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.

codependent dot com

I wrote most of a post yesterday and planned to finish today. What have I been doing instead?

Writing cover letter examples and re-working Superhighway's husband's resume. He was fired recently and, boy, do I know how it feels to have an unemployed hubby. It chewed up most of my time here today.

I took two calls from Superhighway's hubby regarding what he should say on an application he's submitting.

I helped my mom with her tax questions. That's okay...I love my mom. I'd do anything for her.

I listened to Crazy complain about her bipolar sister.

I contemplated helping Foot Lady figure out how to help her mom do her taxes. I decided Foot would have to figure it out by herself.

My dearest friend, C., reminded me recently of how these small (okay, the first thing was definitely not small) can drain any energy I have to spare, in addition to any I don't have to spare. I am hereby promising myself that I'm going to work harder on reining myself in.

Finally, I'm taking Thursday and Friday off. No medical visits, just some vital rest time. I plan to see a movie tomorrow. After that, I hope to prevent myself from cleaning my house.

See you next week. Have a lovely Easter weekend (or whatever you celebrate).

3.18.2008
Yesterday, Hubby gave me a copy of his latest book. This is the book he wrote while he was supposed to be contributing to our income, a source of prodigious conflict between us. It was published by an academic press and, though it's available at your local bookstore and I'd love to recommend it, doing so would require that I reveal personal information about myself. One of the things I love about the blog universe is that it's a private place for me. No one knows me, none of my daily friends even knows this blog exists. I'm truly, deeply myself here, in a way I could never be should those dear and not so dear gain access to it.

As I began reading, I remembered why I love Hubby, why I've loved him more than any single being I've ever met. It recalls for me, immediately and deeply, why our relationship endures despite stress, conflict and both the individual and personal erosions of daily life. Hubby understands my vision of life, the spontaneous recognitions that no one else can see with me. He not only understands, but he remembers and values.

His words cause me to see the world in new ways. They amuse me and move me in the deepest parts of my being. His vision of the world and mine intertwine. Perhaps that's so of all long-term relationships, that all couples create an insular existence, a language and value system uniquely their own. We all share a language singularly ours that communicates when it's time to leave the party or silently share a private joke amidst a crowd.

Our friendship, the many ways he intrigues and calls me to myself, sustain this partnership. We are very different in some critical ways. The erosions of daily life hone our separate personalities into our unique, authentic selves. As we grow into who we are, our differences are clarified and magnified. And yet, it is he who invites me to stand back and look at myself as an individual human being who is worthy of love. It is he who invites me to step back and see him as the magical being sent for me to love. Hubby knows things I don't know, his thought processes work differently than mine. And yet, it is his words that recall for me how deeply our lives are entwined.

3.26.1008
I'm well into the book now, reminded as I read every word, turn every page, that love is a wondrous gift. I'm grateful every day, no matter what, for the person who embodies that gift.

Go Ahead. Ask Me Anything.

At my office (and with virtually everyone who knows me), I'm the go-to girl for questions no one else can answer. Medical, scientific, grammatical, computers. You get my drift; they ask me about any subject that puzzles them or confounds them or that they're mildly curious about.

Sometimes it gets on my nerves. Do they think I'm a medical professional? Do they think I know anything about computers? Why, in God's name, do people assume I'm the person to ask? I know why. If I don't know the answer to the question, I don't make stuff up. My dad always did that. If you asked him something and he didn't know the answer, he'd just wing it. Sometimes if I don't know, I find the topic compelling enough to find the answer. The real reason they ask me, though, is that I can't keep my mouth shut.

Case in point. Last week, Crazy Employee wandered into my office in a daze.

"I have a knot on the back of my head and it really hurts."

I actually asked her some questions, like when it had developed, did it hurt only when she touched or all the time, etc. That's right. I actually pursued this, without pausing to consider the consequences, both short and long term.

I decided that it was probably a swollen lymph node. I've spent considerable time lately looking at a map of the lymphathic system while my physical therapist massaged my lymph nodes. It's fascinating stuff and almost worth lymphedema to learn about it.

Crazy was enormously relieved. She thought a tumor had sprung up over night. I assured her that I didn't think that's the usual way they develop (as if I really know). Crazy eventually called her doctor, who agreed with my "diagnosis." Off she went to immediately share with the rest of the office that, thanks to me, she was relieved to learn the problem wasn't cancer and that it was verified by someone who was trained to know.

Big mouth. People ask me things and out come answers. I don't think about it until they've gone on their merry way, when I once again wonder why the hell they're asking me. Admittedly, I have a rather half-assed store of knowledge on a broad range of topics. I have many interests and a surprising memory for the things I read.

The people I know and trust well enough for me to complain to about this blind belief that I'm the bearer of esoteric wisdom tell me to simply stop answering their questions. Excellent advice, but I've never been able to follow it. Open mouth, answer comes out.

The inability to, once again, keep my mouth shut has, once again, furthered my reputation around Crazy Land. It's become part of my unofficial job description.

I have a question myself. Knowing that providing information spawns more trust in my boundless knowledge, knowing that it irritates me to no end, why is it that I can't stop myself from participating?

Quiz of the Day

Which Classic Female Literary Character Are you?

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Daylight Savings Time in Crazy Land

Daylight savings time renders an otherwise godawful week in Crazyland virtually unbearable. The only good news? My good friend, the Hemorrhoid Guy, was appalled at how dark everything is when I arrive in the morning, so he took it upon himself to see to it that many new lights were installed on every corner of both buildings. When I arrived this morning, it might as well have been high noon. I wondered if the glare was keeping Lillian awake or maybe helping her find her meth pipe a little easier. I confess that thought made feel a bit impish; I had an almost irresistible urge to intentionally set off the building alarm. I was a good girl; I did not do it. I wonder if that counts as one of my good deeds for the day? Probably not.

Both Crazy Employee and the Superhighway are on vacation this week, leaving me to fend off some of the phone traffic. By around 10:00 o'clock, our lovely and brilliant young receptionist has managed to drag herself out of bed and make it to work. That makes things much easier for me. To be fair, when Owner and Hemorrhoid Guy are here, their respective male organs don't seem to impede their ability to answer the phone. The same cannot be said of Golf Pro and Mr. Moneybags. The Foot Lady is of no help, either. If her foot can't be involved, then it's no dice, I guess.

This week also brought me another Hurt Guy. The foreman (whom I probably haven't introduced before), The Ladies' Man, was fabulous and is working hard to get that boy back to work so he's not sitting around all day watching reruns of Law and Order on Crazy Land's dime. Preventing people from taking up residence in their recliner while we pay the price is one of my primary missions in life. Unfortunately, I think L.M. is going to have to come up with an unlimited amount of "restricted duty" activities. This is a knee injury and I'm praying that we won't eventually discover a torn meniscus. If we do, our workers' comp rates are bound to rise. That is never, ever good. The injury isn't a big deal yet, but you know how I hate the paperwork.

Hemorrhoid Guy had to make an appearance at a Benefit Review Conference for the scary Don Quixote. Don has changed his story so many times that even he can't keep up anymore. He's now claiming that his broken hand qualifies as a permanent disability. Sadly, Don had neglected to inform his state-provided attorney that he's actually been working. That kind of argues against the claim of disability and, of course, his attorney was outraged that he hadn't mentioned this important fact prior to the actual hearing. Don tried to engage Hemorrhoid in, no doubt, bitter dialog, but H.G. slipped away before the scary guy could corner him.

Our incredibly liberal local version of the Worker's Comp system has decided to pass Don on to a higher authority, so there will be a new hearing on May 7. Since I know very little about the working conditions and schedules of any of our field employees, I won't have to attend. Poor Hemorrhoid will be in attendance, but he's taking along some reinforcements in the person of the actual foreman of the job. Let's hope that the foreman will remember that loyalty to his fellow "working man" must not outweigh the facts. If he doesn't, I believe Hemorrhoid could take him in a tussle. Fisticuffs might well break out over this particular case. H.G. and I are very, very serious about worker's comp fraud.

Is there more? Well, of course there is, including an encounter with Mr. Moneybags. I needed some information from him this morning to relay to the Ladies' Man, so I had no choice. Moneybags was off and running right away about what an idiot Loathsome is. I agreed. Then he moved on to the "liberal (read Democrats) idiots" who are supporting Spitzer. Maybe Moneybags knows something I don't, but I haven't heard of much defense being mounted by even the party's most faithful. Time to exit. When he took a breath, I told him I knew Foot Lady had finally made some coffee and that I simply had to get down there immediately. It was a rare moment when self preservation outweighed excellent Southern manners. Mercifully brief, or as brief as it gets with Moneybags.

So that's it. I still have two and a half days to go. The phone will be ringing any moment now. My eyes are burning and watering from allergies and I just spilled yogurt down the front of my shirt. Yes, I'm writing this at lunch because otherwise there is no time and I can't live without you. As predicted, the phone is ringing.

German Shepherd

The Perfectionist

Doggedly dedicated to getting the job done, you don't let silly little distractions get in the way of putting in a full day's work. And after you come home, chowing down on a little grub and taking a little catnap is all it takes to get you up and at 'em for round two, whatever that may entail. Your dogma emphasizes the importance of hard work, and you swim laps around your dog-paddling, time-wasting co-workers. Your cleverness leads to you often being entrusted with some pretty important tasks, which you are always more than happy to sink your canines into. You really dig being outdoors and love a bit of exercise, but you draw the line at the ridiculous stuff, choosing a game of beach volleyball over Pilates in the park any day.

Healer

Everything and Nothing

I've read that everyone we meet has been sent to teach us something. If that's so, I'm hard at work.

I encounter my father, in various guises, everywhere. I'm surrounded by narcissists--at work and at home. Hubby is so self-involved that I'm surprised he even notices I'm in the room. Sometimes I'm not sure that he does.

Stepson doesn't know anything about me. He never asks about what I'm interested in, what my life is like. He knows nothing about my childhood. Our conversations are always about him.

Not everyone in Crazy Land is a narcissist, but we've got more than our share. The Foot Lady, Crazy Employee, Owner, Loathsome, The Golf Pro--for all of them the world is a mirror.

If there's anything at which I'm expert, it's dealing with narcissists. Unfortunately, the way I deal with them is very unhealthy. Being highly intuitive, I'm able to figure out what they want and how they want it, then give it to them. Not so difficult, really. Generally what they want is validation; only preferences for the means of validation differ between individuals. I anticipate their needs. I hide my own. Or I believe the needs I have can't be met by other people.

I'm so chameleon-like that everyone thinks I'm like them, but I'm not, you know. There are a lot of things I have to fake. I don't know what occurs in non-catastrophic childhoods. It's as alien to me as living on another planet. It's such a strange thing, to try so hard to picture what "normal" (for for that matter, dysfunctional) childhood looks like. I won't ever know.

So what am I learning? Apparently, not much. I continue to live with a man who has an absolutely astounding sense of personal entitlement. At work, I shift certain characteristics to the foreground and others to the background, depending on who I'm with at any given time. I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not; I'm merely rearranging parts of my personality. Morphing into someone others find more palatable and easy to understand is probably one of those things I'm supposed to learn not to do.

At the moment, I think the lesson to be learned is to love myself, just as I am. That's a mighty tall order. I've lived my life, dedicated to figuring out how to fit in with everyone else, working on social skills, fixing the things that were wrong with me.

I've decided to stop trying to change myself into someone I'm not. What does that have to do with my dad? Everything and nothing.

Juvenilia

Since I don't have much to say today. I decided to post a poem sent to me from an old friend. I wrote it when I was 16 (so, you know, read it with compassion) after my father drove to a local city to see his 18 year old girlfriend, whom he had married 5 years previously. We were speeding along in the darkness, I was sitting in the backseat, hating him with a vengeance. I wrote the poem, in part, as a way to ignore him. So here goes:

Highways of Darkness

Highways in the darkness,
breathing wind like icy softness.
We are racing toward Heaven
or wherever we may be going.
My mind is like a ribbon--twisted and misleading
and it will take a new eternity
to untangle your mind from within it.
Perhaps it will unravel
when the light up dawn is upon us.
But until then the darkness is beautiful,
for we've never seen the light
on the highways of forever.

Mike Huckabee

I'm listening to a Mike Huckabee rally on CNN streaming media.

What do you suppose is going on in Mike's head?

Hubby Was Fired

Hubby lost his job on Friday. He was doing data transcription for the IRS, but wasn't able to meet the minimum production and quality standards. When I told him that he has to have a job, he went out the front door and sat on the porch steps until I left for a haircut appointment. Pouting. I guess I was supposed to tell him not to worry about it. He should just go ahead and sit around the house, doing absolutely nothing. I'll figure out a way to pay the bills, I'll do all the cleaning; he can relax and write another book.

It's all my fault, really. I should have been a lot less patient a lot sooner. I wasn't willing to deal with long term unpleasantness. As long as Hubby didn't hit me or bring another person into the relationship, my minimum standards were met. By the time I was too sick to keep up with things, doing nothing had become an ingrained habit for him. I'm guilty of bad parenting.

I spent a lot of time cleaning this weekend. It was nowhere near as much time as I need, but my stamina is still very limited. Luckily, I was able to meet my own production and quality standards.

I watched the final regular time seconds in the Mavs-Lakers game, then allowed myself to be talked into watching the overtime even though I knew how it would end. I hate Kobe. I also hate Mark Cuban. Ditto Jason Kidd. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much more I hate Isaiah than the whole lot of them thrown together.

I also managed to catch some college hoops, Georgetown vs. Marquette. Patrick Ewing, Jr. plays for Georgetown, so for this game, they were my default favorite team.

I'm still reading When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron. Perfect timing on my part. My backup read, when my concentration is too poor to devote to Pema, is called Acid Row. It's written by a British author. British writers are sometimes more than I can do. For example, the people in this book live on an estate, but that doesn't mean they're wealthy. "Estate" in this context means public housing. Who knew.

The new hair stylist didn't make me want to shave my head. That's more than I can say about my most recent stylist, Erika. Much like Dr. Sandbox, her fatal flaw is an inability to listen. The thing is, I'm not all that picky. After you've been bald, things can only get better.

I've already had two conversations with Foot Lady and one with Owner. It's 10:39 a.m. and I already need a nap.

Love and Let Go

"...the great need for...loving-kindness toward oneself, and developing from that the awakening of a fearlessly compassionate attitude toward our own pain and that of others."

"...dissolving the dualistic tension between us and them, this and that, good and bad, by inviting what we usually avoid. My teacher, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, described this as 'leaning into the sharp points.'"

"...may we not forget...that 'Chaos should be regarded as extremely good news."

from When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, Pema Chodron

Yes, yes, yes.

Heroes

I just spent an hour on the phone with my health insurance provider, straightening out my complex maze of doctor bills. For many years, I've tried to do at least one good deed every day. I recently upped that ante to 3. My second good deed of the day was to be patient and cordial with the insurance guy who helped me get it all cleared up. He was obviously surprised when I thanked him and wished him a good day, even though we came up with another $900 in bills I have to pay. I'm certain he talks with a lot of angry people every day and I hope our conversation makes his day a little better. My previous good deed today was traffic-related. One more to go.

I happened to see Elizabeth Edwards on television over the weekend and was once again impressed with her positive energy and commitment to getting on with life, even though she battles Stage 4 breast cancer. "She's my hero," I thought. Lance Armstrong is also my hero. Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I had absolutely no heroes. Now I do. I have three.

I discovered that I am my own hero.

Thanks for Waiting

Thanks, everyone, for checking in on me while I tried to wrap up the end of year OSHA reports and deal with my hurt employees. I haven't had time to be online much at all. All of our clients want their information in a slightly different form. Small differences eat up a lot of time when I'm dependent on co-workers for some of the numbers.

I have a check-up appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. She offices on the other side of town. The traffic takes such a toll on me that by the time I get there, I need at least an extra tranquilizer or two.

I know we'll talk about my weight and the amount of time I've been sleeping, but I don't think those are symptoms of depression. I think I sleep a lot because of the ordeal of breast cancer treatment. Fatigue can last a long time. I don't know about the weight thing. I eat. I don't work out excessively.

I have to leave now to have any hope of arriving on time. Psychiatrist gets very testy with me when I'm late.