BARELY in time for Christmas, I’ve now got merch available!


Can you even believe how gorgeous this is?!Can you even believe how gorgeous this is?!

Can you even believe how gorgeous this is?!

Check out all my merch! I’ve got a bunch of tees available, I’ve got hoodies, I’ve got swag. And I’ve got more ideas for cool things to offer you, I just wanted to try and get these done in time for Christmas—though I might not have succeeded. If so, New Year’s gifts are an actual thing.

Don’t hate on me. I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Okay, I’m both, but I’d prefer to forgo the hate if possible.

What’s important to know is that there’s a time crunch to get these out to you, there’s limited stock, AND! I will ship to you no matter where you are.

That’s right! worldwide shipping! Hoo doggies!

So head over there now and pick out your favorite thing before I run out, and be sure to keep an eye on that page, as I’ll be adding more items in the coming weeks. I’m also open to suggestions, so let me know what kinds of things you’d like to see in the shop.

Happy Holidays, and as always, I wish you peace and love~

Where Has the Year Gone?


Adages exist for a reason, I suppose, but this is ridiculous. I’ve been under lockdown since early March, and here it is, nearly mid-November…

I tend to be somewhat of a shut-in, anyway, but my daughter turned to me this morning and announced the simple fact that it would be her birthday in a few days, and while I knew this was true and had been making plans to cook her a nice breakfast that day (scratch waffles and chicken-apple sausages with fresh coffee and tea for the curious) I was caught short for a moment and had to look at the year.

I started up this blog right about the time our lockdown started, just to give myself some goals and deadline to think of. At first, I kept to them, but of course my illness and chronic pain have given me many lapses, and I’m okay with that. It’s still been nice to have goals and things to do.

Like transferring this blog over to a new provider. I like Squarespace much better than WordPress and that surprises me. I never thought that would be the case. But here we are.

I also restarted my YouTube Channel, which I have a love/hate relationship with. It’s supposed to be about getting views, right? And I don’t really get that many views, even thought I have all the keywords, and I have a custom end screen, and I do info cards, and all the tips and stuff. The only thing I don’t do it the one thing that YouTube says it wants, which is a regular upload schedule.

But that’s kind of a lie, too. I don’t have an engaging enough personality and a cute enough face or something—there are adorable young creators, and even adorable old creators on there that get rather huge followings…

So I have to just tell myself I’m doing it for myself, and be satisfied with that. Maybe.


Hell, even doing this blog doesn’t net me much attention. I have a very small mailing list that I’ve been managing through MailChimp, which I’m going to switch over to Squarespace as well, but I seldom get any opens, much less any reads, even from my family. So, there’s that.

My brother mentioned he wanted to move his website over to Squarespace, and I told him I could help him with that, but he said he wanted this friend of his to do it, because she’s a professional graphic designer. It’s as if he’s forgotten what I did for 20 years. Or he didn’t think much of my work at the time. It’s…strange.

I get the same reaction when it comes to my music. I tell people I know about my album, and for some reason they just kind of go, “Hey, good for you.” It’s the equivalent of a nice pat on the head. Like, “look at you doing a sweet hobby like that—and you even published it! How brave!

Frankly, it’s insulting as fuck. Why do people always think so little of me? Is it my modesty? Do I have to brag, and brag, and brag, just to get people to sit up and pay attention? Maybe I need to start putting out press releases and shit. I just don’t really know how to do PR—I never did. I did the graphic design part of marketing, and copywriting. I didn’t do the PR part…UGH!

CLEARLY this has been to my detriment. I guess I need to fix this.

Time to Do A Little Catching Up


Don’t let those doe eyes and that cheeky smile fool youDon’t let those doe eyes and that cheeky smile fool you

Don’t let those doe eyes and that cheeky smile fool you

I realize I haven’t been around much lately, especially on my YouTube Channel, so I’ve recorded a vloggy vlog to let you know how things have been going lately. Hope you’ve been well. Check it out and leave a note in the comments to let me know you you’ve been. I think all of us are struggling with some kind of COVID blues at this point, so if you’re going stir-crazy, let’s talk about it.

I’ve not been doing terribly well. Don’t let that delightful face up there fool you—I’ve been in a deep depression since my mom died. But I’m dealing with it. I’m doing all the thinking and processing of grief that one is supposed to be doing, in my own special, albeit dark and seemingly bleak manner. I tend to hit these things head-on and then drown in them, spiritually, and if you were too see me in the spirit realm, all you’d see is one hand, flailing around above the waters of terrordarkness and every now and then my head would pop up, gasping for air, and I’d gurgle, “I’m okay!”, before sort of slowly sinking back down into the swampiness.

It’s so much fun.

But needful, I daresay.

Please join my Patreon so we can chat about all these distressing times on my Discord. We’ve got a blossoming community over there and it’s the perfect place you make your voice heard.

As always, I bid you love and peace.

Time to Do A Little Catching Up

I realize I haven’t been around much lately, especially on my YouTube Channel, so I recording a vloggy vlog to let you know how things have been going lately. Hope you’ve been well. Check it out and leave a note in the comments to let me know you you’ve been.

Hurting Is Hard When You’re Feeling Alone


pexels-photo-848573.jpegpexels-photo-848573.jpeg

I suppose some of this could be self-imposed, but I also know much of it comes from the fact that people don’t like my bluntness. People turn away from my flavor of “authenticity”, which I put in quotes, because being authentic has become such a big thing lately, but my authentic self apparently isn’t what the folks I’m connected to seem to want. I’ve also seen that many people I was connected to on Facebook tuned me out when I was going through cancer treatment (and the struggles with SBO after) as I had to keep posting my GoFundMe just to keep myself from being homeless. While I did get State Disability benefits, they were only enough to pay for utilities, and they ran out after a few months since I’d been doing 1099 work for so many years. I didn’t get any Federal Disability until February of this year.


Did people think I was doing it for fun?Did people think I was doing it for fun?

Did people think I was doing it for fun?

I felt like a tool, having to fund raise from my hospital bed, but I had no choice. I can tell this had an effect on my Facebook friends, due to the fall in my interactions. Few people see my posts, and fewer have a response of some kind. Therefore, I deleted the app a few years ago, and I only ever go to Facebook using the web version, and that not very often. If you see anything from me, it’s because I’ve cross-posted from another app. My expectations are low as far as engagements go. If you’d like to get in touch with me the best way is via my website or Twitter. I’ve deleted Instagram, too, so I won’t get your DM there either.


I'm Queen of The World!I'm Queen of The World!

I’m Queen of The World!

While I take ownership of the outcome of what happened overall I don’t take ownership of the individuals involved and their desire to either disconnect or tune me out. Their inability to handle a person in real pain is a sign of their lack of maturity. If anything, I’m responsible for having shallow friends. I’ve yelled about my resentment over this for some time now, and I’ve decided to (mostly) be done with this, save for the fact that I’m still going through some heavy shit and I’m still alone.

So consider this my transition piece: you, the reader, real or imagined, are my friend. There! I’m officially no longer alone! I’m feeling better already.

This will still be my place to journal all of my thoughts and feelings, but I’ll stop complaining about friends. Deal? Deal.

Hurting Is Hard When You’re Feeling Alone

I suppose some of this could be self-imposed, but I also know much of it comes from the fact that people don’t like my bluntness. People turn away from my flavor of “authenticity”, which I put in quotes, because being authentic has become such a big thing lately, but my authentic self apparently isn’t what the folks I’m connected to seem to want. I’ve also seen that many people I was connected to on Facebook tuned me out when I was going through cancer treatment (and the struggles with SBO after) as I had to keep posting my GoFundMe just to keep myself from being homeless. While I did get State Disability benefits, they were only enough to pay for utilities, and they ran out after a few months since I’d been doing 1099 work for so many years. I didn’t get any Federal Disability until February of this year.

Did people think I was doing it for fun?

I felt like a tool, having to fund raise from my hospital bed, but I had no choice. I can tell this had an effect on my Facebook friends, due to the fall in my interactions. Few people see my posts, and fewer have a response of some kind. Therefore, I deleted the app a few years ago, and I only ever go to Facebook using the web version, and that not very often. If you see anything from me, it’s because I’ve cross-posted from another app. My expectations are low as far as engagements go. If you’d like to get in touch with me the best way is via my website or Twitter. I’ve deleted Instagram, too, so I won’t get your DM there either.

I’m Queen of The World!

While I take ownership of the outcome of what happened overall I don’t take ownership of the individuals involved and their desire to either disconnect or tune me out. Their inability to handle a person in real pain is a sign of their lack of maturity. If anything, I’m responsible for having shallow friends. I’ve yelled about my resentment over this for some time now, and I’ve decided to (mostly) be done with this, save for the fact that I’m still going through some heavy shit and I’m still alone.

So consider this my transition piece: you, the reader, real or imagined, are my friend. There! I’m officially no longer alone! I’m feeling better already.

This will still be my place to journal all of my thoughts and feelings, but I’ll stop complaining about friends. Deal? Deal.

Saying Goodbye is The Hardest


pexels-photo-3831887.jpegpexels-photo-3831887.jpeg

I’ve been so alone for the past week, packing up my Mom’s apartment, bit by bit. With each item, memories have been getting triggered, and I’ve had to quash them lest I be overcome. There’s been so much sorting to be done: to I keep this? Do I give it away? Is this in good enough condition to be sold for charity?

It’s been a slower process than I’d like, and it’s led to long days primarily on my feet, on low pile carpets, as this was a wheelchair accessible apartment. I ache in both body and mind, and all I want at this point is a hot bath in Epsom salt, hearing New Age music in the background, and perhaps that sweet voice saying, “Calgon, take me away…”


This should be me right nowThis should be me right now

This should be me right now

My brother flew in last night and was dismayed by what he saw for two reasons: he’s not a seasoned moving warrior, like me—I’ve moved easily 50 times and probably more if I actually go and recount them, and 2) much of the “stuff” he saw laying about wasn’t leaving with us. The only real issues we had to face together were the collectibles that had to still be packed, which were small and delicate, and the rare books, which were quickly parsed out. Even so, packing those up took a few hours, and he and I had both already had long days—I doing my various task-switching, with organizing stacks, packing boxes, deep cleaning again, as my Mom had terrible psoriatic arthritis, and, sadly, there were flecks of skin everywhere and in everything. I know she was embarrassed by this, so I’m not trying to shame her or anyone whom has suffered with this illness by bringing this in the open, merely that I had to keep stopping to do so much cleaning due to the nature of what had occurred.


Because I've just been sitting around, you know, bloggingBecause I've just been sitting around, you know, blogging

Because I’ve just been sitting around, you know, blogging

The apartment won’t be empty when we leave, which will also feel strange. I love this complex so much, I’m going to put myself on the (long) waiting list. I heard it’s 62+, though my Mom had told me it was 55+. I think she was thinking of her old condo complex, so that’s…boo. I find myself wishing I had a reason to come back here. While I do still have family in town and I’m going to work harder on staying close, a huge connection has been severed.

I thought I never loved Phoenix.

Saying Goodbye is The Hardest

I’ve been so alone for the past week, packing up my Mom’s apartment, bit by bit. With each item, memories have been getting triggered, and I’ve had to quash them lest I be overcome. There’s been so much sorting to be done: to I keep this? Do I give it away? Is this in good enough condition to be sold for charity?

It’s been a slower process than I’d like, and it’s led to long days primarily on my feet, on low pile carpets, as this was a wheelchair accessible apartment. I ache in both body and mind, and all I want at this point is a hot bath in Epsom salt, hearing New Age music in the background, and perhaps that sweet voice saying, “Calgon, take me away…”

This should be me right now

My brother flew in last night and was dismayed by what he saw for two reasons: he’s not a seasoned moving warrior, like me—I’ve moved easily 50 times and probably more if I actually go and recount them, and 2) much of the “stuff” he saw laying about wasn’t leaving with us. The only real issues we had to face together were the collectibles that had to still be packed, which were small and delicate, and the rare books, which were quickly parsed out. Even so, packing those up took a few hours, and he and I had both already had long days—I doing my various task-switching, with organizing stacks, packing boxes, deep cleaning again, as my Mom had terrible psoriatic arthritis, and, sadly, there were flecks of skin everywhere and in everything. I know she was embarrassed by this, so I’m not trying to shame her or anyone whom has suffered with this illness by bringing this in the open, merely that I had to keep stopping to do so much cleaning due to the nature of what had occurred.

Because I’ve just been sitting around, you know, blogging

The apartment won’t be empty when we leave, which will also feel strange. I love this complex so much, I’m going to put myself on the (long) waiting list. I heard it’s 62+, though my Mom had told me it was 55+. I think she was thinking of her old condo complex, so that’s…boo. I find myself wishing I had a reason to come back here. While I do still have family in town and I’m going to work harder on staying close, a huge connection has been severed.

I thought I never loved Phoenix.

It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better: The Messy Business of Moving Out


pexels-photo-4246205.jpegpexels-photo-4246205.jpeg

If you’ve been keeping up on my blog at all, you’ll know that my Mom recently passed away. I came to her apartment in Phoenix to help her with her health issues. They quickly spiraled out of control and she had to be moved to an in-patient facility. While we initially thought she’d be there just a few days until she was stabilized, she just kept getting worse until she died.

It was so sad.

So here I am, at her former apartment. It’s a gorgeous complex. I’m trying to clear out all the shmutz and get ready to pack it all up. It has to be done by the end of this week.


Just one view of the controlled chaos that is currently my life.  Also, my Mom had a penchant for white sofas for some reason.Just one view of the controlled chaos that is currently my life.  Also, my Mom had a penchant for white sofas for some reason.

Just one view of the controlled chaos that is currently my life.
Also, my Mom had a penchant for white sofas for some reason.

It’s been hard to sleep. Not only because I’m technically grieving—I did actually cry a bit last night, and I felt some relief. I grieve slowly, always. But doing this type of work is slow. I have to evaluate the usefulness of every piece of stuff I encounter and decide if I should keep it, toss it, or give it away. The storage space is minimal in this place, but Mom managed to squirrel away a shocking amount of…stuff. Like, two Magic Bullets, the original model and the updated one, clearly neither one much used. There were two immersion mixers, both a slow cooker and an Instant Pot (that one I’m taking home!) two AppleTVs…and so on.

It’s been quite the adventure.

Of course, there are many not-so-useful things, or things that are useful but that I don’t personally need. These will be sold at the estate sale, the proceeds of which will be given to a charity stated in her Will.


img_0339.jpegimg_0339.jpeg

In the distance, the candelabra reveals the fact that it’s been sitting in the window in the Arizona heat

I managed to get through all of the cabinets by today, which was my goal. All that’s left are the desk drawers. They’re quite small. There won’t be much trash there. After that, it’s just her clothes in the closet, dresser and highboy, most of which will go to Goodwill. This will be very simple and I don’t expect it to drain me too much. I’m so tired each day. I pass out by 10:00 PM, but then I wake up around 3:30 AM and can’t get back to sleep. It’s frustrating. I don’t feel rested at that point. I’m a pro at managing my insomnia though, and I either ruminate or meditate for the next 6–7 hours and get up around 2:30 PM. I have to make sure I don’t overdo things. My Mom’s bed is considerably more comfortable than what they had at the care facility, thus I’m not waking up feeling like I’ve been beaten with a stick. That’s a blessing. I wish I could say the same for my feet.


Here we see stacks of things we plan to keepHere we see stacks of things we plan to keep

Here we see stacks of things we plan to keep

In 2005, my Mom had a terrible incident with flesh-eating bacteria on the back of her right leg. By the time it was discovered, they had to remove most of her right calf and a good portion of her right hamstring. She was never the same afterward.

If you’ve been following my blog, you’ll recall my reference to her Will, also dated 2005.

Her only child who remained by her side during this trauma and her long recuperation, was her local child. It made sense. Her resentment was immature, yet not unexpected.

I was a single mother, and after looking for work for a long time, I’d finally found a job. I was still under probation when this had occurred, as well as being under one of our many speaking moratoriums that we’ve had over the years. I won’t bore you with the details of this instance—or perhaps that will be the subject of another blog post.

I got updates about Mom on a regular basis. I wanted to know how she was doing. I had no idea how bad it was. About a year later I ditched by old beater for a new car so I could confidently make the trip with a kid affordably (two tanks of gas versus two plane tickets? Heck yeah!) and I saw the wounds. It was horrifying. Half of the back of her leg was gone. They’d had to take skin grafts from her backside to cover her leg. There was a part, right at the back of the knee, that they didn’t cover adequately. They didn’t compensate properly for the movement required in that area. She was never able to properly stretch or bend her leg. She walked with a cane for a few years, but eventually ended-up needing a walker.

Side note: Having used a walker myself when I was on chemo, I can safely say that everyone you see in public is using their walker totally wrong. Look next time. You’ll see them hunched over, unbalanced, their weight in front of them. It’s terribly unsafe. I was taught that you need to stand up straight, arms at your sides. If you can’t have them at your sides, your walker is at the wrong height for you. They’re adjustable and your weight should be centered so you don’t fall. This is why you see so many hip and shoulder surgeries.


Here we have the fullest picture of the badly controlled chaos that is my lifeHere we have the fullest picture of the badly controlled chaos that is my life

Here we have the fullest picture of the badly controlled chaos that is my life

The reason this matters is because her apartment is accessible, and while it has more floor space, the carpet pile is non-existent. It’s hard on the feet and each day I find myself nearly wincing off to bed. I know, poor me.

The next step is fairly simple, and then I start building boxes and packing ’em up. While it looks like gobs of stuff, when I break it down in my mind, it’s really not that much. I unpacked her when she first moved in and I remember it was pretty easy, though she felt overwhelmed. However, I’m an old pro when it comes to moving, and I’m not easily intimidated by such things.

Not any more.

It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better: The Messy Business of Moving Out

If you’ve been keeping up on my blog at all, you’ll know that my Mom recently passed away. I came to her apartment in Phoenix to help her with her health issues. They quickly spiraled out of control and she had to be moved to an in-patient facility. While we initially thought she’d be there just a few days until she was stabilized, she just kept getting worse until she died.

It was so sad.

So here I am, at her former apartment. It’s a gorgeous complex. I’m trying to clear out all the shmutz and get ready to pack it all up. It has to be done by the end of this week.

Just one view of the controlled chaos that is currently my life. Also, my Mom has a penchant for white sofas for some reason.

It’s been hard to sleep. Not only because I’m technically grieving—I did actually cry a bit last night, and I felt some relief. I grieve slowly, always. But doing this type of work is slow. I have to evaluate the usefulness of every piece of stuff I encounter and decide if I should keep it, toss it, or give it away. The storage space is minimal in this place, but Mom managed to squirrel away a shocking amount of…stuff. Like, two Magic Bullets, the original model and the updated one, clearly neither one much used. There were two immersion mixers, both a slow cooker and an Instant Pot (that one I’m taking home!) two AppleTVs…and so on.

It’s been quite the adventure.

Of course, there are many not-so-useful things, or things that are useful but that I don’t personally need. These will be sold at the estate sale, the proceeds of which will be given to a charity stated in her Will.

In the distance, the candelabra reveals the fact that it’s been sitting in the window in the Arizona heat

I managed to get through all of the cabinets by today, which was my goal. All that’s left are the desk drawers. They’re quite small. There won’t be much trash there. After that, it’s just her clothes in the closet, dresser and highboy, most of which will go to Goodwill. This will be very simple and I don’t expect it to drain me too much. I’m so tired each day. I pass out by 10:00 PM, but then I wake up around 3:30 AM and can’t get back to sleep. It’s frustrating. I don’t feel rested at that point. I’m a pro at managing my insomnia though, and I either ruminate or meditate for the next 6–7 hours and get up around 2:30 PM. I have to make sure I don’t overdo things. My Mom’s bed is considerably more comfortable than what they had at the care facility, thus I’m not waking up feeling like I’ve been beaten with a stick. That’s a blessing. I wish I could say the same for my feet.

Here we see stacks of things we plan to keep

In 2005, my Mom had a terrible incident with flesh-eating bacteria on the back of her right leg. By the time it was discovered, they had to remove most of her right calf and a good portion of her right hamstring. She was never the same afterward.

If you’ve been following my blog, you’ll recall my reference to her Will, also dated 2005.

Her only child who remained by her side during this trauma and her long recuperation, was her local child. It made sense. Her resentment was immature, yet not unexpected.

I was a single mother, and after looking for work for a long time, I’d finally found a job. I was still under probation when this had occurred, as well as being under one of our many speaking moratoriums that we’ve had over the years. I won’t bore you with the details of this instance—or perhaps that will be the subject of another blog post.

I got updates about Mom on a regular basis. I wanted to know how she was doing. I had no idea how bad it was. About a year later I ditched by old beater for a new car so I could confidently make the trip with a kid affordably (two tanks of gas versus two place tickets? Heck yeah!) and I saw the wounds. It was horrifying. Half of the back of her leg was gone. They’d had to take skin grafts from her backside to cover her leg. There was a part, right at the back of the knee, that they didn’t cover adequately. They didn’t compensate properly for the movement required in that area. She was never able to properly stretch or bend her leg. She walked with a cane for a few years, but eventually ended-up needing a walker.

Side note: Having used a walker myself when I was on chemo, I can safely say that everyone you see in public is using their walker totally wrong. Look next time. You’ll see them hunched over, unbalanced, their weight in front of them. It’s terribly unsafe. I was taught that you need to stand up straight, arms at your sides. If you can’t have them at your sides, your walker is at the wrong height for you. They’re adjustable and your weight should be centered so you don’t fall. This is why you see so many hip and shoulder surgeries.

Here we have the fullest picture of the badly controlled chaos that is my life

The reason this matters is because her apartment is accessible, and while it has more floor space, the carpet pile is non-existent. It’s hard on the feet and each day I find myself nearly wincing off to bed. I know, poor me.

The next step is fairly simple, and then I start building boxes and packing ’em up. While it looks like gobs of stuff, when I break it down in my mind, it’s really not that much. I unpacked her when she first moved in and I remember it was pretty easy, though she felt overwhelmed. However, I’m an old pro when it comes to moving, and I’m not easily intimidated by such things.

Not any more.

The Surreal Experience of Watching a Person Die


(and other things they don't teach you in school)(and other things they don't teach you in school)

(and other things they don’t teach you in school)

Well, so my Mom died. I guess you’ve figured that out if you saw my last video, which I forgot to post here when I recorded it (been a bit preoccupied and I’ve gotten my posting order all mixed up. Sue me). I really thought we had more time. That’s been the most shocking part of it all for me.

When I arrived, she wasn’t doing great but she seemed far from dying. I thought all she needed was a dietary fix and a bit of time. I kept forgetting the fact that when she started dialysis 5 or so years ago she was already Stage 5. Stage Five. That’s Kidney Failure.

It was all due to gold treatments she’d received when she was only a little older than me for her rheumatoid arthritis. It was known at the time that it could cause kidney damage, so there was always extensive blood work done with each treatment. The moment there were signs that yes, her kidneys had been harmed, the treatments were stopped.

She should have sought dialysis then. But no.

When she would speak of it, the mental image I’d get would be of being stuck in some kind of iron lung for hours, or even days at a time, with no mobility, no freedom, one’s life held hostage by machines. Dialysis was the last thing she could possibly want.

I was at the doctor’s appointment the day he came and told her the bad news: that her tests showed her disease had advanced to Stage 5. I asked, “What’s the next Stage?” He answered, “There is no next Stage.” I turned to my mother in accusation and said, “Mom!”

When we got back to her house, I immediately started researching dialysis to find out if it was, in fact, as awful as she thought it was, and if at Stage 5, there was any point in pursuing it. It turned out that even at Stage 5 there was a great deal of hope, and HEY BONUS!, there’s even a way to do it in the comfort of your OWN HOME.

I told her about it and immediately signed us up for an informational seminar.

Although she tried the home dialysis, it turned out to be uncomfortable and difficult. I ended up hearing this from quite a few people who had tried this. Bummer. But, my Mom was open to going to a center, which she faithfully did for roughly the following several years.

At first, it was a revelation! While the treatment tired her out when she got home, the following day she was peppy and energized, feeling quite back to her normal self. Weekends, she could go out to dinner and the movies again, or the opera, like she used to. She had much of her old life back—or at least so it seemed, for a time. But it was just staving-off the inevitable. She was in kidney failure after all. She was already dying.

I know I already wrote a post where I spoke quite ill of my mother. We had a complicated relationship. Let me take a few moments to tell you of her talents.

She could knit, crochet, and sew amazing things. Growing up, her hands were never still. She even took sewing lessons, to learn how to make custom patterns. She made my brother’s girlfriend’s prom dress, which was this gorgeous one shoulder taffeta creation. She made needlepoint. In the evenings, during family TV time, she would pull out whatever she was working on, and I loved to watch her. I never had the talent or patience for this work. Sadly, arthritis took this away from her, along with vision problems.

She loved to write poetry. I don’t know if she had any talent for it, but she would spend hours with a legal pad and a pen, musing away late into the night. I think she shared something with me once, but I was too young to appreciate it. I prefer free-verse, anyway.

She could tell stories! Oh my, the stories of her life were so interesting! From weekends on her grandmother’s farm in Chile, to moving to New York in the 1950’s, then taking a bus trip to visit her brother in San Francisco—and getting stuck there because she ran out of money!—and taking a job as a bank teller for BofA, and, while getting the medical screening for health insurance and just by chance swallowing while the doctor was palpating her throat to discover, of all things, thyroid cancer, which back in those days involved removing half of her neck! She literally could not hold her head up for months, as they had removed not only the tumor and her thyroid, but all of the tendons and muscles on that side of her neck just to make certain they had gotten it all! It left a massive t-shaped scar along her jawline, down her neck, and across her collarbone. This was a beautiful woman in her early twenties who went on to feel deformed for the next decade. Devastating. Plus, the physical therapy involved just to hold her head up, turn her head, compensate for what was lost—just incredible. I have never been able to imagine what that must have been like for her.

Obviously she found men to love her and marry her. She created a family. She was conflicted. Perhaps she never felt worthy. She and I spoke somewhat of this, but never directly. She could only ever allude to mistakes she had made and wishing she had done things differently. Don’t we all?

This was also a woman who loved history. She adored historical novels. She could retell historical events as if she had actually been there. She could bring them to life in such a way that I think she missed her true calling as a historical author!

I will miss this cantankerous, impossible, vivacious, lovable lady. I wish you had known her. You’d have felt the same.

Confronting Death, Dying, Spiritual Cleansing and Update from Phoenix


We all have to face death in our lives at some point. When it comes, you;re never ready.We all have to face death in our lives at some point. When it comes, you;re never ready.

We all have to face death in our lives at some point. When it comes, you;re never ready.

I talk about spending time with my mother as she struggles with her last days. Her decline was much more rapid than any of us expected, and I found myself exhausted and wondering and…numb. I was glad to be there with her as I was denied the opportunity to be there with my father during his final days. Still, it’s always difficult and unexpected. I suspect each time is most likely as unique as each person, and as complex as each relationship.

Have you ever experienced the loss of a parent? Have you been there with them? Has the time enriched your life in any way, or changed you, or did it detract from your life? Let me know in the comments.

The Surreal Experience of Watching a Person Die

(and other things they don’t teach you in school)

Well, so my Mom died. I guess you’ve figured that out if you saw my last video, which I forgot to post here when I recorded it (been a bit preoccupied and I’ve gotten my posting order all mixed up. Sue me). I really thought we had more time. That’s been the most shocking part of it all for me.

When I arrived, she wasn’t doing great but she seemed far from dying. I thought all she needed was a dietary fix and a bit of time. I kept forgetting the fact that when she started dialysis 5 or so years ago she was already Stage 5. Stage Five. That’s Kidney Failure.

It was all due to gold treatments she’d received when she was only a little older than me for her rheumatoid arthritis. It was known at the time that it could cause kidney damage, so there was always extensive blood work done with each treatment. The moment there were signs that yes, her kidneys had been harmed, the treatments were stopped.

She should have sought dialysis then. But no.

When she would speak of it, the mental image I’d get would be of being stuck in some kind of iron lung for hours, or even days at a time, with no mobility, no freedom, one’s life held hostage by machines. Dialysis was the last thing she could possibly want.

I was at the doctor’s appointment the day he came and told her the bad news: that her tests showed her disease had advanced to Stage 5. I asked, “What’s the next Stage?” He answered, “There is no next Stage.” I turned to my mother in accusation and said, “Mom!”

When we got back to her house, I immediately started researching dialysis to find out if it was, in fact, as awful as she thought it was, and if at Stage 5, there was any point in pursuing it. It turned out that even at Stage 5 there was a great deal of hope, and HEY BONUS!, there’s even a way to do it in the comfort of your OWN HOME.

I told her about it and immediately signed us up for an informational seminar.

Although she tried the home dialysis, it turned out to be uncomfortable and difficult. I ended up hearing this from quite a few people who had tried this. Bummer. But, my Mom was open to going to a center, which she faithfully did for roughly the following several years.

At first, it was a revelation! While the treatment tired her out when she got home, the following day she was peppy and energized, feeling quite back to her normal self. Weekends, she could go out to dinner and the movies again, or the opera, like she used to. She had much of her old life back—or at least so it seemed, for a time. But it was just staving-off the inevitable. She was in kidney failure after all. She was already dying.

I know I already wrote a post where I spoke quite ill of my mother. We had a complicated relationship. Let me take a few moments to tell you of her talents.

She could knit, crochet, and sew amazing things. Growing up, her hands were never still. She even took sewing lessons, to learn how to make custom patterns. She made my brother’s girlfriend’s prom dress, which was this gorgeous one shoulder taffeta creation. She made needlepoint. In the evenings, during family TV time, she would pull out whatever she was working on, and I loved to watch her. I never had the talent or patience for this work. Sadly, arthritis took this away from her, along with vision problems.

She loved to write poetry. I don’t know if she had any talent for it, but she would spend hours with a legal pad and a pen, musing away late into the night. I think she shared something with me once, but I was too young to appreciate it. I prefer free-verse, anyway.

She could tell stories! Oh my, the stories of her life were so interesting! From weekends on her grandmother’s farm in Chile, to moving to New York in the 1950’s, then taking a bus trip to visit her brother in San Francisco—and getting stuck there because she ran out of money!—and taking a job as a bank teller for BofA, and, while getting the medical screening for health insurance and just by chance swallowing while the doctor was palpating her throat to discover, of all things, thyroid cancer, which back in those days involved removing half of her neck! She literally could not hold her head up for months, as they had removed not only the tumor and her thyroid, but all of the tendons and muscles on that side of her neck just to make certain they had gotten it all! It left a massive t-shaped scar along her jawline, down her neck, and across her collarbone. This was a beautiful woman in her early twenties who went on to feel deformed for the next decade. Devastating. Plus, the physical therapy involved just to hold her head up, turn her head, compensate for what was lost—just incredible. I have never been able to imagine what that must have been like for her.

Obviously she found men to love her and marry her. She created a family. She was conflicted. Perhaps she never felt worthy. She and I spoke somewhat of this, but never directly. She could only ever allude to mistakes she had made and wishing she had done things differently. Don’t we all?

This was also a woman who loved history. She adored historical novels. She could retell historical events as if she had actually been there. She could bring them to life in such a way that I think she missed her true calling as a historical author!

I will miss this cantankerous, impossible, vivacious, lovable lady. I wish you had known her. You’d have felt the same.

Confronting Death, Dying, Spiritual Cleansing and Update from Phoenix

I talk about spending time with my mother as she struggles with her last days. Her decline was much more rapid than any of us expected, and I found myself exhausted and wondering and…numb. I was glad to be there with her as I was denied the opportunity to be there with my father during his final days. Still, it’s always difficult and unexpected. I suspect each time is most likely as unique as each person, and as complex as each relationship.

Have you ever experienced the loss of a parent? Have you been there with them? Has the time enriched your life in any way, or changed you, or did it detract from your life? Let me know in the comments.

Living with C-PTSD is Like Living in Your Own Private Idaho, if by Idaho You Mean Ruining Good Things That Come Your Way


These aren’t alligator tearsThese aren’t alligator tears

These aren’t alligator tears

I’ve decided not to get out of bed today. I’m just wiped out. Too many nights in a row where Mom suddenly needs to crawl out of the bed for some reason, and if I weren’t such a light sleeper, she’d have fallen and broken something by now. That’s the last thing we need.

According to Wikipedia, C-PTSD, (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome) isn’t currently recognized by the DSM-V, which is super helpful. The page does explain how C-PTSD is distinct from PTSD, in that PTSD is generally connected to a specific triggering event, whereas C-PTSD is connected to numerous and varied events, like ongoing childhood abuse one would find in an alcoholic household—as an example. An important quote from the page states that, “Some researchers believe that C-PTSD is distinct from, but similar to, PTSD, somatization disorder, dissociative identity disorder, and borderline personality disorder.[6] Its main distinctions are a distortion of the person’s core identity and significant emotional dysregulation.”

In my case, I grew up in an unsafe environment that did involve alcohol, but not always.

There is a history of undiagnosed mental illness on both sides of my family, including depression, and probably bipolar disorder. Most days, my brothers and I never knew what would trigger an event. It could be something as insignificant as a stain on the kitchen counter that had been missed when we did our chores that afternoon, noticed upon our parents’ return home from work around 5:20 PM, that would escalate far into the evening, leaving everyone emotionally drained around 11:00 PM. Declarations of wanting to divorce the entire family would have been made at some point (by my mother), that we all had ruined her life, were making her miserable, and there would be so much incoherent yelling. Things that had been said months ago perhaps in passing would be brought up as accusations and proof of our hatred, or of our lack of moral fiber, and it would all end with everyone in tears, that we would each retreat to our separate rooms to sob and wonder. Nobody would have eaten. Homework would have been left undone.


Feeling this way at the end of 3 out of 7 days of the week was the normFeeling this way at the end of 3 out of 7 days of the week was the norm

Feeling this way at the end of 3 out of 7 days of the week was the norm

The majority of the time it was between me and my mother that these events took place, but others would be circled in should they try to defend or cry foul. Too often I’d be left on my own as it would be difficult to face the inevitable onslaught should they try, and thus they’d stay quiet in their rooms.

At these times, I’d feel the outrage and injustice on my own and destroy my bedroom, flinging the drawers from my dresser across the room and crashing items from my bookcase, pulling the bedding from my bed, and then sit in the mess, sobbing. Eventually, my father would come in to lecture me about how I must control myself to keep the peace in the house. How it was up to me to not trigger these events, because I knew how she could be; I understood how she could get in these moods. It was all up to me to make the family work smoothly.

It was my fault when it all fell apart.

I recall a specific incident before The Twins were born when my brother and I were trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table before Tante (my mother’s best friend who lived in The City) came over for dinner that night. We were already dressed for the event, and our mother was trying to vacuum the living room. We were in the way, but we were concentrating on the puzzle. We kept moving around the coffee table as we worked, thinking that we were getting enough out of her way, but apparently it wasn’t good enough for her. Our father had left the house in the family car to get some wine and dinner rolls in town, as we lived in a new development outside of town.

Mom lost it.

She started running into us with the vacuum to get us out of the way. The coffee table wasn’t substantial, being one of those “Danish-modern” styles, and she banged that around too, sending our puzzle flying, and running over pieces with the vacuum. We were terrified, and squealed and ran to the corner of the room, clinging to each other in fear.

She put up the vacuum, stomped to the master bedroom, packed a suitcase, and left the house.

To this day, I have no idea how long she was gone, or what, exactly, happened next. I think Tante came soon after, as the door was left open and we were huddled together, crying? Then my Dad came and then left, looking for my Mom, while Tante tended to us and tried to soothe us.

For a long time afterward, I remember my brother having incredible anxiety any time my parents left us alone in the car to go grocery shopping, or to run any kind of errand. This was back in the sixties, when it was common to leave the kids in the car unattended. He would always sob in terror when they would leave, and his terror would trigger mine, and we would both cry as we saw them walking away, despite them reassuring us that they’d be back soon. As such things go, I’d say this was the mildest part of what we went through, and after a few minutes, we’d make up some kind of game to amuse ourselves while they were gone.

[EDIT] My brother just stopped by to check in with me and Mom, and reminded me of another time when this happened, same circumstance, different people coming over (my Godfather and his wife), only this time Mom hopped on a bus and went all the way to Sacramento, and Dad had to spend several hours driving all the way up there to track her down and bring her back. Yikes. I’d blocked this one out. I need to point out that I’m barely three years older than The Twins, so this is very early abandonment trauma.


Goodbye Mother. Goodbye Father.Goodbye Mother. Goodbye Father.

Goodbye Mother. Goodbye Father.

There was a lot of playing us off of each other while growing up. By my mother. Playing favorites. There was a definite hierarchy of beloved-ness in our family, and I was lowest on that totem pole.

My father, on the other hand, was inaccessible and remote. I have some vague early memories of sexual abuse before The Twins were born.

So I guess I ask the world to forgive me if my thinking is off sometimes. I’m entrained to not trust what I see. I’m entrained to not believe what I hear. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because these games my Mom has played with the family didn’t end when my father shot himself in the garage in 1995.

They didn’t end when she abruptly sold the family home and moved to Phoenix in 1999.

I went through cancer treatment without the support of my mother, because she didn’t believe I had cancer at first. She thought I had made it up for attention. So I stopped speaking to her for a couple of years because I just couldn’t deal with that. And that certainly wasn’t the first time I had stopped speaking to her since moving out of the family home.

And now? Now, I sit with her at an in-patient care center, while she sleeps on the verge of a kidney-failure coma, near death, and I write what many would consider to be horrible things to write about one’s mother when one’s mother is about to die. There’s no good time to write these things. Since my cancer, I’ve decided I need to be more blunt. It’s not pretty, and it’s not nice, but it’s the truth. I’m just telling the truth. It’s the only virtue I have. It’s the only virtue that matters, when it comes to dealing with humans. Humans are very, very good at avoiding the truth.


Speaking ill of the almost dead? How dare I!Speaking ill of the almost dead? How dare I!

Speaking ill of the almost dead? How dare I!

But as for me being the person that is here, by her bedside? I hold no actual grudge toward her. She is a damaged person, who has never confronted her fears and wounds. I think she is doing so now, in her sleep; in her dreams, before she slips away. I’m holding space for her to do that and keeping her body safe while she does so. It should be me who’s here to do that. I know my damage. I know what’s there, for the most part. I’m aware that I’m a work in progress.

I do pretty well, as long as I don’t try to do romance—that area of my life is one jumbled, fucked-up trash heap that I’m still working on. It would take a Saint’s patience to get me through to the other side.

But I do fine on my own, so I think I’ll just fly solo from here on out.

Living with C-PTSD is Like Living in Your Own Private Idaho, if by Idaho You Mean Ruining Good Things That Come Your Way

I’ve decided not to get out of bed today. I’m just wiped out. Too many nights in a row where Mom suddenly needs to crawl out of the bed for some reason, and if I weren’t such a light sleeper, she’d have fallen and broken something by now. That’s the last thing we need.

According to Wikipedia, C-PTSD, (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome) isn’t currently recognized by the DSM-V, which is super helpful. The page does explain how C-PTSD is distinct from PTSD, in that PTSD is generally connected to a specific triggering event, whereas C-PTSD is connected to numerous and varied events, like ongoing childhood abuse one would find in an alcoholic household—as an example. An important quote from the page states that, “Some researchers believe that C-PTSD is distinct from, but similar to, PTSD, somatization disorder, dissociative identity disorder, and borderline personality disorder.[6] Its main distinctions are a distortion of the person’s core identity and significant emotional dysregulation.”

In my case, I grew up in an unsafe environment that did involve alcohol, but not always.

There is a history of undiagnosed mental illness on both sides of my family, including depression, and probably bipolar disorder. Most days, my brothers and I never knew what would trigger an event. It could be something as insignificant as a stain on the kitchen counter that had been missed when we did our chores that afternoon, noticed upon our parents’ return home from work around 5:20 PM, that would escalate far into the evening, leaving everyone emotionally drained around 11:00 PM. Declarations of wanting to divorce the entire family would have been made at some point (by my mother), that we all had ruined her life, were making her miserable, and there would be so much incoherent yelling. Things that had been said months ago perhaps in passing would be brought up as accusations and proof of our hatred, or of our lack of moral fiber, and it would all end with everyone in tears, that we would each retreat to our separate rooms to sob and wonder. Nobody would have eaten. Homework would have been left undone.

Feeling this way at the end of 3 out of 7 days of the week was the norm

The majority of the time it was between me and my mother that these events took place, but others would be circled in should they try to defend or cry foul. Too often I’d be left on my own as it would be difficult to face the inevitable onslaught should they try, and thus they’d stay quiet in their rooms.

At these times, I’d feel the outrage and injustice on my own and destroy my bedroom, flinging the drawers from my dresser across the room and crashing items from my bookcase, pulling the bedding from my bed, and then sit in the mess, sobbing. Eventually, my father would come in to lecture me about how I must control myself to keep the peace in the house. How it was up to me to not trigger these events, because I knew how she could be; I understood how she could get in these moods. It was all up to me to make the family work smoothly.

It was my fault when it all fell apart.

I recall a specific incident before The Twins were born when my brother and I were trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table before Tante (my mother’s best friend who lived in The City) came over for dinner that night. We were already dressed for the event, and our mother was trying to vacuum the living room. We were in the way, but we were concentrating on the puzzle. We kept moving around the coffee table as we worked, thinking that we were getting enough out of her way, but apparently it wasn’t good enough for her. Our father had left the house in the family car to get some wine and dinner rolls in town, as we lived in a new development outside of town.

Mom lost it.

She started running into us with the vacuum to get us out of the way. The coffee table wasn’t substantial, being one of those “Danish-modern” styles, and she banged that around too, sending our puzzle flying, and running over pieces with the vacuum. We were terrified, and squealed and ran to the corner of the room, clinging to each other in fear.

She put up the vacuum, stomped to the master bedroom, packed a suitcase, and left the house.
To this day, I have no idea how long she was gone, or what, exactly, happened next. I think Tante came soon after, as the door was left open and we were huddled together, crying? Then my Dad came and then left, looking for my Mom, while Tante tended to us and tried to soothe us.

For a long time afterward, I remember my brother having incredible anxiety any time my parents left us alone in the car to go grocery shopping, or to run any kind of errand. This was back in the sixties, when it was common to leave the kids in the car unattended. He would always sob in terror when they would leave, and his terror would trigger mine, and we would both cry as we saw them walking away, despite them reassuring us that they’d be back soon. As such things go, I’d say this was the mildest part of what we went through, and after a few minutes, we’d make up some kind of game to amuse ourselves while they were gone.

[EDIT] My brother just stopped by to check in with me and Mom, and reminded me of another time when this happened, same circumstance, different people coming over (my Godfather and his wife), only this time Mom hopped on a bus and went all the way to Sacramento, and Dad had to spend several hours driving all the way up there to track her down and bring her back. Yikes. I’d blocked this one out. I need to point out that I’m barely three years older than The Twins, so this is very early abandonment trauma.

Goodbye Mother. Goodbye Father.

There was a lot of playing us off of each other while growing up. By my mother. Playing favorites. There was a definite hierarchy of beloved-ness in our family, and I was lowest on that totem pole.

My father, on the other hand, was inaccessible and remote. I have some vague early memories of sexual abuse before The Twins were born.

So I guess I ask the world to forgive me if my thinking is off sometimes. I’m entrained to not trust what I see. I’m entrained to not believe what I hear. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because these games my Mom has played with the family didn’t end when my father shot himself in the garage in 1995.

They didn’t end when she abruptly sold the family home and moved to Phoenix in 1999.

I went through cancer treatment without the support of my mother, because she didn’t believe I had cancer at first. She thought I had made it up for attention. So I stopped speaking to her for a couple of years because I just couldn’t deal with that. And that certainly wasn’t the first time I had stopped speaking to her since moving out of the family home.

And now? Now, I sit with her at an in-patient care center, while she sleeps on the verge of a kidney-failure coma, near death, and I write what many would consider to be horrible things to write about one’s mother when one’s mother is about to die. There’s no good time to write these things. Since my cancer, I’ve decided I need to be more blunt. It’s not pretty, and it’s not nice, but it’s the truth. I’m just telling the truth. It’s the only virtue I have. It’s the only virtue that matters, when it comes to dealing with humans. Humans are very, very good at avoiding the truth.

Speaking ill of the almost dead? How dare I!

But as for me being the person that is here, by her bedside? I hold no actual grudge toward her. She is a damaged person, who has never confronted her fears and wounds. I think she is doing so now, in her sleep; in her dreams, before she slips away. I’m holding space for her to do that and keeping her body safe while she does so. It should be me who’s here to do that. I know my damage. I know what’s there, for the most part. I’m aware that I’m a work in progress.

I do pretty well, as long as I don’t try to do romance—that area of my life is one jumbled, fucked-up trash heap that I’m still working on. It would take a Saint’s patience to get me through to the other side.

But I do fine on my own, so I think I’ll just fly solo from here on out.

Vloggy Check-In and Can You Believe?


Yes, CAN, I am SQUISHING YOUR HEAD!Yes, CAN, I am SQUISHING YOUR HEAD!

Yes, CAN, I am SQUISHING YOUR HEAD!

Just a quick note to say hello, while I spend the day in bed with a fibro flare, plus I got that can of finishing wax I was waiting for and had a shock when I saw it!

Vloggy Check-In and Can You Believe?

Yes, CAN, I am SQUISHING YOUR HEAD!

Just a quick note to say hello, while I spend the day in bed with a fibro flare, plus I got that can of finishing wax I was waiting for and had a shock when I saw it!

Vloggy Vlog: Sour Jars, Updates, & A New Project!


It's been a hot minute since I've uploaded a videoIt's been a hot minute since I've uploaded a video

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve uploaded a video

So check out this video where I discuss the latest doings of my life and an interesting new project I’m about to embark upon—I’m really excited about it and plan to vlog about it so I hope you’ll join me on the journey. I expect to get started on that around the end of the month.

Vloggy Vlog: Sour Jars, Updates, & A New Project!

Check out my most recent video where I discuss the latest doings of my life and an interesting new project I’m about to embark upon—I’m really excited about this one and plan to vlog about it so I hope you’ll join me on the journey. I expect to get started on that around the end of the month.

How Was Your Day?


howwas2.jpghowwas2.jpg

Self to Self: How was your day?
Self to Self: Oh, okay I guess.
Self to Self: What’s wrong?
Self to Self: Nothing, really. I actually felt a bit better today than I have for the past few days.
Self to Self: Well, that’s good!
Self to Self: Sure.
Self to Self: Yeah. I managed to get a few things done. I still have to pace myself.
Self to Self: Well, we know that’s always going to be the case.
Self to Self: Yeah.
Self to Self: Yeah.
Self to Self: So, what did you do?
Self to Self: Well, I’ve wanted to get the patio a bit tidied up. It’s never been a space we can actually use—it’s always too hot, plus the squirrels have taken over. I need to move all the bird feeders to the front of the house, but that will mean taking out the big ladder, and I have to wait for a day when I feel strong enough to do that and my balance isn’t all wonky.
Self to Self: Right. Isn’t there something you can do about the squirrels?
Self to Self: At the moment, all I can seem to do is keep the feeders in hard-to-reach places and put a heavy layer of gravel over the tops of my potted plants.
Self to Self: Wow. That must be frustrating. I know how much you enjoy gardening.
Self to Self: It is. They’re cute little bastards. I picked up a gorgeous dwarf date palm and a potted grass plant for the back and swept that patio for what felt like the hundredth time this week. I also have a bunch of flowers I need to get out of their grower’s pots for the front, but all I’ve been able to do is water them since I got them. I find planting satisfying but very physical work.
Self to Self: Again, pacing yourself is okay.
Self to Self: But we just had a heatwave and I skipped two days of watering. They’re mostly hydrangeas, and even though they were pretty much shaded, they didn’t do well at all. I feel terrible when this happens because plants are helpless and rely upon on us completely. I also have a petunia dish garden I need to remake, and I’ll be adding lobelias to it. I love their electric blue color. I hope I can do it tomorrow…
Self to Self: Whatever happens, it will be fine.
Self to Self: I’m sure you’re right.

How Was Your Day?

Self to Self: How was your day?
Self to Self: Oh, okay I guess.
Self to Self: What’s wrong?
Self to Self: Nothing, really. I actually felt a bit better today than I have for the past few days.
Self to Self: Well, that’s good!
Self to Self: Sure.
Self to Self: Yeah. I managed to get a few things done. I still have to pace myself.
Self to Self: Well, we know that’s always going to be the case.
Self to Self: Yeah.
Self to Self: Yeah.
Self to Self: So, what did you do?
Self to Self: Well, I’ve wanted to get the patio a bit tidied up. It’s never been a space we can actually use—it’s always too hot, plus the squirrels have taken over. I need to move all the bird feeders to the front of the house, but that will mean taking out the big ladder, and I have to wait for a day when I feel strong enough to do that and my balance isn’t all wonky.
Self to Self: Right. Isn’t there something you can do about the squirrels?
Self to Self: At the moment, all I can seem to do is keep the feeders in hard-to-reach places and put a heavy layer of gravel over the tops of my potted plants.
Self to Self: Wow. That must be frustrating. I know how much you enjoy gardening.
Self to Self: It is. They’re cute little bastards. I picked up a gorgeous dwarf date palm and a potted grass plant for the back and swept that patio for what felt like the hundredth time this week. I also have a bunch of flowers I need to get out of their grower’s pots for the front, but all I’ve been able to do is water them since I got them. I find planting satisfying but very physical work.
Self to Self: Again, pacing yourself is okay.
Self to Self: But we just had a heatwave and I skipped two days of watering. They’re mostly hydrangeas, and even though they were pretty much shaded, they didn’t do well at all. I feel terrible when this happens because plants are helpless and rely upon on us completely. I also have a petunia dish garden I need to remake, and I’ll be adding lobelias to it. I love their electric blue color. I hope I can do it tomorrow…
Self to Self: Whatever happens, it will be fine.
Self to Self: I’m sure you’re right.

The Heartbreak of Silence


pexels-photo-2865901.jpegpexels-photo-2865901.jpeg


Plants feel anguish tooPlants feel anguish too

Plants feel anguish too

It’s been a few months of “lockdown” now, and infection rates continue to rise due to so many people in the USA not understanding (or caring) how infection spreads. Until it touches them personally, they simply won’t learn. For those of us who have been taking the isolation seriously, it’s especially hard, as our isolation often feels meaningless against the actions of these louts who care not one whit for the lives of others and simply go about their day as if they’ll live forever and The Invisible Man In The Sky actually cares about them who care nothing for anyone else.

How does that parse, logically? Do these people truly think they’ll be “saved” when the Second Coming finally happens? Why would they be? Even according to their own scripture they’re the most horrible people in existence. There couldn’t possibly be room in Heaven for these detestable souls.

Those of us who are sincerely trying to not only flatten the curve, but to stay healthy through this pandemic, some of us are starting to show the signs of stress due to the extended isolation from our normal activities. I’m not speaking of myself so much here, as I’m a dyed-in-the-wool homebody and the types of places I wish I could go and hang out just don’t exist. When I first moved to Silicon Valley in the mid-90’s, I had it as a goal to create some kind of artist’s shared workspace, but the more I’d seen about this place, the less it seemed any kind of likely proposition unless it could’ve made $$$BIG$$MONEY$$$. And that didn’t jibe with its purpose at all. It would’ve been more of a creative incubator, a think tank, if you will, but it would’ve taken scads of cash to keep it operational, and I didn’t see myself as CEO of a non-profit having to constantly hold fundraisers and beg for money. Boo.

So, there’s that.

I live in the wrong area to make this happen. Maybe somewhere in Europe, like Berlin, which has a thriving arts community and is still strong in economy. London wouldn’t work, as they’re very tightfisted and have been going the way of the US since the days of Tony Blair. Well, earlier, obviously, but even the “extremely liberal” Tony Blair was very conservative when it came to economy and very hawkish when it came to warmongering (like Obama, which folks tend to forget due to all the genuinely great things he managed to enact in this country).

But I digress, as usual.

I’m writing this post because there were squirrels having breakfast on my porch when I went to go water the plants this morning. I opened the front door very gently, which is what I’ve learned to do in order not to scare any of the local fauna away, and, sure enough, two grey squirrels stood up on their hind legs somewhat guiltily and looked up at me in case I was ready to chase them away. I spoke very quietly and said that it was okay for them to eat, and they went right back to it. I took a bit of a video from my phone which I’ll try to add to this post somehow—though that tends to require three different apps to translate the file to the right format. That doesn’t seem right to me. Whatevs.

Getting back to the actual title of the post, I recently experienced a strange kind of setback that took me by surprise. I’ve been doing pretty well, all things considered. I’m a natural homebody, so the having to stay at home thing works for me. I don’t have many friends, so there’s not been much to miss there. I think I mentioned recently that it has stung that my brother and my daughter have had people to FaceTime with, wishing there was a friend in my life that was close enough to want to stay in touch with me regularly. The friendships I do have are all online and managed easily through social media interactions. Translation: a virtual “like”, “heart”, “hug”, or the seldom-used “comment” have transplanted any IRL friendship. As far as I’m concerned, the friendships are as real as they ever were. Make of that what you will.

The true friends of people with the Mediator personality type tend to be few and far between, but those that make the cut are often friends for life. The challenge is the many dualities that this type harbors when it comes to being sociable—Mediators crave the depth of mutual human understanding, but tire easily in social situations; they are excellent at reading into others’ feelings and motivations, but are often unwilling to provide others the same insight into themselves—it’s as though Mediators like the idea of human contact, but not the reality of social contact

This is what 16 Personalities has to say about my type

I was recently contacted out of the blue by someone I’d dated decades ago. I don’t really know why this person reached out to me, and though I asked, the reason they gave me felt flimsy. Nevertheless, we quickly fell into a pattern of speaking regularly on the phone, something I haven’t done since I switched over to an iPhone in 2012. I love my iPhone, and will never switch back to another platform, but its being an actual telephone has never been its strong suit, so I have become big on texting and social media interactions. Mostly texting, if it’s a person I actually want to be in regular contact with. Speaking on the phone felt novel and exciting again, and I felt on par with my family/roommates, with their regular outside contact (though no FaceTiming for me, sadly).

Always being one to question and wonder and dig into motives, after several days of this (perhaps more like a couple of weeks) I found myself asking this person if they were trying to qualify me as a potential future companion. The answer I received was an embarrassingly long string of the word “No”, with various emphases. Something like, “No, no, no, no, no…NO, NO, no, no, no…oh, God, no…”

I think a simple, “You misunderstand why I contacted you”, or, “Gosh, I’m sorry, but that’s not what I meant”, or, just one simple, “No” would have sufficed.

So that happened.

It’s not as though I’m seeking anything in particular. I’m not. I’m content. During my cancer treatment, I realized that I’d made a miscalculation by choosing to be single, as doing cancer without a companion is truly hard, but I managed somehow. I didn’t have a partner, but I did have my daughter, and one of my brothers was around as well, though he was incredibly busy. I spent a lot of my time in the hospital, anyway, so I guess the extra help I needed when things got really bad was there when I needed it. I didn’t get any visitors, save for when my brother came once after when they tried to clear my small bowel obstruction the first time, and it was such a nice surprise to see him there when I was so sore and could barely move. And my daughter visited me 2 or 3 times and even stayed with me when they thought I had a pulmonary embolism(!). It was a bit harder for her because she doesn’t drive and she had to take several buses to get to the hospital, but her presence was very welcome.


Yeah, not quite like this guy, but contentYeah, not quite like this guy, but content

Yeah, not quite like this guy, but content

Anyway, I’m pretty content. I’ve made myself be content. This is my life. I know I want to live. I have relationships with my plants, and I talk to them whenever I see them, water them, trim them back—and when I do have to trim them back I make sure to acknowledge the pain that must cause them, but I reassure them that it’s needful because this unhealthy part is taking energy away from the rest of the plant and they will feel so much stronger when it’s gone, and of course I apologize for having to do this thing to them.

Oh, I’ve also started to apologize to any bugs I end up having to kill due to their breaking my rule of not having any bugs in the house. I try to have that rule as a vibration that permeates the space, but sometimes they don’t get the memo and come on in. I’m not okay with taking a life, even a buggy one, so I always tell them how sorry I am about it. There are the rare times it’s possible to relocate them to the outside, where they are welcome, but like I said, it’s rare.

This is one of those coffee-and-scones posts, where you think you’re getting one thing, but I give you a platterful of ALL THE THINGS, so you need to sit down with coffee and a plate of scones just to get through it all.

Back to the heartbreak of silence…after that extremely vocal rejection, which I supposed should have been expected. (I mean, how else could one respond, really?) There followed a series of days of no calls. Radio silence. Huh. Our conversation hadn’t exactly ended on that awkward point, we had talked a bit more and ended on the more usual and banal, “talk to you soon”. I didn’t expect it to be the next day, or the next, as I knew I’d made things weird. This is typical for me, as I feel as though I see things as they are and I say so. Kind of in a Naked Emperor way, if you will. But the days dragged on, and it made me wonder: was this person feeling as though I had exposed them? What was so impossibly embarrassing about me thinking this that they had to cut off all contact? True or not, why would they just not call any more at all, when we’d been talking every day, sometimes several times a day, prior to this happening?

It made no sense. And it made me feel terribly sad.

The Heartbreak of Silence

Plants feel anguish too

It’s been a few months of “lockdown” now, and infection rates continue to rise due to so many people in the USA not understanding (or caring) how infection spreads. Until it touches them personally, they simply won’t learn. For those of us who have been taking the isolation seriously, it’s especially hard, as our isolation often feels meaningless against the actions of these louts who care not one whit for the lives of others and simply go about their day as if they’ll live forever and The Invisible Man In The Sky actually cares about them who care nothing for anyone else.

How does that parse, logically? Do these people truly think they’ll be “saved” when the Second Coming finally happens? Why would they be? Even according to their own scripture they’re the most horrible people in existence. There couldn’t possibly be room in Heaven for these detestable souls.

Those of us who are sincerely trying to not only flatten the curve, but to stay healthy through this pandemic, some of us are starting to show the signs of stress due to the extended isolation from our normal activities. I’m not speaking of myself so much here, as I’m a dyed-in-the-wool homebody and the types of places I wish I could go and hang out just don’t exist. When I first moved to Silicon Valley in the mid-90’s, I had it as a goal to create some kind of artist’s shared workspace, but the more I’d seen about this place, the less it seemed any kind of likely proposition unless it could’ve made $$$BIG$$MONEY$$$. And that didn’t jibe with its purpose at all. It would’ve been more of a creative incubator, a think tank, if you will, but it would’ve taken scads of cash to keep it operational, and I didn’t see myself as CEO of a non-profit having to constantly hold fundraisers and beg for money. Boo.

So, there’s that.

I live in the wrong area to make this happen. Maybe somewhere in Europe, like Berlin, which has a thriving arts community and is still strong in economy. London wouldn’t work, as they’re very tightfisted and have been going the way of the US since the days of Tony Blair. Well, earlier, obviously, but even the “extremely liberal” Tony Blair was very conservative when it came to economy and very hawkish when it came to warmongering (like Obama, which folks tend to forget due to all the genuinely great things he managed to enact in this country).

But I digress, as usual.

I’m writing this post because there were squirrels having breakfast on my porch when I went to go water the plants this morning. I opened the front door very gently, which is what I’ve learned to do in order not to scare any of the local fauna away, and, sure enough, two grey squirrels stood up on their hind legs somewhat guiltily and looked up at me in case I was ready to chase them away. I spoke very quietly and said that it was okay for them to eat, and they went right back to it. I took a bit of a video from my phone which I’ll try to add to this post somehow—though that tends to require three different apps to translate the file to the right format. That doesn’t seem right to me. Whatevs.

Getting back to the actual title of the post, I recently experienced a strange kind of setback that took me by surprise. I’ve been doing pretty well, all things considered. I’m a natural homebody, so the having to stay at home thing works for me. I don’t have many friends, so there’s not been much to miss there. I think I mentioned recently that it has stung that my brother and my daughter have had people to FaceTime with, wishing there was a friend in my life that was close enough to want to stay in touch with me regularly. The friendships I do have are all online and managed easily through social media interactions. Translation: a virtual “like”, “heart”, “hug”, or the seldom-used “comment” have transplanted any IRL friendship. As far as I’m concerned, the friendships are as real as they ever were. Make of that what you will.

The true friends of people with the Mediator personality type tend to be few and far between, but those that make the cut are often friends for life. The challenge is the many dualities that this type harbors when it comes to being sociable—Mediators crave the depth of mutual human understanding, but tire easily in social situations; they are excellent at reading into others’ feelings and motivations, but are often unwilling to provide others the same insight into themselves—it’s as though Mediators like the idea of human contact, but not the reality of social contact

This is what 16 Personalities has to say about my type

I was recently contacted out of the blue by someone I’d dated decades ago. I don’t really know why this person reached out to me, and though I asked, the reason they gave me felt flimsy. Nevertheless, we quickly fell into a pattern of speaking regularly on the phone, something I haven’t done since I switched over to an iPhone in 2012. I love my iPhone, and will never switch back to another platform, but its being an actual telephone has never been its strong suit, so I have become big on texting and social media interactions. Mostly texting, if it’s a person I actually want to be in regular contact with. Speaking on the phone felt novel and exciting again, and I felt on par with my family/roommates, with their regular outside contact (though no FaceTiming for me, sadly).

Always being one to question and wonder and dig into motives, after several days of this (perhaps more like a couple of weeks) I found myself asking this person if they were trying to qualify me as a potential future companion. The answer I received was an embarrassingly long string of the word “No”, with various emphases. Something like, “No, no, no, no, no…NO, NO, no, no, no…oh, God, no…”

I think a simple, “You misunderstand why I contacted you”, or, “Gosh, I’m sorry, but that’s not what I meant”, or, just one simple, “No” would have sufficed.

So that happened.

It’s not as though I’m seeking anything in particular. I’m not. I’m content. During my cancer treatment, I realized that I’d made a miscalculation by choosing to be single, as doing cancer without a companion is truly hard, but I managed somehow. I didn’t have a partner, but I did have my daughter, and one of my brothers was around as well, though he was incredibly busy. I spent a lot of my time in the hospital, anyway, so I guess the extra help I needed when things got really bad was there when I needed it. I didn’t get any visitors, save for when my brother came once after when they tried to clear my small bowel obstruction the first time, and it was such a nice surprise to see him there when I was so sore and could barely move. And my daughter visited me 2 or 3 times and even stayed with me when they thought I had a pulmonary embolism(!). It was a bit harder for her because she doesn’t drive and she had to take several buses to get to the hospital, but her presence was very welcome.

Yeah, not quite like this guy, but content

Anyway, I’m pretty content. I’ve made myself be content. This is my life. I know I want to live. I have relationships with my plants, and I talk to them whenever I see them, water them, trim them back—and when I do have to trim them back I make sure to acknowledge the pain that must cause them, but I reassure them that it’s needful because this unhealthy part is taking energy away from the rest of the plant and they will feel so much stronger when it’s gone, and of course I apologize for having to do this thing to them.

Oh, I’ve also started to apologize to any bugs I end up having to kill due to their breaking my rule of not having any bugs in the house. I try to have that rule as a vibration that permeates the space, but sometimes they don’t get the memo and come on in. I’m not okay with taking a life, even a buggy one, so I always tell them how sorry I am about it. There are the rare times it’s possible to relocate them to the outside, where they are welcome, but like I said, it’s rare.

This is one of those coffee-and-scones posts, where you think you’re getting one thing, but I give you a platterful of ALL THE THINGS, so you need to sit down with coffee and a plate of scones just to get through it all.

Back to the heartbreak of silence…after that extremely vocal rejection, which I supposed should have been expected. (I mean, how else could one respond, really?) There followed a series of days of no calls. Radio silence. Huh. Our conversation hadn’t exactly ended on that awkward point, we had talked a bit more and ended on the more usual and banal, “talk to you soon”. I didn’t expect it to be the next day, or the next, as I knew I’d made things weird. This is typical for me, as I feel as though I see things as they are and I say so. Kind of in a Naked Emperor way, if you will. But the days dragged on, and it made me wonder: was this person feeling as though I had exposed them? What was so impossibly embarrassing about me thinking this that they had to cut off all contact? True or not, why would they just not call any more at all, when we’d been talking every day, sometimes several times a day, prior to this happening?

It made no sense. And it made me feel terribly sad.

My Strange Week of Pain


pexels-photo-3807730.jpegpexels-photo-3807730.jpeg


I'll put it on my calendarI'll put it on my calendar

I’ll put it on my calendar

I’ve had this pattern ever since my cancer surgery back in the summer of 2017, where I get this terrible cramping that intensifies over the course of about 10 days, to the point where I’m really suffering and can’t stand the act of sitting up—until I can barely stay off the toilet for a day or two. In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I had colorectal cancer, and my tumor was at the very base of my sigmoid colon. That’s where the cramping is focused, but it emanates outward from there, and ends up involving my entire abdomen. The build-up to the last day is excruciating, as if I had some kind of mondo-awful food poisoning, but then it starts to fade back and become manageable.

Opioids don’t help, as I seem to have the kind of metabolism that’s resistant to such drugs and am only susceptible to The Strongest One: Dilaudid. And taking it orally doesn’t do nearly as much as taking it via IV at the hospital, so I just don’t bother. All the various kinds of norco, oxy, and morphine I’ve tried just do zilch, and it’s just as well. There’s nothing sadder than a middle-aged junkie.


It's called "practicing" medicine for a reasonIt's called "practicing" medicine for a reason

It’s called “practicing” medicine for a reason

So instead, my pharmacology has focused on drugs to try and control the spasming: various anti-siezure medications, muscle relaxant, along with the anti-depressants and an anti-anxiety meds to help me with my other issues that may or may not be related to my misadventures with cancer and cancer treatment+its aftermath.

Nothing seems to have worked that well. The majority of it is about powering through as best I can, and since I really can’t that well, I’m officially disabled for the rest of my life. Boo. Even this, I had to fight the Social Security Administration over for nearly 3 years.

It’s both a relief and a drag.

My Strange Week of Pain

I’ll put it on my calendar

I’ve had this pattern ever since my cancer surgery back in the summer of 2017, where I get this terrible cramping that intensifies over the course of about 10 days, to the point where I’m really suffering and can’t stand the act of sitting up—until I can barely stay off the toilet for a day or two. In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I had colorectal cancer, and my tumor was at the very base of my sigmoid colon. That’s where the cramping is focused, but it emanates outward from there, and ends up involving my entire abdomen. The build-up to the last day is excruciating, as if I had some kind of mondo-awful food poisoning, but then it starts to fade back and become manageable.

Opioids don’t help, as I seem to have the kind of metabolism that’s resistant to such drugs and am only susceptible to The Strongest One: Dilaudid. And taking it orally doesn’t do nearly as much as taking it via IV at the hospital, so I just don’t bother. All the various kinds of norco, oxy, and morphine I’ve tried just do zilch, and it’s just as well. There’s nothing sadder than a middle-aged junkie.

It’s called “practicing” medicine for a reason

So instead, my pharmacology has focused on drugs to try and control the spasming: various anti-siezure medications, muscle relaxant, along with the anti-depressants and an anti-anxiety meds to help me with my other issues that may or may not be related to my misadventures with cancer and cancer treatment+its aftermath.

Nothing seems to have worked that well. The majority of it is about powering through as best I can, and since I really can’t that well, I’m officially disabled for the rest of my life. Boo. Even this, I had to fight the Social Security Administration over for nearly 3 years.

It’s both a relief and a drag.

Another Heat Advisory

If that’s what I wanted I’d go to the sauna, thankyouverymuch
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

I’ve never liked the heat

This is the second heat advisory we’ve had this year, and it’s not even summer yet. We had quite a cold winter, and we actually had a pretty cold spring for the most part. I’ve been hoping that would lead into a mild summer. Maybe it will, overall, but right now it’s very humid and hot, and there’s no air conditioning where I live.

Most of the homes in my area were built without A/C. We’ve typically not needed it, as we are close to the coast and get a nice, cooling fog every evening. It’s thicker in the hot months, having to do with the Central Valley of California getting roasting hot during the day in summer, and when the sun sets the land gives off this tremendous heat, sucking up the cooler air from the ocean through the small passes of the SF Bay Area, creating loads of wind and bringing offshore fog with it. I’m not trained in the subject, it’s just my observation based on having lived here all my life.

Are u a thirsty boi?
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

Even the insects are having a hard time

I’ve mentioned before that I’m a bit of a gardener. I’m not great at it, but I do enjoy it. I always have. I learned how to take care of plants in general from the first of several jobs I had working for an indoor plant rental/maintenance company, along with any gardening I watched my dad do in his very nice gardens, especially his roses. What I do know, is that most plants are shockingly easy to care for, as long as you give it the right soil, the right amount of sun, and the right amount of water. When plants are healthy and strong, they typically can fend off any pests or disease.

This pretty much sums it up
Photo by Akil Mazumder on Pexels.com

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that a certain big retailer doesn’t take very good care of its inventory. The last several plants I purchased from them came with earwigs—lots of earwigs. I’ve never had earwigs in my garden before, but now they’re all over the place. I have two of the new plants I still need to re-pot, but I need to handle the earwig situation first, because every time I pick up one of the plants, I find a host of the little buggers hiding underneath, trying to keep cool in the moist.

While we’re on the subject, I’m also dealing with cockroaches. I know, ew. This time I’ve attracted these lovelies due to the fact that I put birdseed out on the ground for the mourning doves and towhees that come by. They’re too large to perch on the feeders, and they aren’t perching feeders, anyway. The finches are super messy, too. They literally push the seeds aside vigorously to find the ones they want, so I end up with a huge mess on the ground either way.

I found a cockroach in my bathroom today. This is the first time I’ve ever had to deal with a cockroach inside my home. I felt violated and disgusted. I’m a clean person, and pay special attention to my kitchen and bathroom. After hitting that sucker a few times with the toilet brush and knocking it senseless, I picked it up with a tissue and flushed it down the toilet. At that point the only thing to do was to torch the entire place with a flamethrower.

This is obviously the correct way to handle any sort of nasty situation

Lacking this equipment, I did the next best thing and brought out the bottle of liquid bleach.

Dear Diary, Feeling particularly empty today…maybe it’s just COVID blues?

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of using hand sanitizer everywhere I go; having to wear a mask every time I go out; having to disinfect my shoes and purchases every time I come in…being constantly vigilant in order to not become ill or to (gasp!) become a carrier.

I suppose it’s bad enough that I have no friends, other than a handful of very nice people that have incredibly busy lives. It’s tough to make new friends at my age. Making friends is a commitment. It’s a thing you nurture with time and deliberation. By the time one is in one’s middle age, the difficulty lies in having a set life: friends and family routines are usually solidified now and adding someone new might not be welcome. If it is, there can simply be the difficulties of scheduling.

Busy, busy, busy!

I have attachment issues as part of my mental and emotional difficulties (along with clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder), so this is extra challenging for me. It’s hard for me to remain logical and understanding of these difficulties when they arise. I always think it’s something I’ve done. Sometimes it is something I’ve done, and I never get to find out what that is. I just get cut off—no more invitations to a person’s events, no more contact, nothing. Ghosted.

So there’s that, too.

It’s not like I’m a “square peg” exactly, but I’m clearly “different”

My most recent ones are fairly recent: one of them happened a few months before I found out I had cancer, and the second one while I was undergoing cancer treatment. Mentioning this, it must sound as though the fact I was suffering from cancer I should not have had to also suffer friendship loss, but what I actually mean to do is simply recall the timing in my life; on my personal roadmap. It’s possible I could mean both. When I connect the dots and timing, both of them stem from comments I made concerning what comes off as my brutal honesty, though if these people were really my friends in the first place these comments should not have had this result.

I do love them. I always have.

And for the one person, I have to say to myself, “Good riddance!”, since that was apparently a fake friendship based on some sort of fantasy the person had about me for many years. I’ve lost what little respect I had for them entirely, as they have no principles. Yuck. As for the other, it seems to me they contradicted themselves in their actions versus their earliest words to me, and I again have to decide it’s okay to let our paths diverge.

Not that any of this means anything at this moment in time, what with social distancing in effect for who knows how much longer. And now, there’s also a curfew. Not that I needed or wanted to go out all that much, but having the right to do so taken away from me makes me bridle. It doesn’t matter whether or not there’s a “good reason” for these things. This is how I feel, and feelings don’t operate within the boundaries of logic. That’s the point of feelings.

Nobody knows the true me