What I'm reading: The Witch Of Hebron by James Howard Kunstler. My sister Wendy's always been a huge fan of survival-type books. So because of her, I am too. First Mr. Kunstler wrote World Made by Hand which is the story of a post-modern world. It's set about ten or so years after the fall of... well, everything. Primarily though, the world has run out of oil and that's what prompts the whole mess. The Witch Of Hebron is the sequel. I can't tell you how much I love these books. They're beautifully written and terrifying and yet, comforting too. The story takes place in a small village in upstate New York. They're folks of all walks of life who are all working towards a common goal. Survival. Love it! A former airline executive is a pig farmer and the former VP of a software company is now a master carpenter. Everything works on a barter and trade system. If that kinda stuff turns you on, go check these books out.

Here's an excerpt from his Forecast 2012:

Wrap your mind around life in an economy organized around farming, with a much sparser distribution of big urban centers, and far fewer people overall. Don't imagine for a moment that your grandchildren will be zinging across the landscape in electric cars sampling one theme park after another while "networking" with "friends" on cyborg social networks implanted in their brain jellies. Think of them grooming their mules in the summer twilight. Anyway, you get the picture: everything that the finance ministries and treasuries and central banks are affecting to do is mere shadow theater performed in support of wishful thinking.
The question, then, is what kind of hardship and disorder will attend our journey out of the industrial era into post-technological age we are entering. Will we just turn the world into a Michael Bay movie and blow everything up? Or will we make some graceful descent and retain what is really best about the human spirit?


source

Well y'all, it just ain't getting any easier. Alright, that's not the altogether truth. There are some things that are easier. But there's one big thing that totally sucks donkey dick and that one thing is John's Hep C treatment. Apart from the fact that it's absolute hell on his body and his psyche, it's also the reason we decided to delay our move back home. John's undergone treatment several times in the past twelve years. Each time has been pretty crappy. Well, this one is the crappiest of the crappy. And by crappy I mean shitty. Since September he's been taking eighteen pills a day. That's just for the treatment. That's eighteen pills in addition to his normal drug regimen. Also, once a week he has to give himself a shot. Usually I do it because it's easier if you can grab a hunk of flesh and inject into it. Kinda hard to do that in your own arm. Anyway, he feels bad about 80% of the time. Nauseous and feverish and he hurts into his bones. Plus he's developed this really nifty rash (mostly on his hands but also on his stomach, legs and back and head) that oozes and itches and looks like big ol' scabby cigar burns. It's called Ribavirin rash. Y'all know I took pictures. I'm not gonna post them though cause they're pretty gross. The plus side of all of this is... according to his last blood work, he is entirely free of the virus. We're hoping he only has to stay on it through the end of this month.

Now, the good stuff that's going on is that we've had virtually no winter up here. I know this is due to global warming and is probably a sign of the end of our planet, but honestly, I don't give a rat's taint. At this point, I'd rather be swept away by a typhoon than have to spend hours a day digging myself into and out of my house. Last year we had so much snow it snapped a tree limb on to the trailer and blocked our front door and John had to literally lie on the floor and kick the door open a few inches in order to get out. I hate you winter. This year we've only had a couple of snowy episodes and they weren't even bad.

Other good stuff, I went home for a few days last month and got to spend a goodly amount of time with Wendy and these babies:





Wendy and I went exploring in the Brown Mountain area and found The Coffee Cup House:




I went to breakfast with Papaw and Jimmy and visited with them for a while:




Those overalls he's wearing? I lived in his hand-me-down overalls for about 2 years. They were stupid comfortable and the perfect shade and wear and leg-width.

Go Jets!

I don't follow sports at all, yet I know a whole lot about them on account of living with John who eats and breaths New England sports. Frankly, they annoy the fiery piss out of me and I could rant and rave about how boring and stupid and unethical the whole mess is, but I won't. Because John loves them and anything that makes my John happy makes me even happier. Point is: I don't' do Super Bowl anything, but have taken this opportunity to be inspired to make chicken nachos and to help John eat shrimp cocktail. He made the cocktail sauce, which he calls "jeune" and which is the only reason I ever tried it to begin with cause I thought it was something fancy but it turned out to be ketchup and horseradish. But let's face it. I live in Dayville, CT so I reckon cocktail sauce is kinda fancy. I'm also sick. I've been working on a bronchial/sinus thing for a few days now and last night I made myself a hot toddy with some seriously cheap-ass brandy and wound up falling asleep on the couch ten minutes later while watching Disappeared on Netflix. John woke me up around midnight and made me go to bed. But not before he turned on the bedroom light, stood over me and crowed, "You're kecked!!!". Apparently that's how swamp yankees say cocked. I wasn't really kecked though, y'all. Just extremely sleepy and maybe a little tipsy. I was sleepy all day yesterday. We went to see The Woman in Black and I had to pinch myself to stay awake the first hour. After that I gave in because the movie was unaccountably boring. It was a tad creepy in the beginning. I was disappointed. But the nap was nice. Afterward, I had an hour or so to kill, so I spent money at the Anthropologie store in Garden City, RI. For once I was glad I'm not skinny and wealthy. I did enough damage just being regular chunky, poverty-stricken me. Also, I think I spend way too much time in stores examining the other shoppers. Being out in public is very distracting for me. I'm pretty sure I've got a mild case of agoraphobia. Or maybe just nosey-itis. I've got questions and opinions that sometimes keep me from enjoying myself. I like to think I'm quirky and inquisitive. I got my hair trimmed and my eyebrows waxed and then I came home and got kecked off of one hot toddy.

The boys are good. I just finished reading Always by Amy Bloom. It was such a good book. I've been playing SIMS games online and now I'm ready to run my own empire. I've been listening to a lot of NPR. Work has me bruised and bloody from head to toe. I'm flying home for a visit on Friday. There are adventures to be had.

The above picture has nothing to do with nothing. Except to say that our little town has the potential to be really quite quaint underneath the teen moms in booty shorts and half-way house residents.

We went up north to New Hampshire and Maine January 2 and despite our best efforts, we managed to have a really awesome time. Not once did we argue or threaten to hurt one another. We were sweet and funny and patient. It was like we'd been going to couple's therapy and were really taking all that espousing to heart. Which we haven't by the way. I think we're both just really sad and we're learning that the only other person on earth who hurts in the same way is sitting a foot away.

The New Year

Again, I thought for a minute about starting a new blog. But I'm not creative enough to come up with another name. So I'm sticking with this one.

What can I say really? This year? Well, this hasn't been the finest now has it? Not if you're me. Or John. Or a member of my immediate family. Or someone I text or whine to on a semi-regular basis. I spent a year doing heavy grieving over the loss of my Daddy. I spent six months hand-feeding and worrying myself into exhaustion over Bea. My Mama didn't do so well for a while. John started treatment. I had surgery. We buried Bea and my Daddy. We didn't move. I plowed through all of it. I didn't give up the ghost or lose my religion or flip the fuck out. Not really, I didn't.

Cause it's gonna be alright.

I just read on Twitter that George Whitman died. If you're not familiar with George Whitman then you should watch Portrait of a Bookstore as an Old Man. I posted the first part of it up yonder. John and I watched it on the Sundance channel years ago and I was completely enamoured. The short of it is this: Whitman was the owner of the Shakespeare and Company bookstore in Paris. He was just an all around odd ball and friend to artists and fabulously interesting individual. He stole a piece of my heart and I'm sad for all of us that he's no longer here on earth. He was 98.

If It's Good Enough For The Bovines

Bea had her final ride home and we completed this leg of our journey. We planted my little girl and my sweet-ass daddy Sunday afternoon and it was sad and cathartic and went exactly as it should have... as angry as John and I are, we're finding comfort in knowing that it all went how it was supposed to. For this, I am thankful.

For the past month my mama has been tombstone obsessed and for the past month, my sisters and I have avoided the subject like the pox. That too went as it should've, because she did such a good job on her very own. It's unique and it stands out... just like Mama and Daddy.

Yesterday, Angie and I got up at 5:30 and had breakfast with Papaw and Uncle Jimmy and then she and I took off at 7am and headed to Happy Valley, NC.
We tracked down the graves of Tom Dulla and Laura Foster, we climbed under electric fences and over cow pasture gates, we peed in a field and trespassed and got stuck in the mud. We had a blast. And we were home by lunch time.





Today, we're going to hunt for Frankie Silver's grave and see what else we can get into. I think Mama and John are tagging along too.

Goddammit, I've missed my sisters.

We lost our best good girl at 1:15 this morning. There's a gamut of emotions coursing through this tiny trailer. John and I are wrecked. Anguished and exhausted and just plain sad. We leave tomorrow morning at 4am to visit the fam-damn-ily and take our granny girl back home. I'm burying her near my daddy. Angie says we may have to do it by the light of the moon. Bea would totally approve of such criminal activity.

Send up a happy thought for me and John and the Mao. She's been my best friend for 15 years and she's been John's mistress for 11 of those. She's the cat behind Cat Day Afternoon. Second saddest day of my life, right here. It's gonna take years to get beyond this.

Here I go plugging again: So I follow Kyra Sedgwick over on the Twitter. A few weeks ago she was tweeting about Bath Bar and since I'm a great big ol' soap and suds slut I had to go check them out. They're all natural and organic and green and they let you mix up your own concoction of fragrances. So I tried that and requested a few samples which are only a couple of dollars and I also ordered a set of travel sized Zen Milk lotion and body wash. Well, those sweet things over at Bath Bar sent me two more travel sized sets for free. Which is nice and all even if your product sucks. However, Bath Bar doesn't suck at all. In fact, this is the best stuff I have ever,ever,ever used. EVER. No joke. My fragrance concoctions weren't so great. But that's cause I always think I know what I want to smell like, but really, that stuff is best left to the professional mix-masters. Zen Milk smells so good I want to marry it. And the lotion is unreal. It's totally smoothed out my crusty-ass elbows and I swear to God it's lightened my surgery scar. It's on the pricey side, but if you sign up for their newsletter, I think you get invited to their Black Friday sale. I totally plan on wasting gas money there come this Friday.

It's easier for me to live in the now, than it is for John. This is in regards to Bea. Because I'm the primary care-giver, I have these tasks and this planned interaction with her. For John, it's like he's mourning for her while she's still here.

Beside of our bed, I've made her a bed that's comprised of a pillow and a deluxe cedar filled dog pillow on top of that and a heating pad on top of that and a blanket on top of the heating pad. This is where she spends 98% of her time. Wouldn't you?

Some days I hold it together better than John. Some days John fares better than I do. We're watching our child grow old and die. All the while we're trying to maintain some semblance of order and normalcy for the outside world. When you lose a loved one and you go through that period of deep mourning, the rest of the world tends to treat you like a pariah. Like loss is a disease. Like they're gonna catch death from you. But if you lose an animal companion and you go through a period of staggering grief... well, you can forget about the rest of the world even giving you the time of day. Take care of a sick parent or child and everyone feels bad for you and treats you like a saint -deservedly so. Take care of a sick animal with that same level of devotion and you must be a nut-job. There's a stigma involved.

It's almost 16 years to the day that my cat Elvis died. I grieved so hard that I thought I would die. And I did it entirely alone. This time around, the sadness and fear that I'm nesting like an egg is being shared with John. Most days I just plow through it. But some days I just can't hold it all in.

Last Tuesday we took Bea to the vet because she has a sizable lump in her neck/throat area. I'd noticed it a couple of days before and it got bigger the next day so we decided to have it checked out. This is what I'll say about the vet visit: It did not go well. We left without knowing any more than when we walked in the damn door. Bea had a meltdown on the table because the vet's a fucking whack job and the vet lost her composure because Bea had a meltdown. The vet never even got to feel the lump and then she acted like we were making it up. Thank God the assistant had talked with us earlier and had felt the lump herself. So, after telling us that it's not a mouth tumor, she went on to give some half-assed diagnoses that was formed without listening to a damn word I said. I told her I disagreed with her and then Bea and I left. This is what I think: the vet sees Bea and in her mind she has already formed the opinion that this cat's dying of liver disease so there's no reason to treat her for anything else that may be going on. She also said a couple of other things in the office to John after I left that sealed the deal and made me call her the "C" word a few times in the car on the way home. The lump's still there, it's not as big as it was. I'm scared to take her to another Vet because I don't want to traumatize her any further.

That's it. That's all I've got in me for now.

We took a ride to the Cape this weekend and I conned John into going to the Edward Gorey House. Come to find out -and I didn't know this until the next day- John thought we were going to some sea captain's house, so he was completely lost the whole time. Obviously, I'm still getting some mileage out of that one.

I bought a new car, y'all. It went something like this: I woke up one morning, got ready for work, and was about to walk out the door when John stumbles out of the bedroom all, "What the hell happened?!?". Come to find out we overslept by like an hour. So I called in sick and since John was supposed to take my car to get the oil changed the next day, he asked if I wanted to ride along with him to Auburn and see if they could fit us in that morning. They're very accommodating at the Honda dealership. So accommodating in fact, that they sold me a brand new CR-V for like 4K less than sticker price and even gave me 4K more for my old Fit than I was expecting. It's been a couple of weeks and I have yet to feel any buyer's remorse because: I love that fucking car. I've gone through a lot of automobiles in my life. I've wrecked a few, I've traded in a few. For the most part I've liked the ones I've owned. But I've never loved any of the cars I've owned. Until now. Whatever, folks. Life's too short to be unhappy with everything. And even if it wasn't too short, even if it was a long-ass life, why would you wanna spend it being miserable all the damn time. I'm tired of being miserable.

Here's some happy shit: my mamacita Lynn is going to Sedona next week and I'm sending with her a list of my prayers and intentions. She's going to deliver them to the Stupa for me. This is extremely exciting for me because a few years ago, she and I visited Sedona and the Stupa together and I have to tell you, the Stupa was just about the most intense thing about Sedona... and that's really saying something. I'm stoked. Not as stoked as I would be were I going to AZ too, but still pretty damned stoked.

Other pretty awesome stuff that's happened lately, I'm on a mad Tweet reply streak in regards to authors. Mary Kay Andrews, Deanna Raybourne and THE ROBERT MCCAMMON(!!!) have all replied to my tweets. Plus, Ms Cornelia Read told me I gladdened her tiny black heart after I told her I worshipped at her smart-ass altar. She really is genius. I'm reading her Invisible Boy right now. I've been on quite the roll.

In other news, we're not moving until the spring, but we are heading down for a visit in a few weeks. Bea's still not eating on her own, but she's actually healthier than she has been in a while because I'm feeding her and hydrating her. I posted a video on Twitter. Watch it and giggle and then feel really bad for me when you remember that I'm the one who has to manhandle her hateful ass three times a day every day. The boys are terrific.



I love him so much I wanna eat his face off.

Season Finale

I've decided to stop blogging for an indefinite period of time. This is something I've been thinking about doing for a while now. Ever since Daddy died. And there's so much else that's weighing on me that I feel like I'm not being very forthcoming. I think that what I want to write has become too personal and emotional for me to share in a public setting. I'm frantic with the need to express what I'm feeling. I only ever started blogging in an attempt to make it easier for my busy and far-off family to keep up with me and also because I came to love and admire my fellow bloggers. But the time has come. I am tired. So I'm going back to pen and paper journaling. At least for a little while. I'll still be tweeting occasionally over on the Twitter if anyone cares to follow the happenings there. You can find the link in the side column. I love y'all. I really do.

This is pretty much the most perfect song ever. You can disagree with me if you want, but you'd be wrong, Colonel Sanders. Also, Marcus Mumford resembles a younger, fleshier Alan Cumming. I have a ridiculous crush on Alan Cumming.





I was gonna post more stuff, but it seriously took me like an hour and a half just to blog this little bit here. And I stole 2/3 of it from other innernet jokers.

Funny stuff of the day: John called out the station owner of WINY radio for leaving news teasers on their FB page. I don't blame him, cause I hate when news stations do that crap too. It's irresponsible and manipulative. Anyway, they got into a post duel and then John told him his station was "little more than a fifty watt bulb at the end of the dial".

We've been watching Raising Hope on Netflix. I haven't laughed this much at a sitcom in forever. If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

Tomorrow I'm back to work. So tonight I'm gonna party like an Arquette.

Not really. I'm gonna make cheese ravioli and watch Inspector Lewis on Masterpiece and maybe take an Ambien or a Valium so's I can get to sleep before midnight. Sometimes John and I go to bed at 9pm and then wind up tweeting and reading and what-noting until 2am. It's ridiculous. I read somewhere that if you want to rest well, you're not supposed to do anything in bed but sleep and have sex. While that may be true, I still think it's dumb ass. Especially if you live in a one bedroom trailer and you need a little bit of alone time. Maybe if we had another room or a decent porch. But even then, I'm pretty sure I'd have pillows and blankets within arms reach out on my porch. I think that sleep and sex thing is for people who have big, fancy-pants, intellectually stressful jobs and who have to pencil one another in for naughty time.

It's been a decent two months off. My arm feels really good. No more numb and aching. I got to spend good times with Angie and Rachel. I got to spend good times with John and the boys. I got to have forty-eleven infarctions over Bea. But we've all come a long way during this time and I feel like it was highly necessary for our development as spiritual beings who love one another.

Bea had a couple of under the weather days and we were worried that we might have to assist-feed her again. But she rallied last night and has been eating well and interacting all day. I uploaded my first youtube video today:



It's nothing special, she's just happy and high and gorgeous.

It's rainy here. Dreary and cool but humid all day. I say "all day" like I've been up since the crack of dawn, when infact, I only got up at 6:30am to see if the Mao had eaten (she did) and to offer her more tasty vittles (she accepted). Then I was back to bed until nearly ten. Like I was saying, it's rainy. So here's what's been going on at the Chez Shit-hole, as we call the trailer:

I went to the arm doctor yesterday and a workman's comp rep came along. She was nice as can be and we all agreed that I should return to work next week, but only for 8hrs a day. This was a huge relief to me, because the thought of going back to work for possibly 10 or 12 hours a day, the thought of just throwing myself back into my physically stressful job full steam ahead, was sort of giving me the vapors. I don't talk about my job on here because, while I don't hate the actual job itself, I do hate the way the company treats everyone as if they're non-entities. But... I am extremely grateful to have a job. I know all too well the stress and utter fear of being out of work and losing everything. I also don't talk about my job because it has so little to do with who I actually am. When I'm at work, I work my ass off, because that's just how I was raised. I want to be able to hold my own and I don't ever want to feel like someone has to pick up the slack for me. In the past, I've worked with stoners and 20 year olds and chronic whiners and bitchers. They didn't make anyone's life any easier. Most definitely not their own. So when I'm working, my main priority is to do the best I can to make sure someone else's life is easier. Pass it on, man. That's my theory. I have lots of acquaintances at work. I'll talk and socialize with anyone and everyone. But I'm also very private. If you ask me something, I'll most likely tell you what you want to know. But I'm not big on volunteering information. That's what this blog's for. I know a few people at work read it. It's not hidden. It's on my FB profile and I'm FB friends with just about everyone at my job. Also, I'm really big on holding my own counsel. Usually, if I can just write something out, then I don't need to talk about it. I'm not saying this is healthy. I'm saying it like it is.

What the hell was my point? Oh yeah, I'm going back to work and I don't have to work more than 8 hours a day.

John started Hep C treatment this past week. Basically he feels like he's got the flu. This will go on for at least 24 weeks. Ain't nobody doing cartwheels anytime soon, is what I'm getting at.

I've been trying to find a moving company that isn't going to charge me a bazillion dollars and John and I are discussing the possiblilty of holding off on the move until he's more established in his treatment. We are as conflicted and stressed as can be. I want the good fairy to swoop in and make all our decisions and appointments for us and to generally be the adult in our lives for the next couple of months. Any takers? I'll walk your dog and babysit your younguns for you. I'll fix dinner for you. But it'll have to be at your house, cause we haven't had a working oven in over three weeks. Can't even bake a damn batch of gooey, chocolatey comfort brownies. This is no effin' way to live.

Good stuff: Bea's eating like never before. She seems like her normal Bea self. I'm not doing so good with the sticking a needle in her neck and hydrating her part of it. We attempted earlier and it ended with John getting punctured in the leg. I could stick people with needles all day long. Animals... I'd rather stub my toe. Or bark my shin on a coffee table than stick a needle in an animal. Plus, they're really furry and you can't see a damn thing.



Also, spell check wouldn't work for this post. I'm usually pretty anal about my spelling. Not so much with this long-winded litany.

We got to bring Bea home yesterday from her vet vacation. You'll notice in this picture she's flipping us off. She was hooked up to an IV for two days so you can understand her anger. Anyhow, she's home now and we're giving her fluids under the skin for the time being. How it's working is, keeping her hydrated is boosting her appetite and her all around general happiness. Her appetite is pretty damn awesome and she looks good. I mean, look at her... she's a dang rock star.



She even got a pink leg warmer! Not really, it's a bandage from the IV. Ain't nothing more sad than a cat or a baby with a bandage.

Again With The Cat Talk

She was better, then she wasn't, then she was again, but then she totally wasn't. We took her back to the vet yesterday where she spent the night hooked up to an IV, hating us and you and the vet and the fishies in the sea. The vet is concerned that it might be liver cancer. On that happy note, we visited her this morning and she was thrilled as hell to see us. She ate three bowls of food for us and purred and snoodled with her little arm attached to an IV bag and a sticker on the door of her little kitty condo that read: "Bites!". The vet was impressed. We were ecstatic. So now, we're waiting a little while longer before we bring her home because we want to make sure her food stays down. As far as the "C" word... it can go eat a dick, cause if my cat's eating and not showing signs of pain or distress and as long as she's not shitting up a storm, well, she's not going any damn where.

Ya'll are all welcome to come visit me in the nervous hospital when the time comes. Maybe they'll let us make macaroni art together.

Abby and Sage. Great-nieces #1 and #2. These two little things were both born since I've been living up here which kind of puts time into perspective. They're my sister Wendy's grandchildren. Wendy's responsible for a whole breed of pretty little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girls. I got caught up in it a few years ago and felt out of place and decided I should try blonde. It was okay for a minute. But every time I looked in the mirror I was a teensy bit startled.

She's still holding her own, is our Beatrice. I was able to grab a couple of decent pictures of her a little while ago when she was sunning it on the kitchen table. We don't actually eat off of that table, by the way. I just wanted to make that clear.

I'm Gonna Talk About My Cat Now

So last night I was feeding Bea and in the middle of it she puked a river. Like a literal-ass river. Projectile. Slimy and watery with tiny chunks of food and half of a hairball. I was mortified. And nauseated. Afterward, after I cleaned everything with Lysol and hot water and bleach, including Bea, I noticed that her nose was all congested and her eyes were streaming water and a whole miasma of other non-appetite conducive symptoms. So I figured she had something stuck up a nostril. I tried helping her sneeze it out, but well... let's just say, my bag of tricks was all together unproductive. It was a long night. We took her to the vet today because she's still snuffly and listless and her nose and ears were all hot and dry. I swear to god she sounded just like a little snuffed up baby. It nearly killed my soul. I cried for a while on account of I'm as attached to that cat as I am anything else on this earth and she's been right there with me for 15 years and I really don't know what I'll be if I'm not Bea's person. It'd be like having the key to my Mama's house taken away from me, or even cutting the Southern out of me. Things just ain't gonna jive no more. I'll be a wandering soul in this world. But for now that's not gonna happen. Cause Bea's not checking out on us just yet. The vet gave her a lot of fluid and said her throat is scratchy and her left nostril is clogged and sent us home with Clavamox. She perked up once we got home. Goddess bless crazy animal doctors who wield syringes full of feline Gatorade. I fed her a goodly amount of wet food and I even gave her some Greek yogurt... cause why the hell not.

Sometimes there's not enough alcohol in the world. Or at least within my reach.