Community, Compassion, Cooperation

Please forgive me if this post isn’t as polished as you might like. It certainly is not as polished as I would like.

I wanted to put it out there into the world, though, as it occurred to me. This is something that I’ve been thinking about a great deal especially in the last few days.

COVID-19 has shown quite a few flaws in our social systems. I could go on about healthcare, scarcity, people with such low incomes that they cannot afford to miss weeks of work, children who will not get a meal of schools are closed, and a number of other things, but I am choosing one focal point here.

Community.

In the last few days I have, by necessity, gone to the grocery store. My particular market is not a large one. It is usually quite well stocked, and often not terribly busy. I know all of the staff members there, and they greet me like a friend. Even on days when leaving the house seems like an enormous chore, a burden that I cannot bear to carry, I can go to my Publix. They have always been wonderful to me.

Today when I went the parking lot was full.  Beyond full. People were circling. At the moment I have the use of a handicapped parking placard, but it did me no good. I had to simply take whichever space opened up first. Lucky for me, one opened up only three or four spaces away.

Walking with a cane is awkward.  I can only imagine how those with worse handicaps than mine are handling these crowded conditions.

I sat down on a motorized scooter and went about my business inside. It was strange, the things that were completely sold out. Bananas? Really? Plenty of other fruits - oranges, apples, grapes, and berries galore. Plenty of fresh vegetables. But no bananas. How odd. 

The rice and pasta were almost entirely gone. Macaroni and cheese, Ramen, wiped out. No toilet paper. No facial tissue. Paper towels running low. Absolutely no bread to be found. Well, not quite true, I did find one loaf hiding at the back of the bottom shelf where almost no one could see it. I suspect I only noticed it because I was sitting on a scooter, and not standing tall. I had to reach down and back to get it as it huddled shivering against the wall. Poor, lonely, a little loaf of bread. No hamburger buns. No hotdog buns. No buns of any kind. The only bread-type items remaining were English muffins and bagels, and I suspect those will be gone by tomorrow.  Tortillas were plentiful, but will likely be gone on a day or two.

As I rolled through the store, trying to wait patiently for other shoppers to continue down the aisles so that I could as well, the crowds intrigued me. Even during pre-holiday shopping season I have never seen so many people in the store!  A few shoppers seemed to be considering their purchases carefully, but more appeared to be grabbing whatever fell under their eye as possibly useful.  

I’m belaboring the point, I know, but I found it shocking.

The sense of urgency, bordering on panic, was palpable.

And now for the thought that this inspired.

If we were a compassionate, caring, cooperative society, I don’t think we’d be having this problem right now. Yes, we’d be worried about this illness sweeping the globe. I’m not trying to downplay the seriousness of this. COVID-19 is nothing to play with. It’s more the fear of scarcity of which I speak.

I don’t think this semi-panic would be occurring if we were confident that our friends, family, and neighbors would all help look out for us as we would help look out for them. If we were a connected community, I don’t believe we’d be afraid of running out of toilet paper or going hungry even (potentially) under a two-week quarantine.

We would, instead, be confident that if we run out of something, someone, somewhere would step up and help us out, as we would help them under the same circumstances.

Instead, we are a nation of isolated souls living in crowded neighborhoods. We don’t know each other. Maybe we don’t want to know each other. We lock ourselves in our homes and remain separate. My neighbor doesn’t know that she can come to me for help if she needs groceries, or some other form of aid. She doesn’t know that I will give her a ride somewhere if the need arises. She doesn’t know that if they run out of something, she can knock on my door and ask, and if I have it I will give.

This lack of connection is what will do is in, in the end.  We are cells in a body, but we are cells each struggling in our individual ways and not working together to keep the body whole.

I find it distressing.

That separateness is what works very well for politicians, who seek to continue to divide us even as we struggle with a crisis. Politics as usual, fingers pointing, blame doled out, denial, denial, denial. Fight over doing what is simply right. Each side telling the other how wrong that they are, calling things a hoax, calling things an emergency, saying this side doesn’t care and that side wants to take away from you and give to another.

Meanwhile, those of us down here at the bottom of the power pyramid are struggling. When we reach out to help others, sometimes we’re punished, sometimes marginalized, on occasion lauded, but rarely are we recognized as simply being decently human.

Even monkeys take care of the entire troupe. They take care of those at the top and those at the bottom. The least popular monkey is still not going to be eaten by a predator because regardless of their place within the troupe, they are still a member. The troupe takes care of its own.

How is it that we can’t do something that even monkeys do?

You can see from the above that I am fumbling with these thoughts, these ideas. It’s difficult for me to boil it down, to place it in a nutshell. For me personally, it is a huge idea. It is a big deal. I see my fellow humans struggling, and my instinct is to reach out and offer a hand. I may not be the strongest member of society, but I don’t think I’m the weakest either.

I have something to offer, whether it be a ride somewhere, an extra bag of rice, or reassuring word and a warm, comforting smile.

If the least of us strive to have something to offer, why can’t those considered the greatest of us do the same?

If the least of us felt confident that they would be taken care of in times of great need, I believe we would be a stronger society as a whole.

If everyone knew, absolutely knew, that they would be taken care of, that the web would catch them, that they would not fall very far before society grabbed hold and held them up, how much better off would we be?

I truly believe that we would not have empty shelves that used to hold paper goods. That we would not have empty shelves that used to hold rice, or pasta. That we would not have people in grocery stores around the nation, around the world, fighting over resources, if we weren’t afraid of running out because we knew that we would take care of each other.

Whatever happened to cause this sense of separateness, this aloneness, isolation even in cities and crowded places, it is now showing it self to be devastating. The feeling of being on our own, unable to rely on our fellows, will destroy us faster than any virus can.

I apologize if this seems to be scattered, lengthy, or completely incoherent. It is simply a thought that has been rattling around inside my head, and I felt the need to get it out.

COVID-19, for me, is more than a virus. It is an opportunity to see where I need to reach out a little more, where I need to connect a little better, where I need to reassure, to show compassion and kindness, to show love.  If nothing else, I can drive to reinforce my part of the web. It is my hope that many others will do the same, and that we will emerge on the other side of this a little stronger for it.

So...how can I help?

Paranoia, Pandemic, Panic

Paranoia, Pandemic, Panic

I have paranoia.  It’s mild, as these things go, and oddly specific - I’m convinced that people see me and whisper cruelly, judgmentally, laughing at how fat, how ungainly, how poorly put together and ridiculous I look.  They whisper and giggle and watch me bumble through life and thank their deities that they aren’t me.  

Along that vein, Paranoia also tells me that people wish I would just.  shut.  up.  No one wants to hear it, no one cares, good grief would I please be quiet and better yet, go away?

I’m not worried that anyone is out to get me.  Instead, I know that people are judging me and finding me wanting in every way.

It’s the nature of the beast, and I struggle to gentle it - it’ll never be tame.

Then there’s panic.  Not like panic attacks or generalized fear (which are horrid in and of themselves), but more like targeted, herd panic.  Y2K was a struggle against myself.  Daily I had to tell myself not to give in to the hysteria.  The quiet voice of reassurance in my mind told me we’d be ok, but it was nearly drowned out by the noisy jangling of fear mongers and conspiracy theorists.  I avoided a tinfoil hat and a bunker, but it’s possible I stocked up on a few things, just in case.

These days, it’s COVID19.  Conflicting reports from experts in epidemiology, medical professionals, people inside the afflicted areas, combined with a media feeding frenzy, are saturating my world and poking the bear.  I’m fighting the rising tide of “Omg, I’m going to die because I’m older, fat, at risk, not worth saving!” created by tales of overwhelmed hospitals, sick staff treating sicker patients, limited resources quickly running out, and having to decide who to spend those resources on, who gets the respirator and who will have to wait.

Believe it or not, I’m high risk for complications if I catch this monster.  I know, right?  I meet several of the criteria for higher fatality risk.  Go, me.  I’m low priority on the treatment scale, though - middle-aged, non-productive, I don’t do or make anything necessary to society (by current standards) and am not considered terribly valuable in the grand scheme.  If a choice has to be made, it’s unlikely I’d make the cut.  Superfluous, me.  So there’s that.

Then there’s the concern over every day things like food, water, daily medications.  Stock up.  Don’t stock up.  Panic.  Don’t panic.  Wear a mask and gloves.  Don’t wear a mask and gloves.  It’s in the air, no, it’s on surfaces, no, it’s transmitted by touch.  It can survive for long periods without a host, no, it cannot.

The quiet voice reminds me that we have food and water in preparation for short-to-medium term disasters, and because of how Mom and I both regularly shop in bulk, enough toilet paper and paper towels for half the year.  We might run out of laundry detergent in a month, but if we WERE quarantined and had to stay home, we could just go nekkid so no laundry, right?  I have a backstock of some medication and enough of other meds to get me through a month before I really need a refill or rationing.  I am part of a large and widespread community in which we all help and support each other.  We will, together, be ok.

Poor quiet voice, trying so hard.

The cacophony is rising over the whisper, pushing the panic button, pounding on it with hammers, screaming at me to...what?  Act blindly, run this way and that, hoard, isolate, hide, hide, hide!

So easy to give in.  I’m tired, depression has its teeth deep into me, I hurt all the time; giving  in to the paranoia would make for a nice, destructive distraction.  But I can’t.  Kids, cats, Mom, friends, they’d get caught in the periphery.  It’s not right to inflict this on them...and grasping that sense of loverightnesscommunity helps me keep from letting go, dropping off the cliff, and landing with a resounding splat.

My armor in this war is simple - research coupled with faith.  Study, learn, ask, filter, process, repeat often.  Believe - in myself, in my ability to learn and adapt, in the people whom I love and who love me, in the basic decency nestled in every soul, in my immune system and my body’s remarkable ability to overcome and recover, and, yes, in my deities.  It’s flimsy armor, but it has worked in the past and it’s all I have, so I’ll use it.  I will survive.  WE will survive.

I.  Will. Not.  Panic. 

Now, where’s that tin foil?

Half-Priced Pedicures

Well, hello!

Rather quiet up in here, isn’t it?  A lot of death and cobwebs, lately. 

I could claim being busy.  Hmm.  Could claim depression.  Hmmm.  Could claim aliens ate my brain.  Hmmmm.

Truth is, I’m not really sure why, I just haven’t felt it in me to write much of anything.  I’ve just been kind of...empty.  

Right now, I’m lying in a hospital bed.  Nothing much going on, nothing much to do, so my mind has been running down old rabbit trails and I thought that maybe I could limber up the old composition muscles and see if I’ve still got it.

I’m in a hospital bed because I had part of my left foot amputated.  Gangrene and MRSA and osteomyelitis, oh my.  I got here by not taking care of myself in some basic, necessary ways.  I went without medication rather than let others do without their comforts, because I felt guilty saying “no”.

I’m learning.  Nnn...nnn...nnnu!  Er...

I’ll get there.

I started working on me a little too late for poor “Nubbly”(the name given to my left foot by Sprout), but hopefully not too late in general.  I’ll have to relearn some basic walking and balance, nothing insurmountable, and get back into healthy habits that is let slide, and never again will I let anyone else guilt me for getting my medication instead of using the $ for their wants.  

I found the line - just on the other side of the toes I no longer have.

Now if I can just convince Nubbly that those toes are gone so that I don’t feel them itch any more...gah!

Doctor, Doctor

I was supposed to go to the doctor, today, but I didn't feel well enough.

Wait, what?
Hold on, I'll explain.

I was supposed to go in for a regular maintenance thing, but my innards declared war on me during the night, and not going was the better option.

To be honest, I really didn't want to go, anyway.  Why bother?  Nothing's changed, and I'm just not in the mood to be lectured by someone who means well, really he does, but has no idea.

It's not cheap to have a chronic illness, and doubly not cheap to have mental illness on top of that.  I can't afford...my mother can't afford...all those meds, so I keep to the minimum and that doesn't mean injectables or extra pills.  Those meds?  Will have to wait.  Maybe forever.  Whatever.

But the good doctor doesn't get it.  He doesn't seem to understand how depression works, how it's not as simple as just making up my mind.  And sometimes I just don't want to be sternly told what will likely happen if I don't get my shit under control.

Shit under control...heh...ahem...

So maybe my innards were doing me a favor, but instead of just blowing it off I called and rescheduled.  I'll go listen to him and nod and agree because it needs to be done, and maybe one of these days it'll take.  Even when I'm being irresponsible, I try to be responsible about it.

How're you doing, dear reader?

Employment Opportunity?

From time to time (read: almost every dang day), I find myself stroking my chin thoughtfully (or, more likely, in pensive confusion over the Universe and its shenanigans).  As the years have fallen behind me, I've noticed a disturbing trend.
Wiry little hairs.

Wiry little hairs on my chin.

Dark wiry little hairs on my chin.

Now, what with being a witch and all, I suppose I should expect a few hairs and warts.  Aren't we supposed to have hairy warts?  Or moles?  Or...something?

Being distinctly lacking in green-hued skin and warts, I feel as though I'm coming up aces in the hairs department.

There are two or three (Or a million, who's counting?) pernicious little buggers that love to mock me, lurking in curled anticipation of my wandering fingers and springing forth to tease my fingertips with derisive laughter at my dismay.

Evil things, I loathe them.

As soon as I detect the telltale feeling of steel wool sprouting from my flesh, I begin to tug at them, desperate to pull them out and send them down the sink in a swirling death spiral, or at least cast them to the floor with a triumphant smile.

The hairs resist.

They are rooted deeply, at least three or four feet in, and my too-short fingernails aren't sufficient for the job.  Eventually I resort to the Tweezers of Tweezering Doom (TM, patent pending) and the Terribly Bright Spotlighting Flashlight of Brilliance (also TM, patent pending), shining said light under my chin and highlighting the horrors of time, weight loss, and hairy hellions.

I must be careful with my approach - come at them from the wrong angle and they slip free, and sometimes they manage to get a bit of skin in the tweezers as they dodge.  Ouch!  Sometimes I manage to get them square in the sweet spot of tweezery vengeance, but they simply let their upper part shear off, remaining a tiny black stump too short to grasp but long enough for me to see and feel for days, weeks even, as I wait for them to grow out again.

Sometimes I'll get on with nothing more than slightly longer than usual fingernails and determination, and then?  I want to hold it aloft and parade around the house to be admired with wonder and awe.  Alas, no one really cares, or can even really see the itty-bitty black curl, smaller than a 10 point comma, resting on my fingertip.

Sigh.

I could let them grow, multiply, takeover.  I hear there's good money in being a bearded lady, these days.

My vanity, however, says "Nay!", and so I stroke, and pluck, and cuss, and pluck, and occasionally feel sorry for myself and the swiftly dwindling remains of my scant femininity.

I'll let you know when I hit the freak show circuit.

A Glimpse

I have a doctor's appointment today.  Nothing untoward, just a simple check-up.

I will make it a multi-purpose trip - the doc is up near mom's place so I'll go wash my shirts in her laundry machine (mine eats my shirts, hers is far kinder to them) while I'm at it.

My brain is screaming at me, telling me to cancel, not to go.

This is nothing unusual.  It is why sometimes I don't listen to my instinct, because my instinct is often irrational.  My instinct is in league with my Variety Plate and cannot always (or even often) be trusted.

Don't get me wrong, when it comes to confrontation or real, imminent danger,my instinct doesn't mess around.  It does a good job and, when I don't ignore it, saves me a good deal of grief.  But I am not currently in imminent danger.  What is wrong is, I have to leave the house.

Going to the doctor for a simple check-up begins with an internal fight the moment the appointment is made.  A small voice tells me "That's a bad day to go, you should cancel" as soon as I walk out of the office.  Then, as the day approaches (and it's every six months I go, so there's lots of approach), my mind tells me all kinds of things that mean I'm too busy to go.  When I refuse to cancel, things escalate.  I start to think about my horrible diet and how I am not at all practicing self care and he's going to yell at me.  By the time it's the day of the appointment ohmygosh I have to leave the house help help help I am, internally a mess.  The xenophobia and agoraphobia kick in and I don't even want to go into the garage, let alone all the way out into the world.This appointment is going to suck.  I have not taken my meds as I should.  I have eaten and drunk many things that I shouldn't.  This is part of a self-destructive cycle, and it will mean I shall be chastised by the doctor (who is really a terribly nice fellow and very good at his avocation and I did warn him that I am a difficult patient at best).  The cycle has to stop.  The way I am eating, the way I am living, will kill me.

So today I am fighting with myself.  No kidding, my heart is pounding!  I wasn't always like this.  Depression, yes, and then OCD and paranoia, but this...this...anxiety...is only a couple of decades old.  It's probably the youngest of the things on the plate.  It is mighty big sometimes, and vigorous, and just going to the grocery store can feel like a trial.  Leaving the house to be confronted by my own actions?  Too much.

My new shrink says I have anxiety and depression with a psychotic element (but I'm harmless, really!!!) (it's the paranoia, my old and faithful bugaboo, that is the element, in case you wondered) and my counselor is helping me sort it all out, but I have to leave the house to make things better.

My brain doesn't seem to grasp that logic and is screaming at me as I type that I have other things I need to do and can't I just this once reschedule and look, the sky may fall at any moment and people are horrid and there is gun violence and religious hatred and politicians run rampant in the streets and...and...pant...pant...pant...

My mind goes around and around and gnaws on itself, and this is constant, constant, every damned day, exhausting and occasionally overwhelming, and it's all internal so nobody sees it and it's easy to dismiss as not-real, irrelevant, because the cracks and leakage and rubble from past tussles are all in my head but if you could see in there, just catch a glimpse, it would rival any photograph of war-torn landscape you've ever seen!

I know it's not real.  It feels real enough, but I know it isn't.  It is my imagination on steroids.  It is the voice of the child I was who had no control over what others did to her, said to her, made her do.  It is the voice of fear trying to shatter the seemingly fearless shell I wear and I cannot let it win, not today.  Other days I can choose to change plans and stay in bed or curled up on the lounge with my kids watching movies, but today I can't.  Today I have to gird up my loins (which sounds much nicer than "suck it up, buttercup") and adult.

I don't want to adult.

I don't want to do anything.

Up and at 'em.

A Visit From the Doktor

Well, that was fun.

Yesterday was a total wash.  Sometime in the wee hours, our not-at-all-beloved-friend Doktor Barfnschitz paid a call.  When the Doktor comes around, it is never nice.  The kids were fine, but me?  Not so much.  I spent most of the day alternating between being horizontal on the big bed and dashing for the bathroom.  By mid-morning, I was as empty as a politician's promise.  By early afternoon I had several pulled muscles, a sore throat, and a deeply rooted aversion to consciousness.

Luckily, the Evil Genius was willing to step up and help with Sprout, and even more lucky (for him), Sprout opted to spend much of the day snoozing with me.  She was sick the day before, so I decided to let her snuggle rather than attempt, feebly, to chase her from the room.

Around midnight last night/this morning, I decided to take a chance and ate a fruit popsicle.  It did not make an encore appearance, thank goodness.  Right now I am eyeballing a cup of tea.

Meanwhile, my stomach and I have been having a back-and-forth.

"I'm hungry."
"No you're not."
"I AM!!!"
"I don't believe you."
"I've been empty for days!"
"Haven't."
"Have!"
"Haven't"
"Well at least since yesterday."  It pouts.
"Mmhmm.  I don't trust you.  You wouldn't even let me drink water yesterday."
"But I'm fine now, really.  Listen!  Hear that?"  It rumbles.  "I'm ready to eat!"
"I still don't trust you."
"I want Chinese food.  And french fries.  And ice cream."
"You sound like my children.  No.  If you're lucky you'll get dry toast as soon as you prove this tea is a keeper."
"Wha-a-a-a-at?"  It whines, grumble, and whimpers.
"You heard me.  Much like a politician's argument for anything, you couldn't hold water yesterday, so today we will go slowly until you can prove you are better."
"But...but..."
"No buts.  I have muscles that will ache for days because of your shenanigans."
"It's not fair!  I want pizza and sandwiches and chips and pot roast and..."
"Think about that the next time you invite Doktor Barfnschitz for a visit."

My stomach is mad at me, but I refuse to give in.  Feeling intense hunger pains is far better than yesterday's jolly sensations.

How're you today?

If Only Catching A Lottery Win Was This Easy

I have caught yet another cold.  I must say, this is something of an oddity for me.  I don't usually catch colds, but in the last three months I seem to have had enough for a decade.  Every few weeks...

It starts in the sinuses.  They run.  No.  Not run.  This is to running what Niagara Falls is to a trickle down a rock.  A box of Kleenex, a few rolls of toilet paper, and then I move on to the towels.  I sleep with wads of toilet paper shoved up my nose.  Glamorous, me.

After a day or so, it decides to do the grand tour and works its way down my poor sore throat and into my lungs.  It likes the surroundings so well, it stays for a while.  This brings on the ceaseless coughing, spasms wracking my body day and night with very few pauses for breath.  It leaves me weak and slow and feeling more useless than usual.  Throat still raw, head full of concrete and Jell-O, I weave about like a drunkard and need frequent naps.  Need but don't often get.  Sleeping at night is either a patchy affair punctuated by sudden onslaughts of coughing, or a drug induced, NyQuil fueled weird-dream fest ending in confusion and a sense of what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-my-mind muzziness that can only be dispelled by two or three cups of strong tea and a nap.

My usual difficulty motivating myself to go outside, out into the world, is compounded by these colds until I am content to remain in the same clothes for days and eat stale bread with the bottom-of-the-jar scrapings of peanut butter rather than go out.

Don't worry, the kids eat regular foods...I won't let them do without just because I'm not feeling like life is worth the effort right now.

Sadly, I am now out of NyQuil or its generic equivalent and am left to my own devices until I win the lottery and can buy more.  Holy cats, one could make a house payment for what that stuff costs!  And?  At least around here, one must produce one's identification to purchase, and even then may be denied if it's deemed one has been buying too much of the stuff of late.  This isn't the same as showing ID for the stuff they make meth from...this is because some teens somewhere figured out that swallowing an entire packet of those little gel-capsules would induce some kind of moderately enjoyable, drug-taking effect...just before it causes all kinds of havoc on their body and possibly damages their brain or kills them outright.  Fun!

If I could win the lottery as easily as I am lately catching colds, I wouldn't mind so much feeling like a bucket of fresh-brewed hell.  As it is, I am simply thankful that Campbell's makes pop-top soup cans and my kids don't mind oven baked chicken nuggets more than one night in a row.

If you'll pardon me, dear reader, I have to go hunt down another roll of toilet paper...or a clean towel.  How's your health?

Wherein I Whine A Bit Despite Knowing There Are Worse Things Happening In the World

Encore, je suis Charlie.

But I am also me, and "me" is dangling from the end of her rope and wondering why the hell she keeps hanging on or trying to climb back up it.  I think somebody has greased it about halfway up so I'll keep slipping down again.

My throat hurts.  It feels like there are rocks in it when I swallow, and even when I am simply sitting still, breathing, it burns.  I swear, I feel like I could breathe flames.  I have a cough.  It's not productive, unless you consider causing an achy back, sore muscles, sore ribs (I don't care if they say bones can't hurt, my ribs HURT!), a seriously displeased neck, inability to sleep, and occasionally making me pee a little when I don't want to (Ain't motherhood grand?)(Yes.  Yes it is.) productive...except in the morning when my sinuses have had all night to quietly, sneakily, drip, drip, drip their drippy drippings into my lungs, so as soon as I get up there is a sort of glacier-like sheet of I-don't-want-to-know-what-it-is coating them that brings on a spate of hacking that may or may not loosen up all that gunk and exacerbates the whole throat situation.

My spirit is dented, dinged, dingy, and dark.  Depression has me in its teeth and is shaking me, a dog with a rat, and I don't have time to deal with it - I am, for all intents and purposes, a single mother with two active, bright, annoyingly healthy (No, I don't wish them ill, not at all, not one little bit!) children, no income, chores to do, animals to care for, and responsibilities that I cannot hand off to anyone else.  I'm not getting much sleep at night, I am constantly feeling chilled or downright cold, and lately I am as stiff and a board when I move.  I am feeling The Beiges keenly right now, which means I am acutely aware of just how little I am worth to the world at large (despite assurances that I am wrong, I can't help what I feel, I can only help what I do about those feelings).  I am also feeling heightened anxiety when going out into the world, and am struggling to keep myself up and moving rather than huddled under my blankets and telling everyone and everything to piss off.  Mental illness is not a picnic, and right now it's kicking my ass a little.

I was supposed to pay my phone bills this week but the money disappeared.  Not "disappeared" as in I spent it on frivolous or even necessary things, but "disappeared" as in it was there last night and this morning it is not.  Seriously.  It was in my pants pocket when I took 'em off one night, and two days later when I put the pants back on (don't panic, I was getting dressed, just wearing different pants those days) so I could go pay my bills, it was gone.  Not in the pants.  Not on the floor.  Not under the furniture.  Not in any room or closet or cupboard or cubby or bag or box or shelf or sink or toilet or bedroom.  Not in the kitchen.  Not in the garage.  Not in the van, or the van, or the truck.  Not in one of my kids' room.  Not in any of the pockets of any of my other pants, nor in Someone's pants.  Somehow, $240 managed to disappear into thin air.  All I can figure it is fell out of my pocket when I was at the grocery store, but if it dd and someone found it, they kept it, because I called and asked and no one has turned anything in.  So...I am piggybacking on a neighbor's Internet until they figure out they should password protect it, and hoping I can sweet talk the phone company into not turning off my cell phone...too late for the house and Internet...and I'm supposed to feel like I'm not useless how, exactly?

The world has gone mad.  People are killing other people over gods and prophets because apparently those gods and prophets are so weak and useless that satire and disbelief damage them and must therefor be punished.  People are killing other people because of who the other people love, because apparent;y love is dangerous and could spread and then people might be happy, gods forbid.  People are killing other people because the other people think or look or act differently.  People are killing other people...

A long, long, long, loooooooong time ago I tied a knot in the end of my rope.  I won't let go and I won't fall off...but my figurative arms and my figurative hands are awfully tired of hanging on.

Food for Thought...

...or would that be "thought for food"?

The Evil Genius and I have been watching a show on BBCA - You Are What You Eat. Bird calls the hostess "The Health Superhero". I've been using the show to help explain how food affects our bodies, what's healthy and what's not, and which foods benefit which parts of the body.

I've always explained to him how things help make the body strong and healthy...or not...but if I'm going to watch TV, I am going to use it as a teaching tool, too.

We've talked about how having a brown or beige plate means an unbalanced meal - a healthy plate is a rainbow, or at least a broad palate of color. We discuss the idea of whole, fresh, and raw being healthier than processed, and the closer to origin a food is, the better for the body it is.

At six, my son knows more about healthy eating than many adults. I wish someone had made the effort with me - there's a good chance I wouldn't have the fifty-acre...erm...forty-acre...arse and health issues I have now if someone had just explained about calories, vitamins, minerals, fiber, all that. Instead, they berated, called me names, and withheld food. Sigh.

The thing is - it doesn't do any good to create a sense of deprivation, of "can't have", because then we fixate, cave, and binge. And what's the point of being healthy, of having healthy habits, if we can't enjoy the extra time we get from them? If all we can do with those extra hours is think about our "loss"?

Here's what I think: I think we should know, really know, what we eat. We should know what we're putting into our bodies. We should taste what we eat, be mindful of it, enjoy every bite. Food shouldn't be laden with guilt; guilt does as much harm as sodium, as fat, as excess carbs. We should be conscious, mindful eaters, and we should be permitted to enjoy what we eat, be it a chocolate eclair or sliced cucumbers, without bearing a judgemental assault from the world around us. We should make the choice to eat, to be healthy because it's what we want - and if we want to be a dietary disaster, then we should do so mindfully, consciously, and without complaint.

With food, as with everything else, we should accept personal responsibility for our actions and know that there are always consequences - positive or negative - to what we do.

What do you think?