To the Lincolnton Scoundrelettes

Ah, so you've taken to searching me out all over social media.  And following other people in cars. How... rude.  Ah, but when it comes to rudeness, I have no room to talk.  But then, this is my blog, a place protected by various things, including copyright law.  Reproductions are frowned upon.  Big old freaking frowns, too.

But then, I do have manners.
I wasn't raised in no dang barn.

Enjoy yourselves, make yourselves at home.  We've a whole empty outbuilding that can be fixed up for you, your children, your pets, lovers, friends, fiancés, and any stray relatives who'd love to tag along. It is just beyond the Animal Husbandry Barn Yard, at a suitable distance from the Insemination Gazebo, and far enough from our wing of Marlinspike Hall that you shall not feel spied upon.

One thing you should remember about this blog:  it's my place to vent, say what I please (but not necessarily what I believe), and to people who are my friends, be they of the Hergé sort or just soft-spoken Buddhist anarchists who have decided to live in a haus-boat that continually circles the moat.  It's also a place for people with CRPS to share research and clinical trial news, and a place for them to relax, to go aside and rest awhile.

I say some mean things here about you, about Mom.  I say a lot of nice things about you here, too, and about Mom.  I say them as I say them.  I say them as I feel them.  I say them based on things I know and you don't.  Sometimes I base them on misinformation that is fed to me.

I would appreciate being able to telephone the Mother-Unit without interference or the necessity of aid from sweet third parties.  But it's no big deal.  I truly hate the telephone.  There's not much to say on my end.  One day is remarkably like the other.  There's no point to your interference.  Who and what you are is known.  Most of what you've done is known, or guessed at.  And no one much cares.

In a random poll taken in the neighborhood, a hefty 99% of the polled say it's time for you to grow up.  So you go do that.

I'll stay here and make sure the ticking in your mattresses is the absolute freshest, that there are daisies, lilies, and tulips (for Lale) in cut-glass vases throughout the charmingly converted building come to be known simply as "The Turkey Baster." We need to rename it but that kind of thing just is not a priority.  If I have time to do some growing up, it will have to be between re-sodding our Wimbledon Replica Courts and baking a thousand caramelized onion with tomato jam tarts for the local Woe-Is-Me Chapter Fundraiser.

Be careful as you stroll about elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle.  Tante Louise, the local constabulary and gossip comptroller, patrols various posts and hallways.  She doesn't take kindly to litter, prevarication, violence, manipulation, or vandalism (which she defines in a most... original way).

Also take care that you do not in any way meander off the beaten path into the domains of my Brother-Units.  I consider myself their Gate Keeper, and you know what that means.  Anything goes and no one crosses that line.

There's no reason on God's formerly green Earth that relationships cannot be mended.  There is one criterion that can't be avoided, however, and, well, I would hope that is obvious by now.

You are worthy people, children of the aforementioned God, guests on His formerly green Earth. Be generous.  Be real.  Be compassionate.

I will try to learn to do the same.  My learning curve is not the greatest.  But I won't give up trying. I promise.  So let's not give up on one another, no matter how angry we feel.

You're surrounded by some good people -- Betty, Mac, Benita -- and you've access to many more. Listen to older, wiser voices.  There is nothing new under the sun.  This drama?  It's happening all over God's formerly green Earth, and began with the First Family -- by which I do not mean President Obama and his good kin.

This above all else, my half-siblings:  the next generation, those kids you are rasining?  Spare them the mistakes that we have made.  Expose them to new things, allow them to explore, allow them to disagree, give them some space.  Get them help if they need it.  Love them in such a way that they don't grow up confused about love or where to find it.  Let them know that their hearts are safe in your homes, and that's where their hearts will be. You've got real treasures in your care -- they are wonderful children!

While I slept for 26 hours...

While I slept for 26 hours, taking a few breaks, apparently, for water and such, our sweet Freakishly Large Maine Coon Kitten, Mr. Buddy, carefully piled on top of my dozing form, sometimes tucking them safely in the folds of one of several quilts, and once placing a sample so close to my snoring mouth, it's a wonder I didn't inhale it --

Toys.  Cat toys.  And small offerings of kibble pieces, as well as two beloved treats.

The message was clear:  Why won't you wake up and play with me?

Two mice.  Two balled up red mohair leg warmers, ready for tossing and a game of Fetch.  A bit of bubble wrap.  Three balls, one felt, one yarn, and one that I contend was meant for budgies, but what do I know -- it's hard and has a bell in it.

I am grateful for all these gifts, except for the tiny seafood treat an inch from my mouth.  Had I inhaled that sucker, all might have been lost.  Hmmm.

In a play for pity, not hearing a sound back here in the soundproof area of Marlinspike Hall -- one of the perks of living* in the executive suites -- I sent Fred an urgent email begging for caffeine.

*Okay, so technically, we are squatters, but since we've been caretakers, as well, of this magnificent manor for years now, and even were mentioned in the Haddock Corporation Annual Review, albeit as a misleading footnote, I think Fred, Bianca, and I can claim to live here, as well.  And since the Feline Triumvirate lives wherever we live, well, they have rights, too.
Which they abuse, constantly, but no one seems to mind.  Fred and I?  We can't get away with nothing...

Mais je divague...

You'd think Buddy would want a heavy-duty, intense play session after loading me down with all his beloved goodies, but no!  He sat there, staring at me, his back about as straight and rigid as a baby Maine Coon can pull off, and said:  "Look, have a little coffee, wake up, think about what you have done, and *then* we'll talk."

I am discovering, via their profound engorgement, lymph nodes heretofore unknown to me.  My respiratory tract is artfully producing colors and textures that Benjamin Moore would die to have in its line.

Once Buddy and my email alerted Fred to my consciousness, he came in to join in the make-fun-of-prof brigade, greeting me this way:  "What's wrong?  Are you sick?" He could barely get it out, it cracked him up so much.  He wasn't laughing after I beaned him with the big blue hard plastic ball we use to hide treats in... that Buddy had tucked into the crook of my elbow during my extended rest.

He makes the best coffee, does Fred.  So now I am wondering where my appetite might be.  It's gotta be around here somewhere.  I know yesterday was a day of yogurt, apples, and pepperoni slices -- ugh, alors.  (The French are all the time saying that.  "Ugh, alors.")  Right now, I am thinking that I will have to consume my daily requirement of probiotic yogurt, but even that usual pleasure makes me nauseous at the mere thought.  "What's wrong?  Are you sick?" Very funny, Fred, very funny.

He is, you know.  Very funny.  With my foreign language background, you'd think I could do a fair imitation of at least most Romance Languages, but no.  I have a great accent when speaking the language, but cannot do the pretend-while-speaking-English thing.  But Fred can, and does.  Often when he thinks no one can hear him, which is the most hilarious.  He bends genders, too.  He breaks into this grandmother's Irish brogue that kills me.  That usually emerges while he's cooking. Then there's a Germanic/teutonic (Viking, Swede, Finn) mélange that every damn body gets to enjoy whenever Fred faces The Moat in the never-ending Algae Bloom Battles.

Lately, he worries about having Alzheimer's Disease.  I never pooh-pooh anyone's health worries -- well, except for ridiculous people who take to Twitter when they think they are dying, in lieu of, O I Dunno, calling an ambulance -- but want to pooh-pooh this one.  Fred is older than me by 15 years, but sharper than a very young Yogi Bear.  No, seriously, his mentation is to be envied, his memory, divine.

On my birthday, when I sent him flying around Tête de Hergé after sundown in search if Indian delicacies, he found himself in an unknown area southwest of the Lone Alp, and panicked.  Just because he is New York City born-and-bred does not mean that he has innate savy taxi driver know-how when in new territory.  Anyway, that started the Alzheimer's Watch.  Kind of like how a soft winter rain triggers Tante Louise's News Outlets to put the entire region on StormWatch 2013.

But in a way, his worry is a blessing, for I am using it -- as women will -- to encourage the scheduling of a check-up.  I feel like a crafty District Attorney, countering the Defense's objection with:  "But, Your Honor, the Defendant opened the door to this line of inquiry with the mention of Alzheimer's Disease." And the presiding judge nods sagely, with eye-brow raised, and curtly notifies my drably-dressed legal opponent, "He did, you know.  Proceed.  Objection overruled."

I'm being gentle about it, thus far.  Of course, thus far, the only thing that my suggestion has produced is that Fred took all three cats to the vet.  Two of them more than a month early.

We'll get there.

What worries me, but not him, is all the falling down around here.  It may be fine with my half-siblings back in the States to let my Mom go *boing* once a day or so, but I have a problem with all the *kabooming* Fred has been doing.  After hours of snazzy contra dancing, he fell down the steps of the high school gym on the way out.  Walking by the bed, he ran into the annoying knobby end and *bam* -- down he went.

Okay, there are extenuating circumstances.  He blames his glasses for the gym steps' descent -- something about how the bottom rim obscures his vision when he glances down.  Hmmm.  Okay, okay.  The bed?  That was somehow my fault, as his immediate response was:  "When are you going to do something about that?" Hmmm. Nope, that's a no go.  The other occasions involved him donning thick wool socks and then rushing over polished floors.  And yes, Bianca has once again fallen prey to the old "wax the stairs" fixation...

Speaking of The Milanese Nightingale, has anyone seen her?  Maybe she felt such guilt after waxing everything within sight that she's run off to hide for a bit -- not wanting to face the pile of orthopedic bills that Haddock Corporation is refusing to pay.  Or... maybe I should check to see if she's been impounded again, like some stray car.  Fred -- oh, how to put this -- Fred "disabled" her bedside alarm clock, which plays "her" aria in an unending loop, after six hours or so of:
"Je ris de me voir..."

Still, she's my girl.  She wouldn't make fun of me right now.  She'd find Sven and Cabana Boy (oy!) and order up some tea and buttered toast, get a Duke F'blastic Ball game on the telly, put on her giant #1 finger, get into a suitable f'blastic ball outfit, and everyone would pile -- ever so carefully -- so as not to cause moi a bit o'pain or spill the Jameson, I mean, the Earl Grey -- in bed with me, the kitty babes included... and we'd all engage in an extensive purr-r-r-r-r-r.

Or I could roll over and go back to sleep.

Probably wake up, this time, with a litter box on my head.

brothers, boxes, and just enough ladles: merry christmas!

oh, this blog entry is gonna be all over the darned place.

you'll love it!

well, you'll love it if you love me, if you know me.  if you've just wandered in, looking for CRPS research abstracts, or elogies to pain... oh, damn, here we go.  "elogies." excuse the heck out of me, but i am going to substitute the french "éloges" because i certainly am not referencing some down-in-the-mouth funeral oration or the light fiction of an obituary.  and see?  see?  see how my own darned self has killed any natural momentum to the act of writing by an obsession with words?

only one dictionary of the three consulted listed a definition having to do with praise, and that dictionary underscored the "archaic" nature of that meaning.  none would have appreciated, were dictionaries capable of appreciation, mine own irony.

i just finished mouthing off to some important people in my life, and my mouth did it -- again and again.  that these people love me back is one of the great mysteries of the universe.

to TW, the subject line might have been a canary sufficient to the coal mine:  "i have so much to say..." but he is far, far from timorous, and probably read on to the opening of the elucidating message text, even as the little bird fell like a ten pound rock to the bottom of her newspapered cage:

...and yet i can't.  damn that samuel beckett.  [i can never remember whether he ends his last name with one T or two Ts, so i look it up, and every time, google suggests "bucket."]
so i will stick to the stuff that matters.

it turns out that "the stuff that matters," judging by the relative subject-weighting as distributed in this morning's anemic oxygen-debted febrile communiqués (for which spell-checker demands "communism"), is dehydrated vegetables.  more specifically, how to use them in a stew.

a stew that is rich and deep, melded by something part gravy-with-sheen, part viscous broth.  all of which will be ruined by chicken.  (i have emergent need of protein.)

a missing detail:  TW has been intimate with these vegetables, having sown, overseen, harvested, and dried them -- before gifting us manor squatters with their dessicated, concentrated goodness in the traditional Celebratory Box.  the beautiful history of TW's Boxes can be found in some of this mass of earlier posts or more quickly captured at the first's box arrival, HERE.

it's a weighty issue, and by that i mean that i am talking about dehydrated vegetables again:

for instance... can i treat the dried maters like sun-dried maters -- as in DON'T dilute their intensity?  or should i rehydrate everything before using, in which case, what happens to cooking times?  if i wanted to make a stew... can dehydrated veggies stand up to crock pot treatment or does that just wipe out their beautifully preserved virtues?

you may be thinking something along the lines of "i wonder if anyone ever actually gets to EAT at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé?" yes, smartass, when i cook, there is plenty of eating in the aftermath, usually with great praise.  born of starvation, perhaps, but great praise, nonetheless.

in any event -- a favorite phrasing -- this is kind of a belated christmas post.  or winter solstice party, quieted by a blanket of snow.

because as i cast my eyes about -- and sadly, i can -- i note that, once again, it is TW's gift, his plain brown boxes, that is the gift truly given, and -- finally, today, or any minute now -- truly received.

fred just inquired, all polite and all, "ummm, is there an ETA on that stew or should i go ahead and eat a little something now to tide me over?"

i love it when he whispers sweet nothings in these ears.

lest you think kindly of me, or even consider a revision in that direction, here's another epistolary extrait to a dear friend earlier this morning, mid-first cup of coffee, and after the dehydrated veggie soliloquy (she's a good cook), an extract having to do with me and my various bitchy attitudes at Christmas time:

bitter and fed up?  me? 

i kept thinking:  my stepmom, stepsister, and brother grader boob are all gathered at the beach, celebrating xmas the way i grew up celebrating it... i actually have a family that might welcome me... and here i am, doing THIS. 

yes, i about fell out of bed -- i got an email from my mom and stepsis, and one from the boob, separately.  they were nice, friendly, sweet.  it's like all anyone was waiting for was for dad to croak.  it reminds me of when he did his in-country service in vietnam -- that was the happiest year of our lives.

how ugly and crass is that comment, hmmm?  and yet i made it, and repeat it, here.  the feeling in my stomach the day he returned home had nothing to do with the joys of reunion, but the reignited fears of failure, and grief over the death of freedoms and lightness, the death, the agonal breaths, of lightness.

so, john lennon, yes, this is christmas... and what have i done?  nothing yet.  but i am getting ready to do the most ancient form of the freestyle crawl, not out of primordial slime, or even out of algae-flowered moat water, but out of this blasted bed, into the power chair, with a stop to freshen up, so as not to scare the genetically indentured domestic manor staff* on duty this fine afternoon -- finally heading out, smiling and humming, to one of my favorite kitchens in this wing of the place. (it has the cleanest spit and many shiny, copper-bottomed cookware, with just enough ladles hanging about, for ladling, and usually with sven and/or cabana boy hanging about, as well, for company.)

ETA on the stew?  ha! your guess is as good as mine.



* i've yet to publish the definitive documentation, nor have i made a clear explanation of how the genetically indentured domestic manor staff came into being, for i kinda fear for my life should i do so, but i did dip a toe in those waters, briefly, at the beginning of the infamous Looking Up the Garderobe Chute post.

LATE-BREAKING ADDENDUM:  We are proud to announce the successful creation and consumption of a delicious stew.  It had depth.  It had just enough heat for a first go-round with the beautiful peppers and chiles and tomatoes.  Two huge bowls, normally dedicated to pasta dishes, were consumed per diner, and more might have been eaten were it not for the necessity to finish off the remains of Fred's various birthday cakes.  For my brethren and sistren stewmeisters, I used a potato-onion-tomato-cream base and built from there.  Booze was involved, also chicken (Did I mention an emergent need for protein?  Fast and easy protein?  Think "protein whore, protein skank," and whaddaya think?  CHICKEN!), plus roasted, shredded, beautifully crunchy brussels sprouts, diced sweet, sweet carrots.  As for spices, I was a bit boring -- sage, rosemary... but mostly thyme.  No matter what flavor profiles were considered, my mind kept returning to thyme.
Next attempt -- probably next Wednesday, on behalf of the Militant Lesbian Existentialist Feminists (and darling Fred) for their Wednesday night supper, when I will be aiming for more heat.  I am training those women to have asbestos palates.  It's a necessity in this new millennium, this new world.

"Thank you" will do nicely

I don't think anyone will hear my last words. I will probably be in the bathroom, water running, bubbles in the air -- that odious cheap perfume of the cheap shampoo I begged for, everywhere, in every steamed-open, gaping pore.

Or my audience will consist of cats. A faithful audience and not one to regret, however, I estimate that one of the three currently in residence suffers from a hunger so gnawing that he'd eat me within ten minutes of my surcease. Sure, he'd hold the chipped and sharp-edged round make-up mirror to my mouth, hoping against vapor. Lacking any sign of life, the felines know the ultimate test and Dobby will surely wave a mug of steamy dry-processed Haile Selassie from the Dara area of Ethiopia's Sidamo province under my deceased nose.

Yes, I have been dreaming of a trip to the Farmer's Market Coffee Pavilion.

If Fred finds me, I predict he will promptly take a nap -- after tossing a sheet over me, shooing away the cats, and shutting the door. If I am in the bedroom, he'll crash on the sofa in the library. Or maybe on the futon up in the Computer Turret, though that's a bit far to ask someone in the early stages of mild euphoria to travel.

Anyway, presuming myself, and my self, alone, to be my ultimate audience, what will I say, I wonder? I decided to practice this morning, though I stress to you, Dear Reader (You seem so far away, so dim... come closer!), that this is not theater. No "magic if," no method.

First, though, I laugh, because what I just said to you, I said to myself, as well, and realized how foreign, how divorced from who-i-am is the idea of no theater, no "magic if," no method. Because the first thing I did was the first thing I always do when beginning any inquiry: I begged the question.

Begging the question (Latin petitio principii, "assuming the initial point") is a type of logical fallacy in which a proposition is made that uses its own premise as proof of the proposition. In other words, it is a statement that refers to its own assertion to prove the assertion.

No, no need to get all Aristotelian on me, now.  All I mean by that,  is this:  Why do we say anything?  At any time, to anyone, including to our lone selves as sole interlocutors?  I am not begging the question; I am raising others.  Try and stick me, and in my dying moments, too, with a logical fallacy, will you?  If you applied yourself, I am sure you'd realize that what I'm actually guilty of is... Applied Circuitry.

Oh, I am cracking myself up, and I haven't even started yet.  You don't like "circuitry"?  Okay, use "circuitousness," instead, but it's an ugly word, and I mean that in the nicest way possible.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I will utter some strange neologism, or, as I just demonstrated, I'll misuse some established idiom -- not trying to be clever, just doing what I've always done, cavorting in the margin.  Most likely, whether neologism or perversion, it will come out garbled.  Gobbledygook. 

For some reason, I also think it likely that I will say "Who knew?" --  then give half a laugh, and croak.  Dying mid-laugh has a certain appeal.

What is certain?  Well, it won't be drawn out, or consist of the terribly polysyllabic.  One of the first things to go, you know, is the vital blood supply to the tongue.  So even if your brain isn't completely anemic, your mouth most likely won't cooperate much with complicated goings-on at the tail end of life.  In the bathroom, whiffing lavender suds, wondering who will clean The Manor now, and just generally at wit's end, I won't be inclined to recite the Krebs cycle.

Everything changes, of course, if I am not alone.  Then, be my company animal or human, I think there is only one thing to say:  Thank you.  And maybe, though it seems a little persnickety, "Good luck!"

I would not, though, say it to all life forms.  I would not, for example, say it to an ant, and never, ever to a roach.  O God! Save me from a roach, there at the last!

There are many of you who think I am missing the point.  Do you accuse me of circumlocution, and of having dropped the point off mid-escapade?  Or do you think I never knew the point, and my circuitousness is a failed attempt to mask how utterly lost I am, and will be?  Shouldn't I speak to God, at the moment I come undone?  Well, smarty-pants, that may work for you but I've always felt immensely silly, forcing words on God.

I just don't know.  I do think that last words, thoughts, and expressions don't carry the import that the living give them -- unless, of course, you're identifying your murderer, making a heartfelt confession, or telling Fred the password to the Fidelity account.

We must try to have everything said -- an option that allows for different last words and differing final conversations, attentive and thoughtful, each. Failing that, I think "Thank you" will do nicely.

Today, right now, I am not convinced of the inappropriateness of laughter, or of the stony nature of silence.

In all likelihood, my ending will encompass, but not reflect, the surprise of oncoming traffic, the shock of a gun barrel, or the crushing pain of an infarct.  The blessing of fading into sleep, quiescent, seems a childish hope now, but I do still hope for it. Slipping away during a nap could save me a lot of embarrassment.