Ho ho f***ing ho indeed. Every Christmas is about as enjoyable as having root canal without any anesthetic. Am I being a grinch? No. It was just at Christmastime a few years ago that I decided to bail out of a miserable marriage-and marriage was a war zone, so I kept wishing I had sprinted for the exit years before. But I decided not to ruin his Christmas, and wait until the second of January to tell him it was over. Silly me-I didn't ruin his Christmas, but I did ruin mine, because I knew what was coming. And it wasn't Santa Claus.
Now every Christmas all the memories come flooding back. I've heard so many people say that I should just learn to let go of the past and live in the present. When I turn around and ask how they've managed to do that-and they're so smug about it, too!- not a single person has given me a satisfactory answer. In fact, everyone has shrugged their shoulders and changed the subject. Maybe the answer is amnesia?
So I kept my head down this year-again-and did the Christmas card thing, and called everyone at home to wish everyone a good Christmas; my phone bill in January will probably give me enough palpitations to last until next Christmas...
I remember Christmases when I was a child, back in the Jurassic period. My house was filled with fights and cold silences-mostly fights, and, being the youngest (and smallest) I was the one who got the benefit of parental rage. I learned the hard way how to duck fast, and, when the situation arose (which was all the time), when to run and hide. Oh joy. And when I went to my friend's house for Christmas dinner one year, I discovered that not all families are the ones who put the capital "D" in dysfunction. I also learned that most families have an uncle like my friend's Uncle John: a drinker and a groper. The more he drank, the more people he groped. One year I was there and he groped his own daughter-and his wife, who was about the size of an airship, turned around and flattened him. All the kids cheered. The poor man could be seen for weeks afterwards with an eyepatch and dark glasses. What a world class shiner that was! She could have been a champion boxer.
The next Christmas, Uncle John had been to AA for some months; he was under threat of losing his family, so he decided to get help with his drinking problems. But he fell off the wagon during the year and tried to grope his dog, who promptly turned around and bit him. So he showed up for Christmas with a bandaged hand, having had seven stitches. That was one really pissed off dog. All the kids used to call Uncle John "Long John"-and we all bought him a stuffed parrot and another eye patch for Christmas. All he needed was a wooden leg. We didn't go that far, but we were tempted.
So now we are at the end of 2018, and I am so happy that I would be dancing-only my dancing days are over, since I wouldn't be dancing, I would be falling over. But I am struggling to "let go" of all the things that happened in the past year-and all the years before. It's a struggle, and I wonder how many other people are going through the same thing. I wonder. I suspect that a lot of people are facing the same dilemma on the brink of the new year.
Have I made any New Year's resolutions? Umm...why would I do that, when I end up breaking them almost immediately? But if I did bother to do that...
I was thinking about this last week, when I found myself on a bus, going through Hackney, which is one of the worst boroughs (crime-wise) in London. I noticed that the borough is redeveloping large parts of Hackney-personally I think they should just burn it down and start over. But no, they've decided to give it a facelift. What a waste of money. Hackney is a shit hole- once a shit hole, always a shit hole. There are people like that, too. We all know them.
I'm going to get moving and get out of my comfort zone, go to museums and the gym more often, keep up with the blog, and not be lazy about the fact that this is the only life I've got, and I've wasted enough of it.
No more stressing over things I can't control. And I'm only going to buy things I really need. So when one thing breaks down, I replace it, not before.
It's funny-I mean, funny as in odd, not as in humorous-that so many people go into hock at Christmas, buying things they don't need because they see a sale. I have to tell you: if someone broke into my flat with the intense desire to find anything of any value, they would be seriously disappointed. My television is a 21" tv that is about 15 years old. It's so old that it has a slot in the bottom which takes VHS tapes. Anyone reading this remember VHS tapes? Exactly. And the tape part doesn't work. If someone was stupid enough to try to carry it out, they'd get a hernia. Not only that, but all the wires to the television and the computer (newer at 12 years old, very temperamental, still on Windows XP), and the mini-stereo (ten years old and only the radio works. Sometimes.) are all jumbled together (I know. A fire hazard. Who gives a shit?), so they could start a fire, or fall and end up in hospital with a few fractures, and they'd have wasted their time taking a pile of junk. Like I said, nothing gets replaced until it breaks down and can't be fixed.
Hmmm...maybe I should advertise for someone to turn over my flat, now there's an idea. It does look like someone has already done that; in fact, it looks like a crime scene. Another resolution...they just keep coming,don't they?
Well, Happy New Year. That is something I will celebrate. 2018 was supposed to be a good year-after last year's surgery trauma-and it turned out to be one of the shittiest years of all time. But I survived it, and now I'm ready to do better in 2019.
I wish everyone a happy, healthy and prosperous 2019. Having said that, I'm off to Starbucks. Where else would I be going:?
Monday, 31 December 2018
Friday, 7 December 2018
Hoist by One's Own Petard
I've lived here long enough to pick up a lot of the slang-God knows why, but I'm still here! And this means-basically-hung by one's own rope. Or, some vindictiveness backfires and smacks the person who planned it right in the face. Or-what goes around, comes around. Karma? What karma?
It hasn't escaped me that, since the things you think, say and do come back to bite you in the ass. I'll just take that for granted and say that I paid my dues for whatever it is I did to get to this point-and that's that. You can bet that if someone did the dirty on you, they'll pay dearly-unfortunately, payback seems to take a terribly long time...
I also love the advice that I got from my grandparents-you all know this one-always wear clean underwear, you never know when you're going to get hit by a car. And then there's: give people enough rope and they will hang themselves with it. And the best of all time-well, for the moment, anyway: set boundaries, let people know where the line is. Always. If they cross the line once, tell them off, and -only if you like them enough-let them screw it up a second time. Cross the line twice? They're idiots. A parting shot across the bow is called for. Cross the line a third time-then you're the idiot if you don't sprint for the exit.
I so wish I had taken all those pieces of advice to heart years ago, I could have saved myself so much grief. But no, I learned the hard way, repeating the mistakes over and over again. You know the definition of insanity: doing the same thing in the same way over and over again and expecting different results. Duh.
I told you the Florence (cleverly masquerading as Lil. What the hell, I'm using real names and if they find out they can sue me) story. I told you the Rob, Tara and Sandra story. And the Terry the Tosser story. So you're pretty much up to date on a few of the weirdos who live in my area. But now I've decided that my boundaries have been set-and crossed. So I say hello if I see the neighbors, but I pretty much keep to myself. That is the way of peace and quiet.
I'm changing the way I look at things, and changing the way I do things. It's been pouring over the last couple of days-so bad that (just for fun) I turned to Professor Google to see how many entries there are for building an ark. Holy crap! There are pages of ark building directions. Who knew? And I went out and walked anyway. Rain, darkness, dusk, cold weather, traffic, uneven roads-all these are warning signs for someone who has no balance system. So, of course, I decided this morning to treat this as a challenge. It was dark, pouring with rain, windy, headlights shining in my face, really uneven roads and pavements-and I just went out anyway. Either brave or stupid, whatever. But I walked for an hour and I was fine. Now I have to be not quite fine enough to be smug, because that's when I'll fall and damage something.
The bottom line is that, after more than eight and a half years, I'm still improving. There's nothing like a catastrophe to increase patience. And there's nothing like a catastrophe to show you just how strong you really are.
There's also Kettle Chips. And Starbucks. I'm starting to wish that I had bought stock in both companies years ago. Oops-missed the boat.
Now I need to start going back to the gym, and start back in Tai Chi class. And start living, because, after all, I'm not getting any younger. And-no more falling over, if that's possible.
In less than a week there will be a vote on Brexit. It still sounds like a disease, doesn't it? I'm avoiding hearing anything about it now, it's just boring, repetitive, and annoying as Hell. People ask my how I feel about it, and I'm reluctant to give an opinion (and you know by now that I have an opinion on just about everything)-because we've got a misogynist, racist, disgustingly orange halfwit in the White House, so what am I supposed to say?
I'm off to Starbucks. See you later.
It hasn't escaped me that, since the things you think, say and do come back to bite you in the ass. I'll just take that for granted and say that I paid my dues for whatever it is I did to get to this point-and that's that. You can bet that if someone did the dirty on you, they'll pay dearly-unfortunately, payback seems to take a terribly long time...
I also love the advice that I got from my grandparents-you all know this one-always wear clean underwear, you never know when you're going to get hit by a car. And then there's: give people enough rope and they will hang themselves with it. And the best of all time-well, for the moment, anyway: set boundaries, let people know where the line is. Always. If they cross the line once, tell them off, and -only if you like them enough-let them screw it up a second time. Cross the line twice? They're idiots. A parting shot across the bow is called for. Cross the line a third time-then you're the idiot if you don't sprint for the exit.
I so wish I had taken all those pieces of advice to heart years ago, I could have saved myself so much grief. But no, I learned the hard way, repeating the mistakes over and over again. You know the definition of insanity: doing the same thing in the same way over and over again and expecting different results. Duh.
I told you the Florence (cleverly masquerading as Lil. What the hell, I'm using real names and if they find out they can sue me) story. I told you the Rob, Tara and Sandra story. And the Terry the Tosser story. So you're pretty much up to date on a few of the weirdos who live in my area. But now I've decided that my boundaries have been set-and crossed. So I say hello if I see the neighbors, but I pretty much keep to myself. That is the way of peace and quiet.
I'm changing the way I look at things, and changing the way I do things. It's been pouring over the last couple of days-so bad that (just for fun) I turned to Professor Google to see how many entries there are for building an ark. Holy crap! There are pages of ark building directions. Who knew? And I went out and walked anyway. Rain, darkness, dusk, cold weather, traffic, uneven roads-all these are warning signs for someone who has no balance system. So, of course, I decided this morning to treat this as a challenge. It was dark, pouring with rain, windy, headlights shining in my face, really uneven roads and pavements-and I just went out anyway. Either brave or stupid, whatever. But I walked for an hour and I was fine. Now I have to be not quite fine enough to be smug, because that's when I'll fall and damage something.
The bottom line is that, after more than eight and a half years, I'm still improving. There's nothing like a catastrophe to increase patience. And there's nothing like a catastrophe to show you just how strong you really are.
There's also Kettle Chips. And Starbucks. I'm starting to wish that I had bought stock in both companies years ago. Oops-missed the boat.
Now I need to start going back to the gym, and start back in Tai Chi class. And start living, because, after all, I'm not getting any younger. And-no more falling over, if that's possible.
In less than a week there will be a vote on Brexit. It still sounds like a disease, doesn't it? I'm avoiding hearing anything about it now, it's just boring, repetitive, and annoying as Hell. People ask my how I feel about it, and I'm reluctant to give an opinion (and you know by now that I have an opinion on just about everything)-because we've got a misogynist, racist, disgustingly orange halfwit in the White House, so what am I supposed to say?
I'm off to Starbucks. See you later.
Saturday, 24 November 2018
And Then there was the Dressmaker's Dummy
I told you that I had to move into a disabled person's community after the gentamicin poisoning. It took me two years to be able to walk on my own without falling over every five seconds-or, maybe, every three seconds. When I was able to stand up and get out a bit, I met some of the other tenants. I coined the phrase "God's Waiting Room"-because most of the other people were in various stages of decrepitation (if that wasn't a proper word, it is now), and a few were really quite annoying. And, eight and a half years later...
I've changed the name of this little area to Purgatory. It fits. I'm always astonished at the way people who should know better spend their days sniping and bitching, moaning and whingeing, taking turns to be as nasty as they can to each other. And these guys are in their 60s, 70s and 80s. You would think they would be more mature. Really. Those of us who are a lot younger have the wisdom to hide out.
I might have told you this-in which case just blame it on a severe (and, hopefully, temporary) case of CRS (Can't Remember Shit). But I've got Terry the Tosser on one side of me, Ann-who has completely lost any marbles she might have had at one time- across the hall, and who keeps coming up to my face and telling me that her husband tried to kill her by shoving her onto a bed of nails (seriously. Nuts, or what?), and, of course, Zack the homicidal maniac right upstairs. Oh, joy. And you wonder why I get depressed? Or, rather, I wonder why I get depressed!
The person in the next building-whose property adjoins mine on one side- is called Flo. I know I called her Lil, for the sake of anonymity, but I do sometimes get confused with all this name changing stuff. Every third person in this country seems to be called Elizabeth, or Margaret, or whatever. So-correct names, it's easier. And they don't know about the blog. I have my doubts as to whether some of them are able to read.
Anyway, Flo has the hots for this carer who looked after a 94 year old man who lived next door to Flo. John went into hospital, and Kaz the carer kept going to visit Flo. I would go over there, mostly because she was very lonely on her own, so I kept her company as she reinvented herself and her past. Okay, well, Flo is delusional, too. Maybe I'm in a mental hospital but I don't know it yet.
So Flo cooks all Kaz's meals, does his laundry, buys his brandy, and lets him-get ready-sleep in her bed. I was horrified when I first heard this. After all, it is so inappropriate-plus he's got a family, and he is 20 years younger than she is. I had this awful feeling that she is being used-and she drools over him and stares at him every time he's over there. As far as I'm aware-she told me-there's no hanky panky, although she is really desperate for a shag. It isn't the age difference, or the fact that he's married and has children, that really bothers me. It's the fact that he is so obvious about what he's doing, and when I tried to warn Flo, she snapped at me.
So what happened? Kaz went to see her one evening and told her that his company hasn't paid him, and owes him £200. She then turned around and said something about a younger man, and older woman and money entering the equation. And she told him that I said it. Nice, or what? She told me the next day, and I felt really a little sick to my stomach. I had a go at her, and she said that it wasn't a big deal. I stayed away from there for awhile, and a couple of weeks later she told me that she told him the truth. I said that if she really told him, she should tell him the truth again, but with me sitting there, so she could apologize to both of us. She asked me if I was calling her a liar, and I replied: isn't that what you are?
So that's the end of endless and mindless stories (that keep changing, because she always forgot what she told me), local gossip and occasionally really funny stories, because I knew what was real and what was obviously fantasy. That was also the end of being stabbed ruthlessly in the back and then having the perpetrator twisting the knife, just to be sure (figuratively speaking, of course).
I told my friend in Dublin, and she said that it's obvious that Flo was jealous of me, and felt threatened, even though I made it clear that Kaz isn't the kind of man I would be attracted to in a million years. When I thought about it, I realized that this is what's true. So, good luck to Flo and Kaz, I'm taking big steps-in the opposite direction.
The moral of the story? Be very careful about your associations. Be careful about meeting up with someone who clearly lives a fantasy life, and who feels threatened by anyone and everyone else. The signs were there: I chose to ignore them.
I saw my physiotherapist yesterday, and we sat and talked about how far I've come since the gentamicin nearly killed me. Cancer, and all the surgeries, the complications, the concussion, etc-I've come a tremendous way. She reminded me that I'm progressing well, even though it has taken me eight and a half years to get where I am now. And she also reminded me that I am far from finished; I've got more recovering to do, more balance I can get back. My physio lifted my spirits - I left Purgatory feeling down, but I left my physio feeling encouraged.
One day I'll be old and decrepit (well, old, anyway-hopefully), and I'll have to stop and say okay, this is enough. But that day isn't today. I've got plans-to live to 100, be completely sound in both mind and body, and be riding my Harley through Big Sur in California with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me. We stop to enjoy the scenery, and then I just pop my clogs.
Now that's my fantasy. And, back to reality: there's a flat white at Starbucks that's calling my name.
I've changed the name of this little area to Purgatory. It fits. I'm always astonished at the way people who should know better spend their days sniping and bitching, moaning and whingeing, taking turns to be as nasty as they can to each other. And these guys are in their 60s, 70s and 80s. You would think they would be more mature. Really. Those of us who are a lot younger have the wisdom to hide out.
I might have told you this-in which case just blame it on a severe (and, hopefully, temporary) case of CRS (Can't Remember Shit). But I've got Terry the Tosser on one side of me, Ann-who has completely lost any marbles she might have had at one time- across the hall, and who keeps coming up to my face and telling me that her husband tried to kill her by shoving her onto a bed of nails (seriously. Nuts, or what?), and, of course, Zack the homicidal maniac right upstairs. Oh, joy. And you wonder why I get depressed? Or, rather, I wonder why I get depressed!
The person in the next building-whose property adjoins mine on one side- is called Flo. I know I called her Lil, for the sake of anonymity, but I do sometimes get confused with all this name changing stuff. Every third person in this country seems to be called Elizabeth, or Margaret, or whatever. So-correct names, it's easier. And they don't know about the blog. I have my doubts as to whether some of them are able to read.
Anyway, Flo has the hots for this carer who looked after a 94 year old man who lived next door to Flo. John went into hospital, and Kaz the carer kept going to visit Flo. I would go over there, mostly because she was very lonely on her own, so I kept her company as she reinvented herself and her past. Okay, well, Flo is delusional, too. Maybe I'm in a mental hospital but I don't know it yet.
So Flo cooks all Kaz's meals, does his laundry, buys his brandy, and lets him-get ready-sleep in her bed. I was horrified when I first heard this. After all, it is so inappropriate-plus he's got a family, and he is 20 years younger than she is. I had this awful feeling that she is being used-and she drools over him and stares at him every time he's over there. As far as I'm aware-she told me-there's no hanky panky, although she is really desperate for a shag. It isn't the age difference, or the fact that he's married and has children, that really bothers me. It's the fact that he is so obvious about what he's doing, and when I tried to warn Flo, she snapped at me.
So what happened? Kaz went to see her one evening and told her that his company hasn't paid him, and owes him £200. She then turned around and said something about a younger man, and older woman and money entering the equation. And she told him that I said it. Nice, or what? She told me the next day, and I felt really a little sick to my stomach. I had a go at her, and she said that it wasn't a big deal. I stayed away from there for awhile, and a couple of weeks later she told me that she told him the truth. I said that if she really told him, she should tell him the truth again, but with me sitting there, so she could apologize to both of us. She asked me if I was calling her a liar, and I replied: isn't that what you are?
So that's the end of endless and mindless stories (that keep changing, because she always forgot what she told me), local gossip and occasionally really funny stories, because I knew what was real and what was obviously fantasy. That was also the end of being stabbed ruthlessly in the back and then having the perpetrator twisting the knife, just to be sure (figuratively speaking, of course).
I told my friend in Dublin, and she said that it's obvious that Flo was jealous of me, and felt threatened, even though I made it clear that Kaz isn't the kind of man I would be attracted to in a million years. When I thought about it, I realized that this is what's true. So, good luck to Flo and Kaz, I'm taking big steps-in the opposite direction.
The moral of the story? Be very careful about your associations. Be careful about meeting up with someone who clearly lives a fantasy life, and who feels threatened by anyone and everyone else. The signs were there: I chose to ignore them.
I saw my physiotherapist yesterday, and we sat and talked about how far I've come since the gentamicin nearly killed me. Cancer, and all the surgeries, the complications, the concussion, etc-I've come a tremendous way. She reminded me that I'm progressing well, even though it has taken me eight and a half years to get where I am now. And she also reminded me that I am far from finished; I've got more recovering to do, more balance I can get back. My physio lifted my spirits - I left Purgatory feeling down, but I left my physio feeling encouraged.
One day I'll be old and decrepit (well, old, anyway-hopefully), and I'll have to stop and say okay, this is enough. But that day isn't today. I've got plans-to live to 100, be completely sound in both mind and body, and be riding my Harley through Big Sur in California with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me. We stop to enjoy the scenery, and then I just pop my clogs.
Now that's my fantasy. And, back to reality: there's a flat white at Starbucks that's calling my name.
Thursday, 22 November 2018
From Hibernation into the Fires of Hell
Okay, I know that sounds really melodramatic. I'm just being a drama queen.
And before I succumb to CRS (can't remember shit, if you are new to this blog), let me wish everyone a very Happy Thanksgiving!!
I'm celebrating, too. I have spent the last four months hiding. I usually journal every day-except when I don't, obviously. I have even left my blog for long periods at a time. And emails, texts, phone calls-I've avoided doing anything that wasn't absolutely necessary (like medical appointments).
I've called it hibernation, hiatus, sabbatical, holiday- everything but what it really was: depression. I missed holidays, birthdays (inclucing mine), Guy Fawkes Day ( what a shame that the poor guy failed when he tried to burn down Parliament. Too bad). I did only what I had to do, and then came back and just-sat. I sat. I wasn't low enough to self-harm, or even contemplate suicide, so don't anyone worry about that. I was just boringly gloomy. I didn't even clean my kitchen-and everyone knows that, as soon as I'm pissed off, I'm cleaning. Ewww!
I thought a lot over the past couple of days, and enlisted the help of an old friend who has suffered from depression for years. And- now I understand what's been going on. For eight and a half years, it's been one thing after another, and then some.
Gentamicin nearly killed me; cancer came quickly after that; all the surgery, the treatment, three failed operations on the implants and all the complications-then this delightful year, with a severe concussion, the chest infection that left me in bed for nearly three months, and, of course, a few falls on my head.
Who wouldn't be depressed? I'm fighting my way through it, on my own, just as I've always done. I won't let it beat me. I've come this far, I won't give up now.
I have to say that I understand depression in a way that I never did before. In the past, things got me down- but not for this long. And there are so many people like my friend, who has been depressed for years.
I wish I had an answer. I'm thinking about it. Maybe I can help in some way. You all know how I love to ponder. Now I've got something important to ponder.
Meanwhile, there's turkey to ponder. Then there's Starbucks. When I start talking Starbucks, you know that I'm on the road to recovery. I just wish I had stock in the company...
Happy Thanksgiving. I can honestly say that I'll be back soon. I think I might have bored myself into recovery...
And before I succumb to CRS (can't remember shit, if you are new to this blog), let me wish everyone a very Happy Thanksgiving!!
I'm celebrating, too. I have spent the last four months hiding. I usually journal every day-except when I don't, obviously. I have even left my blog for long periods at a time. And emails, texts, phone calls-I've avoided doing anything that wasn't absolutely necessary (like medical appointments).
I've called it hibernation, hiatus, sabbatical, holiday- everything but what it really was: depression. I missed holidays, birthdays (inclucing mine), Guy Fawkes Day ( what a shame that the poor guy failed when he tried to burn down Parliament. Too bad). I did only what I had to do, and then came back and just-sat. I sat. I wasn't low enough to self-harm, or even contemplate suicide, so don't anyone worry about that. I was just boringly gloomy. I didn't even clean my kitchen-and everyone knows that, as soon as I'm pissed off, I'm cleaning. Ewww!
I thought a lot over the past couple of days, and enlisted the help of an old friend who has suffered from depression for years. And- now I understand what's been going on. For eight and a half years, it's been one thing after another, and then some.
Gentamicin nearly killed me; cancer came quickly after that; all the surgery, the treatment, three failed operations on the implants and all the complications-then this delightful year, with a severe concussion, the chest infection that left me in bed for nearly three months, and, of course, a few falls on my head.
Who wouldn't be depressed? I'm fighting my way through it, on my own, just as I've always done. I won't let it beat me. I've come this far, I won't give up now.
I have to say that I understand depression in a way that I never did before. In the past, things got me down- but not for this long. And there are so many people like my friend, who has been depressed for years.
I wish I had an answer. I'm thinking about it. Maybe I can help in some way. You all know how I love to ponder. Now I've got something important to ponder.
Meanwhile, there's turkey to ponder. Then there's Starbucks. When I start talking Starbucks, you know that I'm on the road to recovery. I just wish I had stock in the company...
Happy Thanksgiving. I can honestly say that I'll be back soon. I think I might have bored myself into recovery...
Monday, 15 October 2018
Monkey Pox
I seem to have recovered from my existential crisis-and I find myself going from the frying pan straight into the fire. When I moved into this property eight years ago (eight years. Oh my! Purgatory has lasted so long!), I was told that this was a small area for disabled people. Gentamicin disabled me; I naturally assumed that everyone else was physically disabled.
What? Hell, no! More than a few of these people are completely bonkers. A few-okay, a lot- possibly never had marbles to lose. I sometimes feel like I'm qualified to be a special needs teacher. Or a psychologist. Or both.
My neighbor is called Lil. Her name is really Elizabeth, just like about 98% of the population (plus the guys, of course). And wherever I am, she sees me coming in, and going out. Just what I need: a geriatric female stalker. She always pounces to deliver bad news, most of which she gets by reading The Sun. It's a tabloid rag, read by most of the idiot population, and written (if you could call it that) by a bunch of functionally illiterate, pig ignorant, brain dead racist hacks. And the vast number of idiots who actually read it believe that everything printed in The Sun must be true. Think the UK's answer to the National Enquirer. Of course, Elvis, Michael Jackson and Marilyn Monroe are all really alive.
They're all together, line dancing in Venezuela (maybe I shouldn't say that. It might be tomorrow's headline).
Lil was shrieking recently over the Sun's article about-you guessed it:monkey pox. Highly contagious, it originated in Africa. Now wait for it:
Lil has the hots for two carers who work for one of her neighbors. They are half her age, m arried Iwith children, and both come from Africa. What if they've got it? What if they brought it with them? I tried so hard not to laugh. And failed. She was panicking so much, I've never seen her move so fast.
So I consulted the CNN news feed-yes, there is monkey pox in the UK, no, it's nothing to worry about, and I couldn't resist telling her to wear gloves and a mask when she's trying it on with them.
I told you: crazies! Monkey pox my little New York Presbyterian ass...
My new buzzword for bullshit: monkey pox.
What? Hell, no! More than a few of these people are completely bonkers. A few-okay, a lot- possibly never had marbles to lose. I sometimes feel like I'm qualified to be a special needs teacher. Or a psychologist. Or both.
My neighbor is called Lil. Her name is really Elizabeth, just like about 98% of the population (plus the guys, of course). And wherever I am, she sees me coming in, and going out. Just what I need: a geriatric female stalker. She always pounces to deliver bad news, most of which she gets by reading The Sun. It's a tabloid rag, read by most of the idiot population, and written (if you could call it that) by a bunch of functionally illiterate, pig ignorant, brain dead racist hacks. And the vast number of idiots who actually read it believe that everything printed in The Sun must be true. Think the UK's answer to the National Enquirer. Of course, Elvis, Michael Jackson and Marilyn Monroe are all really alive.
They're all together, line dancing in Venezuela (maybe I shouldn't say that. It might be tomorrow's headline).
Lil was shrieking recently over the Sun's article about-you guessed it:monkey pox. Highly contagious, it originated in Africa. Now wait for it:
Lil has the hots for two carers who work for one of her neighbors. They are half her age, m arried Iwith children, and both come from Africa. What if they've got it? What if they brought it with them? I tried so hard not to laugh. And failed. She was panicking so much, I've never seen her move so fast.
So I consulted the CNN news feed-yes, there is monkey pox in the UK, no, it's nothing to worry about, and I couldn't resist telling her to wear gloves and a mask when she's trying it on with them.
I told you: crazies! Monkey pox my little New York Presbyterian ass...
My new buzzword for bullshit: monkey pox.
Monday, 8 October 2018
Moaning Minnie and the Whingers
That would make a good name for a pop group-not as catchy as, say, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but the best I can come up with at the moment.
To explain to anyone who is new to this blog: moaning minnies, in this country, are people who complain a lot (moan). Whingeing (whinge rhymes with hinge, as in door hinge) means essentially the same thing. But, in the interests of being absolutely not politically correct, I decided to make some changes.
Moaning minnies are female. Think Minnie Mouse. Female. Exactly. Whingeing Willies are male. I've already told you about Wee Willies: I haven't done a poll to see the length and width of willies, but from all the women I know, British males are very small. Some are so small they're the size of peanuts. And less functional, too. And all they do is complain (if you had a tiny willy, you'd complain, too).
You can tell what I've been doing while I haven't been online: mostly moaning. I took this long to get back because-well, it is harder for me once I have taken time off. I decided to call it a "sabbatical". I took a lengthy sabbatical from blogging, journalling (which I did every night), emails, anything that didn't involve going to the docs for check-ups. The longer I stayed away, the more difficult it became to get back to normal life.
If I'm going to be honest about it: it wasn't a sabbatical. It was a huge bite in the ass from the black dog, and I've been really depressed since the last time I wrote. I wasn't suicidal (homicidal, maybe, but never suicidal). I didn't need any kind of medication. I had to get myself out of the really difficult downer I was on. I figured that I got myself into it, so I had to get myself out of it. And moaning didn't help-so I did my best to stay away from the moaners and the whingers. Easier said than done: it seems that just about everyone is either a moaner or a whinger. Or both.
What did I do? How do you get out of a depression once it takes hold? It was a really big bite-and the last time I was this depressed was when I got the cancer diagnosis five years ago. So - I mostly sat. Cried. Walked a lot. I need to walk every day anyway, because if I don't I will revert back to the worst of the balance problems I had before. So walking helped. I like to think that I got stronger. I certainly got more opinionated. Brexit this, Brexit that-oh, screw Brexit, I just can't be bothered any more! Do I get into political arguments like I did before? No, I don't. I've reached saturation point, where I see what's going on in the world (a scumbag in the White House! Earthquakes, tsunamis, terrorist attacks, weapons in this country like I've not seen in all the years I've lived here...a dirtbag voted into the Supreme Court...the racist anti-Semitic party ready to take over the country - that's the Labour Party for you!). The world hasn't just gone to hell in a handbasket. The world has turned to shit.
No wonder I got depressed. But I also realize that there is nothing I can do to change things; all I can do is try to keep a positive attitude, keep making jokes (as if I would ever stop), put one foot in front of the other (trying not to fall over), and keep my head down. Everything works its way out in the end. Hopefully.
Walking helps tremendously-and it's free. No gym bills, no young women in full make-up and the latest gym gear...did you ever notice how these women never sweat? They wear the latest and tightest workout gear, wear full make-up, have perfect hair-and they never sweat. Of course, they don't work out, either. They seem to spend a lot of time checking out the guys (most of whom are really, really ugly).
It must be a mid-life thing: we get to a certain age, and we go to the gym to work out and get stronger, we don't even really look (not for long, anyway. Too depressing) at anyone else, and the harder we work, the sweatier we become. I get home and think, whoa, what a workout, good for me-and then I usually can't move for two days, and then it starts all over again. At least I don't watch daytime tv instead. If you really want to get depressed, watch daytime television. It's gross.
Well, there we are, I'm back on track. I got out of my depression, although I can tell you one thing: middle age really sucks.
To explain to anyone who is new to this blog: moaning minnies, in this country, are people who complain a lot (moan). Whingeing (whinge rhymes with hinge, as in door hinge) means essentially the same thing. But, in the interests of being absolutely not politically correct, I decided to make some changes.
Moaning minnies are female. Think Minnie Mouse. Female. Exactly. Whingeing Willies are male. I've already told you about Wee Willies: I haven't done a poll to see the length and width of willies, but from all the women I know, British males are very small. Some are so small they're the size of peanuts. And less functional, too. And all they do is complain (if you had a tiny willy, you'd complain, too).
You can tell what I've been doing while I haven't been online: mostly moaning. I took this long to get back because-well, it is harder for me once I have taken time off. I decided to call it a "sabbatical". I took a lengthy sabbatical from blogging, journalling (which I did every night), emails, anything that didn't involve going to the docs for check-ups. The longer I stayed away, the more difficult it became to get back to normal life.
If I'm going to be honest about it: it wasn't a sabbatical. It was a huge bite in the ass from the black dog, and I've been really depressed since the last time I wrote. I wasn't suicidal (homicidal, maybe, but never suicidal). I didn't need any kind of medication. I had to get myself out of the really difficult downer I was on. I figured that I got myself into it, so I had to get myself out of it. And moaning didn't help-so I did my best to stay away from the moaners and the whingers. Easier said than done: it seems that just about everyone is either a moaner or a whinger. Or both.
What did I do? How do you get out of a depression once it takes hold? It was a really big bite-and the last time I was this depressed was when I got the cancer diagnosis five years ago. So - I mostly sat. Cried. Walked a lot. I need to walk every day anyway, because if I don't I will revert back to the worst of the balance problems I had before. So walking helped. I like to think that I got stronger. I certainly got more opinionated. Brexit this, Brexit that-oh, screw Brexit, I just can't be bothered any more! Do I get into political arguments like I did before? No, I don't. I've reached saturation point, where I see what's going on in the world (a scumbag in the White House! Earthquakes, tsunamis, terrorist attacks, weapons in this country like I've not seen in all the years I've lived here...a dirtbag voted into the Supreme Court...the racist anti-Semitic party ready to take over the country - that's the Labour Party for you!). The world hasn't just gone to hell in a handbasket. The world has turned to shit.
No wonder I got depressed. But I also realize that there is nothing I can do to change things; all I can do is try to keep a positive attitude, keep making jokes (as if I would ever stop), put one foot in front of the other (trying not to fall over), and keep my head down. Everything works its way out in the end. Hopefully.
Walking helps tremendously-and it's free. No gym bills, no young women in full make-up and the latest gym gear...did you ever notice how these women never sweat? They wear the latest and tightest workout gear, wear full make-up, have perfect hair-and they never sweat. Of course, they don't work out, either. They seem to spend a lot of time checking out the guys (most of whom are really, really ugly).
It must be a mid-life thing: we get to a certain age, and we go to the gym to work out and get stronger, we don't even really look (not for long, anyway. Too depressing) at anyone else, and the harder we work, the sweatier we become. I get home and think, whoa, what a workout, good for me-and then I usually can't move for two days, and then it starts all over again. At least I don't watch daytime tv instead. If you really want to get depressed, watch daytime television. It's gross.
Well, there we are, I'm back on track. I got out of my depression, although I can tell you one thing: middle age really sucks.
Sunday, 12 August 2018
Grumpy and the other six dwarfs
I told you that I don't like weather that's so hot it makes my hair frizz. And I look like a very sweaty person with an afro (good look for some, but not necessarily for a white woman on an elbow crutch).
I've been very grumpy, bad tempered, pissed off...and I told you about the neighbors, and, trust me, some of them really want a punch in the face-not by me, I'm not a hitter. I do my hurling of abuse verbally, and they're too stupid to understand it anyway.
It's been that kind of situation since the beginning of June, when we suddenly got weather that could match Hell for heat. Oh, yeah-I forgot. I live in Hell. Oh, well...it is summertime, after all. Could be worse: I could be living in the middle east, and then be fighting heat and terrorists, bombs, guns, crazy people with weapons-so I consider myself lucky that I'm living here at the moment. Guns, bombs, knives, acid, all manner of weapons-come to visit London, we've got them all.
How fortunate that in eight years I've learned to duck.
The good thing-apart from the fact that we've finally had some badly needed rain, and some cooler weather (less that 80F- "cool" is relative), I had some good news on Tuesday. Actually, it was great news.
My neurologist gave my name to another radiologist-someone who is doing research on bilateral vestibular hypofunction (loss of the balance system, it took me awhile to be able to even say the technical term without tripping over it. Try to say "bilateral vestibular hypofunction" very fast-especially after a couple of glasses of wine. I dare you.)
So I got a call a couple of weeks ago from the testing neurologist (Ray), explaining that at another hospital there is research into BVH (so much easier to abbreviate!), looking at testing people who have had this condition for a long time (eight years. They're all very excited). I immediately said yes, and then on Tuesday I braved the London Underground to go to West London, walking through a cemetery to get there (easy peasy. Not a ghost in sight. And yes, I watch Supernatural).
I had enough time to cool down over a coffee before we met-a good thing, because the underground was so hot that everyone else was sweating, too. Imagine. I'm 5'3"- I come up to people's armpits. How very, very unpleasant.
Several hours later-and a lot of tests, including standing on a moving platform with a blindfold on me, I had an EEG to measure brain function. I said to Ray that I was glad that it shows that I really do have a brain. I did all kinds of things before then: standing in the dark, feet together, feet apart, same without the blindfold, looking everywhere,walking in the light then in the dark...it was tough, but I soldiered on. And the end result?
I did extremely well. I've done most of those exercises for less time, with worse results, and the moving platform did nothing to make me more secure. But Ray said that I did better than most of the other patients. They're looking for 20 so they can publish. I was number 11. And I did things that some of the other people couldn't do. I've definitely got vestibular destruction-but after eight years, I measure so much better than I did when they did the same tests six years ago. I did better than I did even when the tests were repeated three years ago. I could've hugged him (I didn't). My neurologist works there, too, not just in Queen Square; he came into the room to thank me for taking part, and said that he'll have a lot more data to provide when he sees me in October.
Even the journey back to North London in a stinky carriage that was like travelling in a sauna couldn't upset me (good thing I didn't eat anything until I got back, though. Yuck).
And I stayed away from as many neighbors as I could after that. I just did the mundane things, like cleaning and laundry. I also did my daily walk, which usually takes place very, very early (6am).
I'm being cautiously optimistic when it comes to recovery. It's been eight years; on Friday it was exactly eight years since those idiots nearly did me in. Eight very, very difficult years to reach this point. What a terrible journey! But I learned things.
I've learned how strong I am, how strong I've had to become. I get grumpy with the neighbors, all fighting among themselves and whining about how this one does this, this one doesn't do that...it's like being in a group of four year olds-only I think that four year olds probably behave better.
I go out my front door and if I turn left out of the building, someone corners me to complain about some trivia or another. Go out my door and turn left and leave the building by the other entrance, and someone else stops me with some other mindless drivel. I know that they're all much older, and some of them are even physically disabled, but hey-what do I do next, go out the window?
After Tuesday, I know that going out the window is a distinct possibility. I can probably do that now. I can even climb the fence if necessary. But I've nailed the escape, and not by any means necessary: I put my earphones into my phone and I pretend to be having a conversation. I wave at the neighbors, talk into the phone, and just hope that nobody phones me until I get well out of the area!
So far, so good. Now I'm going to Starbucks-with earphones in, of course!
I've been very grumpy, bad tempered, pissed off...and I told you about the neighbors, and, trust me, some of them really want a punch in the face-not by me, I'm not a hitter. I do my hurling of abuse verbally, and they're too stupid to understand it anyway.
It's been that kind of situation since the beginning of June, when we suddenly got weather that could match Hell for heat. Oh, yeah-I forgot. I live in Hell. Oh, well...it is summertime, after all. Could be worse: I could be living in the middle east, and then be fighting heat and terrorists, bombs, guns, crazy people with weapons-so I consider myself lucky that I'm living here at the moment. Guns, bombs, knives, acid, all manner of weapons-come to visit London, we've got them all.
How fortunate that in eight years I've learned to duck.
The good thing-apart from the fact that we've finally had some badly needed rain, and some cooler weather (less that 80F- "cool" is relative), I had some good news on Tuesday. Actually, it was great news.
My neurologist gave my name to another radiologist-someone who is doing research on bilateral vestibular hypofunction (loss of the balance system, it took me awhile to be able to even say the technical term without tripping over it. Try to say "bilateral vestibular hypofunction" very fast-especially after a couple of glasses of wine. I dare you.)
So I got a call a couple of weeks ago from the testing neurologist (Ray), explaining that at another hospital there is research into BVH (so much easier to abbreviate!), looking at testing people who have had this condition for a long time (eight years. They're all very excited). I immediately said yes, and then on Tuesday I braved the London Underground to go to West London, walking through a cemetery to get there (easy peasy. Not a ghost in sight. And yes, I watch Supernatural).
I had enough time to cool down over a coffee before we met-a good thing, because the underground was so hot that everyone else was sweating, too. Imagine. I'm 5'3"- I come up to people's armpits. How very, very unpleasant.
Several hours later-and a lot of tests, including standing on a moving platform with a blindfold on me, I had an EEG to measure brain function. I said to Ray that I was glad that it shows that I really do have a brain. I did all kinds of things before then: standing in the dark, feet together, feet apart, same without the blindfold, looking everywhere,walking in the light then in the dark...it was tough, but I soldiered on. And the end result?
I did extremely well. I've done most of those exercises for less time, with worse results, and the moving platform did nothing to make me more secure. But Ray said that I did better than most of the other patients. They're looking for 20 so they can publish. I was number 11. And I did things that some of the other people couldn't do. I've definitely got vestibular destruction-but after eight years, I measure so much better than I did when they did the same tests six years ago. I did better than I did even when the tests were repeated three years ago. I could've hugged him (I didn't). My neurologist works there, too, not just in Queen Square; he came into the room to thank me for taking part, and said that he'll have a lot more data to provide when he sees me in October.
Even the journey back to North London in a stinky carriage that was like travelling in a sauna couldn't upset me (good thing I didn't eat anything until I got back, though. Yuck).
And I stayed away from as many neighbors as I could after that. I just did the mundane things, like cleaning and laundry. I also did my daily walk, which usually takes place very, very early (6am).
I'm being cautiously optimistic when it comes to recovery. It's been eight years; on Friday it was exactly eight years since those idiots nearly did me in. Eight very, very difficult years to reach this point. What a terrible journey! But I learned things.
I've learned how strong I am, how strong I've had to become. I get grumpy with the neighbors, all fighting among themselves and whining about how this one does this, this one doesn't do that...it's like being in a group of four year olds-only I think that four year olds probably behave better.
I go out my front door and if I turn left out of the building, someone corners me to complain about some trivia or another. Go out my door and turn left and leave the building by the other entrance, and someone else stops me with some other mindless drivel. I know that they're all much older, and some of them are even physically disabled, but hey-what do I do next, go out the window?
After Tuesday, I know that going out the window is a distinct possibility. I can probably do that now. I can even climb the fence if necessary. But I've nailed the escape, and not by any means necessary: I put my earphones into my phone and I pretend to be having a conversation. I wave at the neighbors, talk into the phone, and just hope that nobody phones me until I get well out of the area!
So far, so good. Now I'm going to Starbucks-with earphones in, of course!
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