Letter to the Devil

Dear Lucifer,

I apologize for all of the snow you've been recently inundated with. I realize that your enviroment is not designed for such elaborate amounts of ice and cold, however, while I am sorry for any inconvenience this may be causing you, I must say that the circumstances enabling hell to freeze over have been created by such sadistic virulence that I think you would be proud of me.

You see, I found myself swept up into a massive cleaning spree, and apparently it was contagious in ways that I had never dreamed of. Now while in the past I have been known as a neat freak, and obsessive about keeping things organized (even my 'clutter' is organized, I know where everything is and why it is there), in the past few years I have just simply been unable to maintain my former diligence. I'm certain that the initial light snowfall was little problem for your continued operations, but now I realize that the scale must have increased to a magnitude approaching total shutdown.

Critical mass of hell freezing over, if you will.

While I have not yet been able to infect my rebellious offspring with the cleaning virus as of yet, it has been passed on to one who, for the most part, has spent all the years I've known him as -- well, there's just no kinder, gentler words for it -- a slob. Certainly, the virus has yet to reach complete cellular amplification in his system, for one still cannot walk in the small space along his side of the bed.

However, when one takes into account that he's finally cleared out boxes that have been in place and blocking not only my dresser, but his dresser, his desk, the closet, and the walkway to the bathroom since we moved into this house several years ago, you'll see that there is a more than valid reason why the cold front has set in and you're now having to deep freeze the damned instead of roasting them over pits of lava.

I hope that Hell's version of FEMA is far quicker to respond to your current disaster than ours is, and that your order of snowplows and shovels arrives soon. You may want to add parkas to your purchase order as well (and I do know how difficult it will be to find a manufacturer that takes tails and horns into account, but I'm certain someone with the resources you have available will prevail), for the disease is still progressing with no end in sight.

In closing, while the saying does go that "cleanliness is next to godliness," I would like to point out that conniving, pleading, manipulating, and infecting others into doing half the work for me should still help ensure my position there in the future.

Keep my seat warm.

Pooka

Objects in Motion

We're not in such a great place right now. Okay, a pretty bad place. Husband has lost his job, which means no money, no insurance -- well, you get the idea. Without insurance, my meds alone are 1200 a month. He's diabetic, which means he needs meds too. Which he's ignoring, but I'm used to that.

He COBRA'd my insurance so I'd have it through July, which actually enabled some real progress to finally be made with my last neurologist visit.

Bad News: Add Occipital Neuralgia to my list of Things Wrong With Pooka

Good News: It earned me a trip to (wait for it) ... A PAIN CLINIC!

My appointment at the pain clinic is this Thursday for a nerve block on my occiptal nerve, which -should-, theoretically, take care of the worst of the break-through and OMFGSBJ Can I Die? headaches.

I'm supposed to be there several hours. I already got the phone call, with the "no food after 8:30, clear liquids only" orders. So I know it's not just a background and history visit. People trying to HELP me. Whodda thunk it?

So it's going to be two days late to be a 'real' birthday present for me, but who counts when it's a GOOD present, right?

Pain relief. Better than freakin diamonds, as far as I'm concerned. Oh, who am I kidding, I don't really like diamonds anyway. Better than a new 260 gb hard drive and a 21" flatscreen monitor. Yeah, now THAT works!

Yep. I'm turning 38 tomorrow.

No fretting over aging at this point, I mean, I'm already poking 40 with a short stick, and my body is going about its unnatural business and aging faster than my years spent breathing anyway. Maybe it's a flux in quantum mechanics, or my body is going by "mileage" instead of "years". I suppose that would quantify out why my body is definitely trying to push the 65+ range instead of a nice perfectly normal 38.

So, the List:

--Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy/Complex Regional Pain Syndome (RSD/CRPS)
--Fibromyalgia (which I argue with after the new findings)
--Thoracic Outlet Syndrome (same argument, just symptoms misread)
--Osteoarthritis
--Arnold Chiari Malformation I
--Cervical Spinal Stenosis
--Peripheral Neuropathy
--Occipital Neuralgia


Quite a doozy to look at, huh? And of course, I'm already wearing bifocals, which I knew I needed, but never realized how much till I had them, and suddenly I could read things again without doing the "find the right distance" dance.

The List sort of destroys the whole "aging gracefully" concept. There's very little graceful about me anymore. I stay bruised from stumbling, bouncing into things, and half the time not even feeling the impacts that leave the marks.

About the only part that IS aging gracefully is my face. Which is weird, since that's one of the places that usually shows signs first. But no, you can look at my hands and tell, but I am surprisingly free of most wrinkles and lines on my face. Granted, my face is now so gaunt that there's not much to help make wrinkles visible, but trust me, I've LOOKED for them, and I really don't have the things.

I guess you take what you got, and that has to be good enough.

Maxwell's Silver Hammer

Well ... no surgery for now. The Chiari hasn't changed in size, thus, no surgery. Okay, fine.

It gets better.

C4-C5 disc is ... uncooperative. Bulging, was the word used. Cervical Spinal Stenosis, for accuracy. "Avoid car wrecks and whiplash and you should be fine." Hah.

(Teri's comment was "...and you told them to avoid attempts at humor?")

There are lesions on my brain. I have RSD, which is degerative. I have a cervical disc hating on me. I have Chiari --- AND YET MY @#$#*& NEUROLOGIST CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHY I HAVE HAD A HEADACHE FOR 300 DAYS!

(Teri's addition: "Because your neurologist has never had a headache? and is a borderine moron?" I love her.)

He tells me it's just migraines -- cept, migraine drugs don't help. He tells me the Chiari isn't bad enough for all the symptoms -- cept, every Chiari patient and everyone on my Chiari list says that at ANY point it's enough to SHOW on an MRI, it's enough to be a problem.

Though his confusion boggles me after looking at the patient receipt with the ICD-9 codes and diagnoses on it. Compression of the brain. Cervical Spinal Stenosis. RSD. And yet he's confused. Uh huh.

Today, he decided to go for a dual attack -- an anti-depressant that also is used to treat headaches and neurological pain, particularly the peripheral neuropathy I have -bad-. And you know what?

AFTER 300 DAYS OF HEADACHE, DAMN STRAIGHT I'M DEPRESSED!

"Okay. I'm lost, I'm angry ... and I'm armed."

Yeah, I took the drugs.

I wonder what my GP has for rising homicidal mania.

PTA or PITA?

Two acronyms that should *never* be used together:

PTA and RSD. Man, I'm flared up.

Can you just picture DG and I surrounded by PTA moms? Stop laughing. No, I mean it. Stop laughing.

Yes, we just endured a PTA meeting for the sake of Thing 2 and a school full of kindergartners that pranced up on stage and sang at us. Loudly. Enthusiastically.

From "Six Little Ducks" all the way through "You're a Grand Old Flag," some forty or so 6 year olds up in front of a full crowd for the very first time. And they did it very, very well.

And I must say that I have never in my life seen such a collection of certified card-carrying pasty-faced, four-eyed, plastic pocket protectored pencil-necked geeks outside of a Star Trek convention. You just know every one of those dads are bringing in more figures than a Playboy convention. White collar bastards. ;)

Unfortunately, they all think their children are exempt from things like manners.

I'm ... just going to leave it right there without another word. Otherwise, I might just go off in a rant and offend some sensitive goober who feels their little darling shouldn't have to wait for someone to move, that they have every right to push and shove at both adults and children alike, and that their openly kicking an adult in their way is just a cheerful display of spirit and individuality.

And for that sensitive goober, I have two important words that I'm sure will play an important role in their little darling's future: Death Penalty.

Never wanted a taser so bad in my life.

Let me clarify a bit here. Now I'm all for letting kids be kids. They're going to run and scream and play and have fun, it's what kids should be doing. It should NOT, however, be at the expense of anyone else, and should not endanger anyone else.

The child who kicked my cane because it was in his way did so with his parent sitting less than three feet away, watching him the entire time. Daddy saw me stumble when my support wasn't there. Neither child nor parent said a word about it.

The other little heathens that shoved and pushed through on the other side of me all but finished me off. Score one, and only one, for being as heavy as I am.

Isolated incidents? Not a chance. Even sitting down, I wasn't safe. No one else in the auditorium was either. I can't even try to imagine what these kids are like at home.

My children aren't angels, and I'll be the first to admit it. The Things, however, didn't push, or run and scream inside, said "Excuse me" when they needed to and hushed up when the program began.

Parents, if you're going to complain about the problems in the world, make sure you aren't part of them.

Posting on the net...

... anywhere there will ever be an audience larger than one.

1) Debate the issue, not the poster.

2) Never point out that someone is debating the poster instead, for this maketh you a target.

3) Read. Write. Re-read. Re-read. Repeat. THEN post.

4) When posting on a controversial subject, expect someone to disagree.

5) When someone disagrees, do not immediately take it as a personal attack. They are disagreeing with your idea, with your opinion, your fact. They do not automatically think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves (or given to Morax for his birthday, whatever). Even if the poster DOES think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves, disagreeing with you is not always a personal attack.

6) See Point 1.

7) See Point 2.

8) Wear asbestos underwear.

9) Be open. Be honest. If you're making a personal attack, good God, say so. Don't mince words. Be specific. Be brutal. Get it over with. Then delete it and act like an adult. Walk away, or post something that adheres to Point 1.

10) Realize when the Horse Is Dead.

11) When dealing with a Repeat Offender ... don't. You're just asking for it, and deserve what you get. Be realistic.

12) Know when to give up and walk away. Most of the time, they won't even notice you've left the thread until there's no one left to bite.

13) "My uncle's sister's cousin's brother's friend that knows a guy that lived next door to someone that saw it happen" is a Non-Answer, and does not deserve a response. Should you feel the need to respond, feel free to do so in kind. After all, your "father's uncle's grandmother's cousin that once went out with the guy that lived next door to the other guy" is just as much of an expert in the field.

14) See Point 10.

15) When you start taking yourself too seriously, keep in mind that there's at least one other person in the world that doesn't take you seriously at all. Take it as a hint. P.T. Barnum was right. So was Darwin. Think about it.

16) See me? This is me walking away. Practice it a few times yourself. Make it your friend.

I'm walking away now .......

Warning: Curves Ahead

Perhaps instead the warning should read, "No Curves Allowed."

Those of a delicate nature would be advised to skip over this. I feel a rant coming on, sing it sister, hallelujia.

Bras.

I'll wait for the booing and hissing to die down.

Bras. There's that ugly word again. When you're my size, you can't go without one. I'm a Very Big Girl. Most of it is in my chest. I'm a 40-42 J cup. Big Girl.

Circus Freak big. I'm a monster.

No? You disagree?

Go shopping. Search the net. Search your local malls.

Find me ONE bra that is less than $30.00. Find me a GOOD one that's less than $40.00.

I'll be here waiting when you've finally given up in frustration and want to strangle someone. See, I'm already at that point.

A smaller woman can walk into Walmart and walk out, spending 30 bucks and carrying away 2-4 bras. I can't get one for that.

I have fibromyalgia. I can't wear underwires. I bruise. I blister. It's very unpleasant. Go ahead, find a soft cup bra big enough to fit me that's affordable. Find me a sleep bra, or a sports bra that will actually fit.

Forget it.

It's worse because my breasts are way too large, and the rest of me is much smaller. If I wore a 50 something band size, I'd be easier to fit.

I'm frustrated. I'm annoyed. I'm depressed. I want to be comfortable, dammit, and not have my kids starve to death because I dared to buy a new bra.

My last "new" bra is over 4 years old. I've bought a few since, and they never fit right. All too small. I was desperate. I won't waste the money again. I'm tired of maybes and almosts and not quites.

I want a bra that fits, dammit, and I don't want to have to sell a limb to get it.

Butt Floss!

I don't get thongs.

Okay, okay, let me correct that. I mean, I DO get that they're the only way you can wear some kinds of clothes without panty lines showing through (and I'm including g-strings in the thong description to save time). I can also see the point that if your underwear is going to crawl up your ass, you might as well just start with it there and save time. Personally, I think that's just an excuse.

But Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the things just aren't comfortable. I've tried, and I've tried. I own multiple pairs (and why in the hell is it a "pair" of underwear anyway?) Really, you spend most of your life trying to keep your underwear OUT of your crack, but by putting them on, you deliberately subject yourself to it.

Okay, so they look good -- on SOME people, anyway. I'm firmly convinced that I'm not one of them, no matter what hubby says.

What sadist came up with the idea?

I just vomited an electric pumpkin

I'm feeling extraordinarily self-conscious about my body again.

Fat. Well, the word is really subjective. Everyone has their own ideas of what exactly constitutes FAT, how many pounds versus height make you obese, what you can carry and still at least look good. It's never just a matter of numbers, since every eye views it differently.

And in my eyes, I'm fat.

I hate being fat, I really do. I know I'm overweight, trust me. I'm hardly deluding myself on that issue. Diets can only do so much without exercise, and for me, exercise is really difficult. My health limits it in so many ways that there's very little I can do that won't be infinitely worse for me in short term perspective.

Running and aerobics are right out. Walking, if done often enough and long enough to make a difference, makes chronic foot problems act up. My breasts are too large to be able to comfortably and efficiently use exercise machines. I can't afford an exercise bike, or access to a health club (not that there's one anywhere close anyway). Swimming can only be done in the summer without an indoor heated pool -- which I don't have access to -- and how am I supposed to really SWIM and work out in a tiny apartment pool while watching two small children that don't know how to swim? Yeah, I know, there are ways around a lot of it, but it gets really frustrating.

I'm rarely happy with my body. I'm fat. I've got some wonderful curves that, with 30 pounds off me, would look fabulous. Those thirty pounds aren't off, and I look awful.

I can't be happy with being fat. I can't make myself comfortable with it and just accept that I'm a Big Girl now. I've tried. It's just not happening. The mirror is an enemy even more devious than my mind, because it sometimes gives the illusion that I don't look quite as bad as I think I do.

Then ... WHAM. I'll turn around, and suddenly the mirror will have expanded my bulk till there's nothing left but fat and ugly and repulsive. I do a lot of crying at that point. Sometimes, it's so extreme and so damaging that I can't force myself to put on my fat clothes and go out in public. Hubby has to put up with me weeping and refusing to go out with him and the family, because I'm a hideous fat monster.

Half of the problem could be solved by the breast reduction that my insurance refuses to pay for. They, of course, don't give a rat's ass about mental damage. They don't give a shit about psychological breakdowns. Hell, they don't even give a damn about the blisters and the bruises and the other impacts that my chest has made on my health. I look like a freak. I feel like a freak. They don't care.

Strap two heavy melons to your chest. Go on, I dare you to find something that will hold them up. Oh, don't worry if you're only barely hanging in there, that's what happens when you're a freak of nature. Got it? Great. Now jump up and down. Go ahead. Aerobicise. You can do it.

Awww, did you get hurt?

DUH. No shit.

So, I'm fat. Physically pffffft.

Totally unreasonable. I know, somewhere in my brain, that I'm not THAT big, that the largest percentage of overweight people are FAR bigger than I am. Doesn't matter. They aren't living in my skin. I am. I don't like it. I don't like me.

I'm on a nice limited diet. I don't just sit around and eat junk food and ice cream and crap like that. Goodies like my Hubby bought me the other night will last for MONTHS, till the food is so inedible that it has to be thrown away. A small square of fudge will last days with just a nibble every now and then. I drink water more than anything else, maybe one or two sodas total, IF that, in a day. Usually, it's nothing but bottled water to drink. Yes, I miss drinking other things ( I LOVE root beer, yum ), but it's not like I sit and make a total pig out of myself.

Not that it makes any difference to the people that look at me and see fat. I have an insulin disorder. I've been severely hypoglycemic all my life. My body produces way too much insulin, and doesn't process carbohydrates well at all. I've got a high potential to become diabetic if I don't watch what I eat. I try very hard to pay close attention to what goes in my mouth.

Of course, I'm still fat.

I can't buy a dress off the rack. My proportions are so off because of my chest size that nothing will hang right. I bounce between a 16 and an 18. The problem is, even when I spent 6 months as a size 12, I still had to wear XL and 1X shirts because of my chest. Dresses both stretch and ride up in the front because of my chest, then wrinkle and ride up in the sides and back because of my hips. I have a very tiny waist by comparison, so I'm really doomed.

Then there are the idiots that feel that just sizing up the junior fashions and leaving them alone is going to work. Riiiiight. Take one beanpole, make it really wide. Uh huh.

Now the clothes look like shit and they STILL don't fit anyone with a curve. Yeah, that was real effective, folks. You don't even get a C for that effort.

I *really* have a thing about SOME kind of jacket to go over my arms. I found a wonderful crochet top last summer that helps, but with only one colour, and no real length, it's seriously limited. (I HATE the 4" purple scar on my arm, and if I don't cover the skin, then my arms look chubby AND sunburned. No thanks) If they DO bother to put a jacket with it, the damn thing is wrist length sleeves and too damn warm, defeating the purpose of the sleeveless shell beneath.

And explain this: WHY in god's name do designers think larger women want to walk around looking like neon signs? I see the most horrendous colours in Plus sizes, and it's not just splashes, no. I mean full suits of "This Colour Came Out of My Child's Diaper" green, or "I Just Vomited an Electric Pumpkin" orange.

It's not that I want us to be camoflaged and in dull colours, it's that these colours are flat out hideously ugly on ANYBODY!!!!!

I remember high school. I was 5'4" or so then, weighed maybe 110. I thought I was fat. I hated my body. I was always trying to diet because half of my girlfriends were all twigs.

Twig. Aha. In retrospect, the problem was a simple difference in body structure: I was built like a woman. They were built like little boys. I had curves, serious curves, classic hourglass curves, from late 5th grade on. I never wore a training bra, I went straight to a B cup and kept right on going. I was a heavy C-D all through high school. I had a tiny waist, big boobs, and hips, and hated the fact that I didn't look like a string bean like everyone else.

What a fucking joke.

Looking back, I'd kill to have that body again, to be able to go back and do it over and be proud of what I had. Hindsight is always 20/20. Now I know what fat really is.

Now, I'm fat.

And I hate it.