Old Friends Out Of Control

When Hubby and I first met, he had a roommate-Old Friend Lewis-- who had grown up in the same hometown. They roomed together when both moved here to go to University. OFL began seeing Old Friend Barbara, who had actually dated Hubby shortly before she got involved with OFL. We all socialized together frequently in the town we're living in now and also in Hubby's home town, generally as part of a group of couples Hubby had known since high school. They essentially became my friends, too.

OFB had a hard time getting OFL to commit to marriage; it was a time when men resisted marriage and, since living together had recently become an option culturally, they argued that there really was no difference between the two. Many women came to see it differently. After about 5 years of pressure being applied and threats being issued, OFL and OFB finally married. Hubby was OFL's best man.

They had two children, a boy and a girl, spaced several years apart. OFL got a job at a rock concert promotion company and worked there until he became too expensive (and probably too old for cutting edge image the company likes to project) and they forced him into early retirement. He continues to do freelance work with them, but hasn't been able to expand his customer base. OLB was a stay at home mom until the kids got old enough for her to get a job, when she became a teacher at her daughter's high school.

Ours and theirs looked like marriages that were heading into the home stretch. Other friends married and divorced, some of them several times in an attempt to get it right. Though we ultimately ended up living in different cities, from all appearances, things were going well with the OF family.

We received Christmas family update letters, detailing the years' triumphs. Daughter graduated and went on to college in a different city. (Son is still in high school.) As recently as three years ago, Daughter decided to move back to her family's hometown because she missed them.

Things took a turn for the worse when Daughter started dating a young man who was seriously tattooed and pierced. OFB hated the guy immediately. It's one of those things they warn you about. Sooner or later, you will have children who will drive you crazy in the same ways you drove your parents crazy when you were young. You have to believe that at least some of the attraction to the young man is based on the fact that mom hates him. OFB has been estranged from her daughter for about a year.

OFB heard rumors that the Boyfriend had been abusive to some former girlfriends. Naturally, OFB had some concerns about the safety of her daughter. This is where OFB's behavior became increasingly bizarre and troubling. (OFL does not think Daughter has been or currently is abused. He's in regular contact with them.) I gather Daughter and Boyfriend are now living together.

OFB created a fake online identity on MySpace so that she could surreptitiously monitor what Boyfriend's friends were saying about him. Needless to say, she was found out and that definitely didn't improve her relationship with Daughter.

About the same time, OFB began drinking and engaging in highly sexual chats online with a man who claims to be 21. OFB has not divulged her real age. Of course, he may not have, either. I understand that's one of the advantages to essentially anonymous interactions. I don't get that, because if you're going to meet the person at some point, it's guaranteed that your chat partner will immediately see that you're 53 instead of 21, you actually weigh much more than you've fessed up to, you have no hair...the list goes on and on.

OFL found these sexually charged chat logs. Ironically, he found them because of the spyware OFB had insisted that they get to spy on Daughter when she was still living in her parents' home. He also awakened a couple of times in the middle of the night to overhear OFB having sexual conversations with someone on the phone. Troubling. Very troubling.

According to OFB, she's started drinking and talking while they have sex (a new development). (Which I'd really, really prefer not to know.) She was forced to resign from her job not long ago because she was inappropriately discussing her Daughter with her teenage students. One young man offered to "take (the Boyfriend) out." OFB made some joke of it and moved on. The young man in question didn't do well in her class and OFB eventually gave him a bad grade. He went directly to the principal's office and alleged that she had, in fact, asked him to proceed with the taking out plan.

The school presented OFB with two choices. She could contest the allegations, with the certainty that it would all become public at some point. Or she could submit her resignation and everyone would part amicably. She chose option 2.

The past couple of years, while she was teaching full time, she started working on her Master's Degree in Counseling. I do not know what kind of counseling, but even if it's just a matter of helping young students decide what to do with themselves after graduation, I don't think OFB is in any condition to be offering advice. OFL says that she believes she can get some kind of "emergency certification" that would allow her to start her career immediately. That's critical in light of the fact that she is the primary wage earner. Everything depends on her.

Needless to say, this has been quite a heavy burden and her stress level must have been (and still be) crushing. She's probably perimenopausal, with all of the attendant hormonal fluctuations. I think it's a little like going through puberty. The body is changing in ways that seem unpredictable and that includes thought processes and emotional variability. You never know who you're going to wake up with every morning. Could be the "old" you or it could be hormonally insane you.

Culturally, we tend to not value older women. We're a youth oriented society and losing one's attractiveness can be crushing to some women. It's definitely hard to get used to. OFB is exactly the kind of woman who, having been known for her prettiness, is apt to have a very hard time with this phase of life.

So there are many reasons why things have continued to go downhill. She didn't come home all night several nights ago. And she's started cutting herself. I don't think I ever heard of an adult starting that behavior; I'm familiar with it happening with teenagers. Again, very troubling.

OFB has issued an ultimatum to OFL. He has got to make some substantial changes in the marriage or she'll pursue a divorce in two years. That's when their son will graduate from high school. OFL, of course, has absolutely no idea what changes she has in mind. That could be just a guy thing--with all of the couples we know who've divorced in recent years, the men have always been dumbfounded. They have no idea what they could have been doing that was wrong and, even when told by the wife, still don't know.

The irony here, of course, is that the tables have turned. OFB insisted they marry and now OFB is fairly certain she wishes to un-marry. OFL does not remember the years when he resisted the idea and has told Hubby that he's always planned to spend his life with one woman. He's very shy and uncomfortable around women, which made the whole dating scene precarious for him. He spent his school years in a Jesuit high school and never had much of a chance to develop friendships with women. I think it says something that he cites this reason for his distress regarding potential divorce.

OFL is regularly on the phone with Hubby. He just wants someone to listen. Hubby is quite willing to do so, but I think it makes him a little anxious. I notice that when he's been talking with OFL, his general behavior improves and he makes a special effort to be a good husband. He even talks about how much he likes his job.

It makes me a little uncomfortable that I'm profiting ( how ever briefly) from my old friends' marital problems. I'm genuinely saddened that things have come to this crisis. Saddened for their children, her husband and her. I can not imagine what's going on in her head that is causing such extremely self-destructive behavior.

This is the story I've been meaning to tell you for some time now. Every time Hubby talks with OFL, there's more bad news. I'm certain there will be more posts about our old friends; nothing seems likely to stop this downward spiral. This is where I generally point out that this is a complex problem. It is, though. Just like most everything else in life.

Do What's In Front Of You: Remembrance Of Loss

I started writing a post about lost abilities, but the universe (or the cyber-universe, at least) took it away. As I was writing, it disappeared. I take it as a sign that, though I may examine it briefly, I should not pursue this topic at length. All things have a reason.

Maybe breast cancer has taken far more from me than I ever imagined it could. Today, I realize that's the very definition of spirituality for me. We lose everything, eventually. No matter what. No matter how many vitamins we take, how many trips to the gym, the body will deteriorate and, eventually, die. Intellect will fade and personality will alter. That's how it goes.

I just have to remember that, accept it and, ultimately, I must embrace it. That which I believe myself to be is just an illusion. The whole is more than the sum of its parts. The one I truly am will not be touched by deterioration of any kind.

Chemo clarified the things I am not: not hair, not intellect, not memory, not physical health, not my emotions. These are merely things that I've stepped into, only to leave them behind when the time comes. It's a liberating and mournful clarity.

Today I remember and I see the task stretching out into the distance. Celebrate. I'm here to learn this lesson. Remain open to suffering and dissolution. Greet them as friends. Just like all friends, they can be problematic at times and hard to love.

Along the way, smaller realizations lead me to the greatest one. At every moment, I can choose to search for the lesson that invites me. Seeing the truth is strenuous work and sometimes I'm not up to the challenge. That's why I'm reminded, from time to time, in many ways, that life slips away.

There's a great Zen precept "Do what is in front of you."

That which is in front of me today is a remembrance of loss.

The Permanence of Breast Cancer

I type things and then erase them. Over and over. The bad day began last night. I got weepy earlier in the day and now it appears there's no point in trying to remain upbeat. I had some fun this morning, writing about Crazy Land. Then a friend asked my opinion about Phil Spector. That's currently one of my favorite topics.

I told my mom it would be okay to bring over my book, Living With Breast Cancer. She took it away during the time I was undergoing treatment because every time I started to read parts of the book, I would become terrified of what was going to happen next.

All clear, I thought. Treatment is over, so I thought I might get some useful info about what my radiation oncology nurse called "reclaiming my life." Instead, what I found was confirmation that some of the bothersome things I've been experiencing may be treatment-related. And permanent.

I read that chemotherapy used for breast cancer (and maybe other types) can change the structure of the brain and how it functions. Or doesn't. Antidepressants can exacerbate the bad effects. As can steroids used in treatment and Tamoxifen used post-treatment.

They may affect memory, spatial-visual abilities, verbal (especially written) skills. There may be permanent alterations in concentration and attention span. I've experienced a lot of these. I chalked it up to depression, hormones, and/or age. Any (or all) of those things may actually be part (or all) of the problems. Or not.

It's yet more potential for the possibility that breast cancer has taken away all of the qualities by which I've defined myself. The ability to write well and think sharply would be great losses. They have always been self-defining. I'm not sure I can recognize whether verbal skills have deteriorated. Certainly cognitive functioning has changed and not for the better. I'm kind of stupid now and I have absolutely no memory at all. Maybe permanently.

One of my co-workers has a daughter who's participating in an American Cancer Society event which will culminate in an all-night walk by cancer survivors. Luminarias will light the way. It brings tears to my eyes as I type these words.

I've developed an abrasion underneath the new girl where some scar tissue has formed. There is a patch of irritated skin on the scar that runs across my lower stomach. It's hard for me to tell what's going on, from day to day, with my incision sites. Sometimes things hurt for no apparent reason. Even in places where I'm numb to the touch. I note it and move on. What else can I do?

I've had pain for a couple of days now in those places, so I asked Hubby to look in case something was actually wrong. Obviously, something was. So. Back to the vesty bra and underwear that comes up to my waist.

I'm not sure why this seems overwhelming to me today. I gave it my best shot to buck up and was doing fine, it seemed, for a while. I have extensive experience with bucking up. Not today, I guess.

Puppies and 'Hos in Crazy Land

Have you ever noticed that, when I talk about something going on in my work life, I always have a huge amount of background information to cover first? I guess that's what defines this place as "Crazy Land." Okay, I'm going in now. Hang on.

Just as I was going to start taking my handful of medications that keep me sane, able to breathe and breast cancer free, Crazy Employee made an impromptu appearance. (Yes, of course she knocked.) The latest office outrage is the new crop of puppies we've discovered next door. Crazy wanted to get a better look at them.

One of my office windows overlooks the backyard of a woman whose life is a constant source of speculation here amongst the denizens of Crazy Land. She's had three pregnancies in at least the past ten years. We know there were others because she has a son and daughter who don't live with her, but are old enough to have their own dogs. I'll get to that eventually.

Every time she's gotten pregnant, the state (we think) has taken the infants away immediately. We never see them, so they're going somewhere. One day she's as big as a house and, the next time we see her, she's baby-less and back to her old skinny self. Compared to this, of course, the puppy thing isn't even a blip on the Outrage Radar screen. Guess what? You guessed it. Pregnant again.

Most of my co-workers believe Lillian is a crack head. Some of them believe she's a prostitute. There's some basis in reality for the latter belief, because she told one of our painters she's "a ho." Scared the shit out of the painter. He was in her backyard at the time, refinishing that side of our privacy fence. We could never get him to go back and finish the job.

Before we go any further, I need to tell you that Lillian actually worked for us for about three months several years ago. (I bet you're not one tiny bit surprised about that, are you?) I could tell you about that and maybe I will, but not today. As Loathsome would say, must maintain focus.

I'm not so sure about the crack head thing. I think it's just as likely that she could be mentally retarded and/or suffering from a serious psychiatric illness. Clearly, Loathsome needs to go have a wardrobe consultation with her so she can lead a more productive (and perhaps celibate) life.

My co-workers think everyone who lives around here is a crack head or cooking crack or selling it. I don't think so. There's not enough traffic around here to warrant that conclusion. Any crack-related activities in this neighborhood are more likely to be occurring at the day rate motel across the street from us. That's probably where most of the good prostitutes are, too. There's something a little low-rent about servicing patrons out of a house that has no electricity and maybe even no running water. I mean, as a customer, wouldn't you at least want to know those amenities were available if you needed them?

I noticed several weeks ago that Lillian was looking like a woman hoping for labor to start soon. I was once again outraged by her poor family planning skills. Yesterday, Crazy Employee pointed out to me that there are now three puppies in Lillian's back yard. She saw them from the window of the bathroom right next door to my office. This is also Lillian's third round of puppies. She's pregnant and she has puppies. She's never managed to do one of those activities well and now she's doing both at the same time.

We know at least one set of puppies came from her son's female dog. Maybe another litter came from the daughter, but we're not sure. Dogs come and go in her backyard. There's one black adult dog who's been there forever. Several other adult dogs have rotated in and out. They all need better care than Lillian is prepared to give. I'm sorely tempted every single day to go liberate the black dog and any others living in that doggy purgatory.

Crazy Employee and I have, indeed, removed puppies, taken them to the vet and sent them on their way to more nurturing environments. I have scaled the chain link fence a couple of times before to make sure Lillian's dog(s) have food and accessible water. It always flips out my co-workers, who are sure I'm going to get shot in the process. They all gather at one of the other windows offering a better vantage point from which to watch me hit the ground, should gun play ensue. It would be just the kind of thing that would happen to me. Local newspaper headline: Breast Cancer Survivor Shot While Scaling Fence To Rescue Puppies From 'Hohouse.

Luckily, Child Protective Services is rescuing the infants. Things would get a lot more complex for me if they didn't. That is definitely a thing I could get shot for attempting. I am going to take the puppies, though. The other litters we've rescued have been afflicted with a number of ailments related to neglect. So I don't want to hear anybody telling me that I should respect her rights as the owner.

One more thing. I wonder if the fleas over there will be content with gorging themselves on puppies and refuse to cross into our patio area? I may need to pose that question to everyone in Crazy Land innumerable times a day until I get my point across. Or until I feel vindicated. Whichever comes first.

Put Them All In A Room And See Who Comes Out Alive

I spent the better part of the morning catching up on my friends' blogs, updating links and trying to alphabetize the links. Obsessive. Anal retentive. It's your call. I gave up. I'll have to be obsessive later. It's so tiring, you know.

Everyone in Crazy Land is having group lunch today to celebrate Receptionist getting her Master's degree. We have smart people here. One or two at the very least. I'm one of them, of course. Let's not forget that. Smart, however, does not preclude crazy.

I'm not attending said luncheon because I have to go home and check on the Phil Spector trial. Coming back for the cake, though. Although I shouldn't eat any. Also, I'm missing out on the office interaction, which is really too bad. It's great when you can round up all the nuts, put them in one room and see who comes out alive.

Neither Owner nor Loathsome are going to be there. Loathsome is still banned from the office until further notice. I'd have to forgo Phil if he and Owner were going to be lunching with everyone else. Too good to miss. Also a perfect opportunity to demand money from co-workers for making Owner stop talking about any or all of the following:

*we're all going to be jobless in a month

*he has a tumor somewhere and is going to die pretty soon

*he may have a heart attack (as he eats the worst food in the world--heavy on the cake, please)

*there appears to be some kind of insect in some of the food, usually the cake

*heaping praise on The Useless One, which pisses off absolutely everyone (It's really a way of torturing everyone on the list at once. Owner is clearly a strategic thinker.)

* or picking out one of the people on the current Torture List and just giving them shit the entire lunch

He's backed off the tumor thing since I inconveniently turned up with the real thing. (Although I didn't actually have a tumor, per se.) The heart attack comments have been unabated, though.

No one else in Crazy Land will make him stop spoiling their lunches. Of course, that might be because they all realize that attempting to make him stop will only make it worse and it can only move them up a notch or two on the Torture List. I'm never included in that list, primarily because I refuse to let anyone know what makes me angry. Especially not Owner or Money Man. Never let them know if something rattles your cage. It's just an invitation.

Owner has never put me on the Torture list. Instead, he's saddled me with the world's most dysfunctional employees. Or it could be that I've been at the top of his Torture list for years and he keeps forgetting to mention that's why I've been plagued for years with these particular co-workers.

Owner likes to tell me about why he doesn't like them, though. Sometimes I go to his office and have a seat simply to hear whose name has moved up to the top of the list that week. And why they have that special honor. Loathsome's had a long run. That doesn't mean that Owner doesn't have others on the list. He does. It includes virtually everyone.

Owner enjoys my presence. There's something to be said for being relentlessly pleasant. Aside from the recent shunning, I haven't had a disagreement with anyone for years. Being the only person in the office who refuses to pass along rumors or reasons why someone is unhappy with someone else, I hear everything. People will tell me stuff they won't tell their own mothers.

Knowledge is indeed power, my friends. I think sometimes people forget exactly how much I know, though. It contributes to a false sense of security people have when they're with me.

Post luncheon update. Everyone survived and appeared to be exiting the conference room in high spirits. Of course it could be because everyone had cake. I have to confess I had cake, too. I had it in the privacy of my own office, though.

Once again I've failed to do any more than mention The Useless One. I've known him for so long that it will be a task equal to that of writing War and Peace. Not elegant in this instance, but highly time consuming. There's always tomorrow.

Ted Koppel and Living With Cancer

I just wrote a lengthy post about Ted Koppel's documentary, "Living With Cancer," that was on the Discovery channel last night. (The post went flying out to Internet Purgatory.) The documentary will be aired again tonight at 8:00 Eastern time. If you have a friend or family member who has cancer, this program can be very helpful.

Leroy Sievers is Ted Koppel's best friend. He is dying of colon cancer that metastasized to several parts of his body. He is in Stage 4. That diagnosis almost inevitably ends in death. Elizabeth Edwards (who participated in the town hall meeting shown after the documentary) has Stage 4 breast cancer. No matter where the cancer travels, it will always be colon cancer or breast cancer. Just in a different location.

I can't imagine suffering through the treatments only to postpone death. We're all going to die, but some of us have medical proof that we're going to die sooner rather than later. There will be an end to Christmas lights, an end to friendships, to all of those daily things we tend to take for granted.

Since about halfway through chemotherapy, I've been almost certain that I would not choose to go through it again. Even if it meant dying. Of course, when I was first diagnosed, I thought I would refuse chemo and radiation. In retrospect that was profoundly naive. So maybe I would do another round of chemo, another round of radiation. I guess that's just one of those things you don't know until you get there.

All of the people at the town hall meeting were either currently being treated or had been treated for cancer. Without exception, everyone could see some positive things about having cancer. It certainly changes your perspective and clarifies priorities. It measures the level of inner strength you possess. I have attained heretofore unknown amounts of suffering. I care less now about how my hair is looking every day than to celebrate having any hair.

Cancer changes everything. It robbed me of all of the things I thought defined me. I'm trying to get some of them back. Some of them were inaccurate measures of who I am and needed to be left behind. Some of them are things that frustrate me, make me angry and cause me great sadness. Nonetheless, I'm still here. That's a lot. I know that I will live every day until I die and I will learn to love whoever replaces the person I used to be. No matter how hard that may be.

Crazy Land And Group Therapy

"Our dependency makes slaves out of us, especially if this dependency is a dependency of our self-esteem. If you need encouragement, praise, pats on the back from everybody, then you make everybody your judge."~Fritz Perls (http://www.positivehealth.com/permit/Articles/Regular/litt34.htm)

I didn't get here early enough this morning to find out what was going on with Loathsome yesterday. I think I know. It involved sitting in Owner's office for 3 hours.

I stopped by Owner's office this morning to say hello and we ended up having a lengthy conversation about his kids, his brother and our young receptionist. Not all together, though. One at a time.

There's general office wide satisfaction that Golden State kicked the Mav's collective butts last night. I kept everyone's enthusiasm up by sending links from the Dallas newspaper sports section. There's nothing meaner than a disappointed Mavs fan. Especially if they're sports writers.

I've been mingling with office mates this morning. I'm already exhausted. They just take so much energy. Maybe it's just me. You know, I like to seem enthused. Sometimes I actually am enthused. Very, very tiring.

An online friend recently expressed some interest in my experiences with psychotherapy. Needless to say, I've kept some therapists in the high income bracket over the years. I was in group therapy for several years, against my will.

When I started therapy, I was young and didn't have much money. The state provided psychotherapy on a sliding fee scale. Turns out, the state wanted the most bang for its buck and virtually everyone, sooner or later, was moved from individual to group therapy. I can not tell you how many new problems that caused.

In my first group, one woman was afraid of me. She was afraid I was going to hit her. Why? Beats me. It might have had something to do with the high level of rage I was working through. Of course, on the other hand, she was afraid of her own (small) children. She was afraid to tell them what to do.

One guy wanted to date me. I was already seriously involved with the man who would eventually come to be known as Hubby. Apparently the therapist thought it would be a good idea if he asked me out while we were in group. I felt blindsided. When I was a young woman, it was not a good idea to make advances unless I had clearly indicated it would be okay. I had not so indicated. Did I mention my high level of rage? It was specifically directed towards men. (Oh just go read the archives if you want to know.) The sad thing is that, after I'd raged at him for about half an hour, in front of everyone, he still wanted to date me.

There was a woman who hated me. We were in therapy together over a long period of time and we had an interesting dynamic. She didn't think she was very attractive and, unfortunately, there were other problems, of course, Mean Girl wasn't well-liked, I guess, by anyone either in group or in the "real" world. I, on the other hand, though filled with free floating hostility, was very popular. In the way that I still am. People find me energetic, interesting, empathic, funny, passionate, intelligent. Especially the nuts. The nuts really think I'm great. Mean Girl is her own story and maybe I should tell it when I have lots more time on my hands. It is, after all, therapy day which means I get to go home early. (Doing a little happy dance in my head.)

Group also included a woman who wanted me to be her girlfriend. That didn't make me hostile because she wasn't a guy. We did not date, but I never yelled at her in group about her feelings.

I met a woman named Ramona with whom I actually had a friendship, of sorts. It was a relationship that stretched over about five years. Ramona needs her own post, too. Suffice it to say that the end of our relationship could have been predicted at the outset.

All of this occurred in the early 70's, during which time therapy was changing in nature from the strictly Freudian standard to a looser, R.D. Laing-Fritz Perls kind of groovy thing. Barriers were being broken. Some barriers should never, ever be broken because there will be unforeseeable, dire consequences if they are. The only relationship you're supposed to have with your therapist is a "therapeutic" one. It should not spill over into your personal lives.

You know how I am, though. Special. Intellectually above it all. Kinda groovy. Very persuasive. I somehow convinced my therapist that we should have a friendship. Therapist was a woman or I never would have even remotely considered it. I won't take all the responsibility, though, because she was the therapist. Here again, Barbara deserves her own post.

Ah the fun I've had, the people I've known. It positively makes my head swim. Crazy Land, in one form or another, as been a staple of my life since I was just a gleam in my parents' eyes. To this day, the last words I want to hear out of anyone's mouth is, "Who wants to work today?"

This has opened up a whole new storyline. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. Group therapy. More to come. (That doesn't mean I'll abandon Loathsome, though.)

I Refuse To Play Crazy Land

There are new, potentially fascinating events afoot in Crazy Land today. Unfortunately it is of a delicate nature and I don't think I should go into it. More's the pity. I've gone to some great lengths to be anonymous, but you never really know, do you? So far, I don't think I've gone over the line with my Loathsome, Foot Lady, and Money Man posts. That remains to be seen, I guess.

The news I can share is that Loathsome has actually been allowed to visit the office today. Unfortunately for him, it is being spent in Owner's office with the door closed. He's been in there at least an hour and a half now. Wonder if Owner is reading him 2 months of creative emails. Oh god I hope so! Isn't that sad? I'm so easily amused.

Oh yeah. Another Crazy Land story that I instigated. You know, I had a co-worker who appeared to be shunning me (Oh thank you "The Office" for that word!). Then another co-worker told me he wasn't mad at me; he thought I was mad at him. Oh Jesus. That is so Crazy Land.

Well, I'd had enough. I started to write him an email when it suddenly dawned on me that I was adopting one of the most dysfunctional, but regularly used Crazy Land means of avoidance. I put on my Big Girl Panties and went down to his office. Of course, he wasn't there.

As luck would have it, he happened to be on the phone with Crazy Employee when I came upstairs. She told me she was talking to The Shunner (henceforth and forever known by that name). I asked if he was busy; she said he was just giving him a hard time. I said, "Let me talk to him when he gets through."

I started out the conversation noting the third-party communications about all of this. I told him I thought about sending an email, but decided I wanted to talk about it. I told him that I'm not angry. (I'm not and never was. That doesn't mean I don't think he's crazy, though.) I told him I'm not even irritated with him. (True again.)

I said, "You were a big support to me for the past 18 months while I was going my breast cancer treatment. I'm so grateful for that and I will always remember that. I can't be angry with you. I may disagree with you, but that doesn't mean I'm angry Besides, I tend not to get angry."

Now how can anyone be irate when I'm so disarming? I wasn't trying to be manipulative; I was saying what I truly feel. He commented that he should have come upstairs and talked to me a week ago. (Okay, yeah, I found that a little annoying. If you're upset or you think I am, let's be grownups and talk about it.) I have to admit I can be very pointed and utterly emotionless under those circumstances, but I'm generally willing to at least consider the other person's position. Even if it's batty. It's that dissociative technique of shutting down emotion and dealing with people on a purely intellectual lecture that people find alarming.

I made his day, cleared up the ongoing tension and lived up to my own expectations. In case there was ever any question, I am the most mature person in the office. I am not referring to my age; there are several people older than I. There's a lot to be said for growing up in an absolutely insane environment. In this instance, the bonus is that I recognize loony when I see it. I refuse to play Crazy Land.

Reconstruction, Phase 2

I finally got in touch with my plastic surgeon's nurse, Brenda. The last time I visited him, he told me Brenda would get in touch with me with a new surgery date. He thought it would be about four months down the road, but he cautioned me that he has an (outrageously) busy schedule.

I waited and waited and finally sent an email to Dr. K's scheduler. I just wanted to get the surgery date scheduled so I could attempt to put this out of my mind. It never does me any good to think about this stuff in advance. It's highly anxiety provoking, though not so much as my visits with my oncologist and surgical oncologist. There will be drains. That is one of the big reasons I need to put this out of my mind. Well, that and the pain.

My date is August 29, much sooner than expected. I immediately freaked out. Yes, it's good but no, it's not good at the same time. Let me just say it again: drains. My mother points out to me that I had drains for the mastectomy and they were very bearable. I'm not certain that didn't have more to do with the psychological trauma of having a breast removed than the lower pain level in having plastic inserted into your body. Maybe if I just get my beloved Dr. Ross to do it. Of course, Dr. R. is much better at cutting things off than at recreating them.

I probably won't be writing much more about this until the drop dead date (no Freudian slip here). I will be posting about the upcoming oncologist visit (the end of May) and my trip to see the wonderful Dr. Ross (sometime in June). I'm putting surgery out of my mind now.

Latest Bulletin From Crazy Land

My bookmark utility hasn't been working for a couple of days now, so I haven't been able to check in on anyone; that's tremendously frustrating. Oh. Wait. Cutter told me to email them to myself and I think I actually did that. Must investigate.

Yesterday I just wasn't in the mood. I've been having pain for several days now (that's what the whole "pamper-ggirl" thing was about) and it's made me doubt my ability to judge what the hell I'm writing. I give up. I'm writing anyway. If this is incoherent raving, please disregard and refer to "Loathsome Sends an Email."

The source of the pain is withdrawal from an antidepressant I've been taking for several years now. I knew it was causing some unusual synapse surges (or something like that), but I didn't have a clue that it was also causing colon pain until I talked with my doctor. That's why they always tell you on pharmaceutical commercials to talk to your doctor, I suppose. Actually, when you check the website, the pharmaceutical company does not refer to what I'm having as "withdrawal." I think they just call it "inconvenience" due to stopping.

We've been stepping down the dosage for about a month now, but I clearly need to step it down a bit more because it's not going well. So that's what we're doing. In the meantime, I'm still in pain but having a lot fewer synapse issues. The brain is much happier. The colon will be happier when serotonin levels rise a bit more.

Okay. On the Crazy Land front, Crazy Employee believes getting carpets cleaned and setting up pest inspections (for the rats running out of the field and sewer into the nightmare of Crazy Land) entitles her to a raise. Or at the very least a bonus. Can you hear me laughing?

One of the co-workers who was giving me the silent treatment was only shunning me because he thought I wasn't speaking to him. More hysterical laughter here. Why would I spurn him just because he's crazy? That's absolutely correct--no reason at all. That's what makes it fun to work here.

Everyone is mad at Owner because yesterday he sent out an email rant about the potential for theft by carpet cleaners. That actually did happen here about 15 years ago. The rest of these folks weren't here then. That wasn't really why they were angry anyway. Don't confuse us with the facts.

Bulletin. Crazy Employee just announced over speaker phone that no one is allowed to go into Building B. That's where I keep the kitty food. Crazy and I discussed this yesterday and I made alternative kitty feeding plans. Nonetheless, the announcement was clearly directed at me, since I'm the only one who ever goes over there. Owner followed up with his own announcement that no one was going to, but send everyone an email, anyway. Do not for one moment think that I'm not contemplating my own announcement. I'm in exactly that kind of mood today. Wouldn't that make me crazy, though? Yes. Yes, it would.

Several years ago, I forced several coworkers to start watching televised basketball games. I relentlessly made them listen to my play-by-play reports of March Madness and every single NBA game available on cable. A couple finally gave in and started watching, probably just to shut me up. The hoop-head fever has spread, unfortunately, so I'm greeted every morning with some very upset people because their team was disappointingly sucky in the play-off game the previous night. Today there's rampant disapproval of Golden State for losing to the Mavericks. What the hell was I thinking? By the way, why does everyone hate the Mavs? (Except for their colossal stupidity in letting Steve Nash and Michael Findley go play for other teams.)

I'm sure there's more fodder for fun around here somewhere, but I'd have to venture out of my office to hear it. No. Sorry. Not even for you. I'm going to stay in my office where I can wax hysterical whenever I wish. But thanks for listening. I feel better now. Even if what I just spent the last 20 minutes writing is utter nonsense, written by a woman being temporarily inconvenienced by unpredictable serotonin supplies.

Loathsome Sends An Email

Boys and girls, I am getting ready to do the unthinkable. I am going to reproduce an exchange of emails between Owner and Loathsome. I'd sit down if I were you.

Loathsome email:

Owner...not sure you will get this followup OR daily report...not letting me send for some reason. Will call you tomorrow and can rewrite.

Owner response:

Loathsome...received daily report just now. Sent ITBoy there. Will work on computer. Will try to fix. Got rewrite. Send insurance info to Money Man. Will pass along to insurer. May pay. May not pay. Will see. Big money. Hope delay not damaging.

No, I did not make that up. If only Loathsome had managed to work in incorrectly used "myself" and "cognizance," it would be perfect. Must go work on something else right now. Will write more later. Oh what the hell, there's no way I can be funnier than that.

I Want My Phil Spector Trial

Great. My only interest in being here today is that I get Phil Spector, all day with no commercial interruptions. However, one of the attorneys is sick today and court won't be re-convened until Wednesday. Now what? Jesus. Don't they know I'm bored?

Monday At Crazy Land

It's Monday and I haven't ventured out of my office. I've sent one email to Owner and spoken with Crazy Employee over the intercom. Oh wait. Crazy Employee just spent twenty minutes in my office, telling me about Rat Cleanup Day. Just send me a memo, okay? Do not make me talk to you. It's Monday. I'm in my office. Isn't that enough?

I think my new antidepressants are finally kicking in and I have to say, last night the thought actually arose, "I'm back. Is that right? Am I really back?" I'm more animated (like I used to be). I'm funny and quick-witted (Only about funny things, though; not important things like where I put my keys.). Last night around 7;00 p.m., I started dreading having to come to Crazy Land today. Surely that's a sign of improved mental health. For a while, I actually wanted to be here. But that was during chemo. Then there was a bout of it right after that last surgery, when I wanted to be anywhere but sitting on a sofa, being despondent. I can be despondent so much better here.

I actually wrote something with paper and pen last night. I haven't done that since my beloved friend Becky died. It was something intellectual. Oh my God. The end must surely be near. I need to check that supermarket tabloid that warned me the end is imminent and find out if my name is listed under the "Who's Going to Live?" part of the article.

It could be that I'm just a tad manic today. It looks like rain outside my windows and I haven't started drifting downward into weather-induced melancholy. Yes, that's definitely a sign of tad-ish mania. So is making up words like "tad-ish."

My mom just called me to tell me she got one of those spaghetti cookers you see on tv. It's like a clear cylinder and you pour hot water over the spaghetti in it and--voila--fully, but not over cooked pasta. It was a short conversation because, as she rightly notes, she has to hurry over to my house so she can be there when Phil Spector gets going. I urged her to hang up and get on the road. Trial is due to start in about 13 minutes. See? Maybe I'm just a tiny bit manic.

There are important things I need to share with you, but I'll be damned if I can remember what they are. I've been having serious memory problems lately (that's probably the real reason I'm so chipper--has nothing to do with meds). Maybe I'm just not remembering I'm unhappy. I'm blaming the Tamoxifen. I don't always think as clearly as I once did. I have to hang onto the thought that the memory and thought processes will improve as time goes on.

Now I remember. I spent some time over the weekend thinking about breast cancer long term. I have an appointment with my oncologist later this month. We'll do the blood test that confirms there are no cancer cells. This is always an anxiety provoking event. There went that mania thing. Not feeling so frisky suddenly. It's good to face reality, but it's sobering to remember this is a disease for which we have no cure. Many things in my life will never ever be the same. I'm now severely lacking in pep.

I had "Take care of ggirl" day on Saturday and Sunday. I've never done that before (unless I was forced). I read, did some yoga (very gentle), took a bubble bath, laid down to rest for a couple of hours and just generally focused on things that would be soothing. I should probably mark my calendar because I think this is the first time I've ever devoted two days to making myself feel better. Do I feel better now? Well, no. It's Monday now, but that's not really the point.

I finished the Primo Levi biography and thought about the puzzle of why people choose to commit suicide. Thoughts on that will be available at my book site sometime soon. I started Wild Ivy, by Hakuin Ekaku. I'm taking a hiatus from depressing, intellectually demanding, concentration camp reading. Hakuin is intellectually demanding, but he also lifts my spirits and reminds me of the precious gift of this very moment.

More notes from Crazy Land tomorrow. Or maybe that tale I keep meaning to tell of the peculiar behavior by an old friend of mine. Either way, you win.

Loathsome: The Medical Years

In the process of answering an email, I was reminded of yet another fun Loathsome story. There are a million of them. I've known him for a couple of decades now, so I've had a lot of time to accumulate them.

When Loathsome was in the Army (drafted during Vietnam), he was assigned to the mental health unit (or whatever it's called). I can only imagine that they thought one crazy person would just naturally recognize any others he happened upon. (Turns out, that's not necessarily true. My dad never recognized any other insane people. Or rather, he just thought everybody was crazy except him.) Loathsome mainly had to go collect military guys after they'd gone over the deep end.* I don't exactly know what he did with them then, but suffice it to say Loathsome believes he did a damn good job at a very difficult assignment.

I digress. After the Army, Loathsome capitalized on that experience by getting hired as an orderly in a state-run psychiatric institution in California during the late sixties. Orderly. Excellent career move. He likes to tell me (and probably anyone else he can force to listen) that he made a great contribution to the psychiatrically challenged population housed there. I, of course, wondered what Loathsome could possibly offer anyone in the way of functional living skills. Our original conversation was revelatory and entertaining, as always.

"I showed them how to dress," he told me with enormous pride. You could just see his chest puffing out as he said it.

"You showed them how to dress?" I smiled as if I was already impressed. You've probably noticed by now that pretty much any statement from Loathsome immediately requires some explanation.

"Yeah. I brought my own clothes in and showed them how to match things. Like plaids and colors." Big, big Loathsome smile here. He was very impressed with himself.

I can only imagine the huge positive impact the ability to mix and match outfits was for people with, say, schizophrenia. I've always wondered where exactly he thought they might put this powerful new knowledge to work. As far as I know, back in the sixties in state-run psychiatric hospitals, there weren't a whole lot of wardrobe options. Let's see now. Hospital clothing--green or white. Not Dior by a long shot. I don't think they had plaid, either.

I also wonder how the hell he got his clothes in there. Do orderlies regularly get to take their personal wardrobes into the hospital and, like "What Not to Wear," analyze the various outfit possibilities the patients could apply in their own lives? If so, I could definitely take that on as a part time gig. Very fashion savvy here, especially when we're talking about people who are currently hallucinating or who have their own running conversation about the style tips with people who exist solely in their heads.

Several years ago, Owner fell out of a deer blind and broke his back on a hunting trip. He was incredibly lucky that he wasn't paralyzed. He managed to break just the right vertebrae to survive relatively unscathed. He did have to have surgery and was in the hospital for a while, though.

When the accident first occurred, Loathsome was on it immediately. He wanted to know which hospital Owner was in so he could head on over there to get some answers. We were understandably (once again) puzzled.

"I need to go over there and make sure they're given him the right treatment. I have a medical background, you know."

Maybe that was a long way to go to get to a disappointing end. Personally, I find the "medical background" statement breathtakingly hilarious. My husband and I still, years later, say that to each other when one of us is having a small medical crisis. Like a paper cut.

Sometimes I just love my job.

*Please be assured that I mean no disrespect to the men and women who served in Vietnam. As a person with post traumatic stress disorder, I know how bad that can be. The things they saw were unimaginable, as in all wars, I suppose. I've known some men who served there and they deserve enormous compassion and respect.

I also mean no disrespect to people with mental illness. God knows I've got enough of it in my father's family. And let's face it, ptsd and chronic depression are the definitions of mental illness. I just happen to have a sense of humor about it.

IBS in Crazy Land

The pest control guys get it. The problem isn't my cats. It's not my cats' food. It's that they're digging up that field across the road. It's that the city is replacing all of the sewer lines all down this street (even I didn't remember that). It's that the building is old and the neighbors are derelict in their responsibilities. Of course, none of that means people won't still decide to be miffed at me. That's fine. You know how I like being right, though. And I am right.

You know, I could just go on and on about the silent treatment and the rats and the fleas. I have a tendency to get a little obsessive. It's possible I may be a little defensive. (Oh surely not!) I'll spare you the gory details and try to move on. I hear the Chief Shunner downstairs talking to the pest control guys. What an idiot. Okay, I'm moving on now.

I found out why Loathsome isn't in the office this week. It's because Owner told him not to come here. He has to stay at the client's site. All of the time. I wouldn't be surprised if Owner didn't try to make him sleep over there. I guess the client's security people would have a problem with that, though. I'm glad to know he's not still on vacation. That was really annoying me in a big way.

You'd think that after being diagnosed with breast cancer, nothing else could really rattle my cage. I guess everyone's unhappiness with me has taken a toll, as much as I hate to admit it. I have IBS and the stress has made that kick in, even though I never had it during the most stressful months of cancer treatment. So I've been in pain for several days now.

On the grand scale of needles in the breast, chemotherapy sores in the mouth or reconstruction agony, this pain is small. However, it is constant pain. It really makes me angry that I've allowed Crazy Land to get inside my head this way. I'm trying not to be annoyed with myself, because that makes it worse (of course). So today I feel whiny, obsessive and a little vindictive.

The good news is that last night was my first night alone. My mom has been staying over ever since I had reconstruction surgery. I love my Mom and I'm infinitely grateful for her help. I don't know how I would have gotten through this without her. Having said that, I'm a person who needs a lot of alone time and I haven't had any for a couple of months now.

Andy the Demon Dog seems to be much better behaved when it's just the two of us. Or rather, three if you count the Sheba Woo. What a relief to not be fending off his arm-gnawing. It's a miracle I have all of my limbs intact.

I spent my evening reading the mammoth biography I've been working on for about a month or so. I still didn't finish it, but we're heading into Levi's final days. I'm saddened by his struggles.

However, I'm looking forward to my next book, which I already have picked out. It's a biography of Zen spiritual master Hakuin Ekaku, who lived from 1685-1768. It's been quite some time since I read any new Buddhist books. They used to keep me from moving into the dark moods that sometimes overtake me. I stopped reading them about the time I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was just too hard to concentrate on anything other than enduring.

I reread The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying at some point in my treatment. My memory of those days is a little fuzzy, though.

It's time for lunch now. We're having a going-away luncheon for a co-worker of mine. Not going. The food will be inhospitable. I'm not feeling particularly charitable towards any of the other Crazy Land denizens. I have officially sentenced them to the harsh punishment of dealing with each other. Plus, this will give them all extra time to talk to each other about how mad they are at me. I'm happy to oblige. My colon and I are signing off now.

Please. Don't Talk To Me.

At least one of my co-workers is still miffed about the kitty issue and isn't speaking to me. Oh no. Not that. The problem is that they contend our rat problem (they are plentiful lately) and a flea problem are solely due to the kitties. Despite the fact that the field across the street from us is being dug up for a shopping mall or something. Anyone ever hear of "field rats?" Anyone know why they're called that? They've got to go somewhere and we're convenient. I bet they've completely taken over the empty building across from the other side of the excavation site.

The woman who lives in the house right next door to us has two dogs and never does anything about fleas. I don't think fleas recognize property lines and refuse to cross them. But, you know, don't confuse us with the facts. And no one has stepped up to talk about it directly to me or the owner. I'm being given the silent treatment because they're all terrified and this is what five-year olds do (or maybe I'm insulting five-year olds).

Everyone is afraid to talk to me about it because

1. I can be scary when angry. I'm so calm and icy, the windows frost up.

2. My boss is on my side. I believe I've covered the "Official Torture List" in several other posts.

So some of them just aren't speaking to me. I wonder if they think that bothers me. The reality is that it's all a big drama here every single damn day. I'm just temporarily the focus of the general office-wide hate fest that constitutes my working life. Please. Don't talk to me.

In other news, Loathsome is still on the owner's shit list. I dropped by to ask Owner where I should direct a phone inquiry about a quote for a job. I asked if Loathsome should get the call. Owner replied, "You should never call Loathsome about anything." Hmm. Doesn't sound good. Still no sight of him anywhere. If he were here, everyone would be not speaking to him. Or the Useless One. (I'll get to him later. ) See? My "professional" (and I used that term advisedly) life is a rollicking adventure every day.

The Money Man is having a really good week. He loves it when there's conflict. Especially when he has a part in it. He may have gotten the kitty ball rolling when he announced to everyone that he had 50 fleas on him when he entered the small building where kitty food is stored. Oddly enough, my mom, the Foot Lady and I have never had a flea problem over there. But far be it from me to challenge that assessment. I certainly am not interested in counting the fleas on his khakis; I'll just have to take his word for it.

Tomorrow, maybe we'll cover the Useless One. Or the bizarre behavior of an old friend of mine. I seem to attract bizarre. I'm a beacon shining a light into the Land of Crazy. They flock to me like (you guessed it) rats after the Pied Piper.

News From The Office Front,. Meet the Foot Lady.

I work with a woman who is obsessed with her feet. Foot Lady has managed to work her feet into every conversation she’s had for the past decade. She stopped me last week to ask how the plastic surgery visit went and was able to parlay that into more foot commentary.

This has driven co-workers absolutely mad. It’s not even merely a reaction to the tedious subject matter; it’s because she randomly plops one or both of her feet on her desk to get specific about the latest problem. Yes, we are forced to look. And yes, many times she’s wearing a dress. I don’t think you wish to hear the details of how that happens. You just never know when she’s feeling inspired, so it’s hard to prepare yourself emotionally for a foot encounter.

She had surgery on both feet last year. Before surgery, she made me look at this icky sore on the bottom of one of her feet. I guess I deserved it. I’d managed to remain unscathed for years. Some people have been forced to gaze upon their majesty many times. Having seen them once, you most definitely wouldn’t want to see either one of them again.

We’ve all been required to acknowledge the foot surgery by listening to a blow-by-blow recounting of how long the surgery took, how long she had to wear funny shoes, how painful it was. You can see where I’m going with this.

I’d hoped that, after the surgeries and rehab, her feet would cease to be a major focal point of conversation with her. Obviously, I was wrong. After Foot Lady launched into a full-blown recitation of her ongoing problems and hiked one foot up on the desk, I was edging toward the door, trying to make my escape.

“Gotta go. Really, really tired,” I kept saying whenever she took a breath. I’m polite to a fault. It’s partly due to growing up in the South, where we’re always polite no matter how much we hate you. It’s partly due to my father’s insistence on (some types of) manners. It’s partly due to my own obsessiveness. God forbid that I should forget the basic rules of etiquette.

It’s especially hard for me to walk away when someone has been kind enough to inquire as to how the whole cancer thing is going. It just seems rude to give them an abbreviated version of my current state of being and then waltz away, leaving the inquirer to curb their need to work in a little bit about themselves. Hey, I’m hip to that. We all like to talk about ourselves. Well, except for the pathologically independent ggirl (according to my therapist).

So there you are. I count myself lucky that Foot Lady didn’t make me touch it. She was comparing the numbness on part of her foot to some numbness I experience as a result of multiple surgeries. Trust me, I do not make people look at the places where I’m numb. I most certainly do not make people touch them.

I saw her briefly this morning, but our discussion centered on rats. Hey, better than feet.

On the Loathsome front, he still hasn’t put in an appearance in the office. I’m amazed and nonplussed. I’ve started to feel stupid for making myself show up at the office when it’s been physically difficult for me. I was so looking forward to running into him and asking a seemingly polite question about the tool accident. Fortunately, I have mastered the art of looking innocent while I politely and surreptitiously cause untold amounts of discomfort. Yet another benefit of that Southern thing. That’s okay. I’ll see him at some point. I have a very long memory.

I sent out an email to everyone about the cat situation. Coworkers have been very unhappy about my kitties for a very long time. They (unfortunately, I do not mean my colleagues) have been disappearing at an alarming rate. We’re down to 2.5. One of them is only here part-time, so he really gets to be counted as half a cat.

Yes, I admit to being a little angry and bitter about their collective attitudes. Nonetheless, I sent out a brief and factual email to everyone in the office about the dwindling kitty population. Later, I stopped in to say hello to the owner of the company and we discussed the (as yet) unread email.

“Who did you send it to?” he asked.

“Everyone in the office.”

“Was it sardonically worded?” he smiled conspiratorially. Owner is aggravated by coworkers’ kitty irritation.

“No.” I said.

“Why not?” I could tell he really, really wanted me to take verbal gloves off and come out swinging.

“I edited myself on the way back from lunch. You know, it’s usually better that way,” I smiled at his appreciation for my rapier tongue and my unerring instinct for finding the soft underbelly of everyone I meet.

“Were people giving you shit about the cats?” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at me. I could tell that would have added more people to the torture list or just upped the ante on those folks who are already on it.

“No. I just know how happy that would make them. Just wanted to say ‘congrats,’” I gave him that half smile I get when retribution is definitely in the offing.

Yes, I’m angry and a trifle bitter about their constant whining about the cats. If you work here and that’s the biggest source of your unhappiness, you are one very lucky (and possibly stupid) human being. But you know, whatever makes the assholes happy.

I don’t have to be friendly and solicitous to anyone except the guy who always sees eye to eye with me over the kitty issue, the owner of the company. Grown men have been known to almost lose control of their bladders when faced with my icy, but infinitely polite gaze. I have my ways. You know, I’m a Southerner.

Rage Against the Child

I had planned to write today about one of my other co-workers, The Foot Lady, and about the strange behavior of an old friend of mine. Then I heard the Alec Baldwin tape. (http://www.tmz.com) I heard it early this morning on television and haven't been the same since. It triggered a major bout of post traumatic stress disorder. My hands are still shaking from fear.

My father had a temper like that. It was unpredictable. I would be sitting at the dinner table and suddenly he'd knock the shit out of me. I'd start to cry, which would give him an excuse to do it again. Crying always made things worse. Or better. My dad liked to make people cry. I learned to withhold tears. At some point, I just wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing me cry anymore.

Long, drawn-out dramas where there would be multiple opportunities to hit and yell were his specialty. If he could make something go on all day, he was a happy guy. Since I had no place else to go, he had a lot of fun with me. It was an extra treat to beat up my mom while threatening me. I got the point.

The point tended to revolve around Dad. How was he feeling? Had someone made him feel like shit at work? Was he psychotic? Was I looking at him in a way he could tolerate? How should I look at him? Was I performing intellectually up to his standards? What was the correct response to the question he asked? Would it be better to try to stay out of the house or would he think I was trying to hide from him? (No hiding.)

Much like Mr. Baldwin, his abusiveness was firmly rooted in his own self pity. He'd been working his ass off, he'd given up his only son (because of me), he had a terrible childhood. The list goes on and on. There were always plenty of reasons why I should be punished. Even though they really had nothing to do with me. It was all about him.

My mom and dad (but she didn't count) gave me a ring when I was around nine. I lost it the same year. You can not imagine the firestorm that set off. I'm not sure I'd even noticed it was gone. They never had it sized, so they'd just wrapped tons of cellophane tape around the band to make it stay on. In retrospect, it wasn't all that surprising that I lost it.

My father noticed. He always noticed things like that and took them as a personal affront. If one of my mom's hubcaps fell off, he acted like she'd gotten out of the car on the way home, removed the hubcap, thrown it into a field and come home without it just to spit in his face. It was that way with the ring.

He demanded to know where it was. Oh shit, I had no idea. I tried to think back. Quickly. That was hard to do when my father was raging. I couldn't think of where I was when I last felt it on my finger. I started crying. Uh oh. He slapped me and knocked my glasses against the side of my nose. That really hurt. He told me not to cry or he'd give me something to cry about. He wanted me to sit there and think about what I'd done with the ring. He left. He probably went to the bathroom. There was just something about getting angry that made the bathroom call out to him. I was punished many times in the bathroom. But that's another story.

After he left, I was in a panic. I knew there was no way I was going to come up with the answer and that, even if I did, there was most definitely going to be hell to pay. Just like Alec Baldwin, my father didn't care that I was nine; he would not tolerate being treated so ungratefully. There would be adult punishment coming; it was just a matter of time.

He told me to go out in the yard and look for it and not to come back until I found it. I walked around in the sun, peering at the grass under my feet. I prayed the yellow topaz stone would miraculously glitter and catch my eye. I made bargains with God. God never held up his end of those bargains, though, and after a while, my father called me back inside.

As I walked over to the door, I seized upon the idea of blaming it on someone else. I blamed a girl I used to play with from the neighborhood.

"I think maybe Sheila took it."

That did not completely resolve my problem. I was going to have to come up with a means by which she took it. I couldn't say she'd thrown me to the ground and wrestled it off of me. That would have created more problems for me. My father expected that when someone was violent towards me, I would hit them back. He asked me how in the hell she got it? I had no answer.

He told me to go out in the yard again and find something he could whip me with. I got to cry a little bit after I got outside. I found the smallest branch I could and took it back to him after I had composed myself. Couldn't take long with that self-composure thing; he was waiting. The longer he waited, the worse it would be.

I took the switch into the house and handed it to him. He told me that it wasn't big enough and that I should go back out and find a larger one. I did. I had stopped being afraid by that time. I just wanted to get it over with and get out of my father's line of vision, if possible. The most reliable form of rescue was dissociation. I just got numb. I've been a little bit numb ever since I learned in my childhood what a great strategy that was.

I received my punishment. He'd learned when I was 7 that he couldn't hit me around my arms and legs. My mom saw the bruises he left on me and told him that someone at school might notice. They might wonder. They might be inclined to call people.

After all the rage subsided, he made me leave the room. Later on in the afternoon, he called me in from the front yard. The law was laid down. I would never, ever have any contact with that little girl again. He was still considering calling her trashy parents to make her give it back. I promised, I swore, I'd never exchange another word with Sheila. That seemed to work.

When I got much older, I wondered if the Sheila story didn't just play right into his hands. He'd had my mom outside numerous times, beating her up. One night, he held a knife to her throat while I screamed at him to stop. Surely Sheila's family must have heard some of that. As I write this, I'm not sure what that would have mattered. It's amazing the power that violence holds on me still.

I felt awful about my behavior for years. I lied about a friend to save my own ass, which I knew couldn't be saved anyway. That was not the path to self-esteem. Of course, I've forgiven myself for that and the many other ways I attempted to shift the burden of blame off of my shoulders. It was a long time coming, though. It came at great expense.

Even so, I'm still consumed with terror from time to time. My hands still shake when I'm reminded of the past. I'm easily startled. Without medication, I don't sleep well. Sometimes, like today, I have flashbacks. Suddenly I'm in that time and space when panic struck, fueled by my father's rage.

I'd really like to thank Alec Baldwin for the flashback. I haven't had one for a long time. Mostly, though, I hope his little girl is able to sleep at night. I hope she feels loved. I hope she isn't terrified of her dad. Terror gets its hooks into your soul and won't let go. It's awful when that terror arrives courtesy of your parent, the one and only dad (or mom) you'll ever have.

Xanax Dilemma

Oh damn. I can't remember if I took my Xanax this morning. Should I just take two more and risk hitting my head on my desk when I pass out? This result could be alarming to my co-workers and my mother when she finds out about it.

Should I just assume I've taken it and spend the rest of the day in unrecognized but nonetheless debilitating anxiety? That sets my co-workers' and my husband's teeth on edge. Probably mine, too, if I notice it.

I guess I'm going with Option 2.

Tub Mishaps and Marital Wonkiness

I'll just start by talking about myself. (I think this is a big emotional breakthrough, because you know how I hate to do that.) First of all, no one told me that the steroid injections I received on Tuesday would continue to hurt. No truth in advertising in the surgeon's office, it appears. I've definitely felt worse lots of times, so that's not so much a complaint as it is a surprising statement of fact.

I had a little accident last night. It was just before bedtime and I was in the bathroom when (somehow) my foot slipped and I fell backwards into the bathtub. My back ended up on the bottom of the tub and my head landed on the soap dish with a resounding thump. I took a quick inventory and didn't feel like I had a concussion or anything; I was just concerned about how the hell I was going to get out of there. My feet didn't touch any surface at all; my knees were dangling over the top of the tub where there's no foothold to be found. How humiliating. My mom heard the loud thud and came rushing to the door, asking me if I was okay. I had to break the news to her that Humpty Dumpty seemed to be unable to get upright. She helped me get out of the tub and started to get worried about potential physical damage until I reassured her that inventory had been taken and all parts were working just as well as ever.

They're still working just fine. I have a little soreness along the entire right side of my body and my head's a bit tender if I touch it. So I just don't touch it. No vomiting or any other symptoms of concussion. The upshot? You just can not kill me. That's great news because I've been known since my childhood as a huge klutz. I was the kid who wasn't coordinated enough to play kickball with the other kids during that period of physical torture, known as "Physical Education" class or recess, take your pick. (The ball would be coming at me and I'd kick at it, then I'd realize it was still a couple of feet away from me. Try to imagine the hilarity that created for all the other children.) I've been known to walk directly into walls. (I get a little lost in my own thoughts sometimes.) I stumble over grass. Turns out that my history has served me well; I've developed an uncanny ability to both continue to injure myself and still be (relatively) fine if I just take some ibuprofen.

Now on to the fun stuff. Office antics. Loathsome is going to remain with the company, despite his egregiously bad behavior after the accident. I'd like to collect on that bet now. Wonder who I could see about that? I'm fairly certain I put $100 dollars on staying.

Not only does he still have a job at the same rate of pay as always, he's on vacation right now. Vacation. Is there any way in hell that, having screwed up so mightily, I would have the (figuratively speaking) balls to go on vacation? I don't think so.

I told you Owner was going to think keeping Loathsome on would be a much worse punishment than firing him. I see hours and hours of Loathsome's time being spent in Owner's office, listening to Owner read things to him. (Owner likes to write clever emails and fake news stories he then sends to everyone on his email contact list.) Everybody hates it when he isn't satisfied with having us all read the written version and has to call us up and read it to us. He won't have to now; he'll have Loathsome. I believe it's the win-win solution for everyone.

Money Man, or Bible Thumping Hypocrite (as one of my co-workers refers to him) seems to be having some issues on the marital home front. Money Man has "taken a personal stand against homosexuality." That kind of speaks for itself, doesn't it? I mean, how does that work? When gay guys approach him, I guess he plants his feet firmly and intones, "No! I will not have homosexual intercourse with you!" Oh god, if only the marital discord was caused by an affair with a guy he met in his prayer group. It would be so entertaining.

The real issue is that he's not a very good husband, according to his wife. I can only imagine. One of my co-workers and I are constantly amazed anybody would live with him. He watches too much television, for one thing. They never do anything together; that reason is always a crowd pleaser. He said he wasn't surprised. Money Man's wife and he don't have anything in common anymore, he stated, except for the kids. The problem there is that each side picked a fave kid years ago and have stuck with their original choices. Each always seizes upon any infraction of the rules by the other's favorite as an opportunity to rail against that spouse about child-rearing techniques (which encompass just about everything that could possibly go awry in the marriage). Even though the "kids" are in their mid to late twenties now, it's a hard habit to break, a veritable marital war by proxy.

Money Man says he "saw it coming." It's that ominous phrase that makes me think things have really gotten waspish between the two of them. It doesn't bode well, does it? A friend of Money Man's wife died this week in a different city. He's lobbying for her to go to the funeral so he can get her the hell out of the house and watch the NBA playoffs in peace. I'm with him on the playoff thing. I'd try to get her out of town, too. Nothing like your spouse wanting to do things with you when Phoenix is getting ready to play L.A. in 5 minutes. In the playoffs.

On the other hand, if I were the wife, I'd use absolutely any excuse to be anywhere other than with him. Maybe that's just me, though. It's entirely possible that she's become so inured to his general nasty temperament and rampant negativity that she doesn't even recognize it anymore. And she did say they should spend more time together. Maybe she should see a doctor about this.

There's so much more office entertainment to catch you up on, but I remember reading that blog posts are supposed to be short so people will read them. So I guess I should get around to the other stuff later. And who knows? Maybe I'll have a close encounter with some other immovable object in my house. (Oh wait...I have to knock on the oak-like particle board I call my desk.)

Now who do I need to talk to about that $100 bet?

Pigeon Tales

I'm worn down to a nub today. I ended up sitting in one of those little examination rooms for over an hour. Surgeons' schedules are like that, I know, but I start to feel a little claustrophobic after 30 minutes or so.

Everything is progressing nicely, except for some thickened scar tissue. I had a series of steroid injections along the incision site across my lower stomach. I had two at my belly button and two or three right around the New Girl. Everyone (the nurse, 2 physician's assistants, the surgeon who were all crowded into the exam room) was concerned about the pain involved. I'm still numb in several places. The other sites hurt, but I now laugh at pain. Hahaha. A few steroid injections doesn't even really show up on my radar screen.

I'll have another surgical event in four or five months (whenever he can fit me into his very, very busy schedule). We're going to do some liposuction and other work on both the new and old girls. I'll have to be in the hospital overnight and more drainage tubes. (Oh no!!! Anything but that!) Those really hurt. Maybe they won't extend so far into my body this time. Nothing like having sensitive inner body contact with plastic.

Still waiting for the day when I'll be able to wear normal clothes and/or everybody stops hurting me. My psychiatrist tells me I shouldn't think of it that way. It's not very "empowering," you know. She can get back with me on that when she's gone through the same things I have. I have not, for the past year and a half, chosen to be hurt.

Aside from all of that, the skies are blue, the trees outside my windows are lush again and waving in the breeze. Nesting continues and the squirrels are feeling energized. They run along the branches and make daring leaps from one to the other. Out of my other window, I have a bit of a crepe myrtle tree visible and the roof of a church. The crepe myrtle isn't in bloom yet; it's too early still.

There's plenty of action on the church roof, though. The courting going on over there is lively. There are a lot of pigeons in the neighborhood and they like to hang out on that church roof. Since it's mating time, there are constantly three or four male pigeons chasing after (usually) one female at a time. She keeps moving away and here come the gang of boys right after her. Generally, when the females get exasperated and leave, all the boys stand there, looking at her as she flies away, collectively baffled. That's usually about all they're willing to put into the chase, so they mill around until some other hapless female arrives.

It's so good to be back. I have another M.D. Anderson visit with my oncologist coming up next month. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Office Drama, Part 57

I forgot to mention the Office Fiasco. I saw Loathsome wandering around yesterday. He did not look up from the paper he was carrying and mumbled hello when I cheerfully said good morning. That makes me smile.

Today, I was told that Money Man sent a very snotty and inappropriate email to The Owner. Uh oh. Owner will add another bad mark against Money Man in his "List of People Who've Irritated Me That I Will Torture Forever." He's a creative tormenter . With a very, very long memory. Here again, big smile. Money Man apparently felt free to elucidate how much he absolutely hates Loathsome. As if that makes him any different than the rest of us.

I almost hate to be gone on Monday and Tuesday. Heaven only knows what new drama will erupt by the time I get back.

It's the Trip to the Hospital, Stupid

There's nothing like a trip to M.D. Anderson to throw me for an emotional loop. My depression got even worse as the day wore on and there's a good chance it will return (in spades) today. That's just how it goes. I thought I'd get this post in before I take up today's temporary residence in Crazy Land.

There won't be any painful tests. There won't be any bad news. This is just a check in with my plastic surgeon to make sure the New Girl is doing okay and the tummy tuck hasn't killed me (from accidentally ripping out stitches). It's the mere fact that I have to enter that building. Everything comes back to me, even before I get there. Like yesterday. Things got very grim.

I saw Elizabeth Edwards on Larry King last night. It was really nice they made room for her after the wall-to-wall Imus coverage. There is a woman who is most definitely bucking up. More than I ever have. She's chosen not to give any more of her life to this disease. I get it. I've lost almost two years now that will never come back. Choose to live until you die. That's about all any of us (both people with or without serious illness) can do. She has my deepest respect; I am humbled by her courage.

So that's how it is. I'll be away until next Wednesday, by which time I'll probably have returned to the Land of Crazy and be back to my cranky self.

A Semblance of Safety and Ease

In spite of the big brouhaha in my office, I find myself distracted by other, more mournful, things. I've been pondering the way my life has unravelled for me these 53 years. There are at least a couple of issues that keep leading my thoughts back to the past, distant and near. I'm tired and, at some point along the way, I began to get sad when I'm tired. Maybe it's the onslaught of breast cancer treatment. Maybe it's just that the years are wearing me down a bit. I'm also anxious. Whenever I have to go to Houston, I get apprehensive and a little nauseated the week before my appointment. The fact that I recognize it means it's mighty big anxiety; because of my history, anxiety and worry feel normal to me. Other people have to point out to me that my voice or body language betray my state of mind. Finally, I've been editing old entries. Many of them deal with my difficult childhood which led to my troubled youth. Looking back carefully is never easy.

Lately when someone mentions an old movie or an old song, I remember how deeply I tried to crawl into any semblance of safety and ease I could find there. One of my annual rituals was watching "The Wizard of Oz." When I was a little girl, I could block out all of the violence and terror and dread while I accompanied the Cowardly Lion (my favorite character) along the Yellow Brick Road. I could never understand why Dorothy wanted to go back. "There's no place like home" didn't have a positive meaning to me.

There were a whole collection of movies--White Christmas, Abbott and Costello movies, The Thin Man series and television programs--I Love Lucy, The Dick Van Dyke Show. I wasn't particularly discriminating. I had no vision of what sanity looked like and yet I hoped to find it someday. I thought maybe those diversions could be real, that my own life could be sophisticated, carefree and gentle. I thought maybe my life could someday be a place where I could just take a deep breath and settle onto a comfy sofa without the constant stress of threats, two families living under one roof, of violence and uncertainty. How could I have imagined that which I had never really experienced myself? I dreamed as I entered those make-believe worlds.

I read other people's posts and rediscover that my life resembles no one elses I've ever known. On some level, I always keep it a bit of a secret from myself that my childhood never really existed. My parents said many times that I was born an adult. My dad marvelled at the fact that I was able, at two, to answer questions like an adult. (Of course, my dad was never a very good judge of what constituted adult behavior.) My mom, to this day, comments with some puzzlement, that, even though she tried her best, she was unable to help me fit into the role of being a normal child.

It sometimes makes me a little angry that she still can't see that my survival depended on being able to successfully juggle various realities at a very young age. I had to find my way through school days without betraying just how distracting my home life was. It was imperative to perform well and fit in; it was my only escape. At home, disappearing seemed to be safest, but entirely unattainable. It was a very dangerous thing to misunderstand whose priorities came first. My dad was the child; we were there to serve him. Sometimes I'm a little jealous of my mom's reminiscences. I don't have any memories of innocence.

I continue to take some pride in the fact that no one can see what I've survived. The only hint is a small hesitation when people talk about their childhoods and ask about my own. I pause while I scramble to find the appropriate response. I don't lie, but I don't tell the truth, either. I've shared parts of my past with therapists and a couple of friends. Their responses lead me to believe the truth may be too much to bear. It may be confusing to people who have always only seen the cheerful adult they know. I don't see much good that can come of either of those possibilities.

I'm still trying to sort it out alone. I struggle to find meaning out of all of that chaos and all of the nightmares to follow, my father's suicide and my own battle with cancer. I can't find any. I may never understand why my path has been so formidable. I discourage the tendency to feel sorry for myself, but I have the courage to look back with sadness. After all, I do have the luxury of a comfy sofa and some time to take a deep breath.

Who You Calling Stupid?

"Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity." ~ William James

This is not funny. It is, however, predictable. Co-worker Loathsome is in charge of a project that involves millions of dollars of equipment. We discovered yesterday that last week (last week!), one of those multi-million dollar tools was broken by several of our employees. Loathsome did not feel impelled to report it to anyone. Not the owner of the company. Not the comptroller (aka Money Man). Not the client. Not even our company's supervisor of the project. "It's been a well-kept secret," he confided.

The only reason anyone here knows about it is that somehow the client finally found out about it and wishes to be reimbursed for this broken equipment. The company has plenty of insurance to cover the loss. Loathsome requested a copy of the insurance policies for a meeting with the client's representatives. When people inquired as to why he needed the copies, Loathsome replied, "We broke some equipment." I was in the office when he made that confession. I screeched, "What!?" and hotfooted it out of there so I wouldn't start yelling at him. Even though I try not to get emotionally involved in company business, there are still some things that never fail to make me crazy. Breaking ridiculously expensive equipment a week into the job is one of those things. As is failing to report it when that happens.

The fact that no one, including Loathsome, reported the accident to anyone is unbelievable. The owner of the company asked him (in a meeting in which I was not present) why he hadn't reported it. "I guess I felt ashamed," he replied. So he hid it. I have no idea what he thought he was going to do. Maybe he thought they could blame it on someone else: "It wasn't us; it was that guy over there from the janitorial firm." Maybe he thought they could say it was broken when they got it, "It looked like that when it got here. We didn't think it was actually broken. We just thought it was innovative design." Maybe like Spicoli in "Fast Times At Ridgmont High," he thought, "Dude. I can fix this. My dad's a tv repairman."

He admitted to the owner of the company that he knew keeping it a secret broke all of the company's rules and that his behavior was woefully unethical. This is proof positive that if, at 40, you have no clear idea about the difference between right and wrong, 20 years later you still won't. Loathsome has been involved in some other questionable activities, but I guess I thought even he wasn't that untrustworthy. Or that stupid.

I still don't have the full story. One of my coworkers is supposed to come over to my side of the building later to tell me the rest of the sorry hijinks. You know, I wasn't happy when Loathsome was strutting around like the proverbial peacock after he acquired the contract, but knowing his ass is in a sling over this isn't very satisfying, either. Sometimes I'd rather I wasn't right. (I know that's hard to believe, because we all know how much I like being right.)

You can not imagine the level of silence in this office today. There are several people who have wanted Loathsome to go for years now. I don't know if I wanted him to be fired for the past 20 years, but I definitely thought he should be held up for ridicule if only because he's pretentious, pompous and duplicitous.

I think it could go either way. If I were a betting woman, I'd say he's staying. Why? Because the owner may decide it's more cruel to keep him than to fire him. My boss is expert in punishing people. And he takes a certain amount of pleasure from it. He's not the kind of guy who easily lets go of a grudge. As a matter of fact, his memory for transgressions rivals mine. I have to admit that I've taken some gratification from his tenacity over the years. Having never been the brunt of it, of course. When the owner and I disagree, we just yell at each other. I don't think we've disagreed in the past 15 years. Works better that way. For everyone.

The last time we disagreed, it was about whether Loathsome should be fired. This time, I officially have no position on that question. Besides, I know the odds are against me. Why get your heart set on something when an alternative exists that might well be better? I'll just be in my office, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Poison Pen Emails

I have a list. (Actually, I have many lists, but we're only talking about one of them here.) The list is comprised of people to whom I need to send vicious emails every day. I'm not a stalker. I am also not a crank, despite what my husband says. I'm just a woman who's been pushed to the brink of insanity by irritating humans I do not know. (One of the other lists includes the folks I do know.) Here's a partial inventory which, as it turns out, has lots of CNN personalities.

Glenn Beck. God I hate that guy. I'd like to send him an email every day asking, "Is it World War III yet, Glenn?" He talks about that a lot and it clearly makes him giddy. I hate that. People who get happy because they think disaster is imminent are despicable. Whenever I even see his image on television, I change the station. That's how much I despise him.

Furthermore, Glenn did an interview with Danny Bonaduce a while back. Okay, first of all, anyone who would talk to Danny Bonaduce is a vulture. The guy makes his living being self-destructive. I mean, that's it; that's all he has to offer. If he weren't so annoying, he would be heart breaking. Furthermore, Glenn was trying to act like he used to be a big, bad rebel himself. Right. He probably chewed gum in church or something. Scary. Did I mention that I loathe this guy?

Jerry Falwell. See above (minus the Danny Bonaduce thing). Self-righteous, arrogant, willfully ignorant. I've seen the real face of Jerry Falwell and I assure you it is not the love of Jesus that shines through. I got really clear on that when he had the nerve to say that America deserved 9/11 because we're so sinful. Email every day that says, "The TeleTubbies are gay. How many kids do you think are, at this very moment, turning gay because of them? Or maybe it's you. You actually make me ashamed to be straight. Dickhead."

Let's just lump some of them together. It'll save time in the long run. George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld. You know what I'm saying. I'm not sure one email would be enough to cover the many reasons I think they're detestable. They'd all have to get three or four a day.

Dick Morris. Slime. Political slime...it doesn't get much worse than that. He has the audacity to get on tv and regularly act indignant and self-righteous about the total dearth of morals and intelligence in both the Republican and Democratic parties. He actually thinks he's better than Bill Clinton, even though he was regularly trying to impress hookers with his White House connections. Let me just say that again. Hookers.

Bill O'Reilly. That goes without saying, right?

Don Imus. Even before the racial comments. That fucking hat drives me nuts. "You're inside, asshole. Take off your hat. Were you raised in a barn?"

Nancy Grace. "Dear Nancy, could you possibly be more dramatic? Calm down. Let people finish their sentences. And for God's sake, stop playing that annoying music while people are trying to answer one of your questions."

Oh dear. I grow weary thinking about how worked up I get about these people. I started off this post (about 45 minutes ago) talking about my upcoming visits to Houston to be tested, prodded and generally mistreated in order to find out whether I have more cancer. I deleted all of that. Hatred is so much better than anxiety. It's energizing, unlike worry which leaves you with that jittery, empty feeling.

No point in beating a dead horse. The list is too long to enumerate them all here. You're welcome to disagree with me. Or to think I need to get a life. Whatever. You can decide for yourself to whom you'd like to send daily hate emails. I'm just saying that, when life regularly kicks you in the ass, the least you can do is send somebody emails.

The month of not seeing any doctors is officially over. It was over a couple of weeks ago, actually, but it was just my psychiatrist I saw. She doesn't necessarily count; I liked the illusion of extending the doctor-less time a bit longer.

Next Tuesday, I'll have to be in Houston to see my plastic surgeon. I'm not sure why he wants to see me (other than that I'm his Greatest Flap Work), but after we get through this appointment I get to schedule another one six months from now. At the six month appointment, medical events will actually occur. I'm thinking liposuction, adjusting symmetry of new girl and old girl. Maybe some other things, but he's keeping it all a surprise. Sometimes that's best.

I have an appointment with my oncologist in May. We'll do blood work and make sure there aren't any indicators that might require chemo, radiation or surgery. I hate that. I mean, I'm all for knowing that I'm fine, but until we get there, I'm a little anxious and worried.

In June, I'll be in Houston once again to see my surgical oncologist. Remember? He's the one I'm in love with. I thought maybe his place in my heart would be taken by my plastic surgeon after the reconstruction surgery, but no, he's still my heart's desire.

My Dr. Ross is a busy, busy man. He's remarkably intelligent and a gifted surgeon. He literally works all the time. The Energizer Bunny has to hook up to him to keep going. He always recognizes me and remembers my name, even if we just pass each other in one of those endless hallways leading from one torture zone to another. He recognizes me even with all of my clothes on. His emotional needs are met by his work and, most days, he even eats there. I ask you, what more could you ask for from a man? He wouldn't even make my house untidy. I love him. I want to marry him. I'd want to have his babies, but that ship sailed a long time ago. And they're a little demanding for my tastes. Unlike Dr. Ross, who demands nothing.

When I asked myself last night why I've been anxious the past few days, it suddenly dawned on me. There's a whole lot of Houston coming up in my schedule.

Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure

When I was at the vet's office last week, picking up one of the feral cats, I noticed she has a "Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure" hung on a bulletin board. Here's a short review from stupid.com

There she stands -- ratty bathrobe, checked pajama bottoms, headband, wild hair, and a fanatical look on her face. And she's surrounded by six cats that own her heart and soul.

The Crazy Cat Lady stands 5-1/4" tall and can be posed however you like.

Yes, you may be tempted to laugh at the Crazy Cat Lady. But, be warned, one day that Cat Lady may be yourself.

It looks a little bit like me. Oh no. What have I become.