Shower in Crazy Land

We're having an off-site bridal shower today for one of our Crazy Land employees. I am so not in the mood. Nothing like spending a couple of hours with Crazy Employee and the Foot Lady. Obviously, I need to work on cultivating a more positive attitude about this.

The Information Superhighway, the Ladies' Man and I just spent about ninety minutes talking about the Superhighway's husband. He still hasn't gotten a job, but he suggested last night that they drive a friend of theirs to Canada, then come back via the East Coast. Yes, that's sane.

Hemorrhoid Guy is out playing golf with Mr. Moneybags and the Golf Pro. H.G. called me this morning to point out that we all owe him now for getting Moneybags out of the office all day. I'm sorry for the Hemorrhoid, but I take some wicked pleasure that the Golf Pro and Mr. Moneybags are having to spend the day together. They hate each other. Well, everybody hates Golf Pro. Except me. I'm like Switzerland; I'm officially neutral

Monday, I'll be in Houston once again. I'm having the tattoo done finally. I also have an appointment with an internal medicine physician to talk about pain and fatigue.

The New Rules, Reiterated

Hubby and I both forgot our anniversary a couple of weeks ago. It dawned on me over the weekend that we'd missed it...again. I'm not good with the anniversary/birthday/special event thing.

I wonder if that's because, as I was growing up, we never celebrated anything. I'd get a birthday gift and Christmas gifts, I got cards for my Mom and Dad and bought gifts when I could. It always felt like work, though, even (or especially) when I was the recipient. "Celebration" was never a word that had much meaning to me. Observances of that type were onerous and treacherous. Bad things were guaranteed to happen; they were danger zones that cropped up from time to time in the endless, gray progression of time.

As I grew older, I learned how important it is to honor special days or rites of passage. Celebrating became a "should" in my life. If I'm a mentally healthy, spiritually grounded person, I should incorporate some times for rejoicing in my life. That's the rule.

Unfortunately, because it was never a part of my growing-up experience, those observances never became a habit. It feels like something I've tacked onto my life and, when I forget anniversaries or birthdays, I feel like a failure. If I manage to remember and make special arrangements for festivities, it's stressful and joyless. It's a lose-lose proposition.

Every day I get up in the morning and give thanks for all of the blessings in my life, past and present. This is celebration, also. I have to remind myself that I'm not a failure if I forget "special" events (including my own birthday). I have to remind myself that, because every morning begins with prayer, every single day is a celebration.

Hubby and I forget our anniversary on a regular basis. It doesn't mean we don't love each other or that either of us feels unloved because we've forgotten. It's a thing we laugh about together.

I'm trying to learn to let myself be as I am, especially right now as I continue to struggle with fatigue and pain. Learning that lesson and living it is its own challenge. Everything in my life is exactly as it should be, including the consequences of a life I did not choose. I'm officially lightening up.

Don't Bother Me. I'm Drooling.

I was going to post something of substance today, but I took a trip to the dentist instead. I'm not really in pain; I feel like I've been run down by an 18-wheeler. Then, of course, there's the drooling issue. I hate it when you're drooling and you don't even know it. On the up side, maybe it makes people reluctant to talk to you.

Two Crazy Lands Collide

I spent most of Friday morning with Owner, liberating kitties stuck under our office building. We'd had some people out to close up all access to the areas underneath both buildings. Unfortunately, we forgot to check whether there were any live animals under there.

Owner called me while the Information Superhighway and I were having our usual pre-8:00 a.m. conversation. Owner buzzed the Highway and wanted to know if I was there. I knew my day was going to get off to a bad start. He wanted me to find a hammer so he could break some boards the workers used to permanently close a crawlspace door. I couldn't find a hammer. Wait a minute. It immediately felt like a bad dream from my childhood.

My dad could never find his tools. He never looked for his tools. He either made me, my mom or his wife go look for them. If we couldn't find them or if we didn't find them fast enough, bam! Another great opportunity for him to physically hurt someone. I tend to get anxious when people ask me for tools and that kind of post traumatic stress disorder anxiety is hard to get rid of once it's arisen. It was with me all day.

I couldn't find a hammer. Owner called again and demanded that I get downstairs. We'd only been at the task for ten minutes, but it already felt like years. I went downstairs and found he'd broken the boards without a hammer. The next problem was that we needed to ensure that the cat(s) got out before we boarded it back up. We sat at the patio table and waited. And waited. And waited. Owner told me I had to stay there until the cat(s) came out. Again, it seemed too familiar, like when my dad told me to go outside and look for a lost ring and not to come back in until I found it. Or a million other times when I had to stay somewhere until I accomplished something inherently impossible, knowing that when I was unable to accomplish it, my dad would use it as an excuse to hurt me more. (There would be some physical violence during the attempts to accomplish the impossible, on a periodic basis, depending on how good my dad wanted to feel.)

Friday morning, as I sat there and tried not to think about the number of allergens in the air, Foot Lady came out to smoke a cigarette. She wanted to know what was going on, so I filled her in. She made some comment about the workers boarding up the entries to the crawlspace under the main building. Something clicked.

I hadn't seen my black and white boy kitty and his best pal in a couple of days. I'd also noted that not much food had been consumed during that time. I had assumed that they were hiding out, waiting for the workers to go away. It dawned on me that they had to be under the building.

I walked along the side of the building next to Lillian's house. I called as I walked and, about half way down the alley, I heard a little meow coming from one of the air vents. Good news, bad news. They were going to be liberated, but I had to tell Owner in order for that to happen.

Owner came downstairs and found a way to let the cats out. Black and white kitty stuck his head out of the hole about 15 minutes after it was opened. He's always been very skittish and you know being trapped under a building for a couple of days couldn't have done much for his nerves. Later on, I found him lounging around the monkey grass as if nothing ever happened. I was still worried about his pal, but she showed up Saturday morning.

The funny thing is that, until I started writing, it didn't dawn on me how triggering the whole event had been. My conversation with the Superhighway first thing that morning triggered a flashback and I wrote off my all day jumpiness to that. I guess Friday was an all-around Remember Dad day. I hate it when I have those days. Another is coming up. His birthday is May 16. I'm going to start steeling myself for it right now. Maybe someone would like for me to find a hammer. Or a child's ring in a huge yard.