You tell me...

I have an appointment to get my eyes checked on the 17th of September, and I am wondering whether to tell Doc that, when I get tired, my right eye still hurts where he punched the hole in it. Well, he did fry it extra crispy because of that little complication when my iris bled. But no one told me it was going to hurt at all, and I am not sure it does because no one told me it would. Now, that may seem strange to you, but makes excellent sense to me. I am used to other people telling me how I feel. I'm sad - no you're not, that kind of thing. And when I tell the Drs how I really think I feel, you know they are doing that twirly finger thing behind my back, sure that I am several candles shy of a chandelier. Sigh. I really do have a super-sensitive body. Look what happened after just a little squirming around on the floor at my somatics class. All kinds of icky stuff whacked me up the side of the head. Maybe that is why my glasses are not working all that well. I can see fine through them on the left, but my right eye seems kind of fuzzy. Or maybe it really is a cataract. That would be a good deal. That Doc can see, and take care of. And no on will think I am crazy. Wouldn't that be refreshing.

If this is Sunday, there must be garbage.

Sundays suck. The trash is collected on Mondays in my neighborhood, and that means that all the erstwhile garbage-makers are busily hauling their cans out to the curb, making lots of noise to disturb the cow woman's serenity. Add to that the frenzy of the furry beasts who share my little yellow house, as they race around, barking. Pickle starts it. Boo, who is a little deaf, picks it up, and keeps it up long after the disturbance has ceased, since he can't hear it, and wants to cover all his bases. And in my current depleted, somewhat fragile state, this very common occurence is totally messing with me. And on top of all that, we have an air show in town, making godawful loud noises that threaten to rip the fabric of my existence way beyond repair. And did I mention I found the source of my angst? I have been doing some somatics work with a friend, and that has released a lot of pain that was happily trapped up until now in my poor old body. Muscle memory. Great big ouch.

Woe is I...

Using recycled image because Photoshop burped and would not save today's rendering. Kind of follows, it is that kind of time for the cow woman. Every so often, without any real reason, depression descends, and there I am, at the bottom of that hole, again. So I sit here, noodling around with the computer, mindless games, mostly, and listening to this schizophrenic radio station that plays both classical and soundtracks. I heard some Danny Elfman music, he's Tim Burton's guy, then an achingly lovely Chopin scherzo, followed by John Williams magical Harry Potter, and then some Satie, which at best is weird, and can be downright disturbing. Okay, this too shall pass. Perhaps, though, this time, I will get a ride on the A train, and do some THERAPY. Oh, lord. That means paying someone to sit on their couch, rip all the scabs off the old wounds, and bleed all over the place. Somehow, my wounds just don't seem to go away. And this has been a year fraught with change, always a catalyst for sturm und drang. Well, whatever. It is what it is.

Just visiting this time...

Today is our little art show from our halcyon days trudging around the Pepperwood hills. The new Dwight Center, an architectural gem, is hosting a reception for docents and patrons, and we artists will be up there at 3 to hang our work, have a dandy reunion potluck, then attend the reception, and the star-gazing that will follow, if we wish. Don't think that will happen for this artist. Must get home to be good Boo mommy as he recovers from very rude surgery in his instrument of torture Elizabethan collar. But anxious to view my painting that has been languishing up there since the class ended a month ago, see if I like it as much as I once did. And I will be showing my very favorite Pepperwood work alongside it, since notice was sent there was room for a second oeuvre. Taking along my trust staplegun and picture wire, a portable easel, and a fruit tray to contribute. Not up to cooking anything today, not after morning workout, wimpy as it may have been.

Looking back...

I suppose regret is a silly emotion. What's done is done, get over it. But I spent a moment thinking about my last divorce, and its consequences now that our daughter is marrying. Certainly, I wish her more happiness than I found in marriage. And I have no doubt she will have it. She is healthier than I will ever be, and part of that is because I worked to get healthier, and sober. And I will live always knowing that this was not a mistake. There are no mistakes, just lessons to be learned. Wait, I think there is a song about that! And my lesson was learning what is really important. Houses and cars and swimming pools are nice, and I really like them, too. However, people are more important. People are more valuable. I left because I didn't feel valued. Not surprising, because then, I didn't value myself very much. That has changed. Now I take excellent care of my little self. Today, after my super-healthy Trader Joe's soy and flaxseed cereal with skimmed milk and after taking dear Boo in for his operation, I worked out, then came home and put together a big pot of homemade split pea soup, because it is really cold here. I had it for dinner with zucchini pancakes, really yummy. So, lessons continue. Sad that it didn't work out, for my dear girl. Happy I am in recovery and able to be useful in ways I never imagined. And joyous that I now have someone who values me in my life. Me.

Oh, crap.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought I saw something awful on Boo's eye, but when I caught up with him, it was fine. I put it down to a trick of the light, and forgot about it until Saturday, when it looked like he had a big piece of raw meat stuck in the corner of his eye. Really gross and painful looking, though he was not complaining at all. Today at the vet's we found that it grew on the inside of his eyelid this time, so sometimes it is tucked in, irritating his eye really something awful. Which meant I had to dig out that blasted collar, which I had thrown out into the garage hoping to never lay eyes on again, and we are off Wednesday morning for a repeat of this undignified process. Boo actually acclimated to his collar so well last time, he would have worn it for the rest of his sweet life if I had asked him to. He is the sweetest most loving creature on the face of the earth. Also one of the smelliest, so he will also endure the indignity of a bath before his surgery. Let us pray this will be the last one.

Days of our lives...

Yesterday was one of those precious moments, when dreams come true. Darling daughter is getting married (yay!), in a year. And yes, we went shopping for THE DRESS. Well, it takes about 6 months to get it all up to snuff, fitted exactly to the bride, so it is good we began looking now. I found out there are all these bridal salons tucked into ateliers above the windy San Francisco downtown streets, sort of like jewels in a crown. And each contains miles of white dresses. One may wonder (and one certainly did) how many variations one can make of a white dress, and the answer is thousands and thousands. Styles are infinite all by themselves, varying in length, bodice treatments, skirt treatments, bustles, lace, beading, rhinestones, ruffles, feathers, appliques, sleeves, sleeveless, straps, strapless, ad infinitem. Then there are the fabrics themselves, the sheen or lack thereof, the drape, the weight, the formality or informality, the American vs European lace. And finally, the various shades of white, from cream to bluewhite. So it was an educational day as well as a highly emotional one as I watched my dear daughter slip in and out of about 25 different dresses, in as many styles. She is so trim, anything will look wonderful on her. I had my favorite, a Priscilla of Boston dress with a structured bodice, halter top, and full, flouncy skirt that had POCKETS. It was simple, elegant and so very bridal. But I expect anything she chooses will be lovely, since she already is. Mother of the bride, over and out.

Age old battle...

Every so often, I listen to Leonard Bernstein's Candide, an opera he wrote back in the 50's. It is cunning in its wordiness and pseudo-classical music. Mostly, it is about the difference between form and substance. Candide is the ultimate optimist, looking for good everywhere, happy to lead a simple life. Cunegonde, his love, wants the trappings, jewels and yachts and champagne. They sing, oh, happy we, how we agree. Both wind up disillusioned (that's stripping away of the illusion, when you think about it), and land squarely in the reality of it all. The world is what you make of it. They plant their own garden. Not a bad idea. If I sat around here waiting for someone to show up with flowers, I'd be bitter and disappointed. Hell, I was bitter and disappointed for a lot of years, even in the midst of all the right things: four bedroom house, swimming pool and hot tub, German cars in the garage, five kids, middle management job, three piece suit husband, etc., etc., etc. The problem was looking everywhere for my happiness except where it lives, in me. Just because things look good doesn't mean they are good. Simple works for me. Not that I would reject the mega-millions if they landed in my lap. Just wouldn't expect that to change much for me. I can be just as miserable rich as I can poor. It's a choice. And today, happy, happy, joy, joy. Lawn mowing, watering, sweeping, cleaning up. Loving every minute of it.

I've been thinking, again.

This thing about being female, and having all the important parts hidden, where you can't examine them yourselves for defects, and having to go every year for an investigation of the nether world down there, so that your PI notices if you aren't up to snuff, and kind of gets on your case. And since you know you have to go back again next year, maybe you do cut down on the doughnuts or the cigarettes, so she doesn't yell at you again. Or, if you don't, at least you know you should. Males just don't get that. Everything important is hanging out for daily examination, and, if it is working even 80% of the time, well, hell, that's pretty wonderful. They don't get a PI, not unless something goes really wrong, and by that time, it's usually too late to do anything about it, anyway. Why are we surprised that women live longer? Really, guys. The answer is in those freaking stirrups, a lot of messy goo, and a whole lot of sense. Supplements help, too.

Art imitates life. Duh.

Once upon a time, when I thought my artform was writing, I began a novel about a woman who was intimidated by her kitchen appliances. And, being the spiritually awakened person that I am, I caught myself yelling at my microwave yesterday. Now, this is my third microwave in my five years here. I use that sucker several times a day, for hot beverages, little low-calorie frozen dinners, to defrost two little chicken tenders for my evening taco. Okay, that's really TMI about my tiny life here in the little yellow house. Whatever, I had heated up a cup of yesterday's coffee, and in the 1 minute 10 seconds that took, got busy with other things. This new microwave continues to beep at me intermittently until it gets my attention. So I screamed from the bedroom "I'm coming! Just shut up!". I want my original microwave back, the one that told me to have a nice day every time I used it. The problem with living in the light is that it falls on EVERYTHING, even into those dusty cracks you hope to never see again. Next step is to learn to love my eccentricities. And figure out what to do with that deep fat fryer my brother gave me last Christmas.