaps!!!". But, the training must be working, because I breathed through the desire to psychologically, and physically, scar them.

And, lo and behold, I came out of that bedroom 32 minutes later, with armloads of spoons.

Maybe I should give one to the husband-he looks ready to snap...

who the f*@k stole my spoons??????

ok.  i am having a rough day.  after a few rough days.  so pardon the lack of shift key work, like capitals and some tricky punctuation.  my right hand is having a bad tendon/joint/skin/muscle day, and has requested some personal time.
but, i needed to vent, and i dont have a voice recognition situation set up yet. so here goes:

spoons.  i came upon this story at the beginning of my diagnosis, and liked the story.  now, i GET the story.  today, i am out of spoons, and i got shit to do.  geez, it's only 11 am! 

the concept is this: each person with fibromyalgia has a certain number of spoons.  each time a task needs to be done-washing hair, styling hair, driving, fixing a meal, putting stuff away-it costs me a spoon.  when i run out, i'm done.  except, if i run out at 11 am, i am screwed. 
Normals (you people-muggles, regular folk, whatever) have unlimited spoons.  sure, maybe some days are harder than others, but regular tasks still get done-lifebood stuff like showering, eating, picking the kids up.  Not us, though.  when we run out, the day is done.
(for the complete story, read here)

so, i am out of spoons.  i worked hard all week, gearing up for a big event at work.  while i didn't do much of the heavy lifting on friday, i was there, delegating, talking, finishing up, taking on the stress of the event.  it was worth it-don't get me wrong. it is one of my two favorite days of the year at work, and the other was only a couple weeks ago.  it is the kind of day that gives me opportunity to bask in the results of the hard work of many.

but, i still needs me some spoons.  i guess i liked the story from the beginning, liked the concept.  but i didn't get it, quite.  i got that at the end of the day, i was done.  DONE.  which for me was hard, because my work day didn't end til ten, usually.  i would work a full day, then come home to family, do the family thing, then tackle the work project du jour after they went to bed. shopping, a crafty project, sorting, computer work.  whatever.  now, my day ends at 3.  i have nothing left.  if i am there til 6, then i know i will be asleep by 9.  and it sucks.  having seemingly limitless energy was great, and fibro fog would be more helpful if i could forget i used to get more stuff done.  now, i don't know what to do with myself when i can't do much, so i sit, and then my mind wanders, which makes me ruminate on how shitty this disease can be. 

gee, my therapist would be proud-she is all into this needing the grieve for the life i don't have anymore, blah blah blah, pity party crap.  not much fun if you ask me.  pity is only fun when it is followed by a swift kick in the ass, over something no bog deal, like not fitting into the size 10 pants i love, or getting regular milk in the latte instead of soy-not the pity that comes with the sad looks, the eyes that tell you they are glad they are not you, and don't know what to say. 

today, i am still paying for the sins of friday.  saturday, i expected it, and my good buddy norco came to visit, along with her pal, merlot, and later, syrah.  that, along with a great relaxing trip to tahoe for the night with a hot guy was just what the dr. ordered.  seriously, all my docs told me to relax.  does that mean i can write off wine and hotel stays?  i digress.

then, sunday seemed better. i walked a few blocks to breakfast, found food i could eat. enjoyed another drive home through the gorgeous sierra nevadas.  then i ran errands.  stoooooooopid.  just pushing the damn cart took all i had.  so, back home to chill, early to bed to make up for the lack of sleep from the norco/wine binge. 2 glasses and, watch out. today, having a hard time making food.  showering seemed like an insurmountable task.  hair, no effing way, au naturel for me, babeeee!

in a nod to my therapist (and know-it-all husband), i cried in the shower today.  truly sobbed the why me, why now, wtf kind of sob.  and, i feel better.  it is true, grief is good, to a point.  it is important to acknowledge the loss. i know i have more grief in me. i know more loss will come.  in the meantime, im gonna head to costco.  for more spoons.