Tuesday, November 26, 2002

As if I wasn't irrationally angry enough.

In happier news, Kevin's been offered a job. Well, he's been offered a shot at a job. Melissa at A. (the firm he worked for a few years ago, not the Evil Company he currently is employed by) has submitted his resumé to the State of North Carolina. She's "almost positive" he'll get the job. I'm almost positive I'll jump into a lake if he doesn't.

It would be so nice to get out of here again. We'll have to decide between Charlotte or Raleigh. (Hmm, let me think...) The consulting firm actually apologized for the low rate they originally mentioned; never mind that that "low rate" was nearly double his current hourly rate. They then came up with a number that seemed outrageously high, to me anyway, and told Kevin apologetically that that was the absolute highest they could go. We giggled about this later.

I saw the short, straightforward e-mail he sent Melissa: "For X amount, I will definitely take the job. For Y amount, I will most likely take the job. For Z amount, I will probably take the job. Feel free to submit the amount you think is best."

So. A doubled payrate, and per diem. And a city far away from here. I desperately want to start packing, but it will probably be a while before we hear anything. This does have to do with state government, after all.

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

YES FINALLY AN UPDATE

On work:

I'm halfway through my design course. Not bad for eight months' work, I suppose. My floor sketches have improved immensely, and I can't look at a design magazine without quizzing myself on furniture styles. All this talk of styles like Louis XIV/XV/XVI, Directoire, Empire, etc. have moved me to start studying French again after all this time, too. It's fun.

My own house remains woefully undecorated, in part because I'm not sure how long we'll be here. Some major changes are scheduled to take place at Highmark in the spring. If we're lucky, we'll go someplace interesting. Just get me out of Dunbar, please. It's been almost a year since we came back from Tennessee, and sometimes I miss it so much I can't stand it.

On Speck:

The battle over neutering continues. I want the poor dog fixed. Kevin is squicked out by the procedure and thinks it's unnecessary. I've nearly convinced him, though, with a little help from Speck himself and some friends who are tired of plucking the dog off their legs and arms time after time.

There were a few days this month when Speck acted really strangely---whining constantly, playing very little, avoiding cuddling. When we went walking---and we walked a lot---he brought out every rebellious little trick he knows, and made a beeline for one particular lawn. Princess lives there, and Chessie frequents that patch of grass too, so it's pretty clear now what was up.

Even worse than the personality changes, though, was the fact that he turned vicious on me on two occasions. Both times we were just playing normally, and I started to pick him up the same as always, and he suddenly snarled and tried to bite.

The first time this happened, we were here in the office. I dumped the dog in the hallway and closed the door, leaving him out there while Kev and I discussed what could have gone wrong. I thought maybe I'd accidentally pinched him somehow, or his harness had pinched, or something. At any rate, when I opened the door a few minutes later I was still pretty shaken, not to mention angry, so I just passed Speck by without remark on my way to the bedroom. He was sitting just outside the door, one paw lifted in confusion.

Kevin came out behind me. Later he said he'd glared at Speck for a few seconds, and then he joined me in the bedroom. Speck didn't follow. When I had finally had all I could stand of shunning the dog, say about three minutes' worth, I went out into the hall. Speck was on the landing, crouched down, wide-eyed and trembling all over. It was heartbreaking.

Unfortunately it happened again a couple of days later, and we had to put him out again. Soon afterwards he suddenly started acting like his old self again, and he's been better-behaved and more affectionate than ever.

Except for the endless humping, that is. He attaches himself to everyone who comes into the house. After a walk, he is often worked up into quite a frenzy, which results in him attacking Kevin's shins. It would be funny if the poor pup wasn't so miserable.

SO. If I can just get my husband past the idea that this procedure will damage Speck's psyche as profoundly as it might that of a human male, we're in business. Come on, the dog doesn't CARE. All he knows is that he's incredibly frustrated. As for me, I'm tired of having to constantly call him down or put him on the porch when we have company.

There has been some talk of breeding him once first, because we would like to have more dogs of the Speck line. I guess we'll see.

On holidays:

BAH.

On football:

BAH. This means you, Kansas City.

On mailing projects:

I'm slacking. FORGIVE ME

On treadmill:

Me and the four pounds I've suddenly gained, right now.

Sunday, July 14, 2002
05:19 p.m.

Lovely, lovely weekend. Rainy but pleasant. Not too hot, not too humid, not too chilly---perfect.

Yesterday morning---got up early and drove downtown. Speck needed shampoo and something for hot spots, so first stop was Green’s Feed and Seed. I love Green’s. They have everything. Gravel, mulch, stone, gorgeous plants, tools, everything a dog or cat or horse could ever want. Plus staff who know what they’re talking about.

Oh, and a really fired-up saleslady pitching Nutra dog food. We wound up with free samples---a little pouch of treats Speck can’t seem to get enough of, and a four pound bag of dog food. Free. Seems to be good stuff, too.

Then over a block or so to the farmer’s market---Capitol Market now. Speck on a short leash, straining; me in a too-large windbreaker with the hood falling over my eyes; Kevin braving the elements (mostly runoff from the Interstate bridges overhead) in shorts and t-shirt. Oh god, look at the tomatoes. The squash! Half-runners, zucchini, melons. I was hungry.

I would happily have loaded the car with plants, but we just bought some yellow squash, a fat green tomato and a couple of hot peppers. Speck made friends with the old man selling the tomatoes while our veggies were weighed and paid for. These went back into the car with Speck, who is not allowed into the indoor part of the Market.

Indoors…that amazing hot fresh bread smell. I picked out peaches and plums and celery and ginger root and spinach and asparagus. Kev was thrilled to discover a quart jar of honey with the comb still in, and a jar of some kind of relish called “hot and spicy chow-chow”. Back at home, he stirred some into a bowl of white beans, making two nasty-looking concoctions into one even more nasty-looking concoction. It made him very happy, though.

On we went through the Market, reluctantly leaving the mounds of ripe strawberries and bright Gala apples behind. The indoor portion of the Capitol Market is in the old train station: weathered brick walls, high ceilings, windows high up under the eaves. Just past the produce and the bakery is a little seafood shop with several tables and a wonderful smell. Then a shop loaded with hot sauces and soft drinks, where we stopped to buy a Jamaican ginger beer. Next a butcher’s. There we bought bacon and four big chicken drumsticks from a guy I knew from high school. (I remember him coming into AP History one day after doing two hits of acid at lunch. He spent a lot of the period staring wide-eyed down at his notebook while leaning as far away from it as he could without falling out of his chair. Apparently something in there was coming to get him.) There’s a small shop for dogs, with the usual mix of cute collars and squeaky toys and gourmet biscuits and treat canisters and doggie clothing. Another selling overpriced Ghirardelli chocolates and Republic of Tea merch. Then the “made in West Virginia” stuff---all your canned sauces and maple syrup candies and chili mixes. And at the far end, the wine shop.

We went all the way back through in order to stock up on sugar-free Amish chocolates. Did you know that the Amish make a killer rum meltaway? Now you do.

Eventually we made it back home. Kevin went to shoot pool with his cousin. I did a lot of ironing and watched “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner”. God, how I love Katharine Hepburn.

“Now I have some instructions for you. I want you to go straight back to the gallery. When you get to the gallery, tell Jennifer that she will be looking after things temporarily. . .Then go into the office and make out a check for cash for the sum of $5,000. Then carefully remove absolutely everything that might subsequently remind me that you had ever been there. Then take the check for $5,000, which I feel you deserve, and get permanently lost. It's not that I don't want to know you, although I don't. It's just that I'm afraid were not really the sort of people that you can afford to be associated with.”

That strident voice and her clipped Old Hartford accent... "Don't talk, Hilary. Just drive." Fabulous.

With all the produce I’d bought yesterday, I was busy planning a week of carb-cutting and sugar-busting. Then we get to Hell-Mart this morning and Kev says: “Breyers ice cream…on sale! $2.75.” Oh hell. He loves that stuff. I don’t so much love it as I am compelled to eat it if it’s in the house. And naturally, he bought some. So much for cutting sweets.

So, now: five-something on Saturday afternoon. I’ve had three bowls of ice cream. Chet and Kevin are playing Axis & Allies in the basement. Dishes are soaking, washing machine running. I’ve just made them some macaroni salad. Coldplay’s “Parachutes” is a beautiful song. Sounds like…I can’t think who. Mazzy Star, maybe. Very dreamy, lots of slide guitar, some guy who sounds like Adam…Adam Whatever from Counting Crows. But no Hope Sandoval. No Hope.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the part of this entry where I ramble even less coherently than usual! I’d better stop before it gets worse.

Friday, July 12, 2002
05:16 p.m.

There’s a certain neighbor on our block---let’s call her The Nightmare Tenant--- who is in the process of moving, and everyone would be breathing a huge sigh of relief if it wasn’t for the collective holding of breath.

TNT started out quiet enough. She apparently screamed like a banshee at her kids, but then she’s a teacher. It’s probably second nature by now. And her boyfriend’s old Caprice sounded oddly like a Harley being gunned through the parking lot. A Harley with a very large sound system. But hell, my car sounds like a B-25 taxiing by, so I couldn’t really complain about that.

The boyfriend was a really unique individual. (By “unique” I mean “obnoxious”.) One Saturday afternoon I was outside talking to Anju while several mothers with strollers were doing laps of the street. Mr. Smooth idled by in his Caprice with its 20-inch rims and its sputtering 350 and sent the white suburban babymommas into a flutter of indignation by hollering: “Get the fuck back up in your cribs.”

Ooh, a hot ride AND a way with a pun. Hold me back. (By “hot ride” I mean “shitty late-model hooptie”.)

Not long afterwards I watched this car stall while trying to surmount a speed bump. Oh, if only it had been that day.

He disappeared shortly thereafter. No, he’s not locked in the basement of one of the mommies being forced to watched endless Teletubbies reruns while subsisting on Goldfish crackers. Even better: he’s locked up in South Central for shooting a DNR officer out on I-64. Buh-bye, dumbass.

The girlfriend---The Nightmare Tenant---stuck around. Life quieted down. At least until her two pit bulls, the ones she’d apparently begun training to be vicious, started escaping the house. That’s when the real fun began.

On our block there is a rather large lady. We’ll call her Deb. Deb has this tendency to fall down and not be able to get back up again. Last year she fell down in her backyard and broke her hip or something. Neighbors gathered around and chatted until the ambulance came. Hey, excitement is excitement, and around here we don’t get enough of it to be picky.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago Deb was going visiting, and she stepped in a hole and fell down and couldn’t get back up again. So there she lay while someone called 911. In the meantime, one of TNT’s two pit bulls got loose, so the police were also summoned to stand guard over Deb until the ambulance came. Someone called the humane officer, who was on vacation but apparently dropped everything for the chance to nab yet another pesky pit bull. And for whatever reason, two fire trucks arrived in the midst of all this chaos.

Keep in mind that we live on a cul-de-sac. With a narrow street, and a walled-in island of grass in the middle. The ambulance came and took Deb. The humane officer came and took the dog. All seemed well until one of the fire trucks, an immense tanker that had been wedged into a tiny parking area, backed into one of the two police cars.

All in all, it took two cops, an ambulance, two fire trucks and a humane officer to deal with the fact that a lady fell down and a dog got loose.

Everyone, with the possible exception of Deb, had a good laugh. TNT’s next-door-neighbor was relieved about the fact that at least one of the dogs was now gone (it’s Kanawha County law that any pit bull captured by the humane officer must be euthanized). “They do with dog manure what you and I do with snow,” he said to Terri (MY next-door neighbor) and me, “they shovel it off the edge of the patio. Not into the woods, not even down to the treeline…just right off into the yard.” Ugh.

One of the board members suggested that we all keep a close eye on our dogs, and ourselves, for that matter; there was still one dog, and a few people had been jumped on or threatened in some way by the dogs. Things then quieted down again.

But wait! The fun wasn’t over. One morning a U-Haul truck clanked up the hill, followed by The Nightmare Tenant’s car. I did a little victory dance, thinking of being able to walk Speck without stressing about marauding attack dogs.

That evening, I noticed a pair of police cars parked outside. By now this isn’t all that unusual, so I went about my business. Later that evening, though, Kevin and I were walking the dog and happened to notice that the wall lining the inside of the circle looked a little strange. (By “strange” I mean “pounded into dust with chunks of rock falling out onto the street”.) Just then a truck pulled up and out hopped two members of the Homeowners’ Association Board of Directors with a camera and a yardstick and distasteful expressions.

“What happened?” Kev asked as one of them snapped pictures.

“They hit it with a U-Haul.”

“How do you hit that with a truck!? It runs parallel to the street.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

And so it continues.

Friday, June 7, 2002
10:01 a.m.

The Great To-Do List now contains only 26 items, not counting the 3,247,682 boiling around in my brain. Last night Kevin re-hung the towel bar and finally put the cover on the light/fan in the master bathroom, then held Speck while I clipped his nails (oh, the trauma), then held Speck while I washed and rinsed him, then ordered a new shower curtain while I was painting the basement floor. Painting the basement floor isn't even on the List, and it was nearly midnight. I have clearly lost my mind.

The nail-clipping thing is what put me over the edge. I'm terrified of accidentally cutting to the quick or pinching some skin or something, and Speck makes me a nervous wreck by wiggling and twisting and suddenly trying to yank his paw away. So last night I'd gotten all the nails clipped except the back left dewclaw, which to my amazement had grown in a tight curve back toward the pad of his foot. After several attempts I managed to almost get the clippers positioned to nip off the tip---which is when Speck suddenly decided he didn't want to be there and jerked his foot away, leaving me with what looked like the whole nail broken off in my hand. Kev and I both panicked until we realized that not only did Speck not feel anything, but there was also about a third of the original nail left over. It must have been pretty brittle to have broken off before I even closed the clippers on it.

Next time, the vet does the clipping. (I could never have children, could I?)

Sometime last night my mother called to tell me a long story about my constipated stepfather, J. "Ever since his hernia surgery yesterday he's been having trouble moving..." ---and I'm thinking No. No, you are not about to say what I think you're about to say.---"...his bowels." I can't believe you just said that. "He's been complaining about it---" I am SO not picturing you guys having this conversation. "...so I told him 'here, this is prune juice, you need to drink this.' So I poured him a glass, and he said (here she began to sound uncannily like a 53-year-old sounding uncannily like a 3-year-old), 'That much!?'"

By now I was beginning to snicker in spite of my squick-edness.

"This morning," she continued, "still no luck. I told him he probably should take a laxative pill. 'Take one, J.,' I said."

Ohhhhh no.

"So later I called the house---no answer. I called G."---J.'s twin brother---"and got no answer. Finally I called their mom's house and the twins were there. So I'm talking to J., and he's talking reeeaaally sloooowwwly."

She called Dr. Al-haj's office and talked to Karen, who listened to the story, called J. and confronted him, called Mom back, and laughed like a hyena. "He says he just took two pills, and since then all he's had is castor oil, and 'only two tablespoons of that!'" she hooted. "He's not gonna like this, but here's what you're going to have to do..."

So a few minutes later Mom calls J. again.

By the time Mom left work, of course, the impasse had ended, and apparently my mother's first inclination was to call me. She's a sick puppy, my mum.

Now I must get back to work, but one more thing:

Thursday, June 6, 2002
10:45 a.m.

I seem to be having a Martha Stewart moment.

Beginning this weekend, some friends from Holland will be staying with us. I don't even know how long they'll be here, but I do know that the house will be damn clean when they get here, so we've launched into this frenzy of cleaning and organizing and repairing.

There's new cedar mulch in all the flower beds, the deck's half-stained, the laundry's all clean, the basement floor is actually visible, and the half-inch layer of Speck hair has been removed from the interior of the car, which is currently in the shop having the oil changed, the air filter cleaned, the A/C repaired, and the spark plugs and wires replaced. We've bought extra pillows and stocked up on ice and emptied the drawers in the guest bathroom.

In spite of this, there are still 51 items on my to-do list, and I'm sure I've forgotten something.

Yvette hasn't been here since...oh, 1997. She first came here in the early '90s as an exchange student, and during her last visit she stayed with her host family again. In their laundry room, she reported, there were dirty clothes on the floor exactly where they'd been when she'd left the last time. I sincerely hope she was mistaken and that the pile of clothes was actually the pet ferret's preferred napping spot or something. At any rate I don't know what I'm worried about. My house is cluttered, but it's clean.

None of this changes the fact that I'm a paranoid freak, so between episodes of Monty Python and Ground Force and stolen bits of Sims time you'll find me doing things like digging plumber's putty out from behind the shower-head ring.

Hey, I found pictures. We spent a weekend at someone's camp in some state park:

Then we spent a day at a waterpark, where Yve's then-boyfriend Corné and I won $300 with a Coke bottle cap:

And we all had dinner at some generic steakhouse chain restaurant with peanut shells on the floor:

Good times, good times.

Tuesday, May 7, 2002
12:58 p.m.

Do me a favor, dear reader, and take this bit of advice: when your doctor switches your meds and you begin to feel depressed, do not begin to forget to take your daily dose of Klonopin. Also, do not quit drinking coffee cold turkey just then. The combination will make you crazy, I promise.

There was a moment last week when I thought, my head is actually going to explode. There was a moment the week before that when I thought, I'm not a suicidal person; I don't want to die; yet it seems sometimes like it might be such a relief.

Then I started drinking coffee again and realized I'd been forgetting the Klonopin (which should never be stopped without a slow tapering off of the dosage), and I discovered I had some fight left in me after all.

Edna loaned me a book called Stop Depression Now! which is mostly about a supplement called SAM-e. Apparently SAM-e has most of the good effects of synthetic antidepressants without the pesky side effects. So now I'm taking that, along with 800 mcg. of folic acid, 10 mg. of vitamin B12, 200 mg. of Wellbutrin, and the odd Klonopin and/or Xanax. I was also given a prescription for Prozac. I am a walking pharmacy. Is it any wonder I feel like shit?

Right now, for instance, I'm sitting here soaking my feet in hot water, trying not to hyperventilate, with the phone book open to the number of a doctor I have yet to summon the courage to call and actually make an appointment with. I'm every inch as anxious as I used to be, several years ago, when a knock on the door could bring on a panic attack. That doesn't happen now, but the tension is still here. This tells me the meds aren't really doing their thing, which means I need to go back and have them adjusted, and there's the rub:

...there's nothing to go back to. Some doctor who was previously associated with Edna and her practice did something---nobody's very clear on what, exactly, but it seems to involve some incorrect bookkeeping---and if she hasn't been shut down yet, I assume she soon will be. Which sucks mightily for her, obviously. Also for those of us having our prescriptions written there. Dr. Kao, the resident psychiatrist, will obviously be leaving too.

She cluelessly left me her number at CAMC and directions on how to find her, saying that I needed to call on Monday (this was a Saturday) to make an appointment with her or one of her colleagues. Most of them have extremely long waiting lists, she said. I just sat there wondering if she remembered that I was being treated for agoraphobia and panic attacks and that "CAMC General, 4 West" was not somewhere I was likely to be able to go ASAP. Hospitals unnerved me long before I was panicky. And the last time I visited that one, I came out of it a complete fucking wreck.

(Let me just pause here and explain what I mean by "panic". Say you're crossing the street and suddenly a bus comes out of nowhere, headed straight for you. That feeling, that flash of terror? Is not half of what panic disorder can throw your way. But imagine living with that feeling for an hour at a time, or having it triggered for no reason or for a stupid reason, and you begin to get the idea why I don't just "get over it". It isn't your normal, garden-variety fear. Okay! End of defensive lecture.)

This SAM-e stuff is not enough, and a bottle of 30 tablets costs around $30. Maybe I'll go get the Prozac instead. It's much cheaper.

Ugh, I HATE this.

Luckily Kevin and I have started the Practice Sessions again. The hard part---er, one of the hard parts---is staying focused on what exactly it is I'm supposed to be practicing. The idea is to go into situations that make you anxious and learn to function in spite of the anxiety, but supposedly you never really kick the panic monster unless you learn to "utterly accept" whatever symptoms it may bring. I am supposed to go out expecting to feel like hell, accepting that it will happen. I am supposed to then accept the churning stomach, dry mouth, lump in the throat, strange tricks of vision, pounding heart, dizziness, and shortness of breath. This is all according to Claire Weekes, of course. She's very practical and she cuts to the chase. It's just that when she starts saying that I must accept the symptoms, not put up with the symptoms, she sort of loses me. I'm not really clear on the difference. So I get out there, I get panicky, and I forget what it is exactly I'm supposed to be learning.

And then I come home and write long, dull entries about it. Isn't this fun?

Change of subject: Kevin's got an appointment with an ear-nose-throat specialist in a couple of hours. Hopefully we'll find out what's going on in that head of his. He nearly died as a baby, because he had extra adenoids and they nearly suffocated him. Yes, extra adenoids. Seven, if I recall correctly. They were removed, but there was always the possibility of something growing back, apparently. Now he can't breathe through his nose, hasn't been able to for years, and he's had sleep apnea for as long as I've known him. He's exhausted all the time. This is Not Good.

I'm excited about hearing what the doctor says.

I should quit stalling and call this MD, shouldn't I? Yes. Bah, humbug.