Living on a Prayer

I have a weird sleep schedule. I suspect my days and nights are flipped as the most natural thing for me to do is sleep all day and stay up all night. I fight against this so I end up going to bed around 3ish and sleeping until noonish, so I end up showering around 1 or 2 in the morning. 

My parents sleep with the door open (don't get me started) and our bedroom doors are separated by a 2 square foot bit of carpet at the top of the stairs. The main part of our house, our bedrooms and the living room and kitchen beneath them are over 100 years old and were part of a farmhouse before the area was made residential. People that have been in my house would think this is weird considering that my house, along with a few other houses both on my street and in the surrounding area, is a duplex. The interesting thing about that is that all of the other duplexes are laid out exactly the same way, exactly the same as my neighbor's side of our house and Herbert's a few blocks away: a basement, 3 rooms downstairs, 2 upstairs with an upstairs bathroom, and an attic. 

But my house isn't laid out that way, and it's the only one not-- so basically things were built up and around these four little rooms. The point I'm trying to make is my house is old, and the stairs between my bedroom and my parents bedroom are old and creaky, and I have to go down them to get to the bathroom because our bathroom is tacked on to back end of the downstairs because our house was built without a bathroom. That's how old it is. 

So the point I'm trying to get at is I often wake my parents on my way downstairs to shower, so it's not unusual that I wake them, then they have to use the bathroom because they're really old and always have to go to the bathroom (Hi, Mom!). 

The other night this happened, so I wasn't surprised to see my mother in our living room on my way back upstairs after my shower. I was surprised she didn't need the bathroom...and I was even more surprised that she was crying. 

Like so many others, we're struggling right now, financially. We're only getting a fraction of what we should be because my father was forced out of a job when he retired from his union and they threatened to take away his pension and benefits if he took a position having anything to do with plumbing-- which is ridiculous and illegal and we can't afford to press charges. I'm not going to go into the levels of sick there. 

So now we're trying to find me a gynecologist, but since New Jersey raised the doctors' malpractice insurance rates to the highest in the country a lot of specialists left the state, so only the really wealthy could afford to stay, which means they're all at least twenty minutes away in the "old money" section of the state or in Pennsylvania- so I can't find a male gynecologist within a half-hour of my house that takes our insurance. Yes, male. I'll post about female doctors one day, but not today. 

And I have to leave my regular doctor. I stopped seeing a pediatrician when I was 6 when he almost killed my brother Mick. So I started seeing our family doctor, so now it's been-- what, 17 years? But my insurance no longer takes out-of-network doctors so I have to leave him. There aren't any in-network doctors nearby, so we have to go to an out-of-network doctor that at one time was a business partner of my now-ex doctor but they split up their practice after they got caught taking bribes from a  lab to only use that particular lab and then not claiming it on their taxes. So they broke apart the practice. Anyway, so we have to go to the other guy, but he charges 3 times his usual rate for the first appointment and we all need to go see him because our prescriptions are no good because they were written by the other doctor, so no longer covered so we'd have to pay full price for them. 

Full price for prescriptions. To put this into perspective, I take 11 pills every morning, and 11 pills every night. 

That's 77 pills a week. My stomach medicine alone, with insurance, is $50. Without insurance? $1500. 

The good news is if I do have endometriosis (that's the good news!!) I can stop taking those and go on a cheaper stomach pill-- but I'm going to need more medicine for the endometriosis. 

So you see why my mother was crying?  And why our family's theme song is "Living on a Prayer"?

God, I need a job. 

Nephew Talk

Nephew Time, Part I: The Storm


I can explain a bit about the crazy family thing that's been going on, finally. 


Debra had been babysitting a little boy named Keiran, who's 18 months younger than Manny, for about two years, since Keiran's aunt, Aunt Em, gained custody of Keiran from his mother. A few weeks ago Keiran's Aunt Em decided to put him into pre-school, and something went down between Debbie and Aunt Em, but I'm not sure what. Whatever happened, it lead to Aunt Em writing Debbie an email saying that Deb was doing my nephew a disservice by not getting him tested for Asperger syndrome or autism. Debbie went to her family and they were all, "Where would she get that idea?!"


A week or so later (July 28, Storm's Brewing) Debbie dropped off Manny at our house so Deb could go to the doctor, and when Debbie explained to my mother about the email the look on my mother's face said it all. We'd known for a little while but my dad wouldn't let us say anything because we didn't know how Mick and Debbie would take it.  I wish it had gone better than it did, but things are clearing up now. 


Manny's going to be starting school in September just to see how it goes, and while Debbie found a Behavior/Neurodevelopment Specialist she likes (that ended up on the phone with her for 2 hours exchanging information and videos), but there's a 3-4 month waiting period for new patients, and that's kind of rough, but there's really nothing else to do. Debbie showed the therapist a video of Manny and the therapist said it was an absolutely textbook case, but he does need to be formally assessed to find where he exactly he falls on the autism/Asperger's scale so they can figure out a treatment plan for him. 


The current family motto is "One day at a time." 


Also, "Pour me another glass of wine, would you?" 


--


The other nephew I haven't talked about yet, but he did something incredibly cute today and I wanted to brag. Mick is actually the younger of my 2 older brothers, but Manny is older than Arthur's son, Sean. Manny will be 5 on Thursday, and Sean will be 2 in October. 


Arthur's wife's name is Janet. Caught up? Good. 


Arthur and Janet decided to try baby sign language with Sean and it's pretty much the greatest thing ever- Sean makes a fist repeatedly when he's hungry, and waves "bye-bye" if he doesn't want something (it started off as being "all done" when he was eating, but it also became "no more" or "stop" when he doesn't like something or something scares him). They recently expanded this to include "tired" or "sleepy" by putting their hands to their forehead when it was Sean's nap time or bedtime. So today my brother was working on the computer and Sean went over to him, made the sign for "tired" and took my brother's hand. Arthur asked if Sean wanted to take a nap, and Sean said yes, then led my brother to his bedroom, picked up his blankie and stood by his crib to be put in. Isn't that adorable?


I've decided to try to end on a positive note more often. And be sure to check out Blanc's Tumblr here -- in addition to his supremely nerdy posts are some great and slightly less nerdy pieces he's written on stand-up comedy, voice acting, and...well...zombie movies. But they're still unique and interesting views on modern pop culture. 


Until next time. 

Invisible Women

An interesting link popped up in this morning's Morning Cup O' Links over at Mental_Floss: Harassment and Visible Womanhood


The idea is that there are "visible" women and "invisible" women, and that the "visible" women are subject to sexual harassment from men because they're attractive, and "invisible" women are ignored because they're not. So then, the "invisible" women want to be harassed, or are jealous of the attention the visible women get. 


I don't like the use of "harassment" here, because it's not always harassment that happens, but there is a certain amount more attention paid to the visible. 


I used to be visible. Yes, there was a time I was visible. The most annoying thing was the car horns, because I don't drive so I'd end up walking a lot. I walked to the local bagel place once and got 12 beeps, 7 on the way there, 5 on the way back. I only ever got one comment, a creepy old guy in Wawa said I had nice legs (so he may have been blind), but other than that it was just looks. Men used to look at me. Older, younger, didn't matter, if I walked by them they looked at me. It was fun-- a little eye batting, maybe a nod, smirk, or sly smile. Once when I was studying abroad in London a friend of mine and I were at one of the festivals along the Thames (there's a freaking lot of them), though this one was at night for some reason. Anyway, as we walked down the river two cops came up in the opposite direction. One of them and I made eye contact and gave each other little smiles, then after we passed by each other I turned back to get one last look as he was tragically cute-- and he had turned back around, too! We locked eyes again and laughed to each other before turning back around. 


Those little moments don't happen anymore. I miss that connection, that instant where two strangers acknowledge each other. I didn't know how tied in that was to my weight until I gained a bunch. Now I realize it happened because I was at one time cute and not because it was something sweet or polite to do, like I thought. It never occurred to me that it was because these guys found me attractive, I mean, I'm a modest dresser-- not Duggar modest but I don't wear terribly low-cut shirts because I don't like breathing on myself (no, really, I can feel the air coming out of my nose brushing my skin if my top's cut too low and I hate it) and I can't wear shorts or short skirts because of the scars on my thighs from cutting so it's not like I was ever all slutted-out. And makeup looks really horrendous on me. I mean, I can wear mascara, and I only have one shade of lipstick that I can wear and I only do that when I'm going out for the night and not going to be eating, drinking, or kissing anything so...8 times out of 10, when I leave the house, I'm not wearing any makeup at all. And I hate my hair. And my skin kind of sucks. So why would I ever think those moments were tied up in my attractiveness? 


I still try for it, though. I pass a man I look up at him through my lashes, or twitch back a corner of my mouth in a little smile, but now there's no reaction. It's like I'm not there. Like I'm invisible. Even with the less attractive guys-- I did it with any guy around my age or older because I thought it was polite and it was just an extra bonus if they were cute.




Don't get me wrong, I'm glad nobody honks anymore; I'm kind of high strung so I used to jump every time a horn blared because I wasn't expecting it and it startled me. I don't miss the honking. 


But I do miss the acknowledgement. I do miss that second of sharing a friendly moment with a stranger. The memories are a little sullied now, knowing there was some naughtiness around it but it was still sweet. It's lonely now, walking down a street when nobody sees you. 


For what it's worth, kids, I see everybody. 

Spaz Girl Walking

No, this is not a video of me demonstrating my klutziness...but it is a story about it. 


September 14, 2009. It was a gorgeous day and I was walking across campus on my way to work. I still remember what I was wearing. My hair was in a bun holder, I was wearing a pair of topaz earrings, my favorite jeans, a white t-shirt with a brown pattern, and a pair of plain leather Keds. 


Alright, this is kind of a secret but I'll tell- you might as well know anyway. I'm a very...intuitive person. I often guess things I shouldn't know, I've made contact with a few dead relatives, and if we spend enough time together I can sense where my brother is and we have, more than once, sent each other messages mentally. Once one of my teachers was pregnant and she had just had an obstetrician appointment the day before where the ultrasound looked like she was having a boy. It was her first baby and she was super excited, and when she told my class I told her she was having a girl. She looked at me like I was crazy, and I don't blame her, but lo and behold a few months later we find out I was right because she'd had a girl. Haha, the boy sitting behind me slapped my back and shook my shoulders because he remembered what I'd said, "You were right! You were right!"


So sometimes I know things before they happen. While I was walking to work that day, just minutes before I broke my leg I was planning the rest of my day: I had class later, when and what I would eat, I was going to go to the gym, etc. But when I had the thought that I would go to the gym my next thought was "No, I can't, my leg's broken." I actually stopped dead in my tracks for a second because it caught me by surprise that some random, untrue thought like that would just pop in for no reason. I shook it off and continued walking. 


My school's campus was essentially one big hill. The building I had to get to, though, was off the main hill, so I had to go down one of the sides of said hill to get down there. There were two ways to do this without cutting through a building (which I ended up doing for the rest of my college career because I'm now afraid of walking down hills, haha); one was to go down the main, paved path that swung out wide and was at a sharp, awkward angle. The other was to cut down the hill over a grassed area with a large willow tree in the center. Very few people going to the building I was going to would take the paved path because it just took too stupid long and the grassy way wasn't at that stupid angle you have to have your knees bent to walk. So I stepped over the row of stones that lined the paved path with my left foot and then--


I don't actually remember this part. There's about 2 seconds there that are a complete blank except for the sensation of falling and hearing my fibula crack. Later inspection of my shoe shows I somehow ended up putting the inside of my left foot on the ground and slid on it, causing my ankle to bend sharply and put pressure against the bottom of my fibula, causing it to bend outward and crack just above my ankle. 


But God, I'll never forget the sound. I crack my knuckles compulsively (and neck and back and wrists and toes...) and the sound of my bone breaking was similar, but deeper in a way. Instead of a sharp crack it was a deep thunk. 


So I sat there on the ground for a minute. Now, I fall all the time-- 10 times since I started college, in fact. Full-out falling. Like, on the ground, skinned knees, torn jeans, people laughing-type falling. And I sprain my ankles. It's another family thing, we sprain our ankles constantly. Our house has more crutches and ace bandages than a hospital. So while I sat on the ground I thought, "That's never happened before." 


Then the first wave of pain hit and I felt nauseous. "That's never happened before, either." A couple seconds later the second wave of pain hit and my eyes burned with tears. "Okay, well, that's another thing that never happened before..." And then there was a third wave of pain, then nothing. So I just sat there on the ground. Luckily it was a nice day. So I waited. The pain pretty much left, so I thought maybe it was like a fluke thing...I twisted it badly or something and I'd sprained it but good. So I decided to move. 


Then came the most blindingly white-hot brain-stops-functioning eyes shut and mouth open involuntarily holy shit I think my mother just felt that and I hope I didn't pee myself Lamaze-breathing type pain. So clearly moving was a bad idea. So what do I do? Okay, well...I just need to get down the hill. Maybe I could roll down the hill, make it to the theater and they'd figure something out? Of course, if I moved during that rolling down the hill there'd be a problem. Okay. So...do I call 911? Could I even do that? "Hello, 911? I'm on my college campus and broke my leg, come get me?" That sounded like a weird idea. Wrong, somehow. I figured I should notify public safety first, maybe they have some kind of protocol thing, I don't know. Stupidly, I didn't have any campus phone numbers in my cell, a situation I rectified sometime after coming out of my Vicodin coma, but anyway, I was stuck. 


So I decided to flag down the next adult I saw. Actual adult, I mean, not a student. Another stupid mistake as the next adult I saw was wearing a suit so I should have realized he wasn't any sort of employee of my college. So I waved to him, and he waved back. 


"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not just being friendly-- I actually fell a little while ago and I think I broke my leg, so I could use some help. Do you have the number for public safety?" This is when I found out he was just visiting the campus (duh, Jo) and didn't have any phone numbers or any idea where the nearest public safety call box was. Luckily two girls were walking by as I was saying I needed help and asked if there was anything they could do, so I sent them to the nearest call box while my buddy, Mr. Suit, waited with me until the P.S. officer came up. 


Mr. Suit was the first person that day to tell me I wouldn't be skiing for a while. 


The P.S. officer asked me if I could move myself, and I said no, and he called in to the P.S. dispatch to call for an ambulance, so we waited for the ambulance while I tried tried to call my mother. I got the answering machine and said, "Hiiii, Mom...uh...I'm currently waiting for an ambulance to come pick me up because...I, uh, broke my leg." The P.S. officer started laughing at that, "So if you could call me back..." 


So P.S. and I were hanging out, waiting for the ambulance when my roommate walked by. "Hey, Mere! I broke my leg!" We talked for a minute before she had to go to class. After she left, I didn't know she did this until like, 2 years later, but she called one of our other roomies to go with me to the hospital, which was really sweet of her. 


They ended up not letting my roomie into the ambulance with me, but I could get her in touch with my mother, at least, which was nice. And, actually, both roomies ended up meeting at the hospital because I had awesome roomies :)


So when the ambulance finally came and I explained how I'm a total spaz the paramedics had to stabilize my leg for the trip, which involved sliding a temporary splint under my leg from my foot to my knee and then wrapping it with an ace bandage. The part about this process that I wasn't expecting, though, was that while the 2 paramedics were working on my leg, they also had two public safety officers (and one of the paramedics helped them while assisting the other paramedic) hold me down. Hard. And I was like, "Guys, this is really unnecessary."  And the paramedics said that it was procedure, because if they jostled my leg and it hurt and I might try to hit or kick them. 


What I discovered during the wait for the ambulance and the stabilizing was that my leg didn't actually hurt. I knew it hurt, in a corner of my brain I was screaming, but unless I moved anything from my knee to my heel on that leg it didn't actually hurt. Like I couldn't pinpoint where the pain was coming from unless I moved, I just knew I was in pain. Herbert's really the only one I know that ever experienced this, only his was with a migraine while he was trying a new migraine medication. 


Then an interesting thing happened. As they were loading me into the ambulance on a stretcher I happened to look to my left, where there were two police officers and a K-9 dog. I remember thinking "What the hell?" I found out later from left-behind roomie that the cops were pissed because the way that P.S. dispatch worded that I needed an ambulance and couldn't move myself meant that, according to protocol, a K-9 unit needed to be sent to the scene when we didn't actually need one. 


When I was securely in the ambulance (strapped down with my stretcher locked in place) my buddy Joe the Paramedic said the magic words, "Do you want pain medication?" Yes. Yes, I did. That began the 8 days I spent stoned. And Joe most certainly was my buddy, as somehow we got to talking about how he's going to be a father again with his new wife and how nervous he was that he was too old for another baby and various other new-dad insecurities. 


So then I get to the hospital and the worst part of the day happened. They cut open my jeans.   My favorite jeans! BAM. From the hem to the knee. Luckily they stopped cutting at my knee because I was still cutting at the time, and I cut my thighs. That was almost an awkward conversation. 


Interesting thing, though, I didn't get my cast at the hospital. They put me in a more solid splint and I had to go to the orthopedist to get an actual cast. 


Oh, and my insurance paid for me to have a bitchin' motor scooter that I powered all over campus and its surrounding areas. I loved that thing. 


The moral of the story is be careful how you walk because one stupid little mistake can ruin your life (See My Story and Show Me Your Teeth). 

This Week's Saturday Summary

So, with the family troubles I got a little behind this week on my planned posts. I'll get to them, just not right now.  I may be able to explain the family thing soon, and thank goodness for that because I'm bursting to tell.

--

The stress of the family thing is getting to me. I've still got that tension headache and my fibromyalgia pain is out of control. My hands hurt so badly typing this- my fingertips as they hit the keys and the muscles in my hands as I move them to type. Aches run up and down my limbs, my lower back is tied in knots, and the bottoms of my feet are screaming from the knives shoved into them.

Every few minutes a random patch of skin begins to tickle, like there's a bug crawling on me-- an ant, maybe, or spider, but there's never actually anything there. Then every few hours one of the "bugs" "bites" me, a deep, sharp, unrelenting pinch in one random place on my body that doesn't stop until it feels like it. Nothing stops it. I just have to wait. It doesn't matter if I cry out or writhe or try to smack the "bug" away or push on it or brush it away; anything to try to remind the nerve what real sensation is...it doesn't matter.

I can't scratch an itch, change my clothes, or shower because the burning of my skin afterwards...it's like fire. If I forget for a second and try scratch an itch, for example, the patch of skin I scratch burns for minutes afterward.

Can you see why, before my diagnosis, I didn't leave my bed? And doubled in size? Also because this situation makes me crave doughnuts like a fucking lunatic. God, I'd pay...a lot... for a chocolate-frosted cream filled...or a glazed cream filled...or strawberry frosted...or, um, anything, really.

So everything is taking a backseat to that.

--

There was fuck all on TV last night so I rewatched The Dark Knight. I forgot how freaking awesome that movie is. Did you know I'm a major Batman fan? Always have been. I used to wake up early every day when I was like, 3, to watch the 60s Batman TV show. My 7th birthday party theme was Batman. I was Catwoman for Halloween one year. The 60s Batman: The Movie was the first DVD I ever bought ($2, baby!). I love Batman. I'm so freaking excited for The Dark Knight Rises, I can't even think about it without smiling, and I feel like hell right now. And I'm smiling.

--

Weren't commercials supposed to stop being so loud?

--

I need to lay down...more tomorrow, of course.

The Lost Life of Eva Braun by Angela Lambert

I found this on The Onion last night:

New Documentary Focuses On Life Of Eva Braun's Late Husband

NEW YORK—The History Channel announced Thursday it will air a new documentary this fall examining the life of the late husband of prewar German model and amateur photographer Eva Braun. "This film is a fascinating, in-depth look at a central figure in Eva Braun's life," said History Channel spokesman Charles Lansing, adding that the broadcast will feature more than 300 archival images of Braun with her husband, a German civil servant and vegetarian noted for his charisma and interest in art. "Braun's longtime lover had a significant impact on her views regarding politics and aesthetics, and the footage of him we've unearthed highlights the persuasive power of the man she often wrote about." Lansing added that the new documentary, entitled The Man Behind Eva Braun, will cover the very active life of Braun's spouse right up to his sudden passing in 1945 in the basement of the couple's Berlin apartment.


Thought it was fitting.


I can't tell you how much I loved The Lost Life of Eva Braun. I'm kind of sad to give it back to the library now...anybody wants to get me a present I'd gladly take a copy of this book.


I did my thesis on Lee Miller's photojournalism during WWII so I spent 4 months completely immersed in the war and at the end of it all I sat back and said, "Wait a second. Hitler had a girlfriend through the whole thing. WHO WOULD EVER-?! WHAT?! WHY!!??? HHHHOOWW?! WWWWHOOOO????????!" So I decided to find out. Like I said above, I found this book at my library and it's in nearly pristine condition, I doubt it's been taken out more than 4 times. It's pretty new, too, published in 2006. Come to think of it, the librarian that checked it out for me didn't even know we had it.


On to the review:


It's been the intention of history to remove all humanity from Hitler & co., to portray them strictly as monsters and not human beings. Documents like personal letters were destroyed in order to keep evidence of their humanity from the public. I take issue with that, as holding them up as symbols of evil, caricatures even, removes the elements that we all have in common with them which makes it so easy for us to say "That will never be me" or "I'll never fall in love with a fascist dictator" but...it's possible. It's possible, is all I'm saying.


The Lost Life takes an amazing perspective on the war because it's not in the concentration camps or Anne Frank's attic or any of the many many armies involved, it's civilian life in Europe, particularly Germany, at the time. Angela Lambert's mother was actually born within a few weeks of Eva Braun, so Lambert uses stories from her mother's life to supplement the little information available about Eva's childhood, and also to give her back that bit of human-ness: Eva's practically a ghost, floating through modern history as we know her name and little else.


That's about as much as most people knew at the time, as well. Hitler refused to make their relationship public, and Eva didn't end up even moving in with him until the late thirties even though Eva was essentially promoted to Hitler's #1 lady after his niece, Geli Raubal, committed suicide. And even after they began living together only the very, very top of the Nazi hierarchy and the personal maids of Hitler and Eva even knew who she was- on the phone directory for the Berghof (Hitler's main house in the German countryside) she was listed as a secretary. The few times they attended the same public event she was forced to sit far from Hitler with the other, actual, secretaries. At the Berghof she was confined to her room.


And while it's easy to view her as an anti-Semite and racist Nazi, Eva and most of her family never joined the Nazi party (except for her father, but he only did it to please Hitler). In fact, Hitler even presented her with an award he had made for non-Nazis that provided him with great services. And given her strict Catholic upbringing and patronage of Jewish clothing and shoe designers throughout the war (even after the ban on Jewish merchants was placed) it's unlikely that she was anti-Semitic. And given Hitler's strict orders that no one ever discuss anything war or politic related with Eva it's possible she never even knew about the camps, and even attempted to intercede with Hitler on behalf of a few friends (of course he ignored her, but she tried and reacted to the few incidents she did hear about.)


Lambert's book is impeccably researched (did anybody know that we, the United States, actually hold Eva's personal diary in our archives? We confiscated it during the war and it now resides in the National Archives in Maryland, along with Eva's own personal photo albums and home movies she took while living at the Berghof) and richly detailed. Her chapters on the last few weeks of Eva and Hitler's life in the underground bunker are vivid and emotional. The paragraphs on how Eva and the maids pitched in to make the last few days of the six Goebbels children as comfortable as possible knowing that their parents had already decided to murder them when the time came are particularly heartbreaking.


It's an incredible book with a unique angle on history and human nature. It also gives an in-depth look to German childhood in the early 20th century, showing how the stars aligned to make Hitler and Eva perfect for each other (Fathers, love your daughters for who they are so they don't fall in love with the first older man that shows them the slightest bit of positive attention). An absolute must-read for anyone that...no. An absolute must read for anyone, period.


5 starts out of 5.

See Blauthor, Blauthor! for more of my reviews!

Storms Brewing

What a terrible day.

I was supposed to hang out with Blanc again today, but I turned off my alarm in my sleep. I should have just stayed in bed, but I didn't.

It's been rainy so I was achey and tired (stupid fibromyalgia...always when the weather's bad), but when I went downstairs to get something to eat my mother informed me that a situation that's been brewing in my family had come to a head after 3 years of waiting.

I wish I could explain, I want to desperately, but I can't just yet on the off-chance that a family member stumbles across this and gets the wrong information because nothing's been resolved yet.

Suffice it to say that the situation is heartbreaking and as soon as my mother told me the new information an iron fist grabbed a hold of the back of my neck and stretched up the back of my head with a killer tension headache.

One day I'll tell the full story, but I just can't right now. Tomorrow I'll have a real post...for right now I'm just going to have another glass of wine and watch some crappy TV.