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Knocked Over By A Feather

IT WAS A BIG FUCKING FEATHER…

Not Cutting the Cheese

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I’ve been doing an awful lot of crying these last few days. First on Saturday during my session with my therapist and then last night on the couch while I watched TV.

I’m used to having muscles spasms and twitches on a 24/7 basis but what my left thigh is doing right now (still!) is seriously unusual.

The twitching is violent. It shakes and shudders my entire leg. The muscles are so weak that I can barely put any weight on it. I’m about to email my doctor. The muscle relaxer that I’ve been taking for 6 years is no longer cutting the cheese.

Cheddar cheese? No, Swiss. (That’s my best attempt at humor today.)

I started crying last night and my husband, alarmed, asked me what was wrong. I just kept shaking my head because I didn’t have any words.

I was finally able to say something. I pointed at my leg.

“Look. Oh my God, you can see it! Do you see it?”

Proof. Actual visual proof.

Because I don’t look sick. But I am.

“Yes, I see it,” he whispered. Then he got up, found the generic muscle rub and sat on the footstool so he could massage my thigh for me.

His eyes widened as his hand felt the spasms, in 5 second continious intervals.

“That’s fucking crazy. Does it hurt?”

I just looked at him, wiping my snotty nose with a tissue. I nodded.

It was a sweet gesture. Muscle rub, medications…nothing makes it stop, nothing that I do makes it any better.

Plus I lost yet another marijuana contact. Come on, September of 2018, mama needs a medical weed card.

I’m hoping that my doctor will prescribe me something stronger today. If not, I have an appointment with him in a couple of weeks and maybe I can manifest some tears for him.

I know that there’s no cure or decent treatments for fibromyalgia. I think that might be a part of why I’m crying. I’m fucking scared. It’s already taken so much away from me. It’s such an evil disease and becoming more debilitating by the day.

Will it just keep on taking until I have nothing left?

Truth Bombs

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If you can stop giving a shit about everything, even just momentarily, a sense of calm will wash over you.

Be careful with whom you show your deepest scars to; some people enjoy digging their salty fingers into your wounds.

Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes, blood doesn’t mean a damn thing.

Adore the people who stay with you during your darkest hours.

Don’t fucking chase people.

Doing right by somebody is one of the greatest feelings in the world.

Share whatever wealth you have but steer clear of the people who try to take advantage of your kindness.

Invest in a wooden back scratcher. You’ll be amazed at how many nooks and crannies it can reach.

If you know that someone is hurting, take a minute out of your day and reach out. (Even if they shove your hand away.)

You’re never too old to play with toys.

Learn the subtle difference between being aggressive and assertive.

It’s okay not to be okay. We’re all fucking human, not cyborgs.

One of the oldest sayings ever to be said is totally true. “If you don’t have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

A great sense of humor will make you more attractive to other people. A bad sense of humor? Yeah, you’re pretty much screwed.

Listen to whatever music that makes you happy, regardless of what other people may think. Be as lame as your little heart demands.

There’s nothing wrong with swearing. But much like garlic, use it in moderation.

Picky Palate

I remember being so afraid that my daughter was going to choke while she was eating her Cheerios (it’s never to early to start worrying about your heart health) that I would break them in half.

Once, she projectile vomited her baby food, a jar of peas, just like Linda Blair did in The Exorcist. It scared the holy crap outta me, for real.

She still hates peas to this day.

My kid (almost adult daughter, sorry) had an extremely picky palate her first 4 years of life on this planet. Her diet consisted of about 10 things during that timeframe:

Hot Dogs (with ketchup)

Pizza (which also happens to be my favorite food)

Ketchup

Ham and Cheddar Hot Pockets

Macaroni and Cheese

French fries (with sugar laden tomato liquid)

Goldfish crackers

Grilled cheese sandwiches

Spaghetti and meatballs (Chef Boyardee)

Chicken nuggets (with catsup)

She’d sometimes go days without really eating anything substantial (or as she likes to call it now, dimensional.) I’d stand over her anxiously, practically begging her to eat something, anything!

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Oh shit, please don’t let her eat the peas!! 

Momma is having a conniption over here, my little sweetie poops.

She’d look at me with her big blue eyes and say, “I done now, can I go?”

What could I do? Hot Pockets taste like shit ice cold, so I’d shrug and watch her run off to go play, waiting for the day when she’d finally pig out. I really shouldn’t have worried so much.

Let’s just say that nowadays, she can hold her own at a buffet.

Ever since she got her own car almost two years ago, I have little control over what kind of garbage food she eats. I always offer her a plate of whatever we’re having for dinner, although she’ll often just grab a burger at work or get a sub sandwich instead.

She prefers my cooking over my husbands (can’t blame her.)

I’m just kidding. (No, I’m not.) No, he’s a good cook. He’s just not as good as moi.

What? I’m allowed to be a little arrogant. We all do something (or a few things) particularly well.

Because of my physical limitations (fucking damn it!), I honestly don’t get to cook as often as I’d like to anymore. It’s a real pisser but I still have all of the knowledge in my head from my many years of being a cook. And when I do prepare something, it always makes me feel wonderfully accomplished.

B asked me recently to cook something special, her favorite comfort food.

Macaroni and cheese with hot dogs cut up in it. But wouldn’t you know it, of course now she’ll only eat beef wieners.

Sigh. Those suckers are pricey! I guess it’s because they don’t have mechanically separated chicken in them.

Trust me on this, do not Google “mechanically separated chicken.” Just don’t.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be blessed enough to be a grandmother, but if I am, I’ll probably still be breaking those already tiny Cheerios in half.

We can never be too careful when it comes to our little ones.

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