There are only presents because of last-minute-guilt, remote shopping, and insane wrapping at midnight.
Do Rappers have this problem when they write songs? I wonder.
Miso bossy and Miso Snoop!
We do not travel to see the lights.
Instead I huddle at home, being a giant lump of coal with a couch instead of a stocking.
Because my tongue hurts. All the time.
My tongue has hurt for over three months now.
I keep eliminating things:
Thinking I had OAS, I stopped eating foods that hurt me. (Oral Allergy Syndome–I thought tomatoes hated me.)
I change a mouth guard, thinking it might have latex.
I stop two new medications–one of which does have associated neuropathy of the tongue as a rare side effect–it’s week three now and I am thinking that isn’t the problem.
Last night, I tried taping my mouth shut only to bite myself in my sleep. (Okay, those of you laughing your asses off, I know what you are thinking, just stop.)
I still have a tongue that feels burned most of the time. I’ve been eating my weight in yogurt–which is sort of a cyclical nightmare. The more I eat, the more I bite myself and hurt my face two ways.
I am now blaming the CPAP. It’s the only thing I haven’t stopped doing. Basically, I have dry mouth from too much air. AIR IS HURTING ME. That has to be the definition of getting old.
My friend is helping me to try and change settings, but if we can’t fix why my tongue feels like a burnt offering, I don’t know what I am going to do.
So, for those of you who have wondered at my absence–and more particularly lack of holiday cheer–there are reasons beyond the usual.
“I’m just a crabby, crabby girl in a blistered-tongue world. Tryin’ to find a reason to celebrate the season!”
I might need to write a rap about that…all I need is a white-girl rapper name. Make your suggestions. I could use a laugh.
P.S. At one point, I had thrush. Let’s not mention the two weeks of drinking Nystatin oral fungal medication–the same ingredient to treat athlete’s foot. Everything tasted like tinfoil and it felt like my tongue was an insert from an old sneaker. Let’s just agree this never happened, shall we? Kind of my approach the 2025 in general–denial and a whole lot of useless salves to cover the wounds and hoping it will all just go away on its own.
May 24th is the anniversary of my husband’s death, but this year I am in such a manic-panic over getting my son ready to graduate school, I barely remember until afterward. When the hullabaloo dies down, I am emotionally wrung out. I am a moldy, gray dishrag of a human being. But, I am also very relieved it hasn’t gone worse than expected. It did go about as bad as I thought it might, but no worse. And in my son’s world, that is a good outcome.
In case a blog can actually expire from lack of writing or visitors, I am writing this placeholder.
I have not fallen off the planet.
I did at least manage to fight against entropy/depression long enough to post today’s accomplishment.
HERE IT IS!!
I finally called a Sprint gift card/rebate credit card company to verify that not only was the account closed…but that there was no balance at the time.
SEVEN YEARS THAT CARD HAS BEEN IN MY WALLET. I FINALLY CUT IT UP TODAY!
This has to be the sign of good things to come, right?
Or possibly it is a sign that avoiding completing the Annual Report of Guardianship for my son– due next week–will motivate me to do just about anything else.
Whenever we hold up the critical mirror of consciousness to do a self-check, I sometimes wish it came with a warning sticker to the effect: “The idiot in mirror might be a larger ass than they appear.“
The following post is a painful acknowledgment that I am not as funny as I think I am, and maybe I should seek professional help. As painful as the following confession is to read, I promise you, it was a thousand times harder to write and admit to.
Around this time every year, I go through an annual event which involves dramatics and hysterics in equal measure–negotiating my contract for a better rate on my internet and tv services. Warning, to anyone who does not know me, this story involves cursing–and not just the witch with a cauldron kind.
There’s a lot of swearing. A f*ck-ton, if you will.
Afraid to rock a precariously tiny boat on very troubled seas.
A friend recently suggested I “Woman up” or, in essence, to stop being a coward.
So here goes:
I am truly terrified of COVID-19. Everything I’ve read convinces me this is a plague of biblical proportions. And that’s saying something coming from an agnostic!
But even more than a highly contagious disease, I am afraid to lose friendships because of COVID-19. So afraid, that I have not asked people to wear masks when I’m in close proximity. Even though I have worn mine in my yard…while by myself…while weeding.
I desperately cling to friendships, even when the cling-ee isn’t that keen on tolerating the stranglehold I have on them. I have lost friendships before. I will likely lose friendships again. Possibly over this. And I truly hate the thought.
I have been a coward; and I’m going to try very hard to stop. But even contemplating telling my friends my position, I’m feeling a welling, choking sensation I haven’t felt for years.
TIME TRAVEL SEGUE–NO, NOT THAT KIND OF SEGUE—ABACK TO THE PAST KIND:
I had a job once at a place we’ll aptly refer to as “DeepHell University.” It was in the fundraising department. I had a very challenging boss who, in her defense, had a very weird secretary. Me. I was the secretary.
(TRUE CONFESSION: I accidentally read a highly personal email from one of her friends when the I.T. guys accidentally linked my new email to my boss’s mail system–and I read it…and replied to it…at length…because I literally did not understand what the internet was and how it differed from emails.) This happened the very first day I worked there, but the boss forgave me. Kind of.
We managed a rocky half-year of an increasingly challenging relationship. This boss made me nervous. Like cat-on-a-hot-plate-in-a-room-full-of-rabid-pit-bulls, nervous. I took everything she said as criticism or complaints. I felt stupid, clumsy, and unsuited to the job. Everything I heard sounded like blame and hostility. I became so nervous I would plot a course around the entire department in hopes of avoiding seeing her. (Her office was right next to me, but around a corner.) It got so bad, I started doing a thing. A thing I did NOT know I was doing. I started holding my breath. I passed out several times before finally wising up and seeking professional help. I’m lucky I didn’t give myself permanent brain damage via concussion or oxygen deprivation. I have never been so grateful to be fired from a job in my life.
BACK TO THE FUTURE…MEANING THE CURRENT OR PRESENT DAY:
So, if you see me, and I keep a six foot distance from you while you are unmasked, do not be surprised and try not to take offense. Please understand, I am not judging anyone. I am not trying to make any kind of political statement. I’m just trying to make the best choice I can in a very bad time in our world.
I’m supposed to see family tomorrow. They prefer to go maskless. (Apparently they didn’t have the same fantasies about becoming Zorro I did as a child.) I really want to see them but I’m also a ticking time bomb of terror–albeit one with a love of alliteration. It tears my heart in two when I’m faced with this dilemma. I don’t want to be considered a nagging worrywart. And yet, if the wart fits…
So I’m asking them to move the get together into the backyard. And crossing my fingers that I am not dropped from future invitations of this kind–especially seeing as I organized this one. But my family has forgiven flakier behavior than this. [More on this topic in another blog post. I’ve confessed enough for one day. It’s best to spread the crazy out a little bit at a time.]
I’d like to think someday we’ll be safer and these extreme measures won’t be necessary. But that future isn’t here yet. (I’m feeling an overwhelming need to throw in another Back to the Future reference, but I’m coming up blank. You’ll just have to picture me driving a Deloreann and wearing a white, fright wig.)
And for those of you too young to get that reference, here’s a YouTube clip. (Proving I am slightly more technologically capable than my younger self.)
Back to The Future Present Tense–Plague Edition
Do you hate me now?
If you knew that, by catching COVID-19 there is no one who can watch my son, would that make a difference? Any sign of even a cold nowadays, and I lose all the help that comes into my home throughout the week. Help that keeps me from going bat-guano crazy. If I really caught COVID, I would be on my own, struggling to take care of a special needs child and afraid to ask anyone to help because I just couldn’t risk exposing somebody else to the disease.
So I will wear a mask. I will try to stay a six foot distance away. And I will not hold my breath waiting for others to understand. I am scared. For all of us!
In parting, I ask you, my viewing audience:
What would you do if you had to choose between friends…and safety?
What would you choose?
…a question that tempts me to include the following:
I used to scream bloody murder when I was a child. I would shriek so loud, so long, that eventually I would go hoarse. I even developed nodes–tightened knots on my vocal chords. When I finally figured out screaming wasn’t helping me I stopped. This allowed my vocal chords to relax and I discovered I had a deeper register. (As a result, I sing somewhere between contralto and tenor with a hiccup in my falsetto.)
What I couldn’t have told you, even if you had asked, was why. Why did I devolve into a nightmare child shuddering in hysterics? I couldn’t tell you then, but I might be able to tell you now.
Right after finishing GISH, Kiri took a tumble in the hallway. She wrenched her ankle, her knee, and her hip. She cracked her head against the wall. She went camping and got vertigo. Obviously she’s under a curse. (Actually, this might explain more than a few things wrong with her…) Join her internal debate team in figuring out the cure!
TheDustSeason 