Cleaning up the joint!

I live in this little, teeny, tiny 'town,' which is more accurately described as a place where a bunch of people built a bunch of houses a hundred years ago (yes, on a dune,) so that they would have a workforce that didn't have any excuse for not showing up to the mill on time. I live in a former company town. The local industrial history is a story for another time, but there is a story there, so remind me about that one later, gentle readers.

Anyhow, this teeny tiny company town had been pretty much derelict and neglected by the property managers or owners or whoever until a local group of property developers, builders and managers bought the whole town, kit and kaboodle. They got rid of (most of) the meth kitchens and pot grows, fixed up the houses so that they could be habitable, and started renting them out, with an eye toward building more housing, and a business park, as well as a park. Yay, rescuing historical places! The neat thing is that they have educated their workforce on historical restoration, and have been working toward fixing up the whole town. Which is a slow-going process. And in the meantime, the economy kind of took a nosedive. I don't know what this means for their long-term plans, but we are getting off on a tangent.

So, my street. When we moved in, we thought that the neighbors were a little bit on the crazy side, but after clicking around on YouTube, I have decided that my neighbors are complete angels. (There are some real assholes out there, and they don't live next door to me. Thanks be to the Flying Spaghetti Monster.) Then the Young Bucks moved in at the top of my street. Some of the Young Bucks have ladies and babies running around (two of the ladies were engaged in fisticuffs the other day), but they all want to hang out with their cheap beer and naked babies in the middle of the road. The narrow, one-way road. Thanks, neighbors. The Young Bucks have a couple of cars that I am pretty certain are non-op, hanging out, full of junk, in their driveways. Their beer-can collection is in the front of the house. And, it's the first thing folks see when they come to my house. Thanks, neighbors, for that first impression of blight-ishness. That's priceless.

So, the other day, I got a form letter from the property management company, telling the tenants that, hey, dudes, there's a bunch of junk and stuff lying around, so ya'll had better get that shit taken care of, or we'll take care of it, and charge the lazy jerkwads for the trouble. (I may be paraphrasing.) This letter made my little heart sing. The abandoned vehicles? Getting towed! The funky yards? Getting mowed! The crazy amount of toys cluttering up the street? Getting stowed!

Now, if they would just finish painting the house that they had started on before I moved out here. Two years ago.

Alrighty, it's time for me to do nighttime stuff. Like sleeping.
Bon nuit, mes petites choux.

issues

I totally have body issues. I'll own that completely. It seems that I always have, and sometimes it seems that I always will.

For most of my adolescent and adult life, I have been overweight, and ranging from a bit of the chub to oh lord, don't take my photo, ever. Right out of high school I was working at a very active job, and was on the poor college student diet, so bam! Lost a bunch of weight. As soon as I moved on from that, bam! It all came back. And brought friends.

So, I've been stewing with my body-shame for a while. Until rather recently. When I said 'fuck it.'

These are my issues. They belong to me, they are part of me, but they aren't all of me. So, fuck 'em. I decided that I was the only one who got to decide when I would feel shame, and I decided that I don't want to feel shame over how I am shaped.

Not that I am sitting on the couch and eating giant terrible hamburgers all day. (Though, how awesome would a giant, juicy burger with mushrooms and bacon be, right about now? Completely awesome. But all my ground beef is frozen, so it will have to wait.) I run in the mornings, and I decide if I am bored or hungry when I think I want to eat something.

I've had such a weird relationship with food (in that I love food, and it loves me, and makes sure that there is more of me to love)--food is my comfort when I'm sad or lonely or unsure; food is my punishment when I've done something wrong or embarrassing; food is my reward when it's been a tough day, or week, or hour, or minute; and food is my food--keeps me alive. I just have to break up with food. I've made this claim before, but like the Fat Girl Syndrome (when a Fat Girl dates anyone who really isn't worthy of her awesomeness, the reason not to leave them goes as follows: but I'm fat, therefore I am not worthy of someone as attractive/cool/desirable as this; where will I ever find someone who is willing to date a Fat Girl such as I?) I have a terrible time leaving food. Little by little, I've put some distance between the two of us: I don't drink sodas; I don't keep sweets in the house, and when I bake some, I share with friends and don't bake too often; and I try not to use food as a reward. That's where beer comes in. Also, SHUT UP I KNOW ABOUT THE CALORIES IN BEER, BUT LET ME HAVE MY BEER. THE WORLD WILL COLLAPSE IF I DON'T GET TO HAVE BEER IN MY LIFE.

I've also changed up my habits--at work, I use the bathroom on the floor above me, instead of the bathroom that is right outside my office, and biggest of all, I've been running in my neighborhood most weekday mornings. Which means getting up super early, and getting outside. Recently, I've changed my route--I've made it a bit longer, and when I finally am running up the last stupid hill of my stupid run that is stupid, I am usually asking myself why in the world did I think that was a good idea? Running is hard. Life is hard. Things worth doing are hard.

I've been running for about a year, but with weeks here and there where I skipped the morning run. I've been breaking up with food for about six months, or so. I detail this because I want to be clear that this isn't a 'I just started this stuff, and let me tell you about something that will just fizzle out ' thing.

I did add a new component. Nearly naked photos. No, I am not posting them here, and no, you may not see them. Not now.

What I am doing is taking a photo of myself in the bathroom mirror, neck down, in my bra and panties. I am posting them to a private blog, so that I can keep a record. Hopefully, so I can say goodbye to all that fat without Adipose. (WINK) I may decide to make that blog public, but not right now.

These are things that I just started doing, really, because I have taken ownership of my issues. Yes, I have issues, but their mine, goddammit, and I'll make them work for me.

Also, I am going to go onstage in a trash-fashion show. I don't do onstage stuff. That's right, body issues, you can take your fucking shame and shove it up your ass. Cuz you bitches are working for me, now.

Fuck yeah.

Ack ack ack ack ack

I wrote a thing. And the thing wouldn't tell me what its name was, so I picked a so-so name.
AND THEN I CLICKED SUBMIT.

600 word story for a contest on NPR, and it's all submitted, and I should really be in bed, but ya'll were making me feel guilty for not posting here.

So, here's a little band-aid post. MORE TO COME.

Now, bed time for this lady.

À bientôt, mes amis.

Writing!

I've been cooking a short story for a fiction contest on NPR, and I think I know what's going on. I like this, creating a whole story that hasn't existed before. It's rather thrilling.

Now I am off to write more!

A list of things

1. The Russians are over taking the stats! Not that there is anything wrong with Russia, or the fine people that make up that country, I merely find it highly suspect that my relatively new blog could be so enticing to more people in Russia than in the US, where this blog is authored. Are a Russian reader, or a reader from somewhere outside the US? Leave a comment. You'll get a prize. For real-real, not for play-play.

2. I wrote a thing that seemed to take a lot out of me last time. It was good to write, but I let it be an excuse to not come back to the blog. So sorry. Done with that excuse for now.

3. National Novel Writing Month is coming up, and quickly too. I should really spend some time thinking about what I want to write 50,000 words about. Maybe catfish. Or wingnuts. Or maybe I spend some time.

4. I have been putting off chopping kindling and making fire starters. I really should get on that and get a good stock pile going while we still have our late summer. October will be chilly, and will be here before we know it.

5. Fall is coming! The pears will be ripe soon, then the apples, then the pumpkins! I have a lot of canning in my future. Hopefully.

Alright, that will do for now. I'm now back up on the horse.

Beaux reves.

Sleeping monsters

Oh, I want to sleep.

My darling little Monster, after a weekend of alarmingly high fevers, was feeling better yesterday, her birthday. So we took the whole family up to my parents' house and played outside with bubble wands and giant bubble makers and the sprinkler and ran and ran and ran. And she fell asleep just before 7. Like doofuses, neither the husband nor I went to bed until close to 11, and at the stroke of midnight, the Monster was up. "Hi, Daddy! It's almost morning time! Let's get breakfast!" was the husband's greeting. And there was much pleading and cajoling and, I'll admit, threatening with banishment from 'Mama-Dada Bed' if the Monster did not just please, please, please go to sleep. She did, eventually, out of sheer boredom, I would imagine.

I was too tired to really appreciate the complete change over the course of two nights. The first night, Saturday, she had a very high, sudden fever. That had happened once before, nearly a year ago. That was when she had her first ambulance ride.

She had molars coming in, her two-year molars, so I didn't make much of the fever at first. It was a normal, small-child fever. We had a bath, got into jammies, and went onto the couch to 'have nurses,' her term for nursing. We had weaned to only one nursing a day, at night, to put her to sleep. We would eventually move from the night time nurses on the couch to in her bed, to reading books every night. I am glad we aren't nursing to sleep anymore--that means that other people who aren't me (read: the husband) can put her to bed, while I am in the house. (That wasn't even a remote possibility with the prior arrangement.)

We sat down to nurse, and I would normally put a simple puzzle game on the X-station-play-box. I get impatient, and nursing a nearly-two-year-old with a full grill isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, so I would distract myself with a game of some sort. I didn't that night, or I hadn't yet. We sat there, me and my daughter. My Monster. Still a baby, but shedding more and more of that every day for the big girl world. . We sat there, we two, and just looked at each other. She seemed to be doing better, she seemed to be ready to sleep, and I was ready for her to sleep--a toddler is exhausting, and a clingy toddler doubly so. To top it all off, the husband works long shifts, long into the night, so I am on my own most of the time. We sat, and I watched her as her eyes started to close, nursing rhythmically. And then the nursing stopped. Her eyes were open, but not looking at me or at anything, and in my arms, she started shaking and shaking, and I could not stop her. I couldn't stop the seizure.

I called 911, and then my husband. I don't know how long it took for the firemen to get to our house. My husband got home after the emergency vehicles got there, and I can't imagine what it must be like, coming home to flashing lights, knowing that they are there for your little baby. We live in a little community outside of town, and the volunteer fire department is just down the street from us. The firemen are our neighbors. Our house is so small, that three of them, in their gear, filled up my little living room.

They had me lay my Monster down on the floor and take off her pajamas. She had come too, and she was so dazed. I did what the firemen said, and the husband got home. He would follow us in the ambulance. I wrapped her up in the blanket, and with the neighborhood watching, we got into the ambulance.

She was so tiny on the stretcher, under the oxygen mask.

How do we do this? How do people elect to care for such a vulnerable human? Who would choose to risk to have their heart utterly broken? Knowing what absolute pain is very possible and quite likely in so many instances, who would choose this?

We rode to the hospital, under the fluorescent light in the ambulance. When I am in stressful situations, I react inappropriately. I smile. This got me so grounded growing up--my dad was never amused by this quirk, and even less so when he was Very Mad. I was sitting in an ambulance, riding through town, with my baby strapped to a gurney and under an oxygen mask, and I had to keep from smiling. Not out of joy, or enjoyment, but because I honestly can't be in a high stress situation and keep a straight face. Great for lightening the mood when it's appropriate, but not so great for right then.

The Monster had had a febrile seizure. I was familiar with those--my baby sister had those when she was an infant. I hadn't really remembered much of them from when we were growing up. They occur with a sudden, high fever, but can be prevented by keeping the fever low with over the counter medication. I told the Monster that she gets one ambulance ride, and that she had used it up.

We went home that night, and we slept. Her fever broke the next day.

Now I am going to go to bed. I have a Monster who will be awake very early in the morning.

À bientôt, mes petite choux. Beaux rêves. 

One more project.

November is coming! November is coming!

November happens to be my birthday month (wooo, Scorpio!), and it also happens to be NaNoWriMo. I am going to participate this year. I've been eyeballing that challenge for a few years now, and in the spirit of doing things that I say I am going to do, here goes. 50,000 words in 30 days. I will have to average about 1,700 words a day. For 30 days. Hoo boy, what am I getting myself into?

Alrighty, I've talked the talk. Let's see if I can walk the walk. 

I don't see a lot of knitting happening in November.

Overdue

Here I sit comfortably, upon a settee,
With large waves of guilt overtaking me.
This blog, I've abandoned, or so it seems,
For idle amusement from internet memes.
I'm aware of my actions, but I can't seem to stop
This clicking on cats and other culture of pop.
A small voice pipes up, in the back of my head,
"But what about the commitment you publicly said,
To post to the blog on a regular schedule?
Will you renig on this too? Think of what you said, you'll
Be rather sorry if the grand promises made
Are forgotten like many other things and just left to fade."
I listened to this voice, my own voice of reason.
I've ignored it in the past, but now I'm more seasoned
I heed this advice that I give to myself.
So rather than let this blog gather dust on a shelf,
I'm on my couch, writing a post on my device,
(Which may be a bit hokey, but I find it quite nice,)
So that I may say that I have followed through
And created a new entry, dear reader, for you.
It may be a trope, hackneyed or old
To hear a story in couplet told.
I find it quite charming, this literary structure,
And will use it more in the future, I'm sure.
So that is all, I've done what is due.

a bientôt, mes petits choux