I never did post my Thanksgiving pictures. This is part of Liza's living room and the view out the back of her house. I love staring out the windows into the woods, it's hypnotic for me. There was still some color in her woods, which was very cheery. I had a good visit there and all 3 of us had a wonderful time together. At least that's what we all said. Yes, I'm sure we meant it.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Apocalypse Now
We spent a HUGE amount of time watching the fish, talking about the fish, pondering the fish, admiring the tenacity of the fish. These goldfish were used in the wonderful dinner party thing that Mark does: he covers the dinner table with plastic, then a mirror, builds up the sides so the whole thing holds water, then puts goldfish in it so they swim around while you eat. It's very complicated, how you have the plates & everything, I don't really understand it. The man has an amazing mind. Anyway, he used to buy 50 feeder goldfish for this fete, but this time he only got 10 and they were real goldfish After the dinner they dumped the fish into the pond in Liza's back yard. 5 of them died, but these, the hardiest, survived. When it got cold Mark bought an aquarium and here they are. The flash from the camera terrified them and they all swam to the corner to stare at their reflections.
Liza objects to the way Mark stares at the fish all through dinner and keeps saying she's going to trade seats with him so his back will be facing the tank. She says she gets to look at them all day so she wouldn't be watching them at night. I watched them all through dinner too, which didn't help matters much.
Once when Jamie and I were there Mark did the fish thing and Jamie refused to believe Mark when he said they were all feeder fish and would die soon. We had to buy a goldfish bowl and take them all home with us. 14 of them died on the trip home, then about 4 died every day until there was only 1 left. That one lasted quite a while, but it did prove (once again) that Jamie might realize that he wasn't always right. I'm sure he still doesn't believe that.
Liza objects to the way Mark stares at the fish all through dinner and keeps saying she's going to trade seats with him so his back will be facing the tank. She says she gets to look at them all day so she wouldn't be watching them at night. I watched them all through dinner too, which didn't help matters much.
Once when Jamie and I were there Mark did the fish thing and Jamie refused to believe Mark when he said they were all feeder fish and would die soon. We had to buy a goldfish bowl and take them all home with us. 14 of them died on the trip home, then about 4 died every day until there was only 1 left. That one lasted quite a while, but it did prove (once again) that Jamie might realize that he wasn't always right. I'm sure he still doesn't believe that.
Always respect animals
We went shopping at this funny place where Liza and I used to go, a complex of old buildings that I think was once a farm. Each building had a bunch of different sorts of stuff, ornaments, little things--we used to spend a lot of time looking at each thing. Now there are only three shops and one of them is full of stuff from Africa, one sells expensive organic clothing and the third has some doo-dads and ornaments. We had fun shopping there with Mark, but it wasn't as much fun as we used to have. They have animals there, though (obviously) in pens in the back.
Ice doesn't flow
This was funny looking because it's strange to see icicles like this in RI, where it never seems to get that cold, and there were nice yellow leaves at the bottom of the bowl of the fountain, which just seemed strange. Pretty, though.
Try some of my purple berries
We puzzled over these berries for a pretty long time. None of us could figure out what kind of bush this was and we all agreed we'd NEVER seen berries this color before. Very strange, very strange indeed.
Special language
They had Guinea hens. I think they're also called pea hens. Strange birds, these. They make strange sounds but are supposed to be nice to have around, I've heard.
"Like a llama, or an emu"
There are a surprising number of emus in RI. There's one emu farm Liza and I have been to a few times because there's a nice view of Great Pond near it. What a really strange thing.
CHANCES of sweet dreams
Poor Chances never really did relax. NOT. This is one of the pictures I'm sending with my Christmas cards.
Friday, December 07, 2007
"Help, I need somebody
Help, not just anybody"
--Lennon/McCartney
What nice people this blogger circle is made up of. Nice support, sensible comments, compassion. Molly is right, I am the person I was before, in many ways. None of us is the same after all the miles we've traveled. Not only is the warranty up--our bodies start really falling apart at 40, but we learn lots of stuff from life's experiences. And I have had a lot of experiences. Not experiences like climbing Everest (I have asthma) or getting a PhD (oh, dissertations are so long) or having septuplets (or having any child) or joining the Peace Corps (I give that a thought every so often), or swimming the English Channel (yuck--all that goo you have to cover your body with) or owning a horse and breeding at least 5 different breeds of dogs (what's stopping me from doing that? 1/3 laziness, 1/3 money and 1/3 I would never be able to go anywhere. But think how much fun that would be!).
Molly's support is nice--she's the person, the only one, whose memory of me as a child I can count on. Our mother's past is of a different reality. Anyway, we all wonder what we were like as children, don't we? And we all wonder what type of person we've been at different times in our lives. Molly, Fred and the Laundrys tell me I'm generous. Not something I've ever thought about myself--in fact, I've always thought I was selfish. Terribly insecure, incredibly insecure. But see? You don't know what people think of you, really. And I do like some things about myself. But I still feel it's a lot (too much?) of work to behave like the kind of person I expect myself to be. No, my standards are not too high, trust me. I see people on the news here all the time from our "urban" areas (Burlington and Plattsburgh are too small to have slums, but they sure have poorly educated, welfare-collecting, wife-beating, child-abusing residents). Last night's news had footage of a shooting in which the victim's brother (sister shot by her boyfriend) said, "We knew he was crazy, but he don't know how crazy we are." Here's my reaction to that: good about myself, disappointed in America, lucky I was raised by the people I was raised by and surrounded by the people I'm surrounded by, and sad that the guy didn't/couldn't take advantage of what was hopefully available to him as a child so he wouldn't turn out to be that man. Oh how preachy and judgmental I am.
Last night I sat, pretty tearily watching TV, proud of myself for making it through another day (don't read more into that than there is) and hoping for a better one today. I like going to bed, it's a cheerful time for me because the dogs and I are a pack (yes, Dog Whisperer, I think I am the Pack Leader, but they sure are not in a calm, submissive state) with a specific and joyous routine. That makes me feel good about myself. Once, just after my father died, my mother told my evil uncle that she found that having a dog help her with her grief. His reply, in a letter (here's a direct quote, often used by Liza and me) was "Thank goodness I don't have to rely on a dog for company." What a charmer he was. Always made me sit on his lap, pinched me. Jamie's grandfather, jealous and petty.
Anyway, today is another day, Scarlett, and I'm tottering along. I know the people at my coffee place think I'm always cheerful and never cross (this is what they tell me). Today was the day I got my free coffee (after buying 6 cups you get a free one) so I made a fuss about loving my Free Fridays. If I can be cheerful there, what? Is it gone within the next 20 miles, before I reach Plattsburgh? I usually get in my car with my coffee, feeling pretty good about myself, about my life, where I live--about things. Lots of times I feel that way at work, too. Problem is it's usually when I do good work, or enjoy what I'm doing; I don't often feel so good about my interactions with other people. I like the feeling when things have gone well, I just don't feel that it comes often enough. And I feel as if I'm much better, and much less often am I "that person" but I have a residually bad reputation among my co-workers. That's one of the things that depresses me: you can't undo your behavior in the past. Thank goodness we have a new director and she doesn't see me that way--she just sees me as high-maintenance but well worth the effort. And she likes me.
So yes, I feel good about myself. That's not so much an issue. What I feel is tired. Tired of trying, tired of concentrating, tired of thinking about my behavior. I think I do feel OK about not being the same person I was--Molly helped put that in perspective. It's a very strange thing, though, to be so different though chemical treatment. I have a friend who had a bone marrow transplant and now has her brother's DNA. She no longer exists--there's no record of her on this planet, none of her DNA. I guess I sort of feel that way, only I think her situation is way more dramatic and complicated. We joke that she could rob a bank and her brother would be arrested.
As for Sue the Bank Not-Lady: she didn't call me back yesterday. I'm not sure what they'll do with me and I can't wait to find out. What do they do with someone who tells them she can't pay what she owes in overdraft charges? Ponder, ponder. I've been rehearsing oh, so many things, and have come up with these factoids:
--I've had an account there for 24 years, nearly half my life
--I've deposited more than 4,000 paychecks in that account
--My ex-husband and I (ok, the "and I" is a stretch) had a business that ran more than $2 million dollars through that bank
--I had a business that ran more than $20,000 through that bank
--I had a personal loan (not by choice: it was to bail out the sawmill when they wouldn't lend Jamie any more money) that I paid off early through that bank.
If they don't appreciate customer loyalty like that, then shame on them. I've already decided I'm closing my account there and switching to Adirondack Bank. It has a much nicer name and they've always been really nice to me and they gave us a mortgage when no one else would even look us in the eye (OK, they only lent us money because Jamie's father crawled across the floor with 8 lbs of filet mignon to offer the president, offering a life of servitude if he'd help us). So now I've grown a backbone and have dried my tears of humility. Bring it on Susan the Bank Not-Lady. "She don't know how crazy I am!"
Help, not just anybody"
--Lennon/McCartney
What nice people this blogger circle is made up of. Nice support, sensible comments, compassion. Molly is right, I am the person I was before, in many ways. None of us is the same after all the miles we've traveled. Not only is the warranty up--our bodies start really falling apart at 40, but we learn lots of stuff from life's experiences. And I have had a lot of experiences. Not experiences like climbing Everest (I have asthma) or getting a PhD (oh, dissertations are so long) or having septuplets (or having any child) or joining the Peace Corps (I give that a thought every so often), or swimming the English Channel (yuck--all that goo you have to cover your body with) or owning a horse and breeding at least 5 different breeds of dogs (what's stopping me from doing that? 1/3 laziness, 1/3 money and 1/3 I would never be able to go anywhere. But think how much fun that would be!).
Molly's support is nice--she's the person, the only one, whose memory of me as a child I can count on. Our mother's past is of a different reality. Anyway, we all wonder what we were like as children, don't we? And we all wonder what type of person we've been at different times in our lives. Molly, Fred and the Laundrys tell me I'm generous. Not something I've ever thought about myself--in fact, I've always thought I was selfish. Terribly insecure, incredibly insecure. But see? You don't know what people think of you, really. And I do like some things about myself. But I still feel it's a lot (too much?) of work to behave like the kind of person I expect myself to be. No, my standards are not too high, trust me. I see people on the news here all the time from our "urban" areas (Burlington and Plattsburgh are too small to have slums, but they sure have poorly educated, welfare-collecting, wife-beating, child-abusing residents). Last night's news had footage of a shooting in which the victim's brother (sister shot by her boyfriend) said, "We knew he was crazy, but he don't know how crazy we are." Here's my reaction to that: good about myself, disappointed in America, lucky I was raised by the people I was raised by and surrounded by the people I'm surrounded by, and sad that the guy didn't/couldn't take advantage of what was hopefully available to him as a child so he wouldn't turn out to be that man. Oh how preachy and judgmental I am.
Last night I sat, pretty tearily watching TV, proud of myself for making it through another day (don't read more into that than there is) and hoping for a better one today. I like going to bed, it's a cheerful time for me because the dogs and I are a pack (yes, Dog Whisperer, I think I am the Pack Leader, but they sure are not in a calm, submissive state) with a specific and joyous routine. That makes me feel good about myself. Once, just after my father died, my mother told my evil uncle that she found that having a dog help her with her grief. His reply, in a letter (here's a direct quote, often used by Liza and me) was "Thank goodness I don't have to rely on a dog for company." What a charmer he was. Always made me sit on his lap, pinched me. Jamie's grandfather, jealous and petty.
Anyway, today is another day, Scarlett, and I'm tottering along. I know the people at my coffee place think I'm always cheerful and never cross (this is what they tell me). Today was the day I got my free coffee (after buying 6 cups you get a free one) so I made a fuss about loving my Free Fridays. If I can be cheerful there, what? Is it gone within the next 20 miles, before I reach Plattsburgh? I usually get in my car with my coffee, feeling pretty good about myself, about my life, where I live--about things. Lots of times I feel that way at work, too. Problem is it's usually when I do good work, or enjoy what I'm doing; I don't often feel so good about my interactions with other people. I like the feeling when things have gone well, I just don't feel that it comes often enough. And I feel as if I'm much better, and much less often am I "that person" but I have a residually bad reputation among my co-workers. That's one of the things that depresses me: you can't undo your behavior in the past. Thank goodness we have a new director and she doesn't see me that way--she just sees me as high-maintenance but well worth the effort. And she likes me.
So yes, I feel good about myself. That's not so much an issue. What I feel is tired. Tired of trying, tired of concentrating, tired of thinking about my behavior. I think I do feel OK about not being the same person I was--Molly helped put that in perspective. It's a very strange thing, though, to be so different though chemical treatment. I have a friend who had a bone marrow transplant and now has her brother's DNA. She no longer exists--there's no record of her on this planet, none of her DNA. I guess I sort of feel that way, only I think her situation is way more dramatic and complicated. We joke that she could rob a bank and her brother would be arrested.
As for Sue the Bank Not-Lady: she didn't call me back yesterday. I'm not sure what they'll do with me and I can't wait to find out. What do they do with someone who tells them she can't pay what she owes in overdraft charges? Ponder, ponder. I've been rehearsing oh, so many things, and have come up with these factoids:
--I've had an account there for 24 years, nearly half my life
--I've deposited more than 4,000 paychecks in that account
--My ex-husband and I (ok, the "and I" is a stretch) had a business that ran more than $2 million dollars through that bank
--I had a business that ran more than $20,000 through that bank
--I had a personal loan (not by choice: it was to bail out the sawmill when they wouldn't lend Jamie any more money) that I paid off early through that bank.
If they don't appreciate customer loyalty like that, then shame on them. I've already decided I'm closing my account there and switching to Adirondack Bank. It has a much nicer name and they've always been really nice to me and they gave us a mortgage when no one else would even look us in the eye (OK, they only lent us money because Jamie's father crawled across the floor with 8 lbs of filet mignon to offer the president, offering a life of servitude if he'd help us). So now I've grown a backbone and have dried my tears of humility. Bring it on Susan the Bank Not-Lady. "She don't know how crazy I am!"
Thursday, December 06, 2007
You have to wonder
just what's going on these days. I called Trudy at the bank because she left a message yesterday. Her news: due to the 8 $34 charges for online payments and purchases that came through before I made my deposit to cover them (which I didn't do until Tuesday, because I didn't come to town because my road wasn't plowed because Iranians are conspiring against me as part of their nucular program), I have a balance of negative $258. Well, yeah--I sure can't pull that out of my ass. I'm a pathetic 50 year old who can't even find 250 one-dollar bills. Quarters, maybe, but not dollar bills. I can sort of joke about it now, but at the time I was devastated. I met with Susan The Cold Hearted Bitch Who Controls All The Money in New York State. She was not the least bit sympathetic, empathetic, compassionate, understanding, nor did any facial muscle move during our entire exchange. Nor did she offer me a kleenex when I started to cry (although she did say, "I know" No, you don't know you stupid bitch--you work at this bank, they let you do this sort of thing). Will the things I paid online be covered? She doesn't think so. I wonder, though, because my ill-gotten goodies keep arriving here at work and LLBean sent me an email today telling me they've shipped the thing I ordered on Tuesday. What up? Yo, peeps. I've been watching The Wire, which is a great show: there are a lot of dope dealers in it and they talks real cool.
Then I had my appointment with my psychiatrist, who was knocked over by my distress (well, fan me with a brick, don't you deal with people who are upset?). My, what a change from our last appointment. Yes, yes, I can see why you'd feel that way. Again: no, you can't see why. You aren't a broken person who is no longer the person you were all your life and takes so many chemicals, each for a specific chemical purpose in your brain, someone who has to constantly think about what she says and does before doing anything. No, kind doctor, you couldn't possibly know. He's proposing a wonderful Joseph Heller situation, my own Catch-22. The drugs aren't working if I have to think about having them work. See, if they were working I wouldn't be thinking these thoughts. I dispute this, it sort of misses the point that the person I was for much of my life no longer exists (even if we didn't like her, she was still the person I was), and I'm sure I will always be aware of my behavior, outbursts, nice things, not-nice things, funny things, cruel things that make me whatever version of myself that I am, depending on what chemicals are zipping around in my head. BOTTOM LINE: Life is very complicated. Drugs don't always help. Therapy doesn't solve everything.
I'm still reading about the American stomach but have to take a break because I can't believe he's gone back to the 1700's, all these pages later. We're back to the time when 5-6 foot lobsters were common and Americans were guilty of imperialist eating, having left behind today's gurgitators.
just what's going on these days. I called Trudy at the bank because she left a message yesterday. Her news: due to the 8 $34 charges for online payments and purchases that came through before I made my deposit to cover them (which I didn't do until Tuesday, because I didn't come to town because my road wasn't plowed because Iranians are conspiring against me as part of their nucular program), I have a balance of negative $258. Well, yeah--I sure can't pull that out of my ass. I'm a pathetic 50 year old who can't even find 250 one-dollar bills. Quarters, maybe, but not dollar bills. I can sort of joke about it now, but at the time I was devastated. I met with Susan The Cold Hearted Bitch Who Controls All The Money in New York State. She was not the least bit sympathetic, empathetic, compassionate, understanding, nor did any facial muscle move during our entire exchange. Nor did she offer me a kleenex when I started to cry (although she did say, "I know" No, you don't know you stupid bitch--you work at this bank, they let you do this sort of thing). Will the things I paid online be covered? She doesn't think so. I wonder, though, because my ill-gotten goodies keep arriving here at work and LLBean sent me an email today telling me they've shipped the thing I ordered on Tuesday. What up? Yo, peeps. I've been watching The Wire, which is a great show: there are a lot of dope dealers in it and they talks real cool.
Then I had my appointment with my psychiatrist, who was knocked over by my distress (well, fan me with a brick, don't you deal with people who are upset?). My, what a change from our last appointment. Yes, yes, I can see why you'd feel that way. Again: no, you can't see why. You aren't a broken person who is no longer the person you were all your life and takes so many chemicals, each for a specific chemical purpose in your brain, someone who has to constantly think about what she says and does before doing anything. No, kind doctor, you couldn't possibly know. He's proposing a wonderful Joseph Heller situation, my own Catch-22. The drugs aren't working if I have to think about having them work. See, if they were working I wouldn't be thinking these thoughts. I dispute this, it sort of misses the point that the person I was for much of my life no longer exists (even if we didn't like her, she was still the person I was), and I'm sure I will always be aware of my behavior, outbursts, nice things, not-nice things, funny things, cruel things that make me whatever version of myself that I am, depending on what chemicals are zipping around in my head. BOTTOM LINE: Life is very complicated. Drugs don't always help. Therapy doesn't solve everything.
I'm still reading about the American stomach but have to take a break because I can't believe he's gone back to the 1700's, all these pages later. We're back to the time when 5-6 foot lobsters were common and Americans were guilty of imperialist eating, having left behind today's gurgitators.
"Rubber ball (I'll come bouncing back to you)
Bouncy bouncy"
Bobby Vee
Another day, another mood. You have my deepest sympathy for yesterday's post. I almost deleted it, decided not to. Here's the deal: I'm listening to a book--Peter Straub, no less, my first foray into his writing, and that out of desperation because there was nothing remotely, vaguely interesting on the bookmobile and it was 4:55. So I'm listening to this book and yesterday there's a description of an event, an action taken by one of the characters that sounds so appealing as a way of dealing with my problems and the way I have to deal with life. OK, that drugged me way down. My work, my day got me better. I still have those problems, I still have to work with great effort at exhibiting appropriate behavior. That is still a heavy burden for me. But I had some good interactions during the day with nice people who said nice things to me about me (positive reinforcement: to wit "Do you dogs want a bickie?" when the dachshunds came in from pretending to poop outdoors when my Skinnerian father was in charge of the dogs). Anyway, good things, successful behavior during the day.
Today, same book, description of funeral. Again, tears. This time we're reliving loss, anticipating loss, knowing what it's like to go to a funeral, go through the process, and of course the inevitable desperate loss of my brother. But effect not as profound as yesterday, not as destructive--not focused on ME, yes there are other people in the world.
So what else is going on? We had a storm, now it's cold. Two degrees this morning. I was wondering if that isn't a bit extreme for December, but then I realized: it's December! That's winter. I thought the same thing last night when I was trying to figure out which wood pile to get wood from. Save that wood for winter, when it's really cold. Hey, wait: it IS winter and it IS really cold. It's ok to use the good wood that's closer to the house. I forgot to stoke the stove before going to bed last night and the living room was 53 this morning. Luckily I was up early to start a fire, get it going like a champ so I could stoke it for the day. What a difference a wood stove makes in my house. I have electric baseboard heat (the cheapest backup heat we could get when we were in a hurry to finish the house to pay off the $13,000 we owed in capital gains taxes because of the sawmill blahblahblah) and it just can't heat the house. ANYWAY: good for me. I got the fire all set and will come home to a warm house.
My work in Saranac Lake is great. Cataloging some amazing stuff, some boring stuff, some mystery stuff. Yesterday I couldn't figure out the provenance of a book, no matter how much time I spent on it. Another book and I figured out that, of course the poet spent time in a tuberculosis san, in fact died there (oh, the tragedy of it). Then there was the collection of poems written about a boy's camp, waxing poetic about nights in the woods in 1959. Well, you have to keep them all in a unique collection like that one. So it's an interesting project and I think I'll be doing it until I retire, I'm moving at a snail's pace.
Which reminds me:
There's a terrible car accident between a turtle and a snail. Both are badly injured. A policeman comes to investigate. The only witness is a snail. Policeman questions the snail: "Can you tell me what happened?" Snail says: "I don't know officer, it all happened so fast."
I like that joke. A few years ago Henry and I shared a bunch of snail jokes . He'd call at odd times and tell me a few.
Today's (work) task: finish The history of the American stomach so I can write a review for Library Journal. It's a short book, which is strange because the author throws stuff in as if he's done a lot of scholarly research. Right now we're back to the Puritans (I thought we'd moved on when we started talking about national days of fasting during the Civil War--yeah, like the prisoners had special days of fasting) and the cleansing act of vomiting, which removes evil spirits. Author swears this is the first history of vomiting in U.S. I question that but am not sure how to verify it. Besides, if it's the first one, there's not much more than a few pages. Dissertation, anyone?
So yes, I'm better. But I'll get worse this afternoon when I see my psychiatrist. Oh how I'll suffer in front of him. Last month he told me how much better I seemed. Well knock me off my pony isn't that just the way my life works.
I also have to meet with someone at my bank because it seems I have completely screwed up my account and have spent waaaay more than I have. Gotta love those online payments. Also gotta write them down. Apparently the charges just come pouring in to the bank. Trudy called me at home yesterday and left a message imploring me to call her back. Heavy sigh. I've had this account for 24 years so I'm hoping they'll give me some sort of break, if not at least compassion.
Is this day better than the last? In terms of my being able to cope with it, absolutely. In terms of what I have to cope with? No, I don't think so. My family thinks my life is complicated. I think of it as a series of anecdotes.
Bouncy bouncy"
Bobby Vee
Another day, another mood. You have my deepest sympathy for yesterday's post. I almost deleted it, decided not to. Here's the deal: I'm listening to a book--Peter Straub, no less, my first foray into his writing, and that out of desperation because there was nothing remotely, vaguely interesting on the bookmobile and it was 4:55. So I'm listening to this book and yesterday there's a description of an event, an action taken by one of the characters that sounds so appealing as a way of dealing with my problems and the way I have to deal with life. OK, that drugged me way down. My work, my day got me better. I still have those problems, I still have to work with great effort at exhibiting appropriate behavior. That is still a heavy burden for me. But I had some good interactions during the day with nice people who said nice things to me about me (positive reinforcement: to wit "Do you dogs want a bickie?" when the dachshunds came in from pretending to poop outdoors when my Skinnerian father was in charge of the dogs). Anyway, good things, successful behavior during the day.
Today, same book, description of funeral. Again, tears. This time we're reliving loss, anticipating loss, knowing what it's like to go to a funeral, go through the process, and of course the inevitable desperate loss of my brother. But effect not as profound as yesterday, not as destructive--not focused on ME, yes there are other people in the world.
So what else is going on? We had a storm, now it's cold. Two degrees this morning. I was wondering if that isn't a bit extreme for December, but then I realized: it's December! That's winter. I thought the same thing last night when I was trying to figure out which wood pile to get wood from. Save that wood for winter, when it's really cold. Hey, wait: it IS winter and it IS really cold. It's ok to use the good wood that's closer to the house. I forgot to stoke the stove before going to bed last night and the living room was 53 this morning. Luckily I was up early to start a fire, get it going like a champ so I could stoke it for the day. What a difference a wood stove makes in my house. I have electric baseboard heat (the cheapest backup heat we could get when we were in a hurry to finish the house to pay off the $13,000 we owed in capital gains taxes because of the sawmill blahblahblah) and it just can't heat the house. ANYWAY: good for me. I got the fire all set and will come home to a warm house.
My work in Saranac Lake is great. Cataloging some amazing stuff, some boring stuff, some mystery stuff. Yesterday I couldn't figure out the provenance of a book, no matter how much time I spent on it. Another book and I figured out that, of course the poet spent time in a tuberculosis san, in fact died there (oh, the tragedy of it). Then there was the collection of poems written about a boy's camp, waxing poetic about nights in the woods in 1959. Well, you have to keep them all in a unique collection like that one. So it's an interesting project and I think I'll be doing it until I retire, I'm moving at a snail's pace.
Which reminds me:
There's a terrible car accident between a turtle and a snail. Both are badly injured. A policeman comes to investigate. The only witness is a snail. Policeman questions the snail: "Can you tell me what happened?" Snail says: "I don't know officer, it all happened so fast."
I like that joke. A few years ago Henry and I shared a bunch of snail jokes . He'd call at odd times and tell me a few.
Today's (work) task: finish The history of the American stomach so I can write a review for Library Journal. It's a short book, which is strange because the author throws stuff in as if he's done a lot of scholarly research. Right now we're back to the Puritans (I thought we'd moved on when we started talking about national days of fasting during the Civil War--yeah, like the prisoners had special days of fasting) and the cleansing act of vomiting, which removes evil spirits. Author swears this is the first history of vomiting in U.S. I question that but am not sure how to verify it. Besides, if it's the first one, there's not much more than a few pages. Dissertation, anyone?
So yes, I'm better. But I'll get worse this afternoon when I see my psychiatrist. Oh how I'll suffer in front of him. Last month he told me how much better I seemed. Well knock me off my pony isn't that just the way my life works.
I also have to meet with someone at my bank because it seems I have completely screwed up my account and have spent waaaay more than I have. Gotta love those online payments. Also gotta write them down. Apparently the charges just come pouring in to the bank. Trudy called me at home yesterday and left a message imploring me to call her back. Heavy sigh. I've had this account for 24 years so I'm hoping they'll give me some sort of break, if not at least compassion.
Is this day better than the last? In terms of my being able to cope with it, absolutely. In terms of what I have to cope with? No, I don't think so. My family thinks my life is complicated. I think of it as a series of anecdotes.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Oh no, not one of THOSE days
Watch out, everyone, she's having a bad day. Actually, my clerks are really supportive and compassionate today. Maybe it's because of the way my head was hanging down when I came in, the fact that I was 20 minutes late, and my eyes were red and swollen from crying all the way to work. I don't know what hit me (well, yes, actually I do know) but I fell apart just after I got my coffee--strange, that, since that's always a cheery experience. People know me, greet me, chat with me, want to tell me what's up with them. So I cried for the last 20 miles to work.
Anyway, I feel as if I'm working really hard to keep my behavior "appropriate." There are so many things about the way I am that I'm being treated for, and the treatments definitely work, but it's just so much work to keep track of whether or not I'm acting the way I want to. The other day I blurted out "NO YOU DIDN'T!" to a new library director, who used to be my boss, when he said they'd done a certain number of ILL's last month. I knew the numbers were way too low and I was trying to let him know that they've been counted wrong (so we all think here at CEF) for the past several years, to point out something really positive. I apologized profusely for my outburst and he was kind and gentle, saying "It's ok, you can talk to me that way, it's me, Stan." Well, no, I can't. And I thought I was beyond those outbursts. Whether they're for good reasons or bad reasons, they're inappropriate and show me that I lose control. This is the piece of behavior I'm trying so hard to correct--and it's HARD, so hard. And it's work, and I'm getting tired of working HARD and constantly focusing so intensely on my behavior. But I don't want to be the person who blurts things out at meetings, who drowns out what everyone else says, who intimidates people into staying silent, who makes people roll their eyes. We all know that person. We had a staff meeting last week and I was wonderful. People spoke who hardly ever do. I caught myself behaving well several times--but it's WORK for me to do that. I used to smoke, and I guess this is like quitting--mark each time you want to smoke and focus on how you avoided smoking that cigarette. Only this is my life we're talking about.
I know this sounds as if I feel really sorry for myself, and I don't have cancer, and I have all 4 limbs and am not in a wheelchair, and I have a loving family--but I've been struggling with this all my life. Now I know what makes me do this, and chemicals can't fix it entirely but it's more as if they help set an example of what it should be like. The other thing I do is focus on my mistakes. No, REALLY focus on them--like ones I made 30 years ago as well as ones I made yesterday. Stupid ones as well as big ones. Stupid things I said to people, stupid pieces of behavior, really stupid things I did. I know--everyone does this, but I also know that I do it far more than other people do. It's called obsessive behavior. I try to change the subject in my mind; rarely am I successful. I'd like to stop the phenomenon before I complete the film in my mind. It's as if once it starts I can't stop it--"no, no, wait, I'm not finished." I'm sure people think I'm being too hard on myself, but other people don't go over and over this sort of thing year after year. They let go of it. Ah, letting go. I just can't do that. I'm still going over things about my ex-husband and my marriage that ended in 1995. Let it go, let it go. Lots of times I think it's because I don't have anything important enough in my life to replace this fixation, but then I think that my life should be enough to do that. Then I think, well, he's always in the news, his picture's in the paper, he's on TV, I see him at family gatherings (along with his wife, who seems to be everywhere I am at these things). I can't get away from him. And I remind myself that he's not the same person, any more than I am, so I don't even know who I should think about when I think of him. So LET IT GO. I have good feelings toward him, good memories (sometimes) but I also have a lot of resentment about that relationship and marriage.
OK, if anyone's made it this far--relax, being here at work has made me feel better. Distractions are the answer. That's why I watch so much television--it distracts me, fills my head with images and activities unrelated to what might go on in there otherwise. I replace the music in my head with real music for the same reason. That music in my head is back, really back and is just horrible. ANYWAY, I'm ok. I listen to books when I drive, sometimes I find good ones I can actually pay attention to. There are plenty of things I enjoy. I put up lights on an outdoor tree on Sunday, which was complicated and funny and made me laugh at myself but was finally successful. I strung them nicely but the foot of snow we got knocked them down, so now I have a giant white light smile in my tree. Not the effect I had in mind.
My dogs are a lot of fun to have, are predictable and love me. They entertain me and require something of me. My house is very demanding and I'm constantly letting it down. My car is a mess and needs money. I'm living beyond my means. I also have a good job with a great retirement benefit, and during those times when I can believe in the future I think about retiring 7 years from now. In the meantime I like my job. I like working with the member library directors. The other people, well, I've worked with them for decades.
This afternoon I go to Saranac Lake to work on their Adk Coll. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out why the books are pertinent to Saranac Lake, tuberculosis, the Adirondacks, Robert Louis Stevenson, or anything else I can come up with. That slows me down but entertains me. It's a lifetime project.
Watch out, everyone, she's having a bad day. Actually, my clerks are really supportive and compassionate today. Maybe it's because of the way my head was hanging down when I came in, the fact that I was 20 minutes late, and my eyes were red and swollen from crying all the way to work. I don't know what hit me (well, yes, actually I do know) but I fell apart just after I got my coffee--strange, that, since that's always a cheery experience. People know me, greet me, chat with me, want to tell me what's up with them. So I cried for the last 20 miles to work.
Anyway, I feel as if I'm working really hard to keep my behavior "appropriate." There are so many things about the way I am that I'm being treated for, and the treatments definitely work, but it's just so much work to keep track of whether or not I'm acting the way I want to. The other day I blurted out "NO YOU DIDN'T!" to a new library director, who used to be my boss, when he said they'd done a certain number of ILL's last month. I knew the numbers were way too low and I was trying to let him know that they've been counted wrong (so we all think here at CEF) for the past several years, to point out something really positive. I apologized profusely for my outburst and he was kind and gentle, saying "It's ok, you can talk to me that way, it's me, Stan." Well, no, I can't. And I thought I was beyond those outbursts. Whether they're for good reasons or bad reasons, they're inappropriate and show me that I lose control. This is the piece of behavior I'm trying so hard to correct--and it's HARD, so hard. And it's work, and I'm getting tired of working HARD and constantly focusing so intensely on my behavior. But I don't want to be the person who blurts things out at meetings, who drowns out what everyone else says, who intimidates people into staying silent, who makes people roll their eyes. We all know that person. We had a staff meeting last week and I was wonderful. People spoke who hardly ever do. I caught myself behaving well several times--but it's WORK for me to do that. I used to smoke, and I guess this is like quitting--mark each time you want to smoke and focus on how you avoided smoking that cigarette. Only this is my life we're talking about.
I know this sounds as if I feel really sorry for myself, and I don't have cancer, and I have all 4 limbs and am not in a wheelchair, and I have a loving family--but I've been struggling with this all my life. Now I know what makes me do this, and chemicals can't fix it entirely but it's more as if they help set an example of what it should be like. The other thing I do is focus on my mistakes. No, REALLY focus on them--like ones I made 30 years ago as well as ones I made yesterday. Stupid ones as well as big ones. Stupid things I said to people, stupid pieces of behavior, really stupid things I did. I know--everyone does this, but I also know that I do it far more than other people do. It's called obsessive behavior. I try to change the subject in my mind; rarely am I successful. I'd like to stop the phenomenon before I complete the film in my mind. It's as if once it starts I can't stop it--"no, no, wait, I'm not finished." I'm sure people think I'm being too hard on myself, but other people don't go over and over this sort of thing year after year. They let go of it. Ah, letting go. I just can't do that. I'm still going over things about my ex-husband and my marriage that ended in 1995. Let it go, let it go. Lots of times I think it's because I don't have anything important enough in my life to replace this fixation, but then I think that my life should be enough to do that. Then I think, well, he's always in the news, his picture's in the paper, he's on TV, I see him at family gatherings (along with his wife, who seems to be everywhere I am at these things). I can't get away from him. And I remind myself that he's not the same person, any more than I am, so I don't even know who I should think about when I think of him. So LET IT GO. I have good feelings toward him, good memories (sometimes) but I also have a lot of resentment about that relationship and marriage.
OK, if anyone's made it this far--relax, being here at work has made me feel better. Distractions are the answer. That's why I watch so much television--it distracts me, fills my head with images and activities unrelated to what might go on in there otherwise. I replace the music in my head with real music for the same reason. That music in my head is back, really back and is just horrible. ANYWAY, I'm ok. I listen to books when I drive, sometimes I find good ones I can actually pay attention to. There are plenty of things I enjoy. I put up lights on an outdoor tree on Sunday, which was complicated and funny and made me laugh at myself but was finally successful. I strung them nicely but the foot of snow we got knocked them down, so now I have a giant white light smile in my tree. Not the effect I had in mind.
My dogs are a lot of fun to have, are predictable and love me. They entertain me and require something of me. My house is very demanding and I'm constantly letting it down. My car is a mess and needs money. I'm living beyond my means. I also have a good job with a great retirement benefit, and during those times when I can believe in the future I think about retiring 7 years from now. In the meantime I like my job. I like working with the member library directors. The other people, well, I've worked with them for decades.
This afternoon I go to Saranac Lake to work on their Adk Coll. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out why the books are pertinent to Saranac Lake, tuberculosis, the Adirondacks, Robert Louis Stevenson, or anything else I can come up with. That slows me down but entertains me. It's a lifetime project.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Chances and kittie found temporary peace. I'm not sure either of them realized the other was there, or that they were actually touching each other. This was a very strange, unique moment.
Day off yesterday--big storm hit the North Country. We were supposed to get, oh I don't know, 85 inches of snow or something dramatic like that. The library system was closed--decision made by Librarian in Charge (there are 4 of us who rotate being in charge when the Director is out). The director was at home, just having a day off, so she could have made the decision but did not. Anyway, we had a lot of ice first, then a lot of heavy wet snow so I was happy not to have to get to Plattsburgh. The roads were reported to be very bad. In Hawkeye we got about 8-10" I guess (who measures anymore?). I tried cleaning off my car in the afternoon but there was a layer of ice coating the whole thing, especially the windows, so all I could do was make a peekaboo hole in the windshield for today's drive. What a mess.
I spent the entire day, minus 1 1/2 hours, watching The Closer on TV. By rights I should have bedsores on my butt. Anyway, it was a pretty good day. The dogs and cat certainly enjoyed it. It was too hot in the living room at one point, which I thought was pretty funny.
Day off yesterday--big storm hit the North Country. We were supposed to get, oh I don't know, 85 inches of snow or something dramatic like that. The library system was closed--decision made by Librarian in Charge (there are 4 of us who rotate being in charge when the Director is out). The director was at home, just having a day off, so she could have made the decision but did not. Anyway, we had a lot of ice first, then a lot of heavy wet snow so I was happy not to have to get to Plattsburgh. The roads were reported to be very bad. In Hawkeye we got about 8-10" I guess (who measures anymore?). I tried cleaning off my car in the afternoon but there was a layer of ice coating the whole thing, especially the windows, so all I could do was make a peekaboo hole in the windshield for today's drive. What a mess.
I spent the entire day, minus 1 1/2 hours, watching The Closer on TV. By rights I should have bedsores on my butt. Anyway, it was a pretty good day. The dogs and cat certainly enjoyed it. It was too hot in the living room at one point, which I thought was pretty funny.
Exhausting peace talks
Tess wouldn't go as far as Chances--or maybe kittie wouldn't go as far around Tess, but everyone seemed pretty relaxed. For the time being. Kittie still likes to nail the dogs when she thinks they're behaving inappropriately. Like trying to come between kittie and me. Some days I smack her on the butt a lot. Of course, they smash her flat when she gets in their way and they're hurrying somewhere, like going inside, outside, or to their food. It's a fine, fine line we're walking.
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