The Crazy Land Carnival Ride

I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed this week. It's a combination of things--the upcoming surgery and a veritable avalanche of Crazy Land projects, all large and viciously complex. I note a return of the crying behavior, but not quite as bad as the long crying jag of recent vintage.

Enough of that, though. Here in Crazy Land, we're feeling the economic pinch. Of course, that's always been the nature of our business. The proverbial feast or famine. These are the leanest of times, primarily because of a top-heavy corporate staff and a dwindling contractor base as our clients scurry off to Asia where the labor is cheap, the environmental regulations nonexistent.

Accordingly, Mr. Moneybags and the Information Superhighway had a meeting with Owner yesterday. If the Accounting Office were a small village, it would be razed and smoldering from the onslaught. I'm intimately familiar with Owner's slash and burn marathon management style. I've spent many hours poring over invoices and expenses. When I was the sole employee, entire days used to be devoted to sitting in Owner's office as he worked himself into a frenzy of cost cutting.

He's demanded an armload of documents. Moneybags and the Superhighway are exhausted from merely keeping track of the action items. By the time the meeting was over, they both felt personally assaulted. Sometimes Owner's anxiety expresses itself as anger. Woe to those who must sit in an office with him as he works through his stress.

Meanwhile, the City Utility service has been digging up the side street next to our building. We weren't able to even empty the dumpster for a month. The truck couldn't get access to our parking lot. They've also been digging up the freshly laid sod across the street that runs in front of our building, after a year of excavation and construction of a park, a lake, expensive and "affordable" homes, a very large strip mall and some medical facilities thrown in for good measure. The dearth of planning by the Utility department has infuriated me for years. I can go on about it just as long as I can rant and rave about the death penalty and toll roads. Ask my husband. He's spent hours trapped in cars with me while I railed on and on and on.

The dust has almost killed some of us off. We have several people who suffer from asthma who've been through multiple bouts of bronchitis brought on by the endless digging. They finally installed the new sewer lines, though, and the City is now reconstructing the side road. The machinery they use to accomplish this has been shaking the building. All day long we've been treated to a rumbling sound and intermittent vibration. I shudder to think what it must be like on the ground floor. It's a little like trying to type while sitting on one of those old vibrating beds.

Finally. Crazy Land is now a very large carnival ride. Strap on your seat belts and hang on.

Surgery, Round Four

I've been complaining for weeks about not hearing from Dr. Kronowitz to set a surgery date. Yesterday, Brenda left a message on the machine requesting that I call her to discuss Dr. K's schedule. I was immediately plunged into depression.

I don't have to do this. I could allow the necrotic tissue to remain. Dr. Kronowitz suggested doing some scar revision on the tummy tuck. He said the scars might come back, though, and it will definitely be painful. I tried to think clearly about it last night, to determine whether I'd be sorry if I didn't do either one.

The brain was already hunkered down, trying to steel the body for the coming onslaught. I'm familiar with the mental strength that must be marshaled to get through the pain, though it most certainly will be pain of a variety I've already experienced.

At this moment, I don't think I can stand another abdominal surgery. Certainly a few more steroid injections might help with the pain I still experience over both of my hips. I plan to ask Brenda about whether surgery ultimately will be more efficacious in resolving this chronic pain. My guess is that it won't.

I can't speculate on how much of a toll surgery will take on my energy level, which is being managed relatively well with Ritalin. I need to carry on with my life and that requires that I'm not burdened with insurmountable fatigue.

I've worked so hard the past several months to regain strength, stamina and mobility. I wonder how much will remain after the surgery. Of course, I will start rebuilding again as soon as I'm able. Right now, I need to come to terms with the loss.

I can elect to move on and leave things as they are. I regularly remind myself of that fact. Just as regularly, my thought process shuts down. I know I will have the necrotic tissue removed. I like to think that in the dissociative silence settling over me that my brain is sending messages to this body beaten down by three years of medical assault. It's reminding the body that I can get through this.

Day Trip to Loathsome Village

I spent the first part of my day yesterday in Loathsome Village. It's still a relatively small outpost in Crazy Land, but we have to add more space on from time to time in order to accommodate Loathsome's ever growing sense of self importance.

Around 7:30, Loathsome loomed in the doorway to my office. No time for pleasantries.

"Do you have a computer?"

Since I was sitting right in front of one, I wasn't sure I'd heard the question correctly.

"What?"

"I don't have a computer," he said. Yes, he does. I was bewildered. After some prodding and guessing, I determined that he wasn't able to log onto his computer. I told him mine was working fine and, not having gotten the answer he was looking for, he continued standing in my doorway, periodically mumbling, "Huh?" He loves to do that. Whenever anyone says something to him, his first response is always "huh."

"Do you want me to come look at it?" I asked. I was screwed either way, so I thought I might as well get it over with.

It took a little while for me to find a way for him to log onto his computer so he could work until IT Boy decided to show up. Loathsome stood looking over my shoulder the whole time, periodically asking me if the computer had just executed some action without a prompt from me. If that were possible, every computer he's ever worked with would have permanently shut down immediately after it realized who was using it.

I started to restore the computer to a previous date, but then Loathsome mentioned something about "a bug" he'd picked up around the web. It might have been good if he'd mentioned that before I attempted to start it not in Safe Mode. I restored to a more distant date, then checked his Internet Security setup.

The firewall was off. I pointed out to him that the firewall should always be on. That way we don't get "bugs." It's kind of like putting one of those toilet seat covers on before you use the bathroom in public restrooms. It's the Larry Craig explanation. Since Loathsome would probably tell you that he, too, has a "wide stance," I figured it would be an analogy he would understand.

"I don't ever do anything to my computer." He seemed a little defensive. I don't care whether he does or not. I simply wanted to get out of the Village of the Loathsome and back to my sanctuary.

I told him he was up and running, able to access his holy email account, until IT Boy arrived. He was gracious enough to say thank you, but by the time I'd gotten back to my office, I decided somebody needs to pay me some extra money for that. Could be Loathsome, could be IT Boy, could be the company as a whole (combat pay). Every time I walk into that office, another 10 years gets whacked off my lifespan so somebody needs to compensate me for it.

Before I go any farther, I forgot one of my aunts. Her name was Dan and she was also dead by the time I was born.

So the family in which insanity runs rampant is not necessarily a source of reliable information. I never knew many of my aunts and uncles (even those who were alive as I was growing up). The following is the bare outline of my grandmother's life, gleaned from tales by my father and some of my aunts. I decided that, if there was a general consensus, it was probably more likely than not to be true.

My grandmother, Blanche, lived with us off and on several times. She made me feel safe, because up until the butcher knife episode, my father was never violent around her. She was completely lacking in social graces, a tough and stoic woman. I admired her stoicism and I tried to develop it in myself. I was ungodly successful.

Blanche always liked boys more than girls. I was a special grandchild, because she liked me anyway, even though I was born without the proper equipment. Her sons were alternately coddled and neglected. How could they not have been neglected when there were so many children and such economic deprivation? The coddling is another thing altogether. I think it brought out the worst in all of her male children. None of them ever seemed to truly grow up and, at the slightest sign of trouble (which they generally created themselves) in their lives, every last one of them went running home to mommy.

The first three or four children were already grown by the time my father and the second set of spawn arrived. My grandmother already knew the consequences of breeding with my grandfather, but she did it, anyway. After the second group, he predictably left and sent no money for their care. I always wondered how such a forceful, fierce, tough woman would allow that to happen twice. They supported themselves by picking cotton. Picking cotton stories were staples of my early life. My father used them to make me feel guilty for not having to do it myself. He wasn't only being manipulative; they all tended to feel incredibly sorry for themselves. It was the basis of my dad's entire life. He was happily pitiable in most every aspect of his life.

My dad reported to me that he once saw Blanche in bed with a man other than my grandfather. I have no idea whether that's true. If it is, it's not surprising in the least. Knowing my grandmother, she might have done it just to spite my grandfather. He also told me that he once heard my grandmother and Sis concocting a plan to murder his dad. My dad seemed to be angry about that, but frankly, after the first round of kids, I would probably have hunted his sorry ass down and killed him myself. Or maybe I'd have made him wish I'd killed him.

Blanche (according to relatively independent sources) hated her youngest daughter, Ruby. My grandmother knew that her husband was sexually using the child and, of course, held it against her, not my monstrous grandfather. I learned this after my grandmother was dead, so I didn't have a chance to hold it against her.

My grandfather was the first in a family populated by male sadists. He never let my grandmother have any shoes and, on one occasion, when one of my aunts gave grandma a pair of hers, my grandfather beat her for her generosity. My grandmother and grandfather eventually divorced. My grandfather remarried and treated his second wife with much more respect than his first. I don't think they ever had any children and I know absolutely nothing about my step-grandmother.

Other than that, I know very little about Blanche. I know she consistently cut the sleeves out of every single dress she ever owned, no matter how much they cost or how weird they looked without sleeves. She really loved fig newtons. My grandmother developed two addictions (other than the one she had to my grandfather) as she grew older. Along with virtually everyone else in the country, she never missed an episode of "Dallas." She was addicted to soaps generally and, for the longest time, thought that Detective Mike Carr on the Guiding Light was a real guy. We had long conversations about him when I was a little girl. Blanche was devastated when Mike left the show and she wondered about his whereabouts for years.

She also developed a deep and abiding love of chihuahuas. After I was around 12, I never knew my grandmother to be without one. I believe they were all males. Blanche really liked guinea hens and kept some tied up in the backyard whenever that was possible under city code. They never held a candle to chihuahuas, though. Luckily, for years we had about a hundred of them running around our backyard and she could always take the pick of the numberless litters.

After I grew up, I tried to get her to tell me about her life. I was not successful, so I can only count on the stories I heard from her various children. Of course, I had personal knowledge of the chihuahuas and the soaps, the sleeveless dresses and the Newtons.

I'll go through what I know about the siblings next week.

You Ask About My Father's Childhood

You asked about my father's childhood. I can give an incomplete and not necessarily thoroughly accurate account. The truth is, there's no one from whom those facts can be obtained. No one in my father's family was completely trustworthy. Only one of his siblings is still living, the uncle who sexually assaulted me numerous times. I'm not certain he's still alive, but as of ten years ago, he was the only one left. I would never ask anything of him.

I'm going to try to remember the names of his brothers and sisters, though the names I knew them by were nicknames or terms of endearment my grandmother used. The sisters: Jewel, Sis (I never knew her name), Eddie, Ruby, Audrey. The brothers: Frank, Melvin, and Jack. Eddie and Frank died before I was born.

When I say that the family wasn't trustworthy, I don't mean that they were all liars (though they might have been). I mean that mental illness touched all of them, that their singular and shared histories were heavily colored by that illness.

My grandmother was orphaned when she was a girl, along with a brother with whom she was very close. I'm not sure how she lost her parents, but I believe there was a fire. I think she had other siblings who also died. Blanche, my grandmother, and her brother Ernest were sent off to an orphanage and ultimately farmed out to various families where they functioned essentially as indentured servants. I can't imagine the treatment they must have endured.

My grandmother married the son of one of those families. I think his family was well-to-do. Or maybe they only thought they were. My grandfather was ultimately disowned, but I don't know why. I don't know how old my grandmother was when she married. I don't even know my grandfather's first name.

Jack, Sis and Eddie were the first set of children born. There was a significant amount of time between the first children and the second group. My grandfather fulfilled his responsibilities to both sets in exactly the same way: he left. He always found a need to work elsewhere, leaving his wife and children to sharecrop in order to survive. Though my grandfather was working, he never sent money to his family. It was a harsh survival. Many times they had nothing to eat, they had very little clothing and it was probably not in the best condition. My dad said that he and his family were ridiculed at school because of their financial circumstances. I have no way of knowing whether that's true. I think it's just as likely that they were ostracized and made fun of because they were crazy. Who knows.

Both of my grandparents were brutal disciplinarians. One of my father's ears was permanently injured from my grandmother's penchant for twisting the kids' ears as punishment. According to several of my aunts and uncles, my grandmother would throw or strike with anything that was handy: a frying pan, a piece of wood for the stove. She had a savage temper.

I don't have any specific tales about my grandfather's disciplinary techniques other than that my father couldn't bear to bring himself to discuss it. I believe that he sexually abused all of his children. My father had a dark secret that he wished to share only with me after I became an adult. I heard him once speak to my (abusive) uncle about him, saying, "You don't know what he did to me."

What I know is that sexual and physical abuse ran rampant in my family. Perhaps my grandmother was sexually abusive, too. I think that's a distinct possibility.

I can't continue at the moment. Sometimes when I think about my father's family, I'm emotionally overwhelmed. I was very, very close to my grandmother. I can't tell you how it pains me to believe her capable of that behavior. So on that note, I have to stop. With any luck, I'll be able to continue the tale tomorrow.

Lone Wolf in Crazy Land

This weekend, I made a bold and daring move: I bought a manual for FileMaker (my relational database software). Of course, this goes against all the unspoken tenets of Crazy Land. If it makes work easier, you must not take that option. Crazy Land requires the single most irrational problem solving method available.

I taught myself a great deal, but a little help has greatly expanded my knowledge base. I can reach new heights of user-efficiency and simplicity. As a result, I'm having even more fun than usual.

I have breached the rules. I'm anticipating that, as soon as someone finds out, I will be separated from the pack. Wolves aren't really loners, despite the myth to the contrary. However, in Crazy Land, one of the wolves always stands away from the pack. Wonder who that could be?

Priorities and the Crazy Land Pool

I'm busy working these days, so I've missed visiting friends' websites and responding to email/comments. Have they no sense of priorities in Crazy Land? Obviously not. I hope to return to my regular schedule very soon.

My only comment today is that, if Charles Barkley says a team is going to win, never ever select that team as the winner in the office pool. Rules to live by.

Twiddling My Thumbs in Crazy Land

I have another client survey to complete this week and, as usual, I need information from Mr. Moneybags. I'm psyching up to twiddle thumbs. The 3 day rule must be enforced, for whatever reason. When the waiting time is predictable, does it make it any easier? No. I'm breathing deeply while twiddling.

In the meantime, allow me to entertain myself with a recount of a short run-in with Loathsome that took place on Friday. He was at the copier as I passed by on my way to the Information Superhighway's office.

"Well, hello, Ms. Ggirl." He always calls me that.

"Hey Loathsome. How's your mom?" His mom broke her hip a couple of weeks ago. This is a diversionary tactic. I try to get him to talk about something that won't drive me crazy and hope I can wrap it up before he starts telling me about his latest proposal. Or how busy he is being a manager. Or, God help me, how well-dressed he is today.

He filled me in on the latest then, attempting to engage in normal human conversation, he asked,
"So how did things go at...." Loathsome mumbles at this point, as if he can't quite bring himself to focus on someone else enough to actually know where I went. Maybe he's one of those people who's superstitious about things like cancer: say the words "M.D. Anderson" and get struck with prostate cancer next week. Who knows. I couldn't begin to speculate on Loathsome's motivations.

"Did they check your gallbladder?" He smiles knowingly. Loathsome is convinced that my fatigue is related to a diseased gallbladder. If you check your WebMD website, you will find absolutely no reference to fatigue as a symptom for any gallbladder-related illness. It's downright shocking, really, given his "medical background" (orderly in state psychiatric hospital in the early 1960's) that I didn't specifically ask about the potential gallbladder issues. He also finds it shocking that my Internal Medicine doctor didn't mention it at all.

Time for another diversionary tactic. Luckily, I'm quick on my feet.

"They prescribed Ritalin while we wait for the test results," I volunteered. There's still hope for
the gallbladder result, so he's happy to move on. Loathsome proceeds to give me his version of the history of Ritalin use in psychiatric patients. He explains that it's now used for kids with ADHD.

I stand around patiently, smiling and nodding. I occasionally throw in an "Oh really?" or a "Wow" because I know I'm not going anywhere until I acknowledge his incredible knowledge base. After what seems like an eternity, while casting pleading glances at Superhighway, who can see me from her office, she throws me a line. I slide on past Loathsome, who knows that when the Information Superhighway calls, it's probably something more pressing than my personal problems.

Now that I think about it, deep breathing and thumb twiddling don't seem like such a huge waste of time, after all.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Dad. I'm still angry. I'm still heartbroken. I'm still wounded. I'm still haunted. I still love you, anyway.

You're the only father I'll ever have. I wish everything could have been different, that you could have been different. Nonetheless, without you, there would have been no me. For better or worse.

Thank you for the gifts you gave me, even though they were harsh gifts. Thank you for the many lessons in compassion. You had a terrible life, that I'm sure of. I celebrate your will to survive, at whatever cost. I celebrate your talent and intelligence.

In the infinite, numinous universe, we have always been in agreement. You were the Buddha sent to teach me. I hope I learned those lessons well. I hope you're finally proud of me.

I miss your craziness. I mostly miss the hope that I could understand your pain, that I could heal you of your suffering.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Ritalin

Clink. Clink clink. Clink. Clink clink clink. A teenager sat to my left, opening and closing windows at the speed of light on the public computer. Her bangle bracelets jangled together every time she moved her arm. A couple of men of Middle Eastern descent walked arm in arm from the elevator area to Nuclear Medicine, on the far side of Internal Medicine, where I sat, waiting. They passed in front of me ten times in the two hours I waited for my appointment. I never could figure out where they were going or why they had to keep leaving and coming back. I wasn't nervous about it; I was puzzled. Over the two hours, four people wandered up to the coffee machine, some of them stood there and looked at the empty carafe for a few minutes before they left. Others actually attempted to make coffee, going so far as to remove the coffee basket, only to find that the filters and coffee were nowhere to be found. Being a pro, I knew they were locked in drawers under the cabinet.

Two hours. My appointment with the Internal Medicine physician began to seem like an incredibly stupid idea. I'd already completed the 50 page (no, seriously) questionnaire within the first half hour. Why wouldn't I get up, leave the questionnaire and drive home? Why wouldn't I just continue to be exhausted? I was getting ready to check myself out when they called my name.

I'd handed over my completed questionnaire an hour earlier, but no one could locate it. I guess a search party was organized. They found it about ten minutes after I'd been sitting in the tiny exam room, still contemplating whether I could get up and leave. I knew the exam was going to be lengthy, because I had two scheduled, back to back. I had the Advanced Nurse Practitioner, then the Internal Medicine doctor. I was almost certain there would be blood work, which would mean I'd have to probably wait another 45 minutes in the lab area. Then there would be a four hour ride home.

Fatigue is hard to quantify. On the questionnaire they asked things like, "How much does your fatigue interfere with your ability to clean the house?" Please define the word "interfere" in this context. "Can you walk around the block?" Yes, but then I have to lie down for two hours. There was no place on the form to note the toll the walk would take. I can do virtually everything, but there is an energy cost and it's high. They attempt to quantify by assigning numbers to all of the answers and adding them up so that you fall into a range of fatigue levels.

Luckily, my new doctor didn't rely only on the answers to the questions. The nurse and I talked for about 45 minutes, then I spent another hour with Dr. Escalante. It was worth the wait. She listened to me, prompted me when she needed more information, then examined me. She ordered lab work.

Dr. Escalante reminded me that long-term fatigue is very common among breast cancer survivors and it's more likely for those of us who've had multi-modal treatment. That's a fancy way of saying that they've beaten me down with chemo, radiation and four surgeries. Of course I'm tired. There are some new research studies underway to try to determine why this is so, what internal mechanisms are factors in creating fatigue, but no one knows exactly why right now. Dr. Escalante acknowledged that I'm doing everything I can to improve my quality of life, so she suggested another alternative.

My new anti-fatigue drug is Ritalin. The other drug they use is something called ProVigil, which is FDA-approved for treatment of narcolepsy. I understand why that works, I think. I fall asleep sitting up, using the bathroom, anywhere I have a moment of inactivity. It's supposed to help with chemobrain, too. Some days I'm able to think clearly, but mostly not. I'm in a perpetual fog.

I got home around 11:00 Monday night. Wednesday night there was a terrible storm. We're still dealing with the aftereffects. It's been a long, long week. I can't feel any upsurge in energy since I started Ritalin. Next week, I'll tell you about Loathsome's take on the fatigue issue. You're going to love it.

Tattoo

It was a standard-issue M.D. Anderson day: Arrive early and wait...and wait...and wait. I thought I had an appointment with Dr. K.'s nurse to have myself tattooed. Brenda and I had a difference of opinion, though. I wondered why she never appeared on my schedule. We had a couple of phone conversations about it, but she neglected to pencil me in. After about 30 minutes of waiting as she scurried around getting the necessary approvals, we got down to the ink.

It took a couple of hours to finish, including the prep time spent finding the right colors, drawing the template, etc. There were a couple of areas where I had some pain, but I'm virtually completely numb. In case you don't know, scabs will form that must not be disturbed or the color will come off with them. I can't wear a bra for 5 days and I have to apply Aquaphor twice a day. I hated to see the jar of Aquaphor. They gave me that during chemo to stave off the sores on my hands, but it did absolutely no good. My brain automatically rejects everything that was related to chemo.

So here I am at work, bra-less. Being a member of the groovy generation, I used to go without a bra rather frequently, before propriety and gravity asserted themselves. I don't think, even in my youth, that I ever showed up at a job lacking adequate foundation garments. Today I wore a large NBA tee shirt from the year the Phoenix Suns were in the Finals, but the Aquaphor almost immediately created a dark round spot the exact size of the tattoo (or aureole). I'm not sure how I'm going to get through the rest of the week. I simply don't have that many XL tee shirts, even of the NBA variety (of which I have quite a few).

The other issue is one of bounce. The girls are pretty perky and, no matter how slowly and carefully I walk, they tend to move around a bit. The thought that Loathsome or Mr. Moneybags glimpsing the girls actually moving makes me a little queasy.

There's ever so much more to share; the day actually went downhill from there. However, in my absence, Crazy Employee has managed to make part of one of the databases malfunction. I can't figure out how she did it. She's gifted, I suppose.

Due to database repair and exhaustion, Part Deux tomorrow.

Shower in Crazy Land

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

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

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

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

The New Rules, Reiterated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Bother Me. I'm Drooling.

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

Two Crazy Lands Collide

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy Employee Makes Me Crazy. Again.

I had a migraine yesterday and I feel the onset of another one any minute now. Must write now or never.

Wednesday morning, I spent about an hour closeted with Owner in his office with the door closed. Seems Crazy Employee managed to get me involved in another one of her schemes.

When we rescued Crazy's puppy, we took her to the vet our company uses so puppy could have the required vaccinations. I had given them my corporate credit card when we took the other rescued dogs in, so I knew these charges would be applied, too. Crazy took the dog home and, about two weeks later, brought her back to the vet to be spayed. Late that same afternoon, Crazy came into my office looking meek.

"Could I ask you something? I don't really want to talk to Owner about it. He makes me nervous."

That's good. She should be afraid. She should be afraid of me, too, though.

She'd spoken with the vet who informed her that, when they performed the surgery, they also discovered that the puppy had a dental problem that was best resolved early. The vet tried to get in touch with Crazy, but failing to do so, had fixed the problem. The surgery bill was $500.

Crazy wanted to know if I thought it was Owner's intention to continue to pay all the puppy bills. Absolutely not, I told her. I suggested that she speak with Owner herself, but I had no reason to believe that would be even remotely okay. Once again, she didn't want to speak with Owner. Crazy said she understood and that she'd make arrangements to establish a payment plan with the vet. That conversation took place at the end of March.

When Information Superhighway looked at the statement we received from the vet, there was that charge. She brought it to Owner's attention, knowing it had to be related to Crazy's dog. Owner then called me in to discuss what I might know about it. I recounted our conversation and went to my office to get my credit card so we could ensure that it was, indeed, a Crazy Land card. Of course it was mine.

Owner trusts me without hesitation. When I was in charge of things for around a decade, I could have robbed the company blind had I been so inclined. We've been friends for over 3 decades. He knows he need never question my ethics. Nonetheless, I could feel my face assuming the expression of icy rage that scares the hell out of people. I couldn't wait to get out of the office and discuss the situation with Crazy Employee.

Owner called the vet's office to clarify exactly what had happened. We were told that they called Crazy just that morning and made her set up a payment plan. The charges will be taken off my card. Owner told the vet to always get direct approval from him or me for any future charges of any kind.

He was greatly relieved to not have to talk with Crazy. If Owner had a nickname for Crazy, it would be Loathsome. He has a list in his head of the numerous examples of her bad behavior based on her profound sense of personal entitlement. There are even some things he doesn't know about. I finally staggered out of his office, still furious.

Technically, Crazy had indeed lived up to the assurance she gave me that she'd take care of the charges. However, she didn't do that until the bill came due here. I should point out that Crazy actually sees the bills before they get to the Superhighway. She knew disaster was imminent.

I decided to take a walk and calm down. On the way back, who should I run into but Lillian and another of her gentlemen callers. One of the neighbors had called Animal Control the day we were trying to help the old dog and I was terrified she'd think I'd made the call. I just kept looking at the sidewalk and hurried into the office.

By then, I'd decided to let the Crazy thing go. Owner has his list and I have mine. I'm not sure which one of us she should fear the most.

It's Only Tuesday. I'm Already Exhausted.

Yesterday started somewhere around 4:00 a.m. for me. My mom had a colonoscopy scheduled and was told to arrive at the hospital at 6:00 a.m. Late Friday afternoon, the hospital left a message telling her she needed to pre-register, but by the time she got the message, that department had already closed down for the weekend. She thought perhaps they wouldn't do the procedure unless she pre-registered, so I suggested that we plan on getting there a little early.

I am not a morning person.

We agreed to get there around 5:30, but I was anxious about whether my alarm clock would work, so I woke up around 4:00 and never went back to sleep. There's nothing wrong with my alarm clock. I have issues about being on time and I'm always afraid that the electronic devices that run my life are going to fail me in some critical moment.

I was at the hospital for a couple of hours, then I brought my mom over to my house around 9:00, took a shower and left for work. Things were going as well as could be expected when I got a call from our receptionist saying Crazy Employee wanted me to come downstairs and look after the dog from next door. The dog had been lying by the side of the road and she'd coaxed it to a grassy area between my office and Lillian's house. He was unable to go any farther, unable to stand up on his back legs.

Owner came downstairs with me and we tried to get the dog to stand up. We brought him some water and a couple of large bowls of kitty food. The poor creature wolfed down the water and food. I tried to slide my hands under his hips to help him stand up, but that didn't help, either. There was a high potential for me to get bitten, so I abandoned the effort.

Finally a young man, whom we believe to be Lillian's son, ambled out of the house and over to where we were attending to the dog. I noticed track marks on his arms. The first thing he wanted to know was whether anyone had a cigarette. If I'd had a cigarette, I'd have been smoking it. I explained the problem to Son.

"He can get up. He just doesn't want to," he said. I repeatedly assured him that wasn't the case. Son retrieved a cord from inside the house, slipped it around the dogs neck and tried to get him up. Couldn't do it. I asked if Lillian was around. She was asleep, her son said.

After several attempts, I suggested that maybe the dog needed to rest. I told the son we'd keep an eye on the dog from our upstairs window. He mumbled thanks and walked back to the house. I got the dog more water and more food. I called a number of mobile vets, but no one was able to come. Even if they'd had time, the dog doesn't belong to me and I have no desire to try to get Lillian to agree to treatment (even though she wouldn't have to pay for it). Also, I'd almost guarantee that the dog has never had a single rabies shot. Vets won't work with animals who haven't have rabies shots.

This morning, I was afraid I'd drive up and see the dog, dead where I left him. He wasn't out there, so I got the Golf Pro to look out of my window to see if he was in Lillian's back yard. He was lying in his usual spot. Crazy Employee came in a little while ago to tell me about how they got him back. It's really more than I can think about right now.

Nothing makes me angrier than children and animals being mistreated or neglected. Clearly Lillian has appeared in my life to help me find more compassion in my heart. I have a lot more work to do in that area, apparently.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I wish I had something fun to report from our Admin. Professionals luncheon, but it was uneventful. Owner has been very depressed lately, so he sat at the head of the table like a zombie. He did manage to take a couple of shots at me. Some of my co-workers patted me on the back, but no need. I'm very tough.

I never, ever let people see what rattles my cage. Hubby knows. My mom knows some of them, but beyond that, I keep my vulnerabilities to myself. That's partly how I was able to maintain a relationship with Former Friend for so long. Owner is like a little boy who loves to pull little girls' pigtails. I happened to be on the receiving end this time.

I had a database meltdown on Wednesday afternoon; I thought I'd lost about 160 records. Fortunately, I was able to get in touch with IT Boy and he restored it before the server could save the new, screwed-up file.

Most of the office is out today, having a good time. The Ladies' Man, Loathsome, The Hemorrhoid Guy, Crazy Employee, Mr. Moneybags and the Foot Lady are all out. This might be a very good day to get back to the database. Silence.

Just for the record, I didn't mean to imply that I'm sorry to have lost the relationship with Former Friend. I was relieved. My therapist said I should write something more direct and to the point. She thinks it would be therapeutic. I'm considering it.

Loathsome's Proposal

I think I mentioned earlier that Loathsome is back with us. (Settle down, ladies.) We've already had more than enough interaction to last me about a decade. We're in the same suite of offices, unfortunately. Last week, we had a 30 minute conversation about what he and his psycho wife have for dinner every night. This was in the context of my own food dilemmas--what will Hubby eat, how much time and energy do I have to prepare it, etc., Loathsome had an extensive list of suggestions. No, I've never heard of fish. Ditto tacos.

He's been stalking around the office, telling everyone that he's been to some big meetings the past couple of weeks and he's working on some proposals. This should not be monumental, impressive news seeing as how it is his job. Loathsome reminds me of a pigeon during mating season, his chest all puffed out, strutting through the building, looking around to monitor who's noticing. He's doing proposals, people. Sit up and look suitably awed.

You know how I am: friendly, approachable. Loathsome stopped me in the receptionist's area this morning to let me know he submitted a bid that will save the client tens of thousands of dollars.

"That's what you're supposed to do, right? Save the client money?"

I couldn't figure out whether he was really confused about that or if it was rhetorical. I answered yes, just in case. I was never able to ascertain whether he actually knew the answer before he asked.

Loathsome then waxed eloquent in excruciating detail all about the cost saving idea. My eyes had begun to glaze over when the Superhighway walked in. I excused myself and trailed after her, mumbling that unfortunately I had to immediately resolve an issue regarding another one of our offices. I could see Loathsome pitied me for having to leave our spirited discussion of the requirements of the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Later this morning, Loathsome's name came up during a conversation with Mr. Moneybags. He suggested that Loathsome's new office nickname should be Isaiah. He was referring to the mind-boggling level of incompetence Isaiah Thomas brought to his job with the New York Knicks. Thomas has been banned from even talking to the team, just as Loathsome was prohibited from talking to anyone in our out-of-state office after he returned from there to our corporate office. Mr. Moneybags can be very, very funny sometimes. I signed on immediately. Of course, I'll continue to call him "Loathsome" in these posts.

We're having an office luncheon today to celebrate Administrative Professionals Day. No one really wants to do it, but if we don't, Crazy Employee will be crushed. I'm forcing everyone to show up, even Golf Pro, who would normally beg off. No way, Pro. We all have to honor Crazy's endless uselessness in all things administrative.

Who knows. It could be fun. Owner will be there, so Loathsome will be the primary focus of his current bad mood. Even Owner's relentless disdain won't diminish the pigeon walk, but you can't have everything. If I find it amusing, I will most certainly recount the high points.

We may have to find a psychotherapist for our dog, Andy. Yesterday, Hubby went to work at noon and accidentally left the little boy outside. My mom didn't make it over for her puppy-sitting stint until around 1:00.

She arrived to find Andy crying. Sheba wouldn't take her treat from my mom until Andy was inside. This is totally unheard of. Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the treat and run to get into Andy's crate so she could be there when he entered the room. Andy hates it when she's in his crate.

After my mom let Andy in, he sat by the sofa and cried for a while. He was so upset that he couldn't take his treat. When he was able to pull himself together to drink some water, he had to take a little cry break in the middle. Finally, he started to feel better and went directly into What Can I Do To Be Bad Boy mode.

We have a perfectly wonderful backyard where Andy chases birds and squirrels. There are three dogs that live behind us and a small terrier who lives at the side. We have some overhanging bushes that all of our dogs have loved to run through and a garage that has an exit door at the side near the back fence. It's a veritable universe of canine fun potential, but Andy's accustomed to coming and going as he pleases. He's also used to having his Woo outside with him a lot.

When Hubby got home, I told him about how traumatized little Andy had been. Hubby felt guilty and dispensed treats all evening. This morning, Andy wouldn't go out until the Sheba Woo went with him. When she came in, so did he. I need that pet psychic lady from television to come over and talk with him.

Former Friend.

As I was rushing around Monday, trying to get on the road to Houston, I heard a voice mail message being left by a former friend. She called to tell me that she'd run across my blog when she was checking around the Web to see if I was dead or alive. The "dead or alive" part creeped out Superhighway. I thought it was a valid question, the answer to which is, mostly not. Former Friend wanted me to know that I'm not quite so anonymous as I'd like to be.

"The people you're writing about can find you," she said.

I broke my therapist's no-contact rule and returned the call. I simply needed to find out what she meant. I didn't engage in any conversation, though I felt a little impolite. After I hung up, I called back to thank Friend and apologize for my abruptness.

Former Friend and I knew each other from high school. We met when we were both 17. We were friends, off and on, until about ten years ago. By that time, it had become very clear to me that we simply weren't going to be able to remain friends. I can't do friendship the way she needs and she can't do it the way I need.

She had raised her voice to me. Three times. I warned her twice that I will not tolerate being yelled at by anyone. Not by anyone. Not my husband. Not my employer. Not my family. I grew up in a violent and abusive family. I won't have it in my adult life. The third time was the last time. I can't have that kind of friendship.

Remember me? I'm the "pathologically independent" one. Former Friend wanted a lot more contact than I could tolerate. Not long before she told me not to call her and then hung up on me, Friend intimated that she was tired of putting up with my "limitations" (not having any herself, of course). I didn't see much reason why she should have to tolerate them. I could take her inventory here, but why would I? We're different, that's all.

At the end, I had been really ill for a couple of years from a stress-related disease so intense that it was all I could do to get through work every day. I was having some major repair work done to my house and I was in charge of the whole ordeal. My father was slipping into ever-deepening psychosis and I was his mainstay, no matter how many times I tried to establish limits. I was in the middle of coordinating a huge annual company event and...oops...I missed her birthday. I didn't even notice that I'd missed her birthday for several days. Oops. Now, if you miss my birthday, I'm fine. I might actually be better if you miss it. We're different that way.

I called to apologize and she was furious. When she hung up on me, I was furious, too. Oddly enough, the next day I was fine. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I talked to my therapist about it, about my "limitations," about what a bad friend I'd been, about what I should do next. Therapist proposed the no-contact rule. Her take on why we should just stop trying is not the same as mine.

I'm certainly not the perfect friend by a long shot. I can go long periods of time without talking to friends and yet still feel connected. I'm a little distant. I have very definite boundaries and, when they're breached, I become even more distant. I'm not inclined to argue or engage in veiled hostility. I like to step back and think about things before I talk with people about disagreements. I could be wrong, you know, and I like to examine both sides. Everyone, without exception, finds this difficult to understand. I'm only a great friend if you can tolerate a certain level of benign indifference. I'm fine by myself. I'm very, very independent.

Former Friend has reached out several times, but there doesn't really seem to be much point in responding. We will only end up right back where we are now. I can't do it and neither can she. We're just too different.

It's too bad, really. Former Friend is bright and we shared a skewed sense of humor, a source of great pleasure and connection for me. I have lots of lovely memories of times we spent together and the early years of our relationship are especially dear to me. That was a long time ago, though. On some level, we do not understand each other. On some level, we understand each other too well.

The Telephone's Ringing

I already had plans for today's post, but the plan has been thwarted. I'm answering phones for several hours today because

Crazy Employee is out for the third day. One of her children had strep recently and Crazy neglected to make her take all of her antibiotics. It's back now and Crazy has it, too.

Our intelligent and beautiful receptionist is taking a day off. (She really is beautiful and intelligent.)

The Information Superhighway is having her hair done. It's going to take a while. The Superhighway deserves a break and I'm happy to help her.

Mr. Moneybags' daughter is out today. She's doing an internship for her degree in Social Work, so she's here intermittently.

The men whose masculinity won't get in the way of answering the phone are out, too.
That leaves the phone to me. I hope to get around to the former, B.C. (before cancer) friend tomorrow.

More Steroids

Dr. Kronowitz agreed that I've healed enough to move on to the next step, the tattoo. We discussed the upcoming (final, I hope) surgery to remove a lot of necrotic tissue caused by the high radiation doses I received. He may also try to cut away some of the chelation at the donor site so that maybe I'll have less ongoing pain. We had originally discussed doing it in July, but now Dr. K. thinks his schedule may be too busy.

I guess that could be a good thing. I would have more time to continue to recover physically and psychologically. I'm less concerned about my physical condition than my mental strength to endure more pain. It's far easier to rehab physically than to rebuild psychological reserves. At least with physical strength and flexibility, there are identifiable milestones and definitive means towards reaching them. Though I may be in a lot of pain from tearing internal scar tissue while I do my exercises, I know the pain will end shortly after I stop working out. After surgery, there is no predictable end in sight. Pain will end when it feels like it.

Brenda is supposed to call me soon to set up the appointment for my tattoo and I suppose we'll discuss a surgery date then, too.

We rounded up the visit with some more steroid injections in the scars running across my tummy and my "umbo" (his PA's word for my navel). Jennifer also did some injections in my sides above my hip bones. I didn't realize we were going to be doing that until Dr. Kronowitz told Jennifer to get the supplies. It's probably good that it was a surprise. At least I didn't have a couple of weeks of anticipating the excruciating pain.

I'm back at work today, feeling mostly brain dead. One of my colleagues in Virginia called to ask about a legal issue and I could barely summon an intelligible response. I must look pretty beaten up, too, because everyone is giving hugs today.

There's some strictly lay-out work that I plan to do today so my diminished intellectual ability won't be a problem. Maybe tomorrow I'll be more capable of working and writing. I had a phone call from an old friend as I was scurrying around, trying to leave town on Monday. I'll try to get around to that tomorrow.

Dr. K.

No wolf today. I wanted to let you know I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. Thursday I had a dental appointment and Friday I had yet another team building event.

Today, I'm going to Houston for a meet-up with the fabulous Dr. Kronowitz. He's going to take a look at his handiwork and determine whether I've healed enough to proceed with the tattoo. I'll be back tomorrow evening.

The Great Crazy Land Coffee Revolt

I've always had one rule for all of the places I've ever worked: I do not make the coffee. Ever. Once you start making coffee, people can get confused about your role in the organization and suddenly start asking you to go get some donuts on the way in or actually fetch a cup of coffee for someone. I've been here forever, though, and I'm confident that everyone understands my limits.

I made coffee a couple of weeks ago, after having been directed by Hemorrhoid Guy to use 4 scoops of coffee. The Foot Lady and Crazy Employee were apparently outraged that the coffee wasn't strong enough. They felt justified in complaining bitterly about it to both the Information Superhighway and Hemorrhoid Guy. He told them to pour it out and make some more. Oh no. That would be too simple.

Of course, all of this information made its way back to me via the Superhighway (that is, after all, how she got her name). I've been waiting to exact revenge and finally found my opportunity this morning. I got here first, dumped six full scoops of coffee into the basket and punched that "on" button. The coffee is so strong that, not only can it stand up and walk away by itself, but if it meets you in the hallway, it will punch you out.

I was sharing my joke with the Superhighway a little while ago and she told me that she'd told Money Man that the coffee is "really crappy." That's one of the things I love about the Superhighway; she knows she doesn't have to spare me. She says what's on her mind.

Foot Lady and Crazy Employee haven't made it in yet. It's only 9:00 a.m. I can't wait until they get here and pour themselves a cup of coffee.

My job may not be fulfilling, but that doesn't mean it's not entertaining. Back to the databases.

Naomi

I've been trying to find the name of a poet whose works are brooding and mystical, a longtime favorite. I can't think of his name today, so I've been searching through poetry sites in the hope he'll be listed. Instead, who do I find? Naomi.

I knew her when we were in college. We were both poets, we dated the same religion professor, my one victory in this one-sided competition. He found me more compelling. It was small, comfort, though, because she had the heart of the one man whose attention I wanted and needed. He was my English professor who invited me to come to the small university, who sent me a letter when I was a senior in college, encouraging me.

It wasn't that I wanted to date John or have any kind of romantic relationship with him. I wanted him to value me as a poet and, more importantly, to be my father-figure. I'd already found a substitute mother, but what I needed the most was a man to care in something other than a romantic or sexual context. I needed to believe that I could be special to a man who wouldn't hurt me, who could love about me the things I liked in myself.

John and I had a relationship, his door was always open to me. He gave me pointers about getting in Phi Beta Kappa. I took an upper division class of his when I was a freshman. I never worked harder in any class; he was dazzled. He was not dazzled by my poetry. We had a conversation once about whether I should pursue that calling. "Not unless you're willing to be a second class poet," he told me. It broke my heart. It spelled the end, really, of my creative writing. I would always hear John's voice saying those words whenever I sat down to work.

John liked her better, he liked her poetry better. I thought of Naomi as a bitter rival in a contest I couldn't win. We never spoke, even though the campus was very small and I worked for a professor who officed right across the hall from John. Naomi worked with John. She called me once in my sophomore year, requesting a poem for the yearbook. Coincidentally, both of our poems were about tennis. I don't think she played; I certainly didn't. I don't know if she knew about my relationship with Mackenzie or how I found out he had dated her, too. Ours was a complex dance, negotiated without contact.

After I moved here, I ran across her name at various poetry readings. I was still writing and doing readings, even though in my heart of hearts, I had already given up. I gave up all writing, except for business, for over 20 years. When we were on the same bill, I tried to avoid her. Even hearing her name made me angry.

For a time, I thought I was over the Naomi-John thing. I could see her name and be fine with it. After all, I'd given up. But seeing her name on the respected poetry website sparked that sadness again. Why does she have that life? Why did she have John's admiration and respect in a way I never did? Why do I sit here in Crazy Land, living a life that brings me so little joy or satisfaction?

The answer is obvious: She was given her life and I was given mine. There's no money to be made in poetry and who knows anyone who actually reads it? I don't. Nonetheless, seeing Naomi's name there reminded me of all the things I'm not, all the things I will never be, all the things I never had. Joan Didion has a book called, "Play It As It Lays." That's what I've done with what I've been given.

I've never for an instant believed that life is fair. However, right now my life seems very hollow. I'm left with my databases, calling on logic, not creativity. I'm stranded here in Crazy Land, feeling more bereft than ever.

The Men

Again, so many things to say, so little time.

Monday, Hubby arrived from work, ready to complain about the assignment of shuttle routes. Janitor Jeff assigned the plum routes (in Hubby-speak that means "scenic") to a couple of Asian girls. Hubby gets the south side of town, over in apartment city, populated by students and some scruffy characters who prey on them. I agree that it's not the prettiest part of this lovely city, but he's getting paid for riding around in it. Janitor Jeff believes that the scenic parts of town are heavily populated by Asian students.

"It's depressing," he said, "This is worse than the IRS."

Oh yes. Music to my ears. Of course it's worse than the IRS, you crazy man. You're dealing with students. Remember being 19? I wasn't anywhere near as nice and accommodating as I am now. When he complains about their dismissive attitude about surveys, I remind him to practice detachment. Besides, he's only been on the job a week. If depressing scenery and snotty kids are the worst employment problems you've got, your job is pretty cushy.

Speaking of jobs, the Information Superhighway's husband (Repo Man) informed her on Tuesday that he doesn't plan to get a new job until after summer. He's going to repair computers for the family business at $100 per job. I don't know. That pay rate seems low to me, depending on time spent and difficulty of repair. Of course, if your life dream is to get up at 4:00 a.m. to work for pigs, you're probably not all that logical about profit margins.

Furthermore, Repo Man was denied unemployment compensation. In Texas, you only get that benefit if you're laid off, not if you resign or are fired. Repo Man noted on his application that he was fired, but when he received the denial letter from the state, he vowed to appeal.

Superhighway is furious. They have a brand new house, an RV they acquired last summer that hasn't been paid for yet and a new high end truck for the Man. They have two teenage boys who can eat half their own weight every day.

I'm praying for my good friend, Superhighway. If he doesn't shape up soon, she's going to cut him loose. Maybe that's why he still hasn't put the RV on the market. Maybe Repo Man plans to live in it under some bridge (in the depressing part of town, no doubt) while he works on that dream of pig/turkey farming.

Yesterday, we had a "Ladies' Team Building" event here in Crazy Land. I'm still trying to recover from it. The train wreck is still too fresh for me to talk about right now. By tomorrow I hope to have regained my sanity enough to write about.

I spent this morning working on a new database. It's so much more rewarding than team building. I have to admit that it always feels good to actually make a contribution to Crazy Land beyond providing accurate spelling, instant diagnoses of various ailments and all of my other value added activities. Of course, there's a certain amount of user consultation required, but other than that, it's just me, the computer and silence. It doesn't get any better than that in Crazy Land.

I have a migraine today, so I'm really only capable of a few random notes. My brain has an alarming tendency to shut down when it feels like someone's stabbing me in the left side of my head with an ice pick. If I'm so great with thinking with both sides of my brain, wouldn't you think I could just switch to the other side?

It was an active weekend. I planted some more flowers: Two types of sunflowers and some canna lillies. The morning glories are looking all perky from the rain we got this weekend. You can actually see they're plants now instead of little eensy green things.

I find another great pair of black trousers at 80% off the regular price. It doesn't look like I'm going to gain weight anytime soon, so I need something to wear to work. I wear my baggy, baggy jeans a lot, but it's getting toasty now and I have no air conditioning in my car.

My car started overheating on Sunday. It's at the repair shop now to the tune of $800. Maybe that has something to do with my migraine.

Hubby cleaned the bathroom. The whole thing. If I had died at that moment, I would have died moderately happy.

The three good deeds a day commitment has become a a technical issue. If I feed the kitties every day, does it still count as a good deed? If I bring the newspapers in at work and place a couple in the offices of people I know like to read them, is that a good deed? I do that every day, too. I constantly wonder if I need to find some extra deeds to work in, just in case. It's not that I'm opposed to, say, five good deeds, but sometimes three is hard to come up with. They don't have to be big, but if I routinely....okay, that's enough obsessing about that. I'll just continue on quietly in my head.

Ending on an up note: The Information Superhighway noted that Loathsome hasn't spoken to her since his return to regular duty in Crazy Land. She asked if he's said anything to me. I told her he's been by my office a couple of times (more on that later). "Of course," she said, "everyone loves you." I'm certain that can't be true, but it's a nice thing to hear on a Migraine Monday.

Celebrate!

Today is the second anniversary of my final chemotherapy treatment!

Pastor Dave and "Dexter"

When I have some spare minutes, one of the places I like to check in on is Pastor Dave's blog. Last week, he spent some time contemplating the television program, "Dexter." Being a member of the clergy, something like "Dexter" is bound to make Pastor Dave ask questions. It's made me ask questions, too, but not necessarily the same ones.

Pastor Dave points out that Dexter is an anti-hero who wreaks vengeance on some very deserving scary people, thereby blurring a bit the line between good and bad. (Pastor, please forgive me if I accidentally misstate your position. And, of course, feel free to correct me.) I've puzzled myself for about a decade now what it is about our society that makes us so fascinated with serial killers. What is the deal, exactly, with Hannibal Lecter's hold on the movie-going public? I have no idea.

Pastor poses the question as to whether sociopaths are victims of terrible events or whether they make choices. I think it used to be a truism that sociopaths are made, not born. My therapist tells me that Jeffrey Daumer had a normal childhood, her proof that sociopaths may be born, not made. I don't know. It seems awfully convenient for everyone involved with him to embrace the idea that he had your basic, everyday childhood. Maybe it's both: They're born sometimes and created sometimes. Maybe it's that unpredictable convergence of nature and nurture.

I do know that we do not want sociopaths wandering around loose in society. Pastor Dave is wrong in his assessment that sociopaths are generally just "troublesome people." When you have no empathy, there's nothing to stop you from doing bad things, like hurting people. Sociopaths, by their very nature, are dangerous. He is correct in thinking that conventional teaching (or preaching) won't help. If there's no empathy, there's no guilt. If I were a serial killer and if, by killing you, I get something I want, then logically speaking, there's no reason why I wouldn't kill you. Other than the fear of getting caught, of course. Sociopaths are generally cunning and manipulative, so getting caught probably seems a little unlikely to them.

Those are Pastor Dave's questions and conclusions, though. I think Dexter is an engaging character because in our deepest hearts, virtually all of us want vengeance against people who have hurt us or someone else. We're really drawn to that "eye for an eye" rule. Dexter eliminates the middle man (the justice system) and delivers swift punishment.

Americans love anti-heroes. From the outset, this country embraced rebellion. In order to form this separate country, our forebears did a lot of killing. That doesn't make them very nice, but it does make them our liberators. In our heart of hearts, we intuit that creativity lives outside the mainstream. I can't create anything new or think of anything in a new way if I'm content to be like everyone else, if I'm unable to break a few rules. We're drawn to fun-loving rakes. We all like to get away with something, at one time or another.

Dexter doesn't understand feeling, but he's very good at mimicking it. He hides who he truly is behind a mask of normalcy. He's constantly studying others so he can make himself seem to fit in. He studies himself with some objectivity, too, so he can search out all of the places where the mask may be a little thin. Now this is where Dexter becomes very interesting to me.

My childhood was not normal, the rules I learned were that punishment can come for no reason or any reason. Life is capricious and very, very cruel. The people who lived in my house didn't behave like people I met anywhere else. (As to whether I ever wondered about what went on in other people's houses, the answer is yes.)

My own father lacked the ability to empathize. He was impulsive and self indulgent. He could don a mask of normalcy sometimes, but his narcissism prevented him from hiding himself fully over the long haul. Naturally, at home there was absolutely no reason to pretend that he wasn't dangerous. My father was cruel and violent. I had to pay careful attention when I was at home so that I wouldn't be seriously injured or killed. Away from home, I had to study other people to find a way to fit in. I had to hide who I truly was--an abused, neglected, terrified, enraged kid--so I could try to fit in with my peers.

I think everyone hides something. None of us walks around in the world, being completely open-hearted. That would be dangerous, wouldn't it? We wear different masks in different situations. At work, we wear the "at work" mask. If your hobby is porn, you don't go around talking about it at work. You've got your "at work" mask on. If you're a racist, unless you live in a very specific milieu, you don't talk loudly about it in places where the objects of your racism might hear you. That's your "don't kill me" mask. If you hate the woman who lives next door because she puts her trash can too close to your driveway and you can't get out in the morning to go to work, you don't go over and scream at her. You ask nicely. That's your "good neighbor" mask. There are a million of them and I'll bet any one of us could, in mere seconds, come up with four or five masks we regularly wear.

We all have a "face to meet the faces that (we) meet." Dexter is fully aware of which face he's wearing. He creates a persona that leads other people to believe he's just like them. To do otherwise would lead to getting caught. And what fun is there in that?

"Dexter" has been tremendously popular because we see a bit of ourselves in him, I think. He is the worst parts of us contained in a dry, attractive, palatable exterior. I look forward to seeing the show every week so I can think about what I see in myself that's reflected in that character.

Of course, maybe that's just me. I'm not whom I appear to be, either. On almost as grand a scale as that character. The only place I never, ever wear a mask is here. And, of course, I'm never dangerous anywhere, not even to myself anymore.

Pollyanna

Yesterday morning, one of my colleagues marveled at length about my "sunny disposition." Hah!

Repo Man, Etc.

There are so many things to catch up on, but first things first: Loathsome is back. His project is finished and he's moved back into his office on the other side of Crazy Employee. Can't you just feel the estrogen surge? You know you want him.

Speaking of wanting people, I had this very odd dream last night. It went on and on and on, then finally culminated in me sitting in an office, feeling very very sad. Guess who walked in? Charles Barkley. Right. The Round Mound of Rebound, the Chuckster, the Chuck Wagon, the NBA great. He noted my unhappiness and said, "I know what you need. You need to have sex with Charles Barkley." I didn't find it the least bit surprising that he referred to himself by name. I looked at him forlornly and shook my head. No. Meanwhile, Charles is taking off all his clothes and he smells likes he's played a couple of overtime periods. All I could think of as he got undressed was that it wasn't going to even be logistically possible. I'm 5'5". The Chuckster is enormous. It frightened me a little. The dream ended as he lay down on me. No wonder I feel so tired today.

As I mentioned last week, I spent several hours one day working on the Information Superhighway's husband's resume. It looks like he's going to need an alias, because I see him taking up a lot of blog space for a while. I think his name should be Repo Man. That's one of the many fine career change options he's weighing these days. Seriously. Repo man. He mentioned that career possibility to the Superhighway before I got his resume in order. After I finished on Wednesday, Repo Man called her to tell her what a nice email I sent him (with interview tips) and how helpful he thought the resume would be as he began his new (new) job search. As a pig farmer. Or a turkey farmer. Either one. Same difference, really. He has absolutely no experience in any kind of farming. For that matter, he doesn't have any repo experience, either.

Repo Man actually possesses some highly marketable skills. He's an electronic tech and has a journeyman electrician license. When the Superhighway told him she didn't think being a pig or turkey farmer was a good career move, the told her that her problem is she doesn't want him to have a dream. She was sick yesterday and stayed home today. I fear that by the time she finally makes it back to work, he'll have decided his dream is to be a traveling carnival worker.

There's big news on the home front, too, but my eyeballs feel like someone poured gasoline in them and set them on fire. Oh the oak. The mold. The pollen of all kinds. I'll be back tomorrow with some Hubby news. Who knows, I might even run into Loathsome in the hallway.