Much of the past day has been spent reflecting upon the funeral yesterday. It was nearly 3 hours, with over an hour of preaching by a most enthusiastic preacher. The time marked most by scripture and yelling.

Part of the message was on friendship. How friends should be. I am sure you would not be surprised to say that my ears and my heart perked up to hear what he might say. Of course, I agreed with his message that true friends accepted you for who you were, for where you were in your life. They sit beside you in sorrow and illness. They allow your anger to pass them buy. They comfort you in pain. They walk beside you on your path no matter your pace. That was a bit hard to hear to know how some people I thought were good friends fell away over the past year.

Much of the yelling was about making a joyful noise. Lots of Amens. Lots of Preach Ons. Lots of Hallelujahs.

The most troubling shout was "I was not saved to walk in darkness." Now, he was talking about walking in sin, in drugs, in alcohol, in fornication, in theft...having basically lived all that before coming to know Jesus as his Savior. Yet, I couldn't help but reflect upon how frustrated I have been with the situation at work and my deteriorating health and my overwhelming desire to do that which I am capable of doing before I am no longer capable. I translated his shout in my heart: I was not saved to walk in overwhelming frustration.

Fairly frequently, he said that we had walked into a trap, expecting a memorial service and receiving the Word of God, that we were captives. He chasened us for not being loud enough in our exclamations of what God has done for us, how magnificent is our Lord and Creator and Savior and Comfortor.

I could agree that we should speak loudly our joy, make it evident for all in our lives just exactly what God has done for us. But I also believe that the yelling that literally hurt my hears was not, perhaps, the best way to share that message. My mind kept thinking about the quiet and reflective and reverent liturgical service that Pastor JD leads. Never have I met someone who actually worships through the constraints of set liturtgy as does he. The repetition of words, the combination of many voices declaring the same Truth, is powerful in his church. Yet the preacher before me would have probably walked out in disgust had he worshipped at Pastor JD's church.

Now, perhaps the largest of my soapboxes is the fact that far, far too many too many churches in America today have set aside the Word of God in favor of "seeker-friendly services" and the latest pop-Christian book. The Psalms bible study Pastor JD has been leading this summer alone are enough of a reminder that the Bible is ever so rich and deserving of a lifetime of study, for it will be ever new upon each reading. So, this yelling Pastor who kept saying we would hear only Truth in his church, was a bit refreshing in that regard. But, while I agree that Heaven will be noisy with everyone singing praise, I am not convinced that all worship needs to be quite so loud.

And, frankly, I felt that the woman whose life was being remembered got set aside for something that felt like grandstanding for the Lord.

The last half-hour of the service was a call to Jesus that essentially was a call to join that particular church (a new church). The endless entreating for souls to come forward finally resulted in a line of people up front, some in tears of joy, some looking fearful, and some bewildered. I do admit that time left a sour taste in my life. I believe quiet strongly that Christ does not need someone pleading at the top of his voice, alternating entreaty with bullying, to bring people to Him.

Still, the service as a whole gave me pause. In the midst of all the yelling, I felt as if the Lord was reminding me of Psalm 46:10. Be still and know that I am God.

I am frankly beleagured and laboring beneath constant pain and fatigue, such a poor witness for the Grace beneath which I walk. However, I was glad that I could use my skills to create a program that honored the life of a woman of God who touched so many people and gave great comfort to her remaining family. I was glad that the words I spoke and the song I sang touched others and meant something to her daughter. I was glad that I could do something that was helpful and outside my own sphere (especially since D doesn't start back to graduate school until September). I was glad that the Lord troubled by waters a bit.

After the service, I spoke with the family who has been storing my bike. My social outing for the month was with a woman I met a couple of years ago, made a strong connection with, and then did not see again until last Saturday (JK). She spoke of how God had brought a loving man into her life after finally breaking away from an abusive person. This man is a biking enthusiast. I have been trying so very hard to face the changes in my health and her comment made me realize that I had to admit the fact that I will never go flying through the air on my racing bike again. It has sat unridden for several years, but it was a very expensive bike some years ago that should still be in good shape. It is time to let go. Monday evening, I am picking it up to pass it on to this woman who has a whole new future before her.

~~~~
Note: I have had enough contract work this week to pay for the Sugarland Concert tickets, 11.25 hours out of my 30 hour goal. So, I should be on track to mitigate the expense of the whole trip by September 20th. I guess, however, given how much I was affected by singing this weekend, that I should check out the nearest ER to the Trump Taj Mahal, eh? ARGH!

With the work completed and my invoice sent, I am basking in the utter joy of the first football game of the season!

How Sweet It Is!

These words open an article noting that Sugarland's new album Love on the Inside debuted at No. 1 and their single All I Want to Do is at No. 2 on the Country section of the Billboard Charts. With 314,000 copies sold in the first week, the album is also No. 2 on the all-genres list. Their video for the single is also No. 1. I guess I am not the only one who was waiting with much anticipation for their next release.

Just think, a mere 7 weeks from this very moment, I will be sitting beside my best friend watching them play live in Atlantic City!

My favorites thus far are:

• Love
• Wishing
• It Happens
• All I Want to Do
• We Run
• Keep You
• Very Last Country Song
• Joey
• Fall Into Me
• Life in a Northern Town

Of course, out of 3 albums and 39 songs, I have thus far found only 2 of them not to my liking...so I might be a bit biased about favorites...

NOTE: Today's song at the funeral was followed a mere hour later by a rather distressing asthma attack and another jab in my thigh by the dreaded Epipen. My oxygen saturation was at 85 when I finally used it, and though the coughing soon eased, an hour later the number had only risen to 90. My response to the Epipen was quite strong and a bit nerve-wracking. I most fervently wished that I were not alone. Thankfully, the trauma of the attack exhausted me and I soon fell asleep. Nestled against my cheek, Fancy took a nap with me, while Kashi guarded us both. I guess I wasn't quite alone...

Tomorrow, I am speaking and singing at the funeral of the mother of my ex-boss. Funny how life is. She got C-Diff and battled long and hard before dying. My mother go the ferocious bacterial infection and lived. Willie Mae loved by all because she was a warrior, a comforter, and a shining example of living fearlessly. I mean, seriously, the postal folk in her neighborhood all loved walking her route because it meant a stop at her home. She didn't even blame me for my hurt and anger when her own daughter did not fight for me when I lost my job there. I cannot think of anyone who could say the same about my mother.


Below are my words for tomorrow and the program I designed for the service...

I only met Willie Mae a few times, but she certainly left a lasting impression. Mostly because she was a writer and I enjoyed the fellowship that comes so easily from someone who understands your heart in an instant.

I have five letters from Willie Mae, tucked away in an antique metal tin. Each one a response to a visit or a missive of my own. She wrote of her plants, telling me they were her best friends, often better than people. I can understand that. I have a collection of moss gardens that I tend despite the strange looks I get from visitors, and one of my bonsais, over 50 years old, has been with me longer than anyone else in my life outside of my family.

She wrote about my poetry and hers. Most of those I have penned are about the dark side of life, the struggles and turmoil that women can face. Consequently, when I tried to share the work that means so much to me, I am most often rebuffed. “Too depressing” is what I hear. AIDS. Poverty. Illiteracy. Rape. Depression. “We don’t want to have to think about those.” Willie Mae didn’t mind. She appreciated them for what they are.


“You are growing roses,” she wrote. “Don’t forget to stop and smell them sometimes, even knowing you may get pricked by their thorns. Remember, life is a journey with many stations to stop and visit. You really don’t want to miss any of them, no matter where they may be or what they may look like.”


In another letter she wrote, “I have been writing poetry for years. Some day, I am going to have them all published, so you and others can read them again and again.” She understood my poetry because she was a poet herself, writing through the good times and the bad. She kept telling me that we should not be afraid to embrace the life we have.


She also told me to smile.


Peppered through her letters, often several times in the same paragraph, she would write the one word command. Smile. Smile because it is what you can do. Smile because it what you should do. Smile because this is your life and you should savor the ways in which you have been blessed. You might not understand them, but you have, without a single, solitary doubt, been blessed.


I would like to sing a song that means a lot to me. I am neither a good singer or a bad, but songs oft have messages that linger in the heart as do poem. This one has the message Willie Mae tried to drill into to me, encouraging me, admonishing me, accepting me for who I am.

Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though its breaking
When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You’ll see the sun come shining through for you



Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear may be ever so near
That’s the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what’s the use of crying?
You’ll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile

I do believe that I have finished my first semester of graduate school with my dear friend D. Boy, am I exhausted!

She's studying non-profit management. At first, the assignments were quite tough. I mean, really, she had to just hit the ground running with essay questions I had to practically translate for her to even figure out what was being asked. Of course, that meant much Googling on my part to figure out the question well enough to help her understand.

Now, many weeks and essay questions later, D can plow through her assignments with the best of them. Tonight, she just finished her second final research paper. I do admit that my suggestions for her topics were partly motivated by what kind of research I would like to learn. However, both were within her realm of professional development as well. Her two topics were: the impact of the mortgage crisis on affordable housing and the cultural gap of the digital divide. Her research and final draft were stellar. Honestly, sometimes I grow downright jealous over how well she writes.

SIGH

I do so admire those who can wield a skillful pen...

I have been mightily blessed of late because those dozens and dozens mosquito bites on my legs have been far less burdensome than I could have ever imagined. While I am not out of the woods yet, I have given in to the scratching that sets me on such a vicious cycle in just a few patches. That I have not battled them day after day is a bit uplifting to me.

I have been, however, assaulted by mosquitoes in my house. I forgot that Kashi had come back in from a visit outside and left the back door ajar for several hours. While several days have passed, I feel as if they are breeding inside somehow. How in the world can such a small thing emit such a loud, annoying sound? If they are not whining in my ear, they are flying about my face. Apparantly, I am too slow with my slaps to effect a kill.

Still, I think the former outweighs the latter, don't you?

I had the chance to talk with an assistance superintendent of a local school district for about an hour the other day. I called him about the possibility of hiring a high school catering group for an event. While I have yet to get an answer on whether we will fit into the schedule since school will have just started, I did enjoy a rather engaging conversation that ranged from multicultural literature to financial literacy to study skills/college prep.

For a very long moment, I savored the sweet opportunity to think, to engage, to learn. Oh, my, do I miss it. I was flattered by his request for my resume, offering to see if there was a place for me to perhaps help utilizing my skills...but I do not dare believe that something may come of it. I think, perhaps, I can focus on how much I enjoyed delving into weighty matters for but a moment or two.

Points of Discussion:

Multicultural literature, while much more prevalent when compared to the 80's, still demands attention to authenticity, accuracy, and access.

It is asinine for society to expect young adults and adults to have proficiency in an area that is not systematically taught over a sufficient period of time. From college students who rack up thousands of dollars of credit card debt to adults who end up with overwhelming debt from paycheck loans or risky mortgages, people cannot be expected to demonstrate proficiency in fiscal matters just because they happen to be old enough to earn their own money.

So many of our young people are set up to fail, rather than succeed. They suddenly shift from being told what to do and when to do it--from home to school--without systematic education on the life skills necessary to do so successfully. Young adults need training in planning, time management, note-taking/study techniques, dealing with an adviser, professional development, job benefits options, budgeting, etc. These are not subjects in school; many would argue they are the purview of parents. I disagree. They absolutely should be a part of our education system beginning at least as soon as junior high school. After all, there is such a push for critical-thinking and problem-solving development that the subject matter in those lessons ought to have to some real-world applications.

I managed to not get criticized once today. I am savoring the moment.

I have had my social outing for the month. I created a social story for my nephew. I have celebrated my half-brother's birthday in the absence of his mother. I have washed, dried, folded, and put away 3 loads of laundry. I vacuumed. I changed the filter in my HVAC unit. I backed-up my computer. I ran and emptied the dishwasher. I have run errands. I have done the past two months' filing, I have cleaned up my home office, and I have given feedback on a paper for someone in graduate school.

I need one more day to recover from my weekend.

Oh, my goodness! I am most thoroughly excited!

On September 20th, B and I will be attending a Sugarland concert in Atlantic City!

I have two months to savor the anticipation of this event and dream about what fun we can have whilst there.

Over the next sixty days, I have two upcoming contract jobs and calculated that I need to work 30 hours to both pay for this little jaunt without dipping into anything and still put my set ratio into savings...that or give up Dr. Pepper for the next year!

I kept looking for something in PA near B & G, my most willing chauffeurs, but both options were far away. Then, alas, G pointed out that Atlantic City was but a mere hop, skip, and jump down the road.

Now, here is the part that takes the cake: G gave yet another example of his loving and generous heart when he listened to me plan on how long it would take to get there and then suggested we go up earlier and enjoy a leisurely dinner before the concert! How so very thoughtful of him. I would have just planned for the least amount of time being gone and there he was encouraging me to plan for how we could enjoy the excursion the most.

Now, we tentatively have an event at work planned for either the Wednesday or Thursday before the concert, so I will cross my fingers for Wednesday. We also have a big fundraising drive, so I am not sure how being gone for a long weekend will go over, but I will aim for a Friday to Monday trip so as to not drop dead from exhaustion and excitement and account for any additional drain from emergency Epipen injections.

So, I guess I best get to memorizing the lyrics to the new CD so I can be sure to sing along from beginning to end!

NOTE: This is NOT retail therapy. It falls under my goal of socializing once a month. I promise!

My sister actually called and asked me for help tonight. My, was I surprised...

Her request was for me to make a social story for her son, who has autism. He is going to be flying on a plane for the first time tomorrow, and she is worried about how he will handle a new experience. Apparently, there is a psychological aid called a social story, whereby a story is written for the child telling him what will happen in the new experience, step-by-step, with illustrations.

A friend of my sister lost her father unexpectedly today, so she did not yet have a chance to do a social story for my nephew. Thus, the request for help.

Below is my first attempt at a social story. The cool part is that I also just figured out how to post some of my work as a photo on this blog: first, print it to PDF; then, export it to JPEG.

B is fairly great at these wonderful discoveries of things that are rather helpful. Case in point: a super dog brush from Wal-Mart.

When I was at her house a few weeks ago, I borrowed her dog brush and was simply stunned at how well it cleaned out Kashi's double coat.

I have to admit that he was looking a bit ragged. Mostly this is because he hates the brush I own and I have not had the energy to fight him on keeping his coat neat. And, to be honest, I just didn't want to upset him when he is aging before my eyes and I am going through such a rough patch myself. Frankly, one of us ought to feel good.

Well, once I saw how effective her tool could be, I applied it most vigorously to my puppydog. Over the course of two applications, I gathered an entire plastic grocery bag of doggy fur. Kashi looked immeasurably better and a bit thinner. I did not get to the area around his chest and neck, because I would have needed to do so indoors where I could remove his harness. Given the amount of doggy fur that did not make it into the bag, littering her lawn most impressively, I assumed B would rather I not take the mess inside.

I finally got a chance to visit two of my local Wal-Mart stores, only to discover that both of them did not carry the miracle doggy brush. I promptly asked B to purchase one for me and send it on its way South.

Kashi is getting a bit ragged again, so I am looking forward to receiving the eventual package.

What makes this brush even more wonderful is the fact that my bedroom has been MUCH cleaner in the past two weeks because he has not shed very much. In fact, the only time he really did shed was while in abject fear at the vet's office.

So, not only does this brush make Kashi more comfortable, more attractive, and more clean, but it also reduces the need for vacuuming in my home.

What more could you want?????????

I have been holding my entries since the end of June, writing away...but censoring myself. After much introspection and several phone calls and emails from those of you who read here, I gathered my courage and posted them all.

I am not rising to the occasion in battling pain, weakness, and failing cognitive faculties. I am tired. I am exhausted. I am weary. And I am frightened.

Today, for nearly three hours at work, I could barely see. My vision was so very blurred that I could do little but type and hope enough of my thoughts would survive so that I could finish my work later.

I find no joy in this. I find no comfort in the fellowship of suffering.

I feel alone.
I feel scared.
I feel overwhelmed.

I cannot change this. I cannot escape this. In the words of Elisabeth Haydon's character Rhapsody, "Ryle hira. Life is what it is." Eli Stone would tell me, "Live Brave." David would remind me that the days of my life were written before one of them came to pass...and that each of those days are in the palm of my Creator's hand. Luke who add that "with Christ, nothing is impossible."

This I know. My soul doth know it very well.

Knowing...however...does not make it very much easier...just endurable.

Well, I did not win one of the platinum tickets to the great fan package for Sugarland (I did not even know there was a contest). Would you believe I have yet to pop the CD into my computer? I am nervous, in a silly strange sort of way. I admit. I know. I confess that the strangest things hold far too much weight with me these days. Soon. Soon, I shall gather my courage and press play. Soon.

I still felt rather weak from the heat trauma from yesterday, so I went back to sleep this morning and did not awake until 1:50. I felt much better.

Kashi and Fancy made a trip to Dr. ML. Fancy was rather cooperative whilst getting her nails trimmed. I almost wondered if someone had switched birds on me. Kashi, on the otherhand, objected most strongly to the needle biopsy of the growth in his arm pit. For that matter, he did not care for his temperature being taken or his joints being manipulated. He even took offense at the scope against his chest and the one in his ears.

Sadly, he hardly objected to the light shining in his eyes. He is losing his sight.

I am supposed to wash out his ear again for the next two weeks. Reflecting back upon that time last fall, I have decided that perhaps the washing should begin this weekend, when I can allot more time for the battle that will ensue until I once more can assert my Alpha Dog status when it comes to pouring cold liquid down his hear, rubbing the heck out of it, and then mopping up the drainage.

I think I need another nap.

~~~~
NOTE: I stopped counting the mosquito bites on my legs at 117. I was not even close to finishing. The next few weeks are going to be most uncomfortable.

Mowed. Weed whacked. Edged. Pruned.

Puked. Keeled Over. Shivered and trembled and sweated galore.

B salvaged the day by playing Scrabble with me. We each won a game. I felt after such trauma I should have won both. B disagreed. Scrabble does have curative properties even if I lose.

While I cried my way through the yard work, wishing ever so fervently for a life less difficult, I forgot that at least I have a friend who will carve out time from her very, very busy life to give me a fix or two. To say, I love you, but humbling me with her creative intelligence.

I tried the pill.

The first dose was 1/2 of a .25mg Zanax pill. I am not noticing much of a difference. Right now, Kashi is wedged between two plastic containers beneath one of the beds in the basement. Still whimpering.

The rain is a welcome event for the fact that I do not now need to water. It is, however, rather unwelcome for the havoc it wreaks upon my dear puppy-dog.

So, well, I had a bit more retail therapy.

You see, after my indiscretion with Farscape, my bank account was saved by a rather challenging assignment from one of my contract companies. While I had to sub-contract out a few charts in Excel (I am quite envious of how quickly B's husband G managed to whip them together), I still earned just over the amount of those 88 episodes.

At first, I practically balked at the task. While I do have a reputation of being able to pull a miracle out of my back pocket, sometimes this particular client overestimates my abilities to do so. I had just two days to create a draft of a PowerPoint presentation for heads of travel industry companies and visitor bureaus who were exhibiting in an international trade show in Beijing that met three objectives: 1) an overview of Chinese culture; 2) a primer on how to do business in China; and 3) a profile of the Chinese outbound traveler. After much doubt, I managed another miracle.

Instead of being thankful that my retail therapy did not greatly damage my budget, I gave myself another session. [I know I am disappointing those who turn to me for solid fiscal advice.]

There I was, writhing in pain and...yes....feeling sorry for myself...when I thought of a most wonderful, fantastic, terrific idea for G's birthday present. I searched online, set about procuring one, and then basked in my success (I am most fervently hoping he will like it as much as I believe he should).

My little shopping excursion did distract me from the waves of pain, so I thought about getting something else for me. What I chose was something that I have wanted for over 20 years. I asked myself...why am I waiting? Just do it.

It is an antique (were you to visit my home you would understand how well it will fit in to my abode). It is a prime piece of American ingenuity. It is representative of the heart of me.

Voila!

Take the negative and turn it into positive, right?

This is a photo of the crepe myrtle in front of my home. Now, I pruned it last fall. Remember? I had bags and bags of cut branches. Yet, if you look at it here, I would be hard pressed to disagree with you should you declare it completely overgrown. SIGH.

I am not strong enough to prune it right now. I am just too tired. I sent a photo off to B, knowing that she would laugh and hoping she would hop in the car, drive 167 miles to my home, grab the pruning shears, and take a whack at it. She has VERY firm opinions on how pruned the tree should be. T'was a fantasy.

However, I did come up with a good solution: keep making a fresh flower arrangement for my table until the job is done! Already, the mailman has a better path to the mail box. K will no have her hair entangled in the branches should she try to mow again.

I do have one concern: See that branch over to the right, blocking the address, porch light, and much of the front door? How do I address this section of the tree without lopping it off all together? My brother would hack it off without a second thought. I, on the other hand, believe quite strongly that doing so would leave the tree horribly lop-sided. For one who has bonsais and miniature moss gardens, I am loathe to create such unbalance. Yet...I truly am perplexed about what to do. I do, however, desire not to have my mail delivery cease because the "way in" is permanently blocked...

7 days!

Just 7 more days until the next Sugarland CD comes out! I wonder if I will find such solace and connection in the new songs as I have enjoyed in the old.

The first release is sort of a silly song, but it has grown on me...perhaps I need to laugh more.

I have tried to find concert I could attend this year. There are 2 in Pennsylvania, but I cannot figure out if either is near B or T. One is in Erie. The other is in Bloomsburg. Of course, I could travel to Oregon or North Dakota or Minnesota...

7 days!

What does quality of life mean?

My cousin D is being confronted daily with this question as it is played out before him in the life of his father, my dear Uncle D.

Cousin D and I have talked muchly over the past few weeks, and I have worked quite earnestly to be a source of support and gentle encouragement to him. I do desire a good death for him.

I wonder, though, if he would be offended by the thought that I, too, think of quality of life when it comes to Kashi.

Oh, how my heart hurts to see him growing old, virtually before my eyes. Hind quarter weakness, dimming vision, a twitching eye, and growing fatigue. Gray hair. Slow gait. Not so bad, eh? However, he also has one more problem growing in intensity: his frayed nerves.

Now, I have well documented his fear of storms, vacuums, flashing lights, loud noises, and the opening tones of Quicken. His response to the first has escalated beyond all belief. My poor puppy-dog is now virtually inconsolable. He whimpers and trembles violently. He runs about looking for a safe place to hide, often squeezing himself in spaces that he cannot then get out of once the storm has passed. And now he has started pooping in his fear. His doctor has given me a prescription for Zanax, but I am worried about trying it. The hepatic shut he has labored against his whole life can make taking medication a precarious choice. Given the alternative, however, I believe that I should try something else.

Silly of me, I know, but as much as I want to help Kashi, I cannot picture myself walking into Target, stepping up to the pharmacy counter, and asking to fill a prescription for my dog.

My goal for tomorrow: get those pills.

I confess to a bit of retail therapy: I now own the series Farscape.

I had no business flinging down the copious amount of greenbacks it took to gain these 88 episodes. I already owned the movie (which I was saving to watch after I got the series), but the series was something for later. Since the first season is no longer in distribution, it is not--I repeat NOT--economical. In a moment of anguish, I set those careful frugal notions aside and hopped on line to discover the least expensive way to acquire this story that captures my interest.

Tonight, I watched the first two episodes.

Now I also confess that it is my hope, having had success with Stargate SG1 and Dr. Who, I might just convince B that she needs to become acquainted with Farscape, too. However, I fear I already have a bit obstacle to overcome: Claudia Black.

She and Ben Browder were actors who starred in Farscape and then also starred in SG1. While the character of Cameron Mitchell was enjoyable, Vala Malduran was a bit irritating to both B and G. Having met Claudia in Farscape, I marveled at the sheer departure in character rather than the less than lovable traits.

In Farscape, she plays this woman who was separated from her parents and raised by the military. At the beginning of the series, she loses her place in the only world she knows--one bound by regiment and rules and superior disdain for all other life form--to land on a ship of escaped convicts. Her character grows and learns and changes, her journey one of the most compelling pieces of the Farscape story. But will B be able to see "the radient" Aeryn Sun or will she only see Vala?

For the record, I have asked for help, truly asked--practically begged, in fact--four times in the past month. I have been met with silence.

Is the Lord asking me to trust Him alone or is Satan enjoying battering me about?

What I accomplished this day:

• Slept late
• Read
• Watched NASCAR
• Ignored the lawn
• Averted my eyes from the laundry
• Hid from the vacuum

My goal for this evening:

• Another nap

I learned a new term today: helicopter parents

These are folk who hover closely over their children, stepping in to solve all their problems, run interference with teachers, coaches, and first employers, and manage their social and financial obligations and obstacles. The result of their parenting: children who are incapable of problem-solving, critical-thinking skills, who have little if any sense of self-discipline and social responsibility, who labor beneath an inflated sense of self-importance and entitlement, and who have no concept of consequences.

So, while the helicopter parent would shudder at the notion of letting his/her child "sink or swim," they just might want to take another look at a more hands-off approach to the rearing of their loved ones.

I see the results already. I see younger fellow employees at work who want everything handed to them and who will not take one step beyond the minimum required of them. Colleges across the nation dread dealing with the parents, but I disliked facing the students. Students who did not want to study, who wanted me to take notes on the reading assignments and pass them out, and who wanted to have practice sessions before a test. They wanted to get an A for showing up and at least doing some work.

I oft stand on a soapbox bemoaning the fact that this nation has seemingly embraced medocrity as excellence, failing to see the difference between the two. This notion of helicopter parents does not bode well for my hopes of a generation who eshews the easy sop that is fed them at every turn and strives to learn, to grow, and to change. Children can never learn hunger for excellence if nary a moment passes without them being swaddled and swathed and sated with their every pleasure.

One of the reasons I worry so about traveling is that I nearly killed Fancy. T'would have been a grievous blow after my diminished mental capacity directly led to Madison's horrible death last Thanksgiving.

Having a place for her cage right near the bed was great because then she could see me at all times while up in the attic. She frankly has not traveled well since Madison died. In short, she does not eat. I put out fresh millet and her favorite seed and fruit pellets and they remain untouched.

After swallowing the huge dollop of great big love that was my bedroom at B's house, I set up Fancy's cage and unpacked all of Kashi's toys. I put out food for Fancy and food and water for Kashi.

Did you catch that? I only put out food for Fancy. I completely forgot to fill her water bowl. I completely forgot to do so. I forgot.

Were I not in the habit of sticking her face in streams of water each time we are near a faucet (I worry that she is not hydrating enough as it is), Fancy could have died in the nearly 3 days she went without water.

I was aghast and bereft upon discovering my horrible neglect of a bird that has been such a great companion for me. Immediately, I was overwhelmed once more. Only this time, it was the belief that I should not be a pet owner. I forget them. I neglect them. I harm them.

Fancy gulped down quite a bit of water as soon as I rather hastily filled her container. I also immediately flung my worry at B even though she was in the bathroom with her husband. I wanted to rage at her because she is my memory. Why didn't you realize I had not filled Fancy's water bowl? But I was not angry at her. I was angry at me. I forget so much.

I start to do something and then I get distracted and forget that I what I was doing. I'm sure you're thinking, That's not so bad. I do the same. But do you? Do you really? Do you leave the stove top gas burning for hours on end? Do you leave the faucet running in the sink only to discover it the next day when you return to that bathroom? Do you leave your back door standing open all night? Do you forget what day of the week it is, again and again and again? Do you leave laundry in the washing machine for a week or more? Or the sprinkler running for not one, but two days? Do you pay the same bill 2 or 3 times? Do you wear just one earring? Do you wear one black shoe and one brown? Do you leave your lunch hanging on the doorknob of the front door? Can you form letters? Can you spell your name? Can you push the proper button on elevators?

I do. I can't.

Having successfully introduced Stargate SG 1 to B, I tried, while with her, to introduce her to Dr. Who.

Just before I left, I saw an episode (really a two-episode arc) that illuminated just why it is that I am so drawn to the show. After all, I must admit that some of the aliens on that show are rather silly. Case in point: the slythine (or however it is spelled).

I do enjoy the writing. Such quick wit is offered at times, reminiscent of the intelligent repartee of Jane Austin, just in a Sci-Fi manner. The actors are all rather accomplished, slipping into oft strange roles with a comfort and ease that lends believability to some rather incredulous story lines. [I find it interesting that British television seems far less obsessed with perfect bodies and perfect make-up and perfect hair than that of its American counterpart...refreshing in a way....]

Then there is David Tennant. I rather like Christopher Eckleson, the actor who played Dr. Who the first season of this current incarnation of the series. I found his exuberence for the inquisitive, intrepid, impulsive human race rather infectious. Yet, when he shifted on a dime to stand before evil and demand the agressor cease and desist, I found that change natural, rather than a departure. So, I was shocked by the regeneration at the end of the first season that allowed David Tennant to step into the role.

However, I must say that I have never looked back in regret for the change. I cannot imagine him in the stories that Christopher played, but I am not sorry that he is now here.

I find Dr. Who's habit of offering the option to cease destruction to the enemy both puzzling and fascinating. In a sense, his greatest weapon is forgiveness. Yet, in his role as a Time Lord, one who can see the whole and breath of time and space as life is and was and will be, Dr. Who is at once the defender and the bystander. He could not save the citizens at Pompeii because it is fact. It was already written. But woe to those who try to change what is, who try to destroy the world that was or is or will be. He is fierce and relentless and absolute. He is these things, yet even to the murderer, to the destroyer of worlds, he will offer the chance to stop, to repent, to be forgiven,and then to be accepted as one who has changed. What is past can be just that: the past.

I had come to appreciate the series, even look forward to it, for those reasons, for the incredible lessons of life and love and acceptance Dr. Who offers. Yet this episode crystalized something else for me.

Dr. Who has lost everything. His world is gone. His family and friends are gone. His entire race no longer exists. Everything he has come from and stands for and represents is but a fading shadow save for him. At 904 years old, he has watched his companions grow old and die. No one he even remotely cares for can remain in his life. His life is marked by grief and sorrow. They are his lifelong companions, coloring his very existance. Yet they do not cripple him. They do not hinder him. Every once in a while, as a viewer, you come face to face with his companions and the knowledge of the truth of his life makes the moment you are watching all the more profound.

In my opinion, if you can look past the silly aliens and the outrageous plots, you will find some of the most intriguing and troubling examinations of life and live and forgiveness and the very essense of what it means to be human.

His loss calls to me as a familiar companion. His world view challenges me. The writing humbles me. Yes, I admit it. I do rather like this show.

The question is...will B get any of that or will she laugh at me for the next 50 years for plucking those DVDs down for her to view?

I am home. Multiple asthma attacks and game losses later (except for Skipbo and Chicken Foot), I am home.

I think--if the wretch MS cells ravaging my brain allow me to--that I shall savor that first moment at the top of the attic stairs for the rest of my life. I shall cherish the glimpse G and B gave me of the magnitude of God's love. I shall treasure the gift of their friendship, made so tangible in that moment, with me always.

However, I am home...and am more convinced than ever, even as I hope for an invite again at Thanksgiving, that I should remain so. It is not fair or right or very loving at all to inflict my illnesses and difficulties and all on other people.

I am refreshed by being with B, but I am exhausted from the strain of the multiple asthma attacks (both on my breathing and my sleeping). I am tired from trying to compensate by the drama of my health by being on my feet too long and washing as many dishes as possible. I am fatigued from my own disappointment at not being able to have a crisis free visit (I know that must sound silly). I am loathe to think of how I shall make it through this week for want of a day or more of sleep. I am loathe to think of how I shall make it through this week with such jumbled thoughts in my mind and heart.
Why must the blessings God showers upon me be accompanied by a battering as well?

Oh, my goodness, can not anything be easy? Seriously, anything at all????

B planned a party for the Fourth that included much game playing, including my beloved Chicken Foot Dominos. How do I respond? Escalating to the need of jamming an Epipen into the thigh. By all rights I should have gone to the ER. [Although B keeps telling me doing so will be a better experience than than which I have had, I am loathe to do so whilst with her.]

It started so innocently enough: G's best friend R's wife N was a bit taken aback at how competitive B and I were when engaged in game playing. I made the comment that she and I were like wild dogs. B, with her ever so quick wit that I love so very dearly, added that we were "ferile." I hooted and hollared and then started coughing then wheezing then gasping.

Is there anything worse than having an asthma attack triggored by hearty laughter? That is my lot in life? Asthama triggored by smoke/smog, cold air, and laughter. That stinks!

I wanted this visit to be peaceful and restful, one marked by my presence being a help, not a hindrance. But, nay, such is not the case. Such will never be the case.

My chest hurts, my breathing is still labored, and the slighted hint of humor is enough to send me spiraling out of control again. I have the six pillows I brought with me, but it will still be a long, long night for me.

Why can I not simply bask in the warmth that is B's home?

B and G are insane and magnificent and wondrous and humbling and exuberant in their love for me, in the manner in which they display the light and fragrance of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I am overwhelmed. I am overwhelmed and know not what to do or say.

As silly as it sounds, I just don't know how to handle their act of kindest and love and support. No one has ever done such a marvelous thing for me.

I was mostly ready for G. Bible study was great. The drive went well even though we did not stop for coffee for G (I couldn't bring myself to ask him directly not to stop so as to limit my discomfort, but he rose above his gender to understand my veiled hints about not stopping).

The only really strange thing was that he did not stumble off to bed as soon as we arrived in the wee hours of the morning, given that he had an early morning meeting at work today. Just a few hours from now he will have to rise, shower, shave, and present himself as lucid and alert after such a very, very long day.

Finally, I understood his hints about seeing that I got settled up in my room and followed them upstairs. I did not realize then that in such a short time, my life would shift, a veil would lift, and I would glimpse the depth of God's love for me.

I arrived at the door to the attic and was greeted by a sign: P's Room. It made me smile. The set of rules for being on stairs that was posted on the wall across from the door made me chuckle...especially the one about not carrying things whilst upon the stairs. After thinking the silly, serious rules were the reasons for their seemingly slight impatience at me making my way to my bedroom. But, alas, I was so very wrong.

Still smiling, I made my wait to the top of the stairs to see that B and G had created a mostly lovely haven for me, my very own bedroom! They had bought a bed! A real, honest-to-goodness bed, lovingly placed right against a vent from the air conditioner. A bed flanked by bedside tables made from a bookshelf and a bench, adorned by fresh flowers from their yard. Three lamps had been placed for best exposure (B had placed her life in a bit of danger to unscrew the light bulb from track lighting that was tied to the only power source in the attic--turn it off and there would be no power). A table was set up for Fancy's cage and for me to ready myself in the morning or type as I am doing now. B and G picked a green kleenex box and a green power strip. I have a chest for my suitcase. I have goodies on my pillow. Everywhere I look, there are thoughtful touches that reflect my tastes and needs. The room practically screams "I love you!" from corner to corner, from ceiling to floor. No where do I need to bend over or sit on the floor. No where do I need for anything.

The work and funding such love must have taken. It is overwhelming. So much so that I am struggling to fall asleep. So much so that I know not how to face B and G in the morning.

How wide and deep is the love of God! 41 years and I can finally understand. I may see but dimly, yet I see!

Have you prayed lately for the folks in the Mid-West? Have you stopped to be grateful that your life and world around you has not been washed away, perhaps forever? I have. I have because a compassionate heart calls for it. I have because they are children of God, my brothers and sisters, those who know it and those who do not. I have because I need something outside my life. I have because prayer is the greatest something a person can do even when she is small and weak and wretched in her own flaws and foibles and worries and fears.

In just three days, two really, I shall be in the abode of my dear friend B again, compliments of one day of holiday leave and two of comp leave.

I am of two minds, or even three, about going. I want very much to spend time with her family and am honored that she changed her plans for camping so that the weekend would work out (granted our earlier discussion of coming again did slip her mind when she started making new camping plans). I do not wish to hurt her feelings.

After my last, somewhat disastrous visit, I posted my thoughts that perhaps I shouldn't travel. I wrote them, but did not post for a while because I did not want to hurt her feelings with my own feelings. I finally posted and her magnificent husband G sent me a most welcoming email. At one point, he rather bluntly pointed out that he was a guy and that meant he needed explicit instructions about the thermostat, not hints. Part of me did feel as if I had to beg for cooler air even there. 74 or 76 is cool to most everyone one I know. Those are uncomfortable numbers for me.

Prompted by his kindness, I pursued a visit with B again and voila...I am going. G is the one riding the train (oh, how that man loves trains). And I have to admit that I am looking forward to shooting the breeze with him on the way down. Even more so, I am very much looking forward to bringing him to bible study that night so he can meet Pastor D. [I have volumes to write about that man of God, but each time I try, my description pales in comparison to the light of Christ he is. In the meanwhile, I added his blog to mine.]

However, even the thought of endless game playing between dirty diapers, pizza, and sharing Dr. Who with B, is not enough to quell the troubled waters of my heart. I feel as if it is so very difficult to walk through my days. Why should I inflict that on anyone else?

What trauma or drama or both will occur this time? If I go and visit and once again tumble down the stairs or keel over in public or gasp through an asthma attack...how long...how long will it be before I lose the first place I have ever been able to even consider a place to call home?

My legs are hurting. All my limbs are trembling. I am sweaty and weak and exhausted.

Yesterday, I vacuumed for 1 hour and 23 minutes, because I have been woefully neglectful of my house feeling so poorly as I have been. While vacuuming lasts about 10 minutes in my house, I did think that I ought to roll up my sleeves and apply some elbow grease to my abode.

I scrubbed, mopped, wiped, dusted, polished, swept, picked-up, and scoured my home. The silver and mirrors are shining. The color on the television screen is much brighter. The furniture and floors are gleaming. The trash is emptied. The blinds are clean. The artwork, books, and knick-knacks are dusted. And the appliances no longer sport bits of food or stains. The funny thing is that I honestly think that it needs much more work.

Also mixed amongst those labors were three loads of laundry, already washed, dried, folded, and put away. Sadly, it is truly a personal victory these days when I do not end up sleeping with my laundry.

I am exhausted. Fancy's cage still needs attention and Kashi is verging on growing ripe. However, spending a whole, very-long day cleaning is probably more than I should have done. I do think, though, that it is peaceful to rest in a home that is not quite so filthy. I mean, my grandmother's antiques always lends a certain beauty (in my opinion) to my home. But unless you are lapse on your glasses/contacts prescription, if you visited me since last fall (oh, that is terrible to admit) you would see a disturbing layer of dust on everything, grime on far too much, and find only the rug in front of the couch fairly clean.

I cried some of the time, because the labor was difficult. I prayed some of the time because the folks in the midwest are facing a nightmare of momumental proportions, the extent of which will not be truly known for weeks and weeks and weeks. I called B and her husband to discuss my broken weed-whacker (a moment of procrastination wrapped with irritation that my weed-whacker broken after a mere five years of work). I sang. I told Kashi and Fancy stories. I wished for that which I do not have.

At the end of the day (just now), however, I am finally calling it quits, ignoring the rest of the work that ought to be done for a thorough job and taking solice in the fact that my home is far, far cleaner than it has been in months.

Last night, I worked on a grant with my boss until 11:58 when I submitted it just under the deadline. The final product was good, but I really, truly do not enjoy working at the last minute on something so important. I essentially worked for 13 hours yesterday.

Today, I have been channel surfing looking for a NASCAR race or something to flop on the couch and watch. I am still tired from that marathon writing/editing session.

I did have lunch with a woman from a past job. I am trying hard, truly trying, to get out and do something once in a while, no matter how hard it is. I called her, because if you say something the least bit stupid (translation: self-deprecating), she jumps all over you. While you might end up somewhat bruised, it is strangely refreshing.

We ate at Chili's, where I discovered a new and extremely tasty dish! Now, normally, I only order fajitas at Mexican food restaurants, but my eyes kept coming back to this menu insert for Build-Your-Own-Fajitas. I ended up choosing chicken, applewood smoked bacon, and honey chipotle sauce. Oh, my! Well, let me say that in the moment of that first bite my life was changed. I am still thinking about the next time I might repeat that savory taste...

Well...there are leftovers in the refrigerator...need I really wait until tomorrow?

Cousin D thinks I should take up professional wrestling...that's about the only profession where my frequent grunting would be part and parcel to the job.

Sometimes the arthritis pain is so overwhelming that I cannot do anything else but endure it. My temper grows short, the grunts grow near constant, and my grows

Pain if strange, if you think about it. There is sharp pain, dull pain, aching pain, throbbing pain, pressure pain, burning pain, tingling pain, tight pain, nauseating pain, bone pain, muscle pain, joint pain, nerve pain, and probably more that I have yet to experience.

Embrace the pain. Ignore the pain. Fight the pain. Endure the pain.

What makes one day good and another bad? What makes pain come and go? Signals from the brain? Changes in barometric pressure? Stress? Exhaustion? Diet? Too much rest? Activity? Inactivity? All of the above? None of the above?

I want to step up to the next dosage level on my Celebrex prescription, but it is the controversial one, 400 mg twice a day. The only real working thing in my body seems to be my heart, so I say take the risk. For several months now, I have had more bad days than good when it comes to my battle with arthritis. Of late, I have spent more time lying beaten on the field than yelling victory insults at my enemy.

I cannot sit on the floor for any length of time without excruciating pain building up in my lower back. I cannot stand without stiffening up until the pain is unbearable. I cannot bend over without the same.

I could barely contain the pain while playing Chicken Foot Domino's (a most wonderful game) at my birthday party. I nearly chewed off D's head last week when working with her on an assignment for her master's program. Sunday, I was considering having roast cockatiel for dinner. Last night, I practically threw my beloved Kashi off the bed when he wouldn't stay still. Getting up from a chair or out of the bed is enough for me to scream in agony. While I suppose I could let go a bellow at home, I cannot do the same at work. All I can do is grunt.

Now, I am most thankful that the pain in my legs I battled a few months ago is currently gone. I am thankful that the pain in my head that lingered for weeks is currently gone. I am thankful that the pain in my wrists and ankles is muchly abated in comparison to that which riddles my lower, lowest back. It could always be worse.

However, having arthritis is crappy. Pain stinks. Grunting is neither professional, nor attractive, nor graceful. I guess if all I can do is endure it, then I should be thankful that I can, at least, do that. Just don't expect me to be gracious while doing so.

Sadly, I am not rising to the occasion in this matter. I am not considering it all joy. I am not joining in the fellowship of suffering. Perhaps, with time and much prayer, I might grow to be gracious, to find joy, to fellowship with a Savior who deserves my attention rather than mere pain.

I know that no one can really do anything to help me, but I just wish...for just one moment...I just wish that I had someone holding my hand as I shudder, grimace, grunt, or leak tears and tell me that it will get better...eventually.

Walking on eggshells is exhausting. Living in dread is draining. Will I ever have that synchronicity of all things working together instead of the chaos of everything not?

~~~~
Today, I ran into a woman for whom I used to work. She is brilliant. She is classy. She is grace personified. I couldn't help but wonder who I might have become had I been able to remain beneath her tutelage. I think, perhaps, of all the women I have known professionally, she is the most like whom I would wish to become. She is forceful, yet patience. She is well-spoken, yet silent. She is strong, yet gentle. I know that others have seen her a bit differently, but I believe their perspective was sullied by some who worked beneath her, yet against her. I do know that she has a long history of being well-regarded by many for her passion, her ethic, and her accomplishments. Would any of you desire less?

~~~~
My Cousin D is walking such a difficult path, watching his father in what seems to be his final days. In such a short time, Cousin D had grown and changed, even if he cannot quite articulate how or why. He is filled with far more questions than answers, but he has chosen the noble path. I admire his intelligence, his talent, and his passion. But right now, in this moment, I admire him most for being willing to set aside self in the interest of another. Like father, like son.

~~~~
How would you judge me as a birdy momma? Sunday morning, I plucked Fancy off of her eggs. At first, when I thought it was just one egg and she only had a week left of setting, I ascribed to my vet's plan of sabotaging her egg to shorten the strain on her body. But then I discovered a second egg and a third. From Friday to Saturday, Fancy moved nary an inch...not to eat, nor drink, nor relieve herself. Fearing just how much weight she was losing being a good mother to her eggs, I decided to take the risk of sending her into a depression at losing her eggs. She did manage to break the skin on two of my fingers, but I go ahold of her eggs after a mere four attempts. Fancy shreeched and hollered something fierce and let loose of all that she had been holding for two days. So, for several hours, I soothed her and cleaned up after her, all the while stuffing as much food as possible into her gullet. When I first placed her on the scale, she was a horrifying 82 grams. I am avoiding the scale for at least a few more days of encouraged gluttony. I am hopeful, however, at the signs of her recovery: she is perched on my shoulder once more (I just love it when she falls asleep tucked beneath my chin); she bends her head toward me from time to time for a good nuzzle; the consistency of her bodily functions is returning to normal; and her screeching is on the decline (I'll be grateful once it is back to her morning and evening greeting cries of reminder that she is in her cage and should not be forgotten).

~~~~
I learned today that my "stimulus" check that was supposed to go out "no later than" June 13th is now slated for July 4th. I am not feeling the love from my government.

~~~~
Arthritis is a crappy, horrible, wretched, miserable, frustrating, despicable disease...

I am less inclined to go plowing through previous posts than I am to merely repeat myself...especially since my faulty brain apparently does that with disturbing frequency whilst chatting with friends. I want to know that I have already said what I am saying, but it is devastating to be told that I am repeating myself when I have absolutely no memory of the first (or second or third) time the tale was voiced.

So, whether I have written here or only in the pages of my mind, I wanted to speak about elevators...at least the one in my office building.

When I was commuting to my job of a couple of years ago, I had to cross this bridge that genuinely disturbed me. I mean, there I was, day after day, sitting in a heavy SUV being bounced up and down as cars traveling in the opposite direction shook the bridge. Given the fact that they were not traveling all that fast, I was most disbelieving in the stability of the bridge's construction. B's husband G, an engineer, could talk for hours about why the gaps in the bridge were important and why the fact that it moved actually meant that it was strong. For me, the facts and my fears just didn't compute.

Well, there is this elevator at my new office building that I find most discomforting.

It is small and creaks and jerks and rumbles its way between floors. The inspection certificate on display dates back to 2000, but I am loathe to actually ask to see the current one because of the eggshells upon which I am currently walking at work. But, oh, how I long to know that despite the decrepit states it seems to be in that it is actually deemed safe by those who know the warning signs of soon-to-break-elevators.

Now you might think that some of my fear of that elevator secretly stems from what I shall write next, but I can only ask that you understand that the two are completely separate.

I hate using the blasted thing. Given the fact that the HVAC system is still faulty and has not yet been working all day for any amount of time, using the stairs in the slightly oppressive heat of the hallways and stairwells is probably not a good idea. Couple that with my sometimes uncooperative legs, the elevator is most likely the best choice for me.

However, I am loathe to step inside.

I am loathe to step inside because I struggle to figure out which button I need to push. Is it 1 or 2 (we will not go into the problems when I have to go to the 4th floor)? What floor am I going to this time? Will 1 get me there? Or 2?

I step inside and then, far more times that I would care to admit, I try to figure out which button I need to push.

The other day, I was caught standing in the elevator with the doors shut. Someone pushed the button to call the elevator and found me still inside. The woman was someone I did not know, but I fear being caught by someone at my job. I fear having to explain why I do not know how to get to my office or to my car.

B came to my rescue a few years ago with my contact dilemma. Even though I have been wearing contacts since I was 11 years old, I began struggling to put them in my eyes each morning. I would put them in, think they were inside out, and remove them. Some mornings, I would repeat this process so many times that my eyes would be bloodshot and my temper frayed. Finally, B came up with an association to help me remember which way was right side out. I live inside VA. When I look inside my contacts while holding them on my fingertip, I should be able to read "VA."

After learning about my elevator button struggle, B tried to help again. Here is her memory association idea: "One" has 3 letters in it as does "car," so when I want to go to my car, I press 1. "Office" has two "f;s" in it, so when I want to go to my office, I press 2.

I have been to work just two times since she came up with this idea, so the jury is still out on whether it will work as well as her first one. I hope it does. However, I am trying to focus on the real gift of her idea.

She learned about the button trouble and immediately tried to work out a solution to my problem. She didn't tease me. She didn't tell me that we all forget at times, especially as we get older. She understood how very scared I get when I have yet another cognitive problem stemming from this blasted disease.

Most of the time, B doesn't really know what to say to me when I spill out how much I am hurting or frustrated or afraid. She listens even when it is most uncomfortable to her. She never tells me I need to get over it or move on or stop wallowing. She understands how awful it must be if I am actually reaching out to another person. She doesn't know what to say and is uncomfortable and yet listens anyway. She listens and then she tries to help in such a way that preserves my independence and dignity.

This is how she says "I love you" to me.

I wish I were better at focusing on her message rather than on my cognitive decline. Writing this, I have tears streaming down my face for the loss I feel and the fears of how much I am changing of late. I smile at the thought of B's effort, at the love she gifts me so very freely. I smile, but I am still crying.

Is it 1 or is it 2?

Last night my writing student came over for dessert, a haircut, and a movie.

I had a pretty wretched week and am having a difficult time facing what I cannot understand. She called right in the middle an arduous meeting and asked if I had plans for the evening because she had been working like crazy and thought I might want to take a break with her. I did. We did.

Her call was an act of God's grace to me.

The dessert was a surprise. In addition to her wonderful presence, K had brought all the makings of homemade strawberry shortcake...something I had never consumed before. She brought it as a bribe to cut her hair, but I never need a bribe to help another person out. I feel so very useless most of the time these days that someone asking me for help is a gift to me.

Of course, it is difficult to actually shorten her luxurious, long curls, but I steel my resolve and get the job done. Usually, I take just one curl's length to trim off any split ends. Wet, her hair was almost down to the small of her back. Dry, it hangs beautifully curled to the middle of her back.

While much of our time together is usually spent writing, because the days have been full of hard work for us both, we opted to watch a movie instead: Juno. I really enjoyed it. Juno's pithy humor was thought provoking at times and at others just plain funny.

I thought this evening was a perfect...good food, good company, and peaceful rest.

I would like to say a word or two about mosquitoes.

Just how do they fit into this world?

Mosquitoes fall blissfully out of my mind once cool weather arrives. When they begin to make their presence known in the late days of Spring, I longingly think of October with gusty sighs.

Oh, how I hate them.

I think, perhaps, my reaction to them has worsened over the years...if that is possible. I mean, I spent a childhood fighting with my sister about who got to use the melon scoop when it came to helping Mother preparing the cantaloupe for our meal and now just the juice alone would endanger my life. That, along with other fruits I used to consume. So, if I can develop a food allergy as an adult, could I develop an allergy to mosquito bites?

First off, I get these rather large welts, something more akin to hives than an insect bite. The funny thing is that I rarely feel the bite. Perhaps it is because I am too busy puttering in the soil or pushing about the mower. Perhaps they sting and I just don't notice. In any case, I know it later. Boy, do I know it.

Summoning a will power that always seems to fail when it comes to B's peanut butter cookies, I usually manage not to scratch them. A hot shower later, the dirt is gone and so is the itch. I think I dodged a bullet. I am wrong.

One, two, or even three days later, the itching starts. I scratch and I scratch and I scratch. I spray on, spread on, and pat on any number of anti-itch creams, ointments, and gels. The hives that initially shrunk come back in the form of wide welts that can have streaks of red flesh spreading out from the center of the bite.

Eventually, the creams, ointments, and gels work long enough to break the itch cycle. I find some measure of relief and recapture that will power. One would think that the ordeal would be over...at least until the next bit of time spent out of doors. However, those darned bites have a fourth cycle in the form of red, and I do mean ruby red, spots on my skin. Seriously, they look like some form of wretched pox, one that lingers far longer than a person would generally think possible.

Am I exaggerating? You be the judge.

My last exposure was fifteen days ago (thanks to the lovely mowing job of my talented ex-writing student-now-turned-brilliant-college-student done last week). My legs I have a mixture of itchy welts and red spots, and I have gone through nearly 2 ounces of Band-aid brand itch relief gel spritz (a new type based on camphor rather than cortisone like the half dozen bottles, jars, and wipes that are currently resting on a shelf in my bathroom closet).

~~~~
Jen: The answer to your question, I believe, is pirate style, down on my forehead.

Happy B-day D!

~~~~
This has been a long, long, long day.

Working with my boss is at times like mixing oil and water and other times like licking a bowl of brownie batter. Today was the former.

Then, I come home to Fancy. She has laid 3 eggs and will not venture off of them. At the risk of the loss of bits of my fingers, I have been forcing her off of them in the morning and evening to make her drink and eat some. When Madison was alive, he shared the setting duties. As a single birdy parent (no, the eggs are not viable), the responsibility falls solely on her shoulders and she is at risk of dying from malnourishment. But if I take the eggs away from her before she is ready, she can fall into a deep depression and die. Fancy needs another spouse.

And then there is my dear Uncle D, Cousin D's father. He is ill and seems to be heading out of this life. He as been an utter source of encouragement for me, such a loving, kind, and witty man. My prayers are with his three sons right now, and I am truly grateful that they can all be by his side.

Finally, on a scale of 1-10, the arthritis in my lower back is an excruciating 10.

Last week, I was helping D with her graduate school assignments. While I am both excited and honored to be her academic coach (in addition to being her writing coach), it took nearly everything I had not to bite her head off when she did not instantly understand absolutely everything I was saying. While D is one of the most intelligent people I know (I wonder what a game of Scrabble would be like between D, T, B, and I), making the adjustment from mom back to student is a bit rough at times. What a champion she has been. I just was battling such pain in my back that I could hardly keep a civil tongue in my mouth. How could I waste the opportunity to delve into complexity theory with her????

I am disappointed not just for the increasing amount of time my beloved Celebrex appears to be working less effectively, but for my dwindling capacity to do anything but huddle in misery when the pain I feel is high. I would wish that I could be more tolerant, more patience, more accepting. I am not wallowing in pity, but I am drowning in pain and wish to do nothing else whilst waiting for it to lessen or pass alltogether.

Tonight, I had not the luxury of ignoring the rest of the world. One of the companies who utilizes my contractual services needed a complex job completed this evening. Since said work is now few and far between, I want to be available when it arrives. So, I buckled down and applied my fingertips to the keyboard and learned how to program an on-line survey. I am grateful for the lessoning and skill garnering, but I could cheerfully sever my spine about now and would have preferred curling up in the green chair, reading through all the emails I've gotten from my dear Uncle Danny and savoring the love he's poured upon me.

For the past several years, he has suffered from bone cancer and other ailments. He is much, much better at being stoic about it all, accepting what comes when your body fails with far, far more grace than do I.

Perspective. That is what I need. Where are my eyes tonight? On my boss? On my work? On my pain?

I shall finish this day by meditating on all the blessings I have been given through Uncle D, my Cousin D, D, and B, who listened to my heavy heart today with such loving patience.

I had another wretched night last night.

The power went out yesterday (just as Tiger was hitting his second shot on the sudden-death playoff hole...stopping my VCR). It did not come back on until late this afternoon.

I spent the night huddled in the basement with Kashi and Fancy trying to keep cool and desperately willing the power to come back on so that I could a.) stop sweating and b.) turn on the sleepmate so that I could fall asleep (Kashi, Fancy, this house, and the wind combine to make far too many noises for me to sleep).

Before the house warmed up, I did sleep from 6 to 9 since there was little else to do. I am grateful for that respite. I am also thankful that the power did come on before my food could spoil. However, I went through all this rigmarole to have my account noted as a medical emergency one so that I would be a priority when power goes out in warm weather only to discover this morning that my account was not flagged, even though three previous representatives claimed that it was. It turns out that all those hoops I jumped through before were for naught. I need my doctor to fill out a form for me. SIGH.

I am tired of sweating and trembling and being weary with fatigue...

I believe that from now on I shall be known as Bandana Girl.

I am not sure what prompted me to put one on my head, but I have discovered that bandanas do a fine job of holding my hair back with absolutely no possibility of triggering that nerve on the back of my head that makes me so very ill.

This morning, while digging through my unmentionables drawer, I spotted a pile of three bandanas in the very back. I picked up a white one and tied it around my head as a quick way to cover up the fact that Dad and I stayed up entirely too late and I did not use that shampoo as I should have. When Dad saw me, he actually remarked that I looked good in it. What a shock!

Thinking about his reaction while we were doing our Wal-Mart Thing, I decided to add two more bandanas to the cart: a red one and a black one to match my Sugarland t-shirts (I probably would have added a navy one, a light blue one, and a kelly green one if they had them to match my Dallas Cowboys t-shirt and my other 2 Sugarland ones--yes, I now have 4 Sugarland t-shirts...strange for someone who only recently started wearing them for anything other than mowing the yard). Dad was so enthused about my solution (even though he does not remember why I can get so ill wearing barrettes or clips) that he put them on his side of the divider bar at the check-out stand. I accepted his "gift" with thankfulness. I now have white, green, red, orange, and black bandanas.

I don't care if I actually look stupid in them, if they are out of fashion, or if I am just too old to sport the look. I finally, finally have a comfortable solution that does not involve me shaving my head!

If only I could wear them to work...

~~~~
NOTE: Before taking Dad home, we watched 2 hours of a documentary on the Hubble Telescope. Our universe is so vast and so magnificent. What a might Creator we have!

After hanging out at Toyota for five and a half hours and ending up with a $442 car inspection bill, I brought my father home for another movie fest.

We watched The Da Vinci Code (interesting plot, stupid premise), Murder at 1600 (satisfying action flick), National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets (just as good as the first one), and Jumper (enjoyable sci-fi). We also watched the third round of the US Open, while fast-forwarding through the commercials and extras.

I really, really, really enjoyed sharing my Tiger-watching with another person. Dad did not even laugh when I got out my clubs and had a putting contest with him on my rug. He's not a bad indoor putter.

I do wonder if I will ever play again...if I could make it through a round of whacking the ball all over the course. I think about how hard it is to mow and grow discouraged at the thought, but perhaps in the fall, when it is no longer stinking hot, I might finagle a golf date with someone who could help me make it through a round. I miss playing.

Friday the 13th is an ill-omened day? Nay, I say...it is a good day!

My writing student popped by this morning to mow my grass, a task funded by the birthday gift of my sister (I can afford one more mow on her dime.) My, my, my...what a beautiful sight that clean yard is!

K also brought me the most wonderful of birthday gifts (she rivals B with being able to choose the most thoughtful gifts): a 1971 reprint of the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulger Tongue, a book based on the 1788 first edition of A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue.

• Were Tiger Wood alive then, he would say of his competition: "I plan to hoop his barrel!"
• If your hands are full of groceries, you would ask someone to "dub the gigger" as you came up the sidewalk.
• If you were thinking about two Sundays ago, you would probably find my choice to walk up the stairs rather "mutton-headed."
• Your commentary on Warren Buffet: "Stephen's at the door."
• Captain Bligh? "Well, he was a cove with a queer lamp."
• I wish there were more Sundays where I learned from "One in Ten."
• In the winter, you made your trips to the "tea voider" as brief as possible.
• In the inner city, if you hear "barking irons," you had better duck.
• Though you may not have committed the murder, you can be tried and convicted for "rowing the same boat."
• The oldest profession: a "mab."
• Brinks keeps folks from "milling my ken."
• J used to nurse from B's "apple dumplin shop." Does that make her my apple dumplin shop buddy?

Are you praying for the folks in the Midwest? Iowa is a most beleaguered state. Those in Iowa City need fortitude, patience, and peace to face the monumental task of rebuilding oh so much of their city.

Pray, too, for the countless thousands facing the flood waters that are inexorably working their way down south. Days and days of wondering and worrying and frenetic work to try and stave off terrible damage.

Small towns, bits of our history perched along the Mississippi River, could be wiped out forever.

Heartache. Sorrow. Loss of life, livelihoods, and memories. So many need so much in a time when far too many philanthropic pockets are empty and cupboards bare. Volunteers are tired. National Guardsmen stretched thin.

Cover them all in prayer...

I am not sure where the weekend went. Perhaps it never really happened.

I pulled the bed out of my small couch on Friday evening, plopped down on it, and did not move much until this morning.

I still feel rather wretched...and...perhaps...a bit sorry for myself.

After hours and hours of thinking, I am bothered by how littled I trusted B and G with my worries about staying at that church and all that ensued afterwards. I am bothered by how weak and weary I feel. I am bothered by the thought that I have no real plan for when I can no longer live alone (something I feel creaping up on me despite my relatively few decades of life thus far). I am bothered by how much I long to have someone else to lean on to help face what is happening to me. I am bothered by the fact that I feel as if I should no longer try to visit anyone.

I barely made it through the week, canceled my car appointment for tomorrow, and plan to sleep away the weekend. I am still dizzy and nauseous. My shoulder protests much of the time. And I am very, very, very tired of being lectured about my choices.

I CANNOT DO ANYTHING ABOUT HOW OFTEN I FALL DOWN THE STAIRS BECAUSE I JUST CANNOT AVOID THEM ALL THE TIME.

I CAN ASK FOR COOLER AIR, BUT THE REST OF THE WORLD DOESN'T SEEM TO BELIEVE 70 DEGREES IS ACCEPTABLE.

I ASK FOR HELP. I JUST DON'T SEEM TO GET IT.

Tried to mow since my grass was nearly at the 12 inch maximum allowed by the county and if anyone is going to get fined for long grass...it will be me. I asked for help 3 times, but all 3 times, the person offering to mow backed out.

Dizzy. Vomited. Fainted. Ended up in ER due to asthma.

A nurse, after observing all my bruises from the past three involuntary trips down the stairs asked if I was being abused.

Arrived back home at 2:37 AM.

Really discouraged.

The one bright spot since Sunday has been dragging myself to a new bible study taught by my bible study pastor that is fairly close to work. A long lunch earned me a most peaceful respite.

The pastor is taking us through the Psalms, one by one. Today, we meditated on Psalm 4.

When you think about Christ being the Light of the World...what could that light mean?

• the Light that shines upon us
• the Light of the pillar of fire that guides us along our path
• the Light that searches out the dark recesses of our heart
• the Light that reveals the enemies around us
• the Light that defends us from our enemies (angels)
• the Light of His grace and mercy and forgiveness

Death warmed over = 2 hairline fractures in my skull, a sprained shoulder, and a mild concussion.

I was right in that it would have been very bad for me to miss the expo since none of the senior staff came to the booth to help field inquiries, but it was really, really stupid of me to drive.

I feel rather, rather wretched.

Today was a wretched day, all the more so since it was my last day with B.

We ventured out to a new church, Grace Menonite. I was looking forward to visiting the local church that was just a block or two down the road. However, the moment I stepped foot into the sanctuary, I knew I need to leave. I knew it, and yet I was afraid to speak up.

I should be able to say anything to B, but I really was worried how she and G would react. I mean, after all I could have just borrowed the keys on walked back to their home. Easy, right? That would have been the correct and wise course of action. However, I was trapped by my fear that B would think I was "whining" about the heat.

While I am always more than willing to contribute electricty funds, I feel as if I have to "remind" (what feels like begging) people that I need the air down. Often, someone will change it one or two degrees, when really I need a bigger change. It is at times like these, that I feel as it if is best that I stay home and avoid visits all together. I feel this way because I truly dislike feeling like I am begging for something that I need, not for comfort, but for health.

So, I kept my mouth shut and determined to just grin and bear it.

Well, the grin did not last long. I found myself sitting in the pew thinking far more of the time ticking away on my watch than the service. After about 45 minutes of suffering, I rather belatedly realized that the service would be an hour and a half instead of an hour. I began to panic. I should have left then.

I didn't.

By the time the service was over, I was hanging on by a thread. A thin one. I walked to the foyer and sat down on the steps to wait for G and B to fetch the children. I am not altogether certain how long that took. G took the children to fetch the car. B then followed because he could not drive back with the children. So, there I was, lying on the concrete hoping to make it back to B's house. I am thankful I did.

I am not sure just how low B dialed down the thermostat, but after being helped to the couch that is just inside their front door, I gratefully collapsed and fell asleep. After sleeping for a couple of hours, I thought I might survive the rest of the day.

I almost did.

After making a passal of foolish questions, I made another by not asking B to bring me my clothes when I felt well enough to change out of my Sunday finery. Instead, I tried to climb not one, but two sets of stairs to my attic room. I am not exaggerating when I write that I literally crashed to the floor.

That fall was the third one in just 8 days. It was, by far, the most terrifying one I have had yet on a set of stairs.

I hit my head twice, along with most every part of my body as I turned the corner and tumbled out onto the hall floor. B raced up to see if I was still alive and sat with me for a moment whilst I took stock of my state of health. I realized nothing was broken, but I also knew that my brain felt like it had rattled around in my skull a bit.

B and G started trying to figure out how to get me home between train schedules and driving and all, but I just took myself on home. I was dizzy and sick to my stomach the whole way, leaving parts of my meals in Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia...and crying quite a bit.

I went on home because I have this exhibit tomorrow at a rather important networking function. I just know that were I absent it would not be a good thing. However, I feel like death warmed over...to coin an over used phrase...

I cannot decide if the party was more special to me or if my "girls day out" meant more...

Today, B's mother came over to join us for some escapism. A while ago, she sent me a card to let me know that I was welcome to call her "Mom" if I would like since my own mother is not much on mothering. I bawled over the card, yet have struggled to accept her gift in total. Thus far, I've managed Mom Boyles. Last night, I tagged her with a new nickname "Arnie 2," based on her maiden name and birth order. Her sister, now "Arnie 1," was playing Dominoes with us when I hit upon the names.

Anyhow, today we took ourselves out to lunch at Applebee's, where we ordered nearly half the menu. The whole table was just filled with food, and we managed to clear away most of it. We then did a bit of window shopping and judicious purchasing, before finishing up our outing by having pedicures.

My own mother never would have pigged out or tried on silly hats. She would not have picked over keychains or dug through discount movies. She never just hangs out. Each moment has to be scheduled and purposed and filled with "acceptable" behavior and a good bit of criticism.

I savored every minute of today for it was filled with peace and love and restful moments.

A most happy day!

B had a birthday party for me, filled with family and friends and good food...and me winning at Chicken Foot Dominos!

Being rather skillful in the kitchen, B made me a cake from scratch. She even decorated with a ladybug and a frog...in green, of course! Besides dessert, we had kabobs and salad and twice-baked potatoes and baked beans.

B is so thoughtful when it comes to gift-giving. My favorite one is this small, green, antique, glass pitcher. I imagine that it is meant to be filled with cream while serving coffee, but I can already picture it atop my television filled with roses from my garden.

Having been so ill from that blasted clip, I had come to the decision that all I wanted to do was hide in my cave for days on end. However, B popped down on the train to fetch me back up to her abode. Her sacrifice made all the greater by the fact that Amtrak was not running quite efficiently yesterday.

Since her daughter E has a few issues, B wanted to try and minimize her less-than-pleasant behavior by having me sleep in the attic. While the bedding needed to be supplemented a bit more for my aged bones, I actually liked having a place of my own in her home. Fancy is pretty much unhappy any place save for my home even though we are sharing a room, but Kashi took to frolicking on the bed made up on the floor like a duck takes to water.

E also rather enjoys helping me apply my make-up each day, so I hope that will be an encouragement to guard her behavior...making my visit a good thing rather than a stress on her domain.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, is more satisfying than hanging out with B on the couch, playing games and watching videos. I still hold the J magic, and absolutely savor our "conversations" that we have each time I change his diapers. No one, and I mean no one has a better smile that little guy.

Now, if I could manage to have just one fall while here (I already slipped down her steps and whacked my left wrist on the banister), it will be a good visit.

I have been throwing up and trembling violently for over three hours. In between bouts of vomiting, I started wracking my brains trying to figure out why I would get so violently ill so quickly. Then, it hit me. I have a clip in my hair.

I immediately plucked it out and threw it across the bathroom, calling myself all kinds of stupid. Shortly thereafter the symptoms began to subside. While I am still feeling a bit wretched and rather weak, I know now that this will pass.

I would like for just one person to tell me why I should not shave my head when I am oh so very stupid that I cannot remember when I get ill in this manner to see if a clip or a barrette is in the wrong place!