I'm just not ready

For those of you who follow me on Facebook, you may be aware that my beloved daddy is gravely ill. A few years ago he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, which is a type of cancer affecting the bone marrow. He received lots of big-time treatment for this, including a bone marrow transplant from his brother... which meant that he had to take immunosuppressant drugs. His myeloma went into remission, but he developed an extremely rare cancerous tumor on his brainstem which occurred precisely because he was too immunosuppressed. This tumor is caused by a viral infection that we all carry around in our bodies, but our immune system keeps it from developing -- usually, the only people who ever get this kind of tumor are AIDS patients. Anyway, this tumor is expected to bring about my dad's untimely demise. Hospice is involved, but he is still mentally alert and knows what is happening (he is a medical doctor, so he's even more aware than most folks would be).

I won't even go into how angry I feel. Yes, yes, I know... I have no real right to be angry with anyone. People die every day all over the world and many of them die much younger than my dad (who's 64). It doesn't make me less angry... and I'm not really angry WITH anyone. I'm not even angry with God. I'm just ANGRY. I don't want my dad to die. He is so smart and loves to fish and hunt and whittle and talk politics and opera... he has worked so freekin' hard his whole freekin' life, and never got to enjoy being retired. He's been reduced to a feeble shell. And I'm mad as hell about it. My sister's two young children won't even remember him and how much he loves them.

Dad has asked me to put together a video montage of pictures and music for his funeral. I have been scanning pictures a few at a time for quite a while now, but it always seemed so distant that I never really kicked it into gear until this week when things started to seem like they were descending faster and faster. I took the day off from school yesterday to spend the entire day at my mom's scanning and piecing things together, and I'm getting pretty close to having something to show him.

And I'm still holding out for a miracle.

The Making of a Moonflower

Recently I completed a painting of a moonflower, and I took photos of the process. First I laid down a layer of light green:

This also established the outlines of the white flower. Since the flower was white, I wanted to leave bright white highlights available for the flower's petals, and the only real way to do that with watercolor is to leave highlight areas unpainted.

Next, I needed to establish the shadowy background behind the leaves:

I don't really use the color black in pure watercolor paintings. I don't think it gives the eye enough "life"... it's too much of a cheat, and it's too final. I'm sure that doesn't make sense. Let me take another stab at it. In actual real life, there really isn't much that's truly flat black... even black marker or black crayon is often created by just an over-excess of blue or red or purple pigment. Besides, a viewer doesn't need everything just force-fed. Your eyes need something to do, to make a painting more interesting. You see my final painting of the moonflower, you don't perceive the background necessarily as "purple", even though it really is. You perceive it as "shadow", and your mind automatically classifies it as "black" or "dark" and then no longer considers it.

Next, I need to deepen the tones in the leaves. Again, sticking with only green tones is too easy and deprives the eye of its fun in piecing things together for itself. So the darker areas get some blue:

Deepening those background areas with some indigo tones:

When working with things that are white, you have to remember that there are shadowy areas even on white petals. How to go about creating these? Pale purple. Really. See? :

Details of purple splotches and yellow-green throat:

And then finally, I add some slightly darker gray-green "details" in the leaves to make them seem more nubbly and textured:

That's it.

I'm actually still learning to do this. It's all a grand experiment, and as often as not, my experiments don't turn out to be blog-worthy, or even light-of-day worthy. But it's all a great exercise in learning to SEE... to see the colors behind the colors, which when layered together give you more than the sum of their parts.

I have more to show you in the upcoming days.

Get off my lawn...

A Fence

Carl Sandburg

Now the stone house on the lake front is finished and the 
workmen are beginning the fence. 
The palings are made of iron bars with steel points that 
can stab the life out of any man who falls on them. 
As a fence, it is a masterpiece, and will shut off the rabble 
and all vagabonds and hungry men and all wandering 
children looking for a place to play. 
Passing through the bars and over the steel points will go 
nothing except Death and the Rain and To-morrow. 


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So here's what I want from whoever seeks to become my President this year:

GET OFF MY LAWN.

That's pretty much it. Quit spending my money, quit doling out my money to people who I believe do not deserve it and causes which I not only do not support but which run contrary to my values and principles, and quit telling me what I can and can't do when I'm not bothering anybody.


Do I think that'll happen? Pshyeah, right. But there's how I feel. That's my ideal politician leader. Somebody who cuts the whole shmear... who sends 'em all packing.
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Five more months and I get to shut the gate for good.

Happy 2012!!!

Standing in the parking lot of First Baptist Church, Valley View, TX, looking westward.

January 1, 2012

Happy 2012 to all!

May there be glimmers of green sprouting up in YOUR world, too.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm home with my three babies safe and sound. 2012 looms ominous on the horizon, but I will persevere. The "next thing" is always out there to do, and I plan to do it. Whatever it is.

Still here.

I know, it’s been months since I posted. I really am going to get back to it. I have some ideas that will hopefully get me back in the habit; it is therapeutic for me and I need it. I just have been pretty closed-off to it for a while. Part of that is Facebook’s fault – FB gives me the immediacy and spontaneity that comes so easily to me anyway. But I need a slightly more anonymous outlet where I can speak in a longer format, and I have been avoiding that because things have been so hard and so unrelenting.

The eldest hasn’t changed. Not that I expected her to, or anything. But I don’t write about it because I know it has to be tiring and discouraging to read somebody yammering on and on about the same crap. Once we get to next May, however, things could change significantly, because we will no longer be legally bound to keep her here and provide for her.

We have done our best – I promise – and we have forgiven and punished and loved and excused and applied disciplinary measures meant to hem in her compulsiveness. I’m sure there’s someone out there who could have done a better job… perhaps if she had been raised on an Amish farm, she might have been forced to be more responsible… but she wasn’t. She was raised by us. There wasn’t an Amish family in line to adopt her, there was only us. So we did it.

I read every book I could get my hands on. I went to classes. I researched things on the internet. I joined support groups. I enrolled her in gymnastics, dance, violin, swimming, Space Camp, tutoring, testing, Montessori, playgroups, Sunday Schools, basketball, soccer, and volleyball. We have used charts, graphs, reward systems, corporal punishment, time-outs, exercises, and privileges. I took her to psychiatrists and counselors. I went to psychiatrists and counselors myself. I even checked myself into a psych unit for a few days in 2006 and realized pretty quickly that I needed to take better care of myself in order to be a better mom.

I have fielded irate phone calls from principals and teachers and counselors and other parents. I have been called in for investigation due to accusations of child abuse. I have had Child Protective Services show up at my door and I have cheerfully invited them in because I not only have nothing to hid, I have privately prayed that someone would install cameras in my home to videotape our interactions, because I just wish someone could watch us and help us know what we’re doing wrong.

And now I’m just tired.

But on May 12, she turns eighteen. After that point, we are no longer obliged to put up with it.

I’m not certain we’ll immediately change the locks, although there are days when I’m on the verge of calling the locksmith to schedule a visit for that day. But I will have the Final Weapon at my disposal after that day has passed. If she loses her temper and becomes vicious and abusive and does something completely dumbass like haul off and hit her sister after that, she gets to go away and I don’t have to let her back in.

Yeah, I feel like a horrible mother for saying that.

Don’t care much anymore. Eventually you have to look out for the rest of the kids in the family. She has sucked the oxygen out of our lives for seventeen years. I think it's enough.

We’re also on the verge of having to file bankruptcy. Isn’t that cheerful and tasty?

I have taken on more piano students, and am praying for more, but there’s no way that a few more dollars a week will put a dent in this $40K debt that keeps accruing. Medical bills will begin to get better once Eldest is gone, and the medical expenses have improved significantly since we now get our insurance through the Chickasaws and their wondrous CashCowCasino (God bless them – they’re taking care of my family and I will be forever grateful to them for that). But the damage is done.  I tried to get my master’s through the University of Fawkes a few years back… never was able to finish, and the loans were crushing. Add to that a few ill-timed employment (or non-employment) choices by the other dues-paying member of this dubious team, and you’ve got serious trouble.

There are basic ideas which I had assumed were binding upon a contractual – or shall we say sacramental – relationship between adults. Apparently I don’t share those ideas with the other member of the team… and never really have. I’ve fought it hard for twenty-one years, because I believed it was what I had to do.

And yet, I look at the whole thing and wonder, is this a breach of contract? A rejection of the fundamental meaning of a relationship? Or does God just expect me to smile and keep up appearances? Is this what He had in mind? I don’t know anymore.

So here we sit.

No idea where it’s going to end, but something will give. I’m not going to endanger the mental or physical health of my other two charges, but things WILL happen to change this situation. Maybe things that not everyone will approve of. But again, I’m tired now and I don’t think I really care what people think anymore.

More to come.

Eventually.

Little things that are big things

Last weekend I wrote about not wanting to go to church. Well, I did anyway, because it's not about me... I'm a mom with kids who need it and love it... so I have to hitch up my big-girl-panties and deal.

Church services at the New Place are actually a respite. I don't feel pressured or "on display" or even obligated. I didn't lead worship. Didn't want to. I just enjoyed it quietly.

After we wrapped it all up, I was gathering up the Offspring when a kind-faced lady sidled up to me and handed me something. "This is a Wal-Mart gift card. There's $150 on it, for you to go get your kids' school supplies."

I wanted to melt into a puddle of butter.

God is so good. And He doesn't seem to mind when I'm tired and cranky; He keeps loving on me through it.

==============================

Rick brought home some seedless green grapes from the grocery store yesterday. I hadn't really even taken them out of the sack; we'd just stuck them into the fridge as soon as he got home with them. I pulled them out tonight for a snack and HO. LY. COW. these grapes are the giant economy sized softball grapes... more like grapeFRUIT in size, maybe. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But they ARE enormous.

==============================

Pop came home from the hospital tonight. A few days ago, I hadn't been entirely certain that he would. I really want him to get better; it seems brutally unfair that he's worked so hard all his life, that he's so young, and that he doesn't even get to enjoy it. I know, I know... lots of people don't get to have even the enjoyment that he's had... but I can be petulant from time to time, no? I want him to feel really good again. Mom got her second chance seven years ago. I'm hoping Pop gets his now.

==============================

Tomorrow is Saturday. I am tentatively planning to do something unusual... I'm going to go to a Saturday vigil at the St. Maximus the Confessor Orthodox Church. Not because I particularly want to become a member of the Russian Orthodox Church, per se. No, it's just because I want to connect with God in a different way. It was suggested to me by a longtime friend, and I think it's a good idea. Or it could be just awful; I may accidentally desecrate something and get struck by lightning. Either way, it will be a change of pace.

Only a brief reprieve...?

Yesterday was spent on Interstate 35 traveling down to the San Marcos Treatment Center, where Martha is an inmate. We have to have weekly family therapy sessions, but since we obviously will be unable to travel the zillion miles down to SMTC once a week, we will be able to meet via teleconference.

I was discouraged pretty hard after yesterday's meeting with the therapist. He told us that it was unlikely she would remain there more than about thirty days.

THIRTY DAYS.

After attempting to compose myself, I (as calmly as I could) explained to him that if they send her home, they will be splitting up our family. Neither Rick nor I are prepared to EVER bring her home to live with us again. This is not because we hate Martha, because we do not. We do, however, love our other two children just as much and believe that their safety is paramount. As long as Martha lives in our home with them, they are not safe. This is not a situation we will allow. We will separate and I will live in my car or in a tent at the lake with her if necessary, but we won't bring her home EVER AGAIN.

Nor will I take the other two and leave. This is THEIR HOME and THEIR FAMILY. I refuse to punish them by taking them out of their own home and disrupting their lives.

Write that down in your session notes, Mister Therapist. Anyone with Child Protective Services who comes across this blog post -- write it down. I mean it. I have never and will never perpetrate abuse on Martha, but I WILL NOT BRING HER BACK INTO THIS HOUSE.

The therapist hemmed and hawed about it, mentioning programs here and programs there, but nothing definitive. Which is why we have never had any idea what to do, for years and years. It took a CPS investigator to tell me what to do (take Martha to UBH in Denton immediately) the night we finally took her in. We are a family who has absolutely no idea what to do about situations like this... we've handled everything ourselves... we take no money from the government EVER... to our near financial ruin, I'll be honest... but vague references to this program or that facility? That got me NOWHERE the night I tried to take her to a homeless shelter. Every bleeping vague reference I was given? Just another runaround. We have been responsible citizens, paid our taxes, mowed our yard, voted, and taken care of our own problems without defaulting or falling back on public assistance of any kind. If you look at our pay stubs, we don't qualify for anything because we make too much money. But if you then were to look at our out-go, you will see that because we foot all our own bills, we are very nearly bankrupt.

I am convinced that our daughter is an Axis II patient (in the DSM-IV lingo). According to Wikipedia, here are some of the disorders classified as Axis II: paranoid personality disorder, schizoid personality disorder, schizotypal personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, antisocial personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, histrionic personality disorder, avoidant personality disorder, dependent personality disorder, obsessive-compulsive personality disorder; and intellectual disabilities.

Do I know which one of these fits her? No. I'm not trained to diagnose these things. I am, however, a professional educator and a parent who has DONE HER HOMEWORK with regard to her children and their needs, and I promise you -- if there had been a pill or a coping mechanism that would have solved Martha's problems, I would have found it.

But regardless of Martha and her particular issues, this has now become a safety issue. And if we can't get help from the people who are supposed to be able to help us, we will protect all three of our children in the next best way we can find to do so.

==================

I spent most of the day working in my classroom. All the computers had been removed and then returned, supposedly refitted with updated software... I have no idea yet whether that actually happened, as I was quite busy trying to put everything back where it's supposed to be. We do have an IT guy, but he's not known for completing things in a timely manner OR putting things back the way he found them. Thankfully I am fairly competent in the way of hooking things back up to the network. I got most of it done today, but I needed two 15ft cat5 cables, so I sent the spouse to pick some up for me. (If I asked the IT guy for them, it might take until Christmas to receive them... much simpler just to go get them myself) Tomorrow morning I will fire up the old 'puters and see if they come alive.

The security blocks on the school's network render it virtually useless. I would venture to guess that upwards of ninety percent of the students and faculty have smart phones which operate on 3G and 4G networks by which they access the internet for things they really need to look up, and the remaining few of us who limp along with little brickphones (me included) have to rely on proxies and other less-than-kosher means of access. I mean, honestly... we're not spending our class periods doing internet gaming or social networking or Youtubing. But I would like to be able to show the occasional Youtube viddy that illustrated a concept I was trying to teach. AND I would like to be able to use features like GoogleDocs and online blogs in ways that I was trained to do at the workshop at the Smithsonian.

But we live in the Dark Ages here in Ballyhoo. We can't spend money on textbooks and materials, but we also can't let you look up stuff on your own. WTF is that?

=============================

And yet, this is a very good place to be, despite its drawbacks.

=============================

Piano students have begun signing up! I am excited about the prospects of helping raise up a new generation of musicians to take my place when I'm old and decrepit. I'm pretty close to that right now, so they'd better darn well hurry it up.

A good shellacking

It's been about three years since I've had a professional manicure, but last week I had some time to kill while I was in Fort Worth for an education workshop, and my fingernails were actually sorta grown-out and healthy, and I'm in-between piano gigs, so what the heck... I had heard that the new manicure rage is "shellac", and that it's super-durable, so I thought I'd try it.

I don't want long, fake fingernails, not now and not ever. It's just not ME. And they get in my way; everything I do that I'm good at, I do with my fingers and hands, so I have to be able to use them. Anyway, it's been a few days, and I have to say -- this stuff is AMAZING. Not a chip, not a scratch... they look exactly the same today that they did when the tech finished with them.

====================

I've been driving back and forth to downtown Dallas every day now for about four days in a row to check on my Pop. Mom's with him down at Baylor, of course, but things are pretty delicate right now with his health. His cancer is in remission, but the ensuing graft-vs-host issues and childhood infections like chickenpox all over again have just taken a very heavy toll on him.

It's not about me, obviously, but this is MY blog, so yes, this WILL be about me. I have to have somewhere to decompress.

Martha has been calling me every day from the treatment center with a list of things she wants and of things she wants me to do for her. I have stopped answering the phone when it says "UNKNOWN" because I am just tired of having my chain yanked around by a mentally-ill hormonal teenage girl. If it's one of the nurses or therapists down there, they can leave me a message and I'll get back to them. If it's her, she can go to Hartford, Hereford and Hampshire (in the immortal words of Eliza Doolittle).

I am busy. And tired. I'm not sleeping well anyway, because I'm worried about my dad.

The Lord worked it out so that I didn't have to deal with her here at home, and I am grateful. And I am not going to let her run my life from down there, either.

======================

In times of family stress, the cracks tend to show more readily. Old wounds, imagined slights writ large, visit us like nighttime hallucinations, and no-one can make us believe they aren't real. If only there were a way I could gently wipe the filmy residue away from the hearts of the ones I love most, so they could leave behind the fear and isolation that is SO. UNNECESSARY.

But I can't change any of it. I just have to navigate it. And try not to let any of it stick to me.

=======================

I'm going to go over to my mom's to sleep tonight. She normally comes home from the hospital at night after Pop goes to sleep, but he had a really awful night last night, so she wants to stay with him this time. They have a little dog at home, though, so Alice and I are going to go take care of Coco.

Tomorrow, assuming all is well with Pop, I'm going to meet my best friend from college, Emily, at Grapevine Mills Mall for a couple of hours.

=======================

I think that, sometimes, the gifts that God gives us are the actual struggles and hard things... because without having been through the struggles and hard things, how can I be of any help at all to others enduring the struggles and hard things?

The circle of life?

Whenever someone asks, "When does school start?", I clap my hands to my ears immediately and begin chanting "LALALALALALALALA" to drown out the thought.

This is not to say that I do not enjoy my job. I do. I love it, in fact. But sudden jolt changes are hard, even when they're good. Slamming headlong into the inflexible routine of the public school year is inexorable, like the jab of the flu shot, and causes me similar anxiety.

I am also experiencing something that I don't think I ever have before... I don't want to go to church.

Huh?

Okay, so I am aware of all the externals, here. Lots and lots of people don't go to church. And probably don't feel weird and guilty about it.

But "church" has been as much a part of me as the egg in a cake. You don't get to take it back out. You can scrape the frosting off and even slice off a thin layer to remove it, but take the egg out? Nope. It's sort-of fundamental. And that's how church is, and has always been, for me.

Also, for a significant chunk of my life, I have either been personally employed by a church OR have been married to someone personally employed by a church. As churches are full of human beings with frailties and are subject to shifts in mood and philosophy, these jobs have come and gone, leaving learning and wisdom in their wake... and hurt, too, but less so as time has gone on. You begin to realize as you grow older that when you find yourself hurt by a church, you had your priorities and expectations placed in the wrong spot. Fix your priorities and expectations on God (Psalm 62:5, anyone?), and there won't be nearly the same kind of hurt... keep in mind that God puts up with spoiled, petulant Christians all the time and still loves them, and that God has a much bigger plan that mine, so getting my dander up about pitiful little stuff is a fruitless waste of emotion.

So for the past couple of years or so, I've been plugging away as the musical entertainment coordinator at a local establishment. My official title was... hmm, what was my official title?... worship leader? Music minister? Something like that. But if we're going to be honest in job description, we have to call it an entertainment coordinator.

And therein lies the problem... because I actually wanted to lead worship.

Since that didn't really match with their expectations, it didn't really work out that I should remain there. I actually have no hard feelings about them... lots of folks have been tiptoeing around me, asking if I'm "okay", etc... yes, I really am. I just wasn't a match, and that's okay.

But it also meant that our Sunday morning routine changed. We didn't miss a beat; the very next Sunday, we were worshiping at the church where Isaac's guitar teacher is the pastor. It's a small gathering, and very out-of-the-ordinary, which is refreshing. I have no complaints.

And yet... I don't want to go to church. Not this church, particularly. Just church.

Being a parent has kept me from veering into the Chaos Zone a number of times. Knowing that Isaac and Alice are depending on me... well, I won't lie, I probably would have gotten in the car and just kept driving and disappeared on a few occasions, if not for them. I owe those two babies a good, solid upbringing. Which means I suck it up and deal with my darkness instead of running away from it.

So I take them to church. They love the new church -- infinitely more than the one we recently left, in fact, and this one seems to have the potential to meet their spiritual needs much more effectively.

I have brought along my keyboard several times and it's been terrific. Those people SING, like no group of believers I have ever been with.

And yet... I don't want to go to church.

I'm still working through it. I don't think I need advice, per se... I listen to the spiritually wise people around me, and I listen to God's still, small voice in the air around me. I'm not angry with Him... not at all. If anything, I love Him more now than I ever have.

It's just one of those in-between times, like the week or two before school starts, when you just feel the need to BE STILL and quit scurrying around because you know there are Imminent Things ahead.

Pseudohyperkalemia

Yep, the first blood draw was compromised. The nurse called me back today to let me know that I did NOT have hyperkalemia, as they had first feared. AND... even better... my iron levels are normal. NORMAL! Woohoo!

So the weird light-headedness I've been feeling? In all likelihood it's a side effect of not using the hormone patches anymore.

And you may be wondering why in the world I would stop taking the hormone patches... and I will be perfectly honest with you and tell you that it's because my face was breaking out horribly in hormonal acne and I'm just too vain to put up with it. I'll suffer the hot flashes before I'll put up with the giant tennisball tumors on my face.

The things we suffer.

==========================

Tomorrow, Martha gets shipped off to a residential treatment facility in San Marcos.

I am SO. TIRED.

I had a dermatologist appointment this morning, then on the way back home to pick up Isaac to take him to the orthodontist, I was trapped for an hour and a half on I-35N in Sanger when a semi overturned about ten cars in front of me. I was grateful I wasn't involved directly in the incident, but after an hour and a half of idling and running my A/C at full blast in 110 degree heat, I ten-point-turned my van around and drove down a steep embankment in an attempt to reach an access road where I might actually have a chance to get around the mess. Thankfully the other cars around me were polite enough to move as far as they could out of the way so I could even make the attempt.

And we weren't late to the orthodontist. But I felt like a wrung-out dishrag.

The rest of the evening, I went to Mom's to have a low-key celebration of my sister's 30th birthday. Pop is just so weak and frail and sick. It's so unfair. And the whole time I was at mom's, I was parked at the kitchen table sorting through the enormous pile of paperwork I had to go through in order to have Martha committed to the place in San Marcos.

While I was sitting at the table reading the interminable legalese and doing my best to recall every cut and scrape she ever suffered, Isaac came in the kitchen. "So when are we going to get my school supplies?" he asked.

I literally felt like coming unglued. But I didn't.

I am JUST. SO. TIRED. And today I just can't think.

"I can't really think about that just yet, buddy-boy," I said in the most light tone I could summon up.

===================

I have an educational workshop I must attend tomorrow in Fort Worth, on top of all the other fun and games that tomorrow brings. I am seriously praying I can just stay awake and appear to be interested. Meetings are excruciatingly difficult for me under the best of circumstances.

One bright spot? They require us to bring a laptop to the meeting.

Which means that I may at least be able to edit photos while listening to someone drone on. This might not be so bad after all...

Short update

A couple of hours ago, the hospital called and said that they are looking at putting Martha in residential treatment in a facility in San Marcos. The irony isn't lost on us... San Marcos is where her adoption was finalized seventeen years ago this November.

Duration of treatment, etc., we don't know yet.

This is very promising news.

And so it continues

Martha is back in the lockup, after becoming physically aggressive toward Alice.

In our first family therapy meeting on Sunday afternoon, she was primarily angry because the session had been scheduled during a time when she had hoped to be able to go to the gymnasium.

After complaining bitterly about the whole arrangement being "fucked up," she decided that the clothing she had chosen to bring was not adequate to her liking and I should bring her more. I explained that the contents of her room were horrifyingly rancid and that I was disinclined to spend time washing and sorting any of it. "Then go buy me new stuff," she demanded.

This evening she used her one daily phone call to badger me about bringing her more clothes or buying her some. I told her I wasn't interested, and that she should make do with the ones she chose to bring. "OmiGOD," she spat. "Bring me some crayons and a coloring book."

"They'll give you paper," I said. "Draw your own pictures."

"That's gay. I hate my drawings. Then I get pissed off."

[silence]

"Anything else?" I asked, after a rather long stretch of nothingness.

"No. Bye." [click]

I didn't hear from the therapists or the release planners today, but I am hoping with all my heart that they are finally able to convince the insurance provider that she cannot come home and that long-term residential care is really the only option we have left. They closed the Nebraska loop-hole, or I'd already have packed her in the car and headed for Omaha to leave her at the hospital doorstep.

Maybe that makes me a bad mother.

But I think that allowing her to torment and physically abuse her siblings makes me a worse mother. So that option's out of the question. If we are forced to bring her home again, I will be packing up the other two and we will seek shelter elsewhere.

There. I said it. [/marklevinvoice]

Honeybadger JUST DON'T CARE. Honeybadger gets stung by bees. Honeybadger gets bit by a cobra. Honeybadger don't care.

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The 2011 school yearbooks are in and are sorted and ready for distribution. WOOT!

=====================

I have been feeling rather light-headed for quite a while now, so last week I called my hematologist's office to schedule some blood-work. I've learned to pay attention to my body, and when I feel weird for more than a week or so, I figure it's time to run the numbers and see if my iron levels are where they should be.

They drew blood this morning. It hurt like Hades, which is extremely unusual; I usually don't even feel it when they do their phlebotomy jiujitsu on me.

They called me this afternoon. Apparently my potassium levels are extraordinarily HIGH.

WTF?!? The only meds I take now are colestipol, which is a bile-acid sequestrant and which can cause one to be LOW in potassium... and omeprazole, which shouldn't have any effect on my potassium levels.

It is possible that I could've gotten a false hyperkalemia indication because of this:

Pseudohyperkalemia is a rise in the amount of potassium that occurs due to excessive leakage of potassium from cells, during or after blood is drawn. It is a laboratory artifact rather than a biological abnormality and can be misleading to caregivers. Pseudohyperkalemia is typically caused by hemolysis during venipuncture (by either excessive vacuum of the blood draw or by a collection needle that is of too fine a gauge); excessive tourniquet time or fist clenching during phlebotomy (which presumably leads to efflux of potassium from the muscle cells into the bloodstream); or by a delay in the processing of the blood specimen.

Since the blood draw WAS somewhat abnormal, they're going to re-draw blood tomorrow morning. In the meantime, though, they were extremely concerned and wanted me to head immediately to the E.R. if I got extremely dizzy or felt some kind of cardiac problems, since hyperkalemia can lead to cardiac arrest.

I swear, it's always something.

If they determine that I really do have hyperkalemia and it isn't due to a lab quirk, I may end up in the hospital tomorrow. But let's hope not, k? I just don't have the time or the inclination to be hospitalized.

=======================

I am really worried about my Pop. He just isn't doing well. He's cancer-free, but the ensuing misery of re-establishing immunity has been nothing short of horrific. A couple of weeks ago he erupted in a virulent display of chickenpox, which has left him pocked from head to toe and disturbingly addlepated.

Cancer sucks. And life is just not fair.

=======================

On the plus side, "serene" is precisely how I'd describe home and family life without her here. Even "Zen-like." And yet, as Rick and I discussed it, we're both gritting our teeth in anxiety over the uncertainty of what we'll have to endure. It's just too good to be true, this peacefulness.

The first time she was in the lockup, we felt almost celebratory. We took family walks. We went places. We all sat together and laughed about stuff and watched television and left bedroom doors open without fear of having our things ransacked. And then they dropped the bomb on us that even though they completely agreed that she needed more serious and long-term intervention, the insurance company would not cover the expense because of the lack of a history. The pall descended upon everyone in the house almost immediately.

This time around, the exuberance is muted. We don't trust it, because it will get yanked away from us again just like before.

We're like abuse victims who can't get away from their abuser. It's like living in a war zone... you become inured to the daily, hourly, minute-ly whistle of incoming sniper fire or bombs, and when everything goes silent, you still can't relax because your body (at an almost cellular level) just knows it won't last and you'll have to duck and cover again.

======================

People all the time ask me if I'm okay. I work really, really, really hard to be positive and funny and to NOT be a complete funsucker, which is why I just don't talk about this stuff much.

Yes, I'm okay. As okay as I can be, I think.

I am meaner than this crap. People all around me are suffering in private ways, and I've got no reason to expect different. My pain ain't special. And I'm not going to allow it to take center stage. You bet -- life does suck. But it doesn't mean I can't figure out ways to make it suck less.

Such as:

Crab Imperial

Sauvignon blanc

Show tunes

Afternoon naps

Funny Facebook status updates

A good cry

Puns

The color green

Sparkly things

New boots

======================

I glued some teeny Swarovski crystals to my big toenails so I could have sparkly things with me on a continual basis.

======================

I think that having a Facebook account has taken quite a bit of my blogging impetus away. But some things, like the stuff in this blog post, just don't lend themselves well to a Facebook status. They're too, well, serious. And because there are just so many people who read my FB status updates, I fear that writing about this on FB would appear to be a solicitation of pity. I'm not interested in people "feeling bad for me" ... but I do need this outlet to write it down from time to time. If anything, I'm grateful that so few people read my blog. It liberates me to be a little less concerned about how people will "take" it. Because this honeybadger JUST DON'T CARE.

Planking

So we've been trying here to salvage a difficult summer and find hilarity in simple things. So Isaac and I have been Planking.

First, our front porch:

His technique is still developing. Stiffness isn't ideal, and toes aren't pointed.

This one wasn't too bad... some cinderblocks in our backyard.

A decorative fence on our town square.

City Hall.

And then our roof. Well, the accessible part of our roof. And he wasn't on the EDGE. We were careful. I don't want him injured. People get hurt or killed doing this. But they're usually drunk. And we were quite sober.

Proud to be an American Planker!

Fire Department Plank!

Waste Management Plank!

Ford Ranger Plank!

Generator Plank!

Concrete abutment thingy Plank!

Old Car Plank!

Phone Booth Plank!

Ramp Rail Plank!

Church of Christ Plank!

Cactus & WagonWheel Planking!

Planking while being observed by buzzards

Aaaand Backhoe Plank!

Okay, yes, it's silly. But we're having fun. And fun is good. That's what Dr. Seuss told me, anyway.

Summer! (Almost)

Okay, so I still have school work to do. The yearbook has about two pages left to wrap up. But the students are out. So it will be a quiet morning in my classroom as I finish it all up and tuck the last bits of artist-y fun into the supply closets so the floor cleaners can work their magic underfoot. I actually kinda like the spattery freakshow that is my floor, though, so I will be a little disappointed to see it all shiny and clean. At least my ceiling tiles are still bright and chaotic... looking upwards in my room is a little akin to looking at a Klee painting on steroids.

And I like it.

========================

About a week ago, she packed up and decided she no longer wanted to live here -- and that I should take her to a homeless shelter. So we loaded up in the mini-van and headed to downtown Dallas, since that's the only homeless shelter I knew of.

Of course, they don't take seventeen-year-olds in adult shelters. So we visited about four or five different locations, all of whom did not take her. She was rather miffed that we had to go back home.

Before you gasp quietly to yourself, please realize that I cried my eyes out the entire time, and that it kills me to do these kinds of things.

Visits to places like these, when you're underage, triggers a ping in the social services system. So we're being investigated by Child Protective Services. Tomorrow, Isaac and Alice get interviewed by the lead investigator. Last Tuesday, a team arrived unannounced at the house to check on Martha. Rick gladly escorted them upstairs to her domain, then left them to enjoy the sights and smells and other welcoming behaviors. Of course, she had nothing to say to them and told them where to get off.

The lead investigator spoke to me on the phone the next day and told me a couple of places that we needed to call to have her placed.

The interviews with Isaac and Alice tomorrow are really just formalities, because she has to complete the picture. I'm cool with that, honestly.

=========================

And I promise, I have pleasant things to post! But only after I get the yearbook submitted to the publisher.

And then sometimes you just don't have any words

I know I haven't posted much in recent months. Sometimes there just aren't any words I can adequately employ to describe the gradual but inexorable descent into the vortex. Martha will be seventeen in another week. We have managed to keep her here at home -- although it isn't because we wanted to. It's just because it is nigh impossible to negotiate the process of committing one's child to residential treatment without either an enormous amount of money or a long and storied history of run-ins with law enforcement. Thanks to our stringently vigilant parenting, we have managed to prevent her from gaining a rap sheet -- and yet this is also our downfall. Precisely BECAUSE we have taken such drastic measures at home, she managed to make it all the way to being "old enough to be tried as an adult in criminal court." If we had allowed her to get herself into more trouble, we might have been able to confine her to a residential facility.

Living with her is becoming daily more bitter and impossible. She is significantly larger than I am, so I can no longer physically prevent her from coming and going as she pleases. We do not provide any of the "nice things" that parents often allow their children, such as a cell phone. She receives the minimum that we are legally bound to provide. We have had to put external locks on all our bedroom doors to prevent her from ransacking our things to find money and valuables. We have to let her live here until she either commits a crime and is sent to jail or until she turns 18. She's been kicked out of the church youth group; the youth minister has had to tell her she is not invited to join them for summer youth camp. We are daily assaulted with foul language and even fouler body odor (she still doesn't like to shower or bathe). We're long past any remote possibility of counseling help; she will not speak to an adult that she can't manipulate.

I don't know how much longer it will last. Will the house be ransacked the next time we go to church? We pretty much never leave the house completely unattended; either Rick or I are at home all the time. It's just safer that way. I don't think she's up to the task of stealing everything here, but I know the people she spends time with, and I can't say the same for them.

I love my job and I love where I live, but I would be lying if I said I didn't want to pack up Alice and Isaac and just disappear. I can also say that there are some days when it's just the Lexapro and amitriptyline that are keeping me here and smiling. Hey, I gotta be real. That's what The Pioneer Woman says, right? I used to hate Ree Drummond, but it takes too much energy to hate someone who will never know what living my life is like. I still read her blog and I enter her random giveaways when she gives away a nice camera because I live in hope of owning my own someday, but I also know that she cannot and likely will never know what "being real" means here in this house. I dare her to try to homeschool with a kid like this one... I tried it. I wanted to. I'm pretty sure an Amish family couldn't have done it, either.

Can I just take this opportunity to apologize to the world and to the people she's going to cause trouble for in the future? And can I beg their forgiveness? Because I promise, I didn't make her like this, and I tried really, really hard to help her NOT be this way. And I have tried hard to protect the world from her until we got her past whatever this is -- but she only seems to get worse, not better.

I do still have hope that she will be okay someday. I just don't know if I want to be involved enough in her life to witness it if it does happen. I think that, for her, I'm pretty much used-up.

Sometimes you gotta call it like you see it

As Rick and I watched our new kitteh skittering crazily across the floor, Rick noted that, when he runs, he looks exactly like a possum... and that his unusual fur only heightens the effect. Once spoken, words can never be unsaid, and once a visual idea takes hold, no amount of well-meant naming can withstand. Sometimes the first name we pick out just doesn't hold a candle to the name they give to themselves.

So he is no longer Ash. He is Possum.

This is the position he gets in when he is playfully running... it's kind-of like he's pretending to be "scared", like he's hunching up his back and bottle-brush-foofing his tail... only it's just goofy-looking when he does it. And very, well, possumish.

At this precise moment, Possum is curled up next to Bijou on the couch, and they both are snoozing happily. Earlier they were wrestling merrily on the floor. Seems like the dog and the kittycat are fast friends. Dude, on the other hand, is highly offended by the presence of the new youngster. We are keeping them separated until Possum gets a little older and better able to fend off any ill-mannered offenses committed by Dude.

New babies are very loud...

Ash, originally uploaded by gradualdazzle.

Ash, our new kitteh-boy, is a typical Siamese-type in that he is VERY vocal and VERY loud. He is also very snuggly and wants to be in my lap pretty much all the time.

Martha brought him home; one of her friends was giving away a batch of kittens and this is the one she thought I'd be the least likely to refuse. heh

I'm not entirely sure he's wholly weaned, but I suppose he'll have to be now. I will probably be awakened several times tonight; his voice carries quite well.

Austen

Found this little quiz over at At Altitude and just *had* to give it a go. :)

Take the Quiz here!

Spring has done sprung, y'all

First up, we have the little volunteer species tulips that spring up around my mulberry tree.






And the redbud, which gloriously blossomed...





The bees have been hard at work on the peach blossoms...




As well as the little grape hyacinths that people always mistake for bluebonnets... No, people, the much-heralded Lupinus texensis won't come along for another couple of weeks or so.

Skwerls are EEEEEEEVIL, I tell you!

There's one attacking people in Vermont as we speak, y'all.

BENNINGTON, Vt. (AP) — A Vermont neighborhood is being stalked by a renegade gray squirrel.

Several people in Bennington say they’ve been attacked by a squirrel over the last few weeks.

Kevin McDonald tells the Bennington Banner he was shoveling snow when the squirrel jumped onto him. He says he threw the animal off, but it twice jumped back onto him. A game warden says there have been other reports, too.

Repeat after me: SKWERLS are NOT OUR FRIENDS. SKWERLS are EVIL VERMIN who want to ATTACK YOU.

More signs have appeared!

More signs of spring in my yard:



The peach tree, which just this weekend didn't even appear to be considering blooming anytime soon, has adorned herself in a lovely new pink frock!

Down the street in the yard on the corner:



Forsythia!

And across the street, juuuuust beginning to break buds:



Redbud tree!

Yay! It's like the end of Miyazaki's Princess Mononoke, when the Forest Spirit re-inhabits the brown, dead land and you see the gradual creep of green become more and more colorful and lush on the faraway hillsides. I'm not trying to rub my northern pals' nose in it -- I'm just sending encouragement to the troops behind enemy lines that reinforcements really ARE on the way!

DO. WANT.

I've been scanning the highlights from the Fall 2011 fashion weeks in NYC, London, Milan, and (this week) Paris. I have only seen a few items that really gave me kerwallops of the heart, and this little number from the Prada Fall 2011 Collection just sends me over the moon.

Okay, first, the obvious references to Piet Mondrian... done in desaturated colors rather than the in-your-face primaries Mondrian was so famous for using... but then that saucy red belt just sticks its tongue out in a nyah-nyah gesture! Delightful.

But then the shape of this dress makes me think of the late 1960s and very early 1970s... think "Jan Brady"...the big wide schoolgirl pleats, the big round buttons on a wide placket, the dropped waist. It's a shape I haven't seen at all since that time and I guess I didn't realize how much I missed it!

I would wear this with a dark heathery turtleneck, dark opaque stockings, and knee-high leather boots with a low chunky heel and a rounded stubby toe. I'd even be tempted to wear stub-toed Mary-Janes, but that would depend on how I felt about my legs that day.

The first signs of Spring have arrived in Ballyhoo

These bright little faces greeted me when I came home from school this afternoon. I needed them, too. Winter is always very hard on me, physically and mentally, and I'm never sad to see it go. Yeah, I've heard people say stuff like, "You can always put more clothes ON, but if you're too hot, there's only so much you can take OFF." But it just doesn't fly with me. I'd rather be hot. I can always get a cool drink of water. And in the summertime I don't dread having to step out of the shower because of the wall of ice that envelops me as soon as I turn off the hot water spigot.

Weird animal facts

I love weird science stuff, so when I encounter funky weird stories like this one, I can't resist reading them.

First of all, I thought I'd heard of most critters. See, I used to read encyclopedias for fun. ALL THE TIME. My grandmother owned several big collections of encyclopedias, and whenever we spent time there (which was often) and I was the only kid (also, quite often), I parked myself in her fireplace room and perused them. One set was entirely devoted to the animal kingdom. For example, one of the books dealt with all the animals that fell within the alphabetical range of "Barbet to Bream."

One animal that I had never read about in any of the books, however, was the Lowland Streaked Tenrec. This black-and-yellow little oddball from Madagascar is one of those fun little guys with quills, like a hedgehog or a porcupine, but it bears a physical resemblance to a shrew with its longish snout. What's rather bizarre about them, though, is that they use their quills to communicate. Audibly. Well, audible to one another. We can only "hear" them if we use special equipment that was developed to listen to bats' echolocation sounds.

Sometimes I wonder about myself. Is it normal to be on a perpetual quest to know new stuff? Particularly stuff that bears no discernible advantage for the know-er? I mean, knowing that tenrecs exist or that they communicate ultrasonically using specialized quills won't make me wealthier or healthier or even wiser. It just fills this vast chasm in my mind that longs to KNOW STUFF for the sake of knowing it. I guess it's kinda like the person who climbs Everest just because it's there. Only it's not anywhere near as physically demanding or life-threatening.

I just like to know random stuff.

I try

I really do try. I read, I listen. But I don't often say much, because people who say words tend to reveal their lack of understanding, and I don't want to tip my hand.

But something has been bothering me for a while, and I just wanted to say it.

I was reading this morning that the Pakistanis are now accusing Pervez Musharraf of masterminding the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. Whether that's true or not, I do not know and do not even pretend to know.

And there's a good reason why I don't know.

Well, okay. There are a lot of good reasons why I don't know. For starters, I don't even live there.

But hear me out.

How does anyone in the Islamosphere know what's true or not? When untruth is a built-in feature of your religion, how can you possibly know truth? And how can you ever negotiate in good faith with anyone who's a Muslim?

I'm talking, of course, about the doctrine of taqiyya. Basically, it's in the Quran that it's okay to be untruthful to an infidel.

And even if a Muslim person were to read this and thoughtfully comment upon it, refuting it, how do I know if they're telling me the truth?

When news reporters put Muslims on television and ask them questions, do we know they're telling the truth? Or are they just trying to tell us what they want us to think?

This bothers me. A lot. And it makes me much less likely to trust anyone who's a Muslim. I don't want to be this way -- I really don't. It's not in my nature to be suspicious of people. But I can't view the rest of world through my own set of principles anymore. I can't assume that everyone else in the world operates from the standpoint of truth and equal justice, from what I know to be right and wrong. What's right and wrong to a Muslim person is very different from what's right and wrong to me.

And I just don't know how I can ever get past that. I will never treat someone ill who's a Muslim simply because they're a Muslim, because that is just not how I operate. But I don't know if I can ever trust someone who's a Muslim, either, for the simple reason that their seminal document gives them permission to lie when it suits them.

A person I love very much has several dear friends who are Muslims. And they seem to be genuinely returning the honest feelings of friendship. But how do I know?

I don't.

That scares me.

Amazing cover

I remember spending hours listening to Duran Duran as an angsty teenage girl. But when I heard a new cover of their hit "Ordinary World" the other day, I nearly flipped my lid. I might even like this better than the original. It's by a group called Red, and it's rich, expansive and goosebumpy:



Holy cow, I could listen to that for hours. Wait, did I just say that? Yikes.

BEAUTIFUL.

Currently reading

I am about three-quarters finished with one of the most riveting books I've ever read -- and that's saying something, because I've read A LOT.

This one, I heard spoken of on my favorite FOX News Channel... it's by Laura Hillenbrand (the author of Seabiscuit), and it's called Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience and Redemption. It's about Louis Zamperini, who was an Olympic runner and a WW2 POW in the Pacific. His story is so gripping, I can barely stand to put it down and I can't wait to find another spare moment to pick it back up again. I felt compelled to blog about it so you'd know, but I'm hurrying so I can get back to the story. I kept thinking the story would all be wrapped up in a tidy bow when he returned home, and there's oh-so-much-more to tell.

If you get the chance, do NOT miss this.

On a chilly Thursday evening

I share with you some of the lush, poignant pain that is Ms. McLachlan's musical poetry. Even if you don't entirely identify with the source of her emotion, can't you at least feel the icy warmth as you're submerged in the sound of it?




I have a smile
Stretched from ear to ear
To see you walking down the road

We meet at the lights
I stare for a while
The world around us disappears

And it's just you and me
On my island of hope
A breath between us could be miles

Let me surround you
My sea to your shore
Let me be the calm you seek

Oh, but every time I’m close to you
There’s too much I can’t say
And you just walk away

And I forgot
To tell you I love you
And the night’s too long
And cold here without you
I grieve in my condition
For I cannot find the words to say I need you so

Oh and every time I’m close to you
There’s too much I can’t say
And you just walk away

And I forgot
To tell you I love you
And the night’s too long
And cold here without you

I grieve in my condition
For I cannot find the words to say I need you so bad
Oh I need you so bad

Art that I like

"Para Hacer Cortinas"
(transl. "To Make Curtains")
Ando-Mirando (the artist's Flickr username)

I love this painting!!! It's very satisfying to me.

I was trying to explain to someone the other day why Jackson Pollock's art is, well, ART. I explained that even in the midst of his chaos, there is a rhythm and an order that delves deeper than the surface visual perception. I "get" Pollock, but it stems out of the same area of my brain that "gets" bebop jazz music. I can't do it, but I can love it and enjoy it. It requires a skill I haven't yet acquired. I won't say that I never will, though, because twenty years ago I would've asserted to you that I would never be able to play out of my head, to invent music, or to change keys on the fly without batting an eyelash. That skill just happened to me one day, out of the blue. It really did. It was one of those things that I would put on the same level as a true "tongues" experience, where you're actually quite suddenly speaking fluently in a real (read: KNOWN) language you hadn't ever studied. I needed it at a certain moment, and it was given to me in an instant. Just like that.

It was very, very cool. And weird. And has been a gift I have enjoyed immensely ever since. It has taken me to some wonderful places, and it has taken me to some very difficult and painful places as well. They've all shaped me into who I am right now.