Finally over THAT hump …

Today was the day, kids — Quasimodo for the win!!  The cunning little Basal Cell Surprise has been routed, three cheers for the good guys!

Muy painful, but that won’t last long, right?  The eye will remain surgically closed for the next six to eight weeks while the graft (skipping right over the details here) establishes itself.  Meanwhile, functioning with one eye when I’m used to two is an adventure in staying upright.  Depth perception and a gyro are dicey for me on a good day, so all respect to people who manage to excel at this!

Wanna see what the MOHS procedure-thing looks like?  Holy cow, what a poor sport!

Okay, I’ll just post it for my aunt and that one friend …

DISCLAIMER: Possibly NSFW

WARNING: GROSS!!  ICKY!!

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CAN YOU NOT READ???

And yet here you are … lord knows I tried.

Sharing to say this:  IF YOU HAPPEN TO NOTICE AN ODD BUMP, DON’T IGNORE IT.

 

 

 

 


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Here’s a picture of Maltese puppies to make up for that! 

 

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On a sunny Tuesday afternoon in January …

So tell me you’ve been finding every opportunity to dance since last week — it’s such a good habit to get into!  By dance I mean sparks of any sort inside the person that is you.  You give your heart permission to feel not just okay, but fabulous, even if it’s only a hit-and-run, and should it leak out your fingers and toes, by all means … make rhythm out of it.

It’s a bits & pieces Tuesday.  Here’s a glorious bit that Mary Oliver wrote about her partner of forty years, Molly Malone Cook, that makes my heart dance.  “The dance” is often The Blues …

“She was style, and she was an old loneliness that nothing could quite wipe away; she was vastly knowledgeable about people, about books, about the mind’s emotions and the heart’s. She lived sometimes in a black box of memories and unanswerable questions, and then would come out and frolic — be feisty, and bold.” 

I love that so much.

And these two pieces made my brain boogie today …

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Is it just me or is there a connection in all these jangly bits?    Seriously, anything’s possible when your brain dances with your heart.

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The Monday (anti)rant …

There is no rant in me today, because the sun is shining and the doors are open and life is good.  I could find something to bitch about if I wanted to, but I haven’t found the want to.  I hope you don’t want to either, because look at this tiny green beast that reminds me of my little dog.  If you happen to have either one, you know exactly what I mean!

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Sunday scenic …

Sometimes I like finding nightmarish photos that creep me out, because it just feels so gosh darn good to know I’ll never have to set foot in those places.  I mean, work with me, universe.  Rehab has been mentioned, but I happen to know it doesn’t do any good unless the rehab-ee is on board with the whole thing, and it’s a perfectly harmless little habit.  I’m not giving it up, because when that Zen rush hits, it’s just too good.  Perspective is everything.

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Sweet, sweet tapioca …

Are there dishes from your childhood you’d give your right earlobe to duplicate?  (Don’t fear it, Stephen Colbert’s doing okay without his.)  I finally came across my mom’s potato pancakes when we moved here — miraculously, they’re made every morning by the nice folks at The Roost, just up the street — who knew?

Still looking for a few things, most of them cooked up by one of my vimmens … the collection of interesting females who shaped my concept of personhood, for good and ill.  My grandmothers, my mom, my aunts … they’re a warm honey-pot in my heart, part perfume, part tears, part crazy, part food.  Like peach cobbler.  I have my grandma’s recipe, but not her homegrown peaches that I helped pick and blanch and slice.  So there’s that, but it’s fixable, except for the grandma part.

Still-warm lemon-meringue pie that’s at least four inches high, baked from scratch with my mom’s recipe.  Actually, somebody I know might have that recipe …

My Aunt Bette’s meatloaf.  That one could probably be solved, too.  The list gets really long, though, once I open the Food Memories file folder — might have to leave the rest of the salivating and crying for another day.  Meanwhile, here’s a thing I’ve looked for and tried to whip together and just happened across today because that’s how the universe works sometimes … the clone of my mom’s tapioca pudding, which, trust me on this, is equally incredible warm or cold.  But I like it warm.

Tapioca

tapioca pudding recipe

Notes from 12 Tomatoes, where I found the recipe:

“A dessert that’s a favorite among many is tapioca pudding. It’s similar to other sweet puddings like rice pudding to a degree, however there’s something unique to the taste of tapioca. What exactly is tapioca, though? It’s a starch harvested from the cassava plant.

Far too many tapioca pudding recipes call for an instant mix or come in the ‘instant’ variety. So much of the creamy, delicious flavor is lost this way. Instead, our recipe calls for small, pearl tapioca. This wonderful, sweet dessert is a great way to end a meal, or even as a night-cap before you head off to bed. Some tapioca requires soaking overnight. If that is the case, soak overnight and reduce the milk to 2 1/2 cups.”

 

Sweet Tapioca

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I don’t remember dancing …

Did we dance on Tuesday?  I don’t think we danced on Tuesday …

It isn’t an insignificant omission, is the thing.  Because life really IS a dance and if we let the silliness fall off our cracker even once, we could be setting ourselves up for a lifetime of resting bitch face.  Yeah, see, we meant to have fun but we forgot.  And then our faces got bored with smiling and now we feel powerless to, you know, like, fix any of that.

Seriously.  Okay, the rules have changed then — we’ll just dance ANY old day and preferably EVERY day, and even if we happen to forget once in a while, RBF won’t have time to set in!  It’s important, and I’m thinking this could be a breakthrough.  Register your opinion in comments!

 

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Still slightly displaced …

… but here’s a Thursday Throwback while we wait — my Great-Grandma Cummings holding little me.  That, of course, was my I-am-so-done face, which may or may not resurface from time to time.  I love my GG’s wonderful outfit and her sweet face.  And after seeing this photo a kazillion times, I all-at-once get who she reminds me of — Mrs. Doubtfire!  I love that.  I love it so much.   

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Dear Diary,

It’s been a jumbled week since I last sat here with you, my un-judgy alter ego, and you aren’t the only one I’ve neglected.  Three straight days of seeing doctors from Wichita to Kansas City, helping a friend get moved, no in-house wifi all weekend, feeling behind on all my projects BECAUSE I AM, trying to keep chilblains from claiming my extremities (because sometimes I have to step away from the fireplace), it’s been grueling.  I can’t even get my head wrapped around it enough to describe it to you.  I might as well just sign off and go look for a recipe.

Back later, of course … because you’re the only one who actually gets me.

x0x0x

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HumpDay Drivel

Yesterday was a little crazy-making and today is a deep-freeze.  Applying coffee, a hot shower, and M&Ms, and trusting that the immediate world will right itself before day’s end.  Snuggle up, kids, might as well make the best of another HumpDay!

So an attorney and a senior citizen are sitting next to each other on a long flight.  The lawyer’s thinking that older people are so out of touch he could easily get one over on this guy.

He asks the retiree if he’d like to play a fun game.  The guy’s tired and just wants to take a nap, so he politely declines and tries to catch a few zzz’s.

The lawyer persists, however, saying that the game is too much fun to miss out on.  “I ask you a question, and if you don’t know the answer, you pay me only $5.00.  Then you ask me one, and if I don’t know the answer, I’ll pay you $500.00,” he says.

This catches the man’s attention so to keep the annoying passenger quiet he agrees to play the game with him.
The attorney asks the first question.  “What’s the distance from the Earth to the Moon?”
The senior doesn’t say a word, just reaches into his pocket, pulls out a five-dollar bill, and hands it to the lawyer.

Now it’s the older guy’s turn. He asks the lawyer,  “What goes up a hill with three legs, and comes down with four?”
The lawyer googles everything he can think of but can’t find the answer.  He sends e-mails to all his smart friends, to no avail.
After an hour of searching, he finally gives up.  He wakes his fellow traveler and hands him $500.00.

The senior pockets the $500.00 and goes right back to sleep.
The lawyer is going nuts now, not knowing the answer.  He wakes the guy up again and asks, “Well, so what DOES go up a hill with three legs and come down with four??”

The weary older guy reaches into his pocket, hands the lawyer $5.00, and goes back to sleep.

(Shared by my friend and fellow old person, Rudy Loewen)

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Life in the unicorn nursery …

Today we get the pathology on my eyelid biopsy and find out where it goes from here — nowhere, or back for more carving.  Either way, we dance — it’s Tuesday.  Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, if anything potentially negative is coloring your day, focus on the unicorns!

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A self-rant …

2015 looks fine so far, relatively speaking, but there is much to do as the year rolls by.  Each of the eight points delineated by Neil is a rant aimed specifically at me — a kick in the shorts toward a more focused writing experience.  So on January 5, 2016, remember to ask me how I feel!

Neil Gaiman’s 8 Good Writing Practices:

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Ranting about thankfulness on HumpDay …

Didn’t feel like losing it over anything on Monday, so you got a break.  Love it while you can because that’s over in 4 … 3 … 2 …

So Monday was okay, as I recall.  Tuesday afternoon we’re tootling along Hwy 10 when the tootle goes away.

Kim sits, hands on wheel, just long enough to assess how and why and mutter “F*ckin’ embarrassing” before he starts walking.  Li’l Truck inhaled the last of the fumes about a quarter of a mile short of an exit, beyond which there is rumored (according to the sign) to be a service station, but just before Kim gets to the exit ramp somebody in a big black truck pulls over, picks him up, and drives away.

Which, after the shortest, most obscure Monday Rant you are likely ever to hear from me, brings us to Thankfulness Tuesday.  Because yes, there was a service station just beyond the exit ramp.  WAS.  Extinct and crusty.  Enter Ric, driving back to KC after the cold burial of a much-loved friend.  Spots my husband strolling along the highway, hunkered against the chill, a heavy coat, stocking cap pulled over most of his face, imposing enough man that you’d notice, and of course pulls right over.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, Ric.  Ric isn’t a big guy, but he sticks in your mind that way.  He repairs heavy equipment and does pipeline work, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t afraid of much, but his kind heart is a lot bigger than all that.  He insists on driving back down the 4-lane to get the Madster and me, carts us all back the other way to where the service station really IS, then west one more time where he uses his new truck to shield Kim from Highway Harm while he pours gas in the tank.  And yeah, then follows us back to the same service station so he knows for sure we made it, and tells Kim to give that piece of green to somebody who’s looking for it.

But wait, there’s more.  Kim’s a good mechanic, knows a lot about a lot.  For instance, he’s known since he bought the truck that it needs a new sending unit for the gas gauge, and probably a new fuel pump while you have the tank dropped, but since he doesn’t have a place to do his own work anymore and hasn’t loved the estimates he’s gotten, he’s just gradually developed a little system.  The system failed yesterday.  But only so we could start getting acquainted with Ric, and so he could offer to replace the unit for parts at his cost, plus labor.  Helps him, lets my husband win.  Think it’s gonna happen.

Also it’s HumpDay AND New Year’s Eve.  Do with that what you will, kids.

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We wish you a Merry Day-After-Christmas …

My blog just texted me that it was lonely.  (And it spelled out each word because it’s, you know, my blog.)  I feel awful — less than 24 hours after the kindest, splooshiest day of the year I wander off and forget the ones who mean the most.

But I’m back with a vengeance, launching bizarrely-benign torpedo-thoughts … configured sort of like my old paper airplanes … into what’s shaping up to be 2015.  For my Faithful Facebook Friends, today’s post will be an instant rerun.  Whatevs — can’t get there today, hope you didn’t have to work either!!  (And sorry, because I know some who did.)

Blessed

I Share

 

 

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My girl Marilyn knew …

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Not going down without a rant …

My tolerance for whining is minimal, so I try not to do it.

Just the facts then.

If you’ve never experienced an auto-immune disorder there’s no way to explain it to you, but I’m willing to try because at least a dozen people on my Facebook feed, including me, deal with fibromyalgia and/or other auto-immune malfunctions on a daily basis.  If you’ve somehow formed the opinion that we’re lazy, unmotivated, hopeless weenies, at least scan the information below.  Most of us, like you, have dreams and plans, if only our bodies would get in the game.

Part of the frustration that comes with fibro is its unpredictability — one day you’re flying high, the next you can’t get out of bed.  More often, the transition takes place between one hour and the next.  A second frustration is that, plan as you might, there will be social opportunities missed and projects that never really get off the ground.  A third, if you can call it a frustration, is that when flares hit they’re fairly relentless and the prolonged pain and hypersensitivity in bones, joints, muscles, tendons and other soft tissues let you know that everything is on hold for a while.  A fourth is that while researchers are on the brink of several breakthroughs, the root causes of fibromyalgia remain elusive, ergo no effective treatment yet.

I’m blessed that my husband gets it and doesn’t see me as dead weight to haul around, but not all are so fortunate.  It can be a lonely walk, so for friends and family who have to carry the burden of all we DON’T know about the auto-immune spectrum in general and fibromyalgia in particular, here are the fruits of my highly-personal, mostly-unscientific research into the disorder known among the ranks as “the invisible beating.”  (Click pics to enlarge.)

 

common fibro conditions

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Omigosh, you’re still here?  You are either a really caring soul or you have a vested interest in the subject, or both.  We can all help make things better for each other — that’s the truth.  I’m glad you’re a part of that …

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