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Sunday, April 2, 2017

this way

my hands are shit. i type w the middle, ring finger and pinkie of my left hand now. index is toast. when the nerve shoots i can't capitalize so here we are, not typing much. thank you for your concern, lawless.

nothing else has changed. the cheeto in charge is still on full flaming asshole to everyone but the rich. there are no words, and i couldn't type them all anyway.

still have not gotten appts w a neurologist nor an ortho. i see the auxilliary dermo in nh on weds.

beest will be on the ear smear forever. she has regained weight and sleeps a lot. i worry. she has lumps. the vet will eval her on friday.

billy carries on, bought an epiphone, got the housed resided, is struggling with all the drugs and conditions he has going on. the idea to move here is floating round again.

i really am liking the solitude here.
we got a spring snow and the guy who shovels a path for his dog didn't bother this time. it's bright today. the sky's that blue you only see this time of year or in old paint by numbers.

happy spring, be well.

sit down, life, we gotta talk

life, we've known each other as long as i can remember. i expected by now you'd have grown up some and straightened this shit out, but frankly i'm disappointed.

yes, i know it's not all your fault. it's time passings', and genes', and a descending order of culprits' faults as well. but life, you're the eldest, and should know better.

seriously, if you keep going down this path, you'll live to regret it. get your shit together.

Monday, February 27, 2017

The February Summer

All the snow we had since December and January has melted down. The maze walls that lined our pathways are small white ridges, speckled brown. Looks like a crumbcake around here.

For the last weeks temps rose bizarrely, from almost-reasonable 50'sF to the quite strange mid-70'sF. February, Vermont, 70'sF. That's just not right. By Billy in NJ, it's been close to 80'. Those denying Climate Change, please get your heads out your asses. Shit is real and here already.

I'm in this unsettled position over this. Winter is my less painy time, and so this warmth sucks. On the other hand, no snow means no worrying about anyone outside doing whatever they would that could result in heart attacks or accidents. But this is February, the harsh month, the month of death anniversaries and unrelenting freezing middle fingers from Mother Nature. That's what it's always been, until the last 2 years. Now the maple syrup army clamour to tap and collect in a hurry, just in case this is their one shot at the period of warm days and cool nights when the sap runs, the one that usually happens about a month from now. Now the ski industry uses a helluva lot of water making snow. And manmade snow just isn't the same, we all know it. Now there are blooms popping out, south of us. In February.

The Hair is proving to be just as nuts as we thought. Who knows where this runaway carnival ride will go.

Trump Bans the Free Press 

Beest is getting hyperthyroid stuff in her ears every day. She couldn't tolerate the food. But she's taking this well, and someday maybe perhaps, we'll remove the bubble on her poor wee head.

My hands are both crappy now, but at least in different ways. And I need to stop typing.

I hope your February has treated you kindly.

Friday, February 10, 2017

Winter Is Here

There are two weathers that inspire me to cook Burn You Twice Chili. When it's very hot and when it's very cold. It's very cold. I have achieved Winterfullness. Yesterday we had a foot or more of snow (at this point who counts), today is very windy. It whips around the courtyard in a whiteout whirlwind, disappearing the world from my windows. Then it drops, and I expect to see the White Walkers

lined up by the recycling bins. This may be The Year of the Bugged Out Eyes. I am a Snowflake. Winter Is Here.

HildeBeest Underfoot must learn that she will get run over if she's in the way. Today's  "ROWrrr!" wasn't the loudest ever, but she took off and is now throwing me shade and filthy looks from the bedroom. That tail she doesn't watch gets it every time. It was already broken when she came here. Still, no fur on the floor, so it wasn't very bad. She'll come out when she's hungry.

Today I had a short but deep chat with a friend, and we noticed how events look a lot like Gotterdammerung, and how The Hair is very Loki-ish. There's been a lot of phone time lately. A long-lost cousin we didn't know existed found us on the Ancestry DNA matches. This is the daughter of my Aunt Ruth, dead 4 years before I was born. Aunt Ruth didn't marry- it was 1954, she was 23, her lover was married. She came from wealth and social position via her adopted parents, and they sent her to Denver to give birth, and dispose of the baby before she could return home to Rochester. Which she did. A year later on Xmas Eve, she ran her car into a tree there, killing herself and 2 passengers. She was 24, a sorority girl college graduate. She taught PE. She was a perky blond, had been overprotected, and never had a chance to balance out because she died too young. We only found out her whereabouts in 1995, after my mother had spent 60 years wondering what had happened to her.

Ruth's daughter, Mary, grew up in a family that would never pass muster to adopt nowadays. She went to 12 grammar schools, lived in several southern states, and left them at 17 to marry the guy she's still with, in Oklahoma. They've done very well, and have a huge family and a great big house in a tiny town of 39. They're happy. I've spent almost 5 hours on the phone with her this week. She is definitely a Hendrickson.

Another of the cousins, a Ron who lives an hour from Billy in NJ, has also been in touch, sending photos of extended family. The Hendricksons rarely had less than 10 children each, and 8 or 9 would make it to adulthood and beget away. My DNA cousin matches go on for 250+ pages, at 50 people a page. Ron's gr-gr-grandfather was my great-grandfather. His grandmother lived to an old age and told family stories we never heard in our branch. I'm looking forward to sharing with these new peep! It takes a Hendrickson to understand a Hendrickson. lol

This Winter is reminding me of  Winters when I was small. The snow is heaped high, and now being seated, is up to my shoulders when I push by. Today the sky is such a pure blue and the snow so white it makes your eyes hurt. Time to have some chili that'll clear my sinuses.
This Snowflake is resolved to resistance.
Winter Is Here.

Thursday, February 2, 2017

It Can Happen Here

Things are scary over here in the US. We have a crazy person in the White House and he's appointing awful rat bastards to important jobs that can affect us all. He's treading all over rights and people, and ignoring or sidestepping the Constitution. This is really happening, and I'm nearly as horrified on the inside as Rosemary when she screams that. On the outside I'm an old fat white bitch in a wheelchair with one raised eyebrow.

Yes, it can happen here. The question is, what should we be doing right now?

And to chase some nerves off, and bring back a smile- via CarrieBoo:


Sunday, January 29, 2017

Just Holy Shit

Well. Here we are, countless Executive (un-democratic) Orders later. I want to shove every single thing the Neocons made a huge deal about in Obama's 8 years down their throats and then cram everything Trump has already done behind it. It's getting hard to tolerate my Trump voter friends, as they show their ignorance 24/7. One, a guy I've known, laughed, and grieved with for years, claimed they were wearing vagina hats at the DC Women's March, and said, "is this what our nation's come to?" I lol'd and explained the reality- they were pink hats with  cat ears- "pussy hats, get it?" Then I said I guess he didn't watch it, in hopes of driving home the point that he believes what he hears and wants to hear. I'm afraid I've lost that friend.

These are heavy damn times. Today a friend came over to watch a dvd set of the '76-'77 year of Saturday Night Live I just bought. The originals, the Not Ready For Prime Time Players. What happens? the DVD player dies. A micro of the macro. Nothing can be counted as safe or sure now. We have a dangerous, flippant businessman in the White House. Though I still can't seem to accept that in my brain, it's true. The Donald, that sonofabitchbastard NYC 70s real estate chiseler, is in The Chair. Jesus H. Christ we're fucked.

Thank you, DNC. I hate you more than ever.

I have no ideas. In the past I've found that when you get past the place of no ideas, good ideas and actions happen. But you can't hurry the place of no ideas being over, it just has to happen on its own. So here I am, in the no idea place. I hate waiting. 

It's also frustrating to understand the ignorance of the righties. I was raised a Republican, my Uncle knew Barry Goldwater and my Nana was called "the Republican BattleAxe" by the Brooklyn Eagle. The Republican party was different then. For a bit on Nana, here:
I Miss Nana
The left isn't left anymore and the right is beyond right now.
Maybe I won't live to see the pendulum make it back to where I like it, gently swaying from one side to the other, with reasonable people recognising not everyone is just like them, and they're not perfect anyway...
This is another fine mess.

Friday, January 20, 2017

D-Day 2017

The Donald becomes President today. I can't watch it. As a former New Yorker, I can hardly believe it. Here's a good summation of the whole dreadful thing:
Today in Proto-fascism

I'm taking my new Shirley Jackson book and retiring for the day.
Work for justice, keep your eyes on the prize.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Feelin' Alright (uh huh)

Taking a cue from Geo., and being determined to get over this funk I've been in with the avalanche of bad that was 2016, I'm looking for the sunny side. So I'm actively making myself happy. Which means that I've carefully sliced and caramelized an onion and deglazed the pan with red wine. This produces an aroma that soothes me. It's why I always wanted to work the saute station.

Beest was at the vet today to get the bubble on her head taken off. But behold, she has hyperthyroidism. So no anaesthesia til that's under control because her heart rate is too high. To get that fixed she goes on an expensive new diet, though it's cheaper thru him than via Amazon. With the diet she won't need meds.
He clipped her nails (she bit him), he cleaned her ears (she bit him), he gave her an antibiotic shot (they had her wrassled by then). Good thing he's used to being bit, too.
In 45 days we'll see if the thyroid is normal, then deal with the bubble on her head. It isn't too awful. He said she may become a sweet cat once the thyroid is controlled. I'll believe that when I see it.

I left Fecebook. Maybe forever. We'll see. I'm already happier without it.

Other good things;
I must, somehow, have these

I love this!

And thanks, Obama, really. Thank you. A small bit of justice keeps hope alive. Maybe the trend of rewarding liars and punishing truthtellers is ending.

It's a picturesque Vermont Winter. Dark trees against the white ground and a sky the color of old linen trousers. Beest sleeps on my bed.  All is well.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Dig It Up and Bury It

I gotta get something off my chest and hopefully soon afterward I can get back to the funny.

In 1989 I went to my first arthritis specialist. He told me to stop running and recommended drugs. My GP prescribed Meclomen, and for a few years I carried on as usual except for not running. But I began piling on weight, and was yo-yo dieting. Then Ian left NYC and I didn't have insurance anymore. When I moved to Vermont in '95 I literally couldn't afford to eat, so I slimmed down, and between the physical labor I did and slimming down, I was ok for a few more years.

In 2004 I was told I'd need a Total Hip Replacement. But, the surgeon said, nobody would do it til I was around 60 years old because of the need to replace the replacement every 12-15 years. No insurance company, even Medicaid, would ok it, she said.  I was then 45. After several-too-many cortisone shots in that hip, she said there was nothing more she could do for me. I then went to 3 other surgeons, 2 local and 1 an hour and a half away, in the next 2 years. The one that was hardest to get to was the only one who showed an interest. Not having a car and nobody to depend on for transit, that idea fell through. So no THR. He has since moved away.

In 2007 I could no longer work, and quit.  Thus began my disability. By the end of that year I could get around on a walker, but doing housework, shopping, laundry... that was all very difficult. The pain was still new then, and frightening. My doc gave me opioids- oxycodone and Fentanyl- and Cymbalta for the nerve pain. Now I was a zombie as well as a gimp. That went on for 4 years. I quit the Cymbalta first, and a few months later went cold turkey off the opioids. It's nearly 6 years since I quit prescription painkillers. I've gotten used to pain, and just deal with it now. I'd rather have the pain and keep my brain. Or what's left of it.

But conditions untreated tend to grow worse, and now I'm in a wheelchair most of the time. I've put on a lot of weight due to inactivity over the last 12 years, which doesn't help at all.

I can't help but recognize that had I gotten that THR 10 years ago I'd still be working. I'd also be a union member, as that place unionized 5 years after I left. And I'd worked so hard organizing for the last 2 years I was working there. It's the salt in the wound, really.

As whatever it is that I have keeps adding new features, I have to keep reinventing myself. Until some doc recognizes what's up with me and knows what to do, I can expect nothing getting better. So when I see my GP (last appointment was cancelled due to a head cold) I'll ask for a referral to Dr. Ditri, mega-brain over at Dartmouth's annex in Keene, NH. He's a physiatrist (a fairly new field that looks at the whole body's systems), and diagnosed me once in 2006. Maybe he'll know what the hell is happening to me now.

So, that's what's been eating at me for the last year or so. What is, what could have been if insurance companies didn't control our healthcare, and what may be.

Now I hope I can lighten up.

Thursday, January 5, 2017

Clusterdoc in 2017

It's now officially ridiculous.

Healthcare in the US seems to be what I hear Brits say they fear. Months to get an appointment, denial of healthcare, stressful, demeaning and fairly insane.

Last July, my GP recommended I see a dermo to look at the mole on my nose, recently inherited from my mother. First it had to be a dr that accepts Medicare- not as easy at it sounds. Then the moving threats, deaths, real move, and holidays happened. I was finally scheduled to see this Dr. Rebecca Jones today, 6 months later. In the meanwhile, mysterious blisters had been breaking out on my hand and arm (the right, with the thumb that's now on strike) which I thought she ought to see. I told them I need accessibility, they assured me they were accessible, they have a ramp. So I went thru the maze of getting funding for help to get there, Gal Friday rearranged her schedule, and all was set.

Today I got up after little sleep, showered, got ready, planned how to get out of here and back via wheelchair (and walker if the path was too steep), etc. A lot of aforethought has to happen when you're on wheels. Gal Friday helps me out to her car, we drive downtown, park in the patient parking, transfer, push and pull over the ice humps, down the broken sidewalk to the far side of the office entrance. There, the ramp starts in mud. It's a rickety wooden-slat ramp, with one handrail on the building side and nothing on the open-drop-to-the-sidewalk side. Up we go, to a small wooden platform, too small to turn any wheelchair around on. The wide door opens out. And there's a cement block, around which is a 2" gap between it and where the wooden platform surrounds it. Just wide enough to swallow any wheel. But that's nothing compared to when we got the door open and saw a step up. Yes, a step. About 6" high, with no handgrips, no way to turn a wheelchair to even face it, and obviously not accessible by any stretch of any imagination.

Gal Friday went in and told them we couldn't get in. An office flunkie came out to the door, chewing gum open-mouthed, stood there a minute, didn't apologize when I told her I was told it was accessible, shrugged her shoulders, said the snowplow had hit the ramp, and we left, backing carefully backwards down the ramp. I got a sliver in my arm from the one handrail. We came home. No dermo was seen today.

About 3 hours later I was in the bathroom when the phone rang. I came to the desk to play the message. It was Dr. Jones' office, saying they understood I "had a problem with the ramp". If I wanted, I could make an appointment with her at her Whately, Massachusetts office- some hour's drive away- where "there is no ramp". Wow. Just wow.

So if you ever hear bullshit about what great quality healthcare we have in the US, remember this story. We have for-profit healthcare, and it sucks.