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Knocked Over By A Feather

IT WAS A BIG FUCKING FEATHER…

Rest, Recover, Repeat

I haven’t been feeling well these last couple of days. I was even too sick to blog, although I did attempt to stay current on reading posts. Thank goodness I have my iPhone, because I couldn’t even sit upright long enough to get on my laptop.

I took a lot of naps and spent many hours on the couch doing absolutely nothing. I used every bit of my energy Saturday morning to go see my therapist, but it went by in a blur. I don’t even really remember what we talked about. I do recall bitching that I didn’t have any weed, which I do tend to get obsessive about.

After seeing her, I was somehow able to go to the store to pick up a few things. The young man behind the deli counter was way too friendly and tried to start a conversation with me, but I shut that shit down as politely as I could.

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Pout.

I came home and crashed on the couch with my dog Maya, until my husband woke me up and told me to go back to bed where I would be more comfortable.

Once I woke up, it was clear that I wasn’t going to be able to make spaghetti for dinner like I had planned. My husband called in and then picked up Chinese food instead.

Yesterday was even worse. My legs were extra weak and hurt so badly that I wanted to scream foul obscenities. They felt wobbly, like I could have easily fallen on my ass if I wasn’t careful.

We were supposed to go down to Cleveland State for my daughters induction into an honor society, but a few hours before it started, she sent me a text message. (From her bedroom. Technology kicks ass, doesn’t it?)

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Hey mom, can you bring me a sandwich? 

True story.

We didn’t have to go, it wasn’t mandatory. She didn’t feel like driving downtown and spending the money to park. (I do think a part of it was because of me being so sickly, to be honest.)

I went upstairs to my room so we could like, you know, actually talk about it.

“You just look like you don’t feel good,” she told me as we both lay on my bed.

“Well, I don’t,” I agreed with her. “But I would have pushed myself to go. I’m extremely proud of you.”

“I know.”

I offered to take her out someplace nice to eat to celebrate her achievement, but she declined. All she wanted to do was order a pizza and watch a few episodes of Ghost Adventures.

So that’s what we did.

I was wide awake at 4 am this morning. I tried to fall back asleep, but all I was able to do was doze for 10 minutes or so at a time. I finally gave up at around 5.

I don’t plan on doing jack shit today. To do anything strenuous would just end up prolonging my fibro flare from hell.

Like my friend Dave said, rest, recover, repeat.

He’s right, of course. It’s the only thing that we fibromites can do.

But damn, it gets really fucking old after a while.

A Rerun Run Run

I was planning on posting a video today but I didn’t like the way that I sounded. Each spring I lose my voice because…I really have no clue. I thought that maybe it wouldn’t happen this year because the big bad cigarette is no longer in my life.

Alas, I was mistaken.

Since my plans were dashed due to laryngitis, I’m going to do a rerun of an old post from my early blogging days.

fred-berry
Who else is old enough to get this joke?

Rerun was the first person to make rainbow suspenders cool.


My Top 7 Childhood Fails

1. Accidentally stripping down to my underwear in front of my entire 1st grade class while changing for gym. (We wore our P.E. clothes under our uniforms.) Thankfully, none of the boys tried to stick dollar bills down my panties.

2. Adding Peach Schnapps to my Kool-Aid on Thanksgiving, then hiding in the basement to drink it. I learned early on that hangovers fucking suck.

3. Helping my cousin siphon gas from a lawnmower with our mouths. Luckily for me, he was the one who was sucking when it finally worked.

4. Farting in the presence of a priest. He gave me an extra Hail Mary for stinking up the confessional.

5. Deciding to give myself a hair cut and chopping off all of my bangs. You could have shown a movie on my forehead.

6. Believing an older neighborhood girl who said that her nail polish was really lipstick. As it started to dry and then peel, my skin went along with it.

7. I walked in on my dad while he was taking a tinkle. Months later, I would do the same thing to my uncle. I can still hear the steady stream of urine as they each turned to stare at me in horrified shock.


Have a fail-free Friday and remember to lock the bathroom door before you use the potty.

My Child

I wrote this poem about my daughter when she was still a little bitty thing. I posted it here way back in 2012, but that was a long time ago. I doubt that anyone will remember it.

It’s one of my favorites and I wrote my first poem at the age of 6. (I think it might have been about chocolate milk.)

This is a photo of me holding her when she was a month old. She was 5 weeks premature.

And now she’s 20 years old and in college.

babybrooke

Peaceful slumber holds her fast

Tiny eyelids flutter, dreams of childhood and joy

My darling, my love, my child

Innocence I wish to keep

In a bottle nice and safe

So nothing can ever harm her

Yet I know this is an impossible thing

I hold her delicate body, breathing in her scent

Love so deep I feel for this amazing child

That is a part of me

Yet a lingering fear that someday I know someone will make her cry

And that in a way, how she is at this moment will surely die

So I take her small hand and we walk together in the sunlight

I enjoy her as she is

Innocent and full of wonder

My child

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