Don't It Always Seem To Go. . .

You don't know what you got till it's gone.

Gazillions of people just go along breathing and drinking and sleeping and pooping as if there is never going to be an end to them, as if it's no big deal. And then one day, poof!  You can't sleep or there's some little problem like a flood and your community doesn't have clean water. Or your bowels just go on strike. Or, like my friend, you can't breathe without help.  Then it becomes a very big deal. The biggest deal.

There are people all around sleeping and getting clean water from a tap.  People who don't even slow down for a sale on Colon Blow and who breathe without thinking a thing about it. Ungrateful fools!

If you had at least 7 hours of sleep last night, 8 glasses of clean water, a good poop and can fill your lungs with air, you should get on your knees (if they still bend) and thank the Universe. 
Eat your spinach, my friends, because there are children in China without food. And that's all I have to say about that.

Write a story in 140 characters, then let Susan (http://www.stonyriver.ie/)  know you came to play

"Coolville ain't so cool now!," he screamed out the bus window as it pulled away from the school. The Belpre Buffaloes had finally spanked the Coolville Cools 25 to 8!!

More exactly the same totally different stuff

Yes, it's 5:45 a.m. on day two of the Without Sleep Festival.  Is it day two?  I'd have to sit down with paper, pencil and erasure to make sure of that, though I'm not sure in what way I'd use those instruments.  Maybe I need I calendar. I like it better when such things can be measured with clocks instead of calendars.  Or maybe I should just shut up.  It's enough to say it's been too long since I slept.

Actually, I slept.  I looked at the clock at last at 1:4. . .something.  I woke at 3:02 or there abouts.  So that means I had. . .I don't know.  Some sleep but no where near enough.  And now I'm trying to decide if I should go to work tomorrow.

Let's see. . . I'm a bit paranoid.  I'm pretty sure no one likes me.  I mean who could like someone so weak and puny and sleepless?  Someone so self-centered that she writes not one, but two blogs about her own insomnia as if it's the most important thing in the world.  That may not be paranoia come to think of it.  Sounds reasonable, actually. I don't even like me.  Who would!

I can't do simple math.  (3:02 - 1:4 something = ?)  I never was great at math, though.  I've not one little chance in hell of counting backwards from 100 by sevens and I practice it often.

I did see that person in the kitchen who wasn't there.  But he didn't last long and I knew it was just a wee hallucination.  And yes, I know people don't usually hallucinate after just a couple of days without sleep, but I have always needed sleep more than the average bear.  I couldn't even stay awake during slumber parties when I was a teenager.

I can, however name the last four presidents and tell you what I had for dinner last night. Or was that the night before?

I'd say I'm emotionally labile.  I either want to throw things while screaming obscenities or cry.

I can't remember right now what else I'm supposed to be able to do in order to pass a mini mental status exam.


So, taking this evidence into consideration, should I go to work tomorrow?  I mean today? Did I mention that I'm a mental health therapist?  Did I mention that I've missed a heck of a lot of work because I'm a puny weenie who gets sick at the drop of a hat?  Would you rather have A) a therapist who is really good, but out sick too much, or 2) goes to work and is not quite with it in your sessions?  (Have you ever worried about the word therapist - the rapist?) Would  you rather have an employee who was 1) really good at what she does but calls in sick too often or B) an employee who is reliably mediocre?

I'm going to call Dougie, my doctor in the morning.  Well, I mean it's morning now, but I'll wait until his office opens.  And I'm going to explain to the nice young woman at the desk this whole thing and she will slowly write it all down.  Then she will put me on hold while she finds a nurse.  A nurse will eventually pick up the phone and she'll begin with a sigh of exasperation.  I will be sure that she only sighs that way when on the phone with me because either 1) I'm paranoid or B) I'm a puny weenie who thinks the world revolves around her little problems. Then she'll say something about have I tried blah, blah, blah and if it was within my power to try it, I have and will tell her so. She'll arrange for me to come in to see Dougie, who is actually a good primary care doctor.

Dougie will ask appropriate questions.  I'll wonder why I didn't just grow a pair of ovaries and go to work like a big girl. He'll tell me that people don't usually die of insomnia.  I may remind him that people might die from telling insomniacs that.  He'll think, "Well, she has a sense of humor, she must not be too bad off."

Dougie will either A) cure me right away, giving me a magic touch, pill, shot or shake a magic gourd over my head - I've absolutely no preference what form the cure takes or 2) tell me to let this take its course in which I'll have to seriously consider taking matters into my own hands.  The problem with that is that I've been handling my own problem for the past couple of days and it's still a problem.

And here comes that phrase again Torn between the things that I should do.  Thank you Kenny Rogers for the theme of my life. 

Ok, friends, it's 6:26 a.m.  I eagerly await your suggestions.  Sorry I wasn't more entertaining.  I feel badly about it already.

And now for something completely different.

It's 3:33 a.m. and I'm wide awake.  Not a wee bit awake, mind you.  Wi-ii-ide awake.  As in, my eyes can barely blink.  My feet are dancing to tunes of their own. My brain is full of the things I need to accomplish tomorrow so I can go back to work early and get busy catching up on the work I missed last part of last week when I was viciously attacked by some allergen.  Whew!  That sentence just about wore me out!

The things that go through one's brain at 3:40 a.m. when one knows one should be sleeping like a good one.  For example, I was just wondering how many times I could use one in a sentence.  Now if that's not something perfectly worthy of thought I can't tell you what is.

I could do some ironing.  I could.  It would be a quiet thing to do.    I could dust.  Dusting is quiet.  Usually.  But what if I were ironing at the moment I could fall asleep if I were in bed instead.  Ooooh, did you catch that?  In bed instead.  It was like a little poem.  A pretty good one, too.  Oh, there was one again.

Yep, it wasn't a bad poem for 3:45 a.m.  I think I'll write another one.

There once was a word called one

Who hardly ever was done.

Twas a busy one, one,

And a great lot of fun

That busy ol' word called one.

But one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do. One, singular sensation. One fine day, you'll look at me - e - e, and you will know our love was meant to be - e - e.

Do you ever start to type once and type wonce.  I do.

It just occurred to me that this probably isn't the best blog I've ever written.  But, hey, it's 3:51 a.m. and one can't be expected be too. . . . .That's funny. . . one can't be expected to be to (two).

And after that last blog, I really should try to write a good one. I'm giggling out loud now.  Have you ever seen so many ones?  But if there are lots of them, can they be ones?  Oh, that's heavy.  Far too (two, to) heavy for 3:56 a.m.

I might regret pushing that publish post button, or I might decide not to (two, too, whoo, whoo). 

Righteous Wrong

If I get one more anti-Islam email I may explode.  And let's face it, even if you don't like me much, you don't want me to explode.  I would be soooo ding dang messy.

There are ignorant, evil, misguided, dangerous, very ill, asswipes in every single religion in the Universe.  That's just a fact.  It's the nature of religions that they allow people do just about anything and back it up with some scripture.  They behave as if doing something evil in the name of religion proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are right.  They are righteously wrong and I'm really getting tired of it.

I have actually read the New Testament boys and girls.  I've also read the Old Testament, Koran and The Teachings of Buddha.  I've read some other religious texts, too.  I didn't find anything in any of them that I thought encouraged me or allowed me to do bad things to other people in the name of God. 

Did you know that the Abrahamic religions, the Big Three - Judaism, Christianity and Islam all have the same God?  No, I mean they admit they have the same God.  The Koran talks about Mary, the mother of Jesus more than the New Testament does.  Yes, it does.  And it talks nicely about her.  It talks nicely about Jesus, too.

All this "Kill the infidel" stuff I'm hearing so much about recently is no more prominent in the Koran than in the Old Testament.

I can hear you twitching, Christians.  Before you make fun of getting a bunch of virgins in Heaven, think about collecting the foreskins of your enemies. There are just ridiculously silly things in all religious texts if you want to look at them that way. 

Or we could choose to take the basic ideas of religions - treating others as we would like to be treated, love one another, the kingdom of God is within you. . . you know stuff like that, and stop demonizing each other. 
Most Muslims are no more likely to want to kill Americans than most Christians are to sexually abuse children or con people out  their savings to fluff their own nests. Remember that freedom of religion thing we have going here.  It's good stuff. 

For crying in a bucket, people, use your noggins! If you haven't read the books, don't preach from them.  In fact, don't preach from them at all if you're preaching fear instead of love. 

Mutant Itch From Outer Space

It started as a fine day.  Too busy, but good as far as Thursday mornings go.

At approximately 10:17, I noticed a stinging, itching area on my left breast.  I checked it out in the ladies, since it required mirror work.  I mean I couldn't exactly ask the lady in the next office to check for anything weird looking on my breast.  She frowns on things like that.

Anyway, there was a good sized red patch with an itchy and burning feeling.  Back at my office, within minutes, my arms began itching.  Then my neck.  Scratch, rub, rub, 25 mg. of an over the counter antihistamine and a quick step back to the ladies. 

Wow!  Lucy, my left breast, was sort of magenta-colored and angry as a wet hen. And from about my navel (which isn't named because that would just be strange, don't you think?) up, my body was becoming more colorful and very, very itchy.

You might think that scratching would help.  It doesn't help at all.  It makes things worse and I knew it was going to make things worse because it's a burning, painful itch.  It hurts to scratch yet I was compelled by an unseen force more irresistible than gravity, more persistent than a televangelist on crack to scratchscratchscratch. 

Resistance was futile.  I took another 25 mg. of the antihistamine.  I didn't care if I couldn't drive home.  I didn't think about the clients I had stacked up for the afternoon.  I just had to have that. . . next. . . SCRATCH.

An other urgent trip to the ladies. The door was nearly closed when I lifted my blouse in front of the mirror to discover that Rita, my right breast, was now nearly as bright as her sister.  Little dark red dots we popping up all over my torso.  My tummy itched, my back ITCHED!  Looking at it didn't help, but I couldn't not look.  We're talking fluorescent color, here.  Shocking  pink!

Back to my office. Two hands were not enough to scratch.  I rubbed against the walls and door jams like a July cow against a tree.  Coworkers were watching from a safe distance with distasteful expressions.  No one likes to see scratching and this was no ordinary scratching!  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!  Scratchscratchscratch.

Can I take more Benedryl?  Would it help?  I caught Dr. Tran in the hall.  I itch all over! How much antihistamine can I take? I itch from the inside out!  Ohmygod, HELP ME!

He said things.  Something about what did I eat. . . will probably go away. . . few side effects. . .cortisone.  I wasn't really listening very well because I was rubbing my back against someone else' office door while scratching my arms with my hands and rubbing my arms against my torso, sort of hopping from foot to foot.  What I heard was that I could take more antihistamine.

Ok, it wasn't getting better, it was getting worse.  If only this power could be used for good instead of evil! I don't think removing my skin in front of a client would be very therapeutic for either of us.  If I couldn't remove my skin, I at the very least needed to remove my clothes, take as much antihistamine as possible without getting dead and put ice all over my body. 

Wait, I'll go to ER and get a shot of . . . . well, I don't know, but surely there is something that will save me.  But that would require walking in, waiting, explaining. . . . I don't have that kind of time, here.  By the time I make someone understand we might very possibly be dealing with an other-worldly weapon,  I could be home and wearing nothing but ice.

So home I came.  My clothes were off before I got through the living room.  Ice packs, antihistamines, squirming against the sheets and regretting it.  Good night, Irene!

I woke several hours later itching, but this time it was a more Earthly itch.  Rita and Lucy were pink, but my skin was no longer glowing.  There is a circle of dark red around what looks like an insect bite.  My head is pounding and my eyes are bloodshot.  I ache.  But I've begun to think of my skin as a friendly organ again.

And tomorrow I get to go see if anyone at work will speak to me.

Who's Winning this Race?

As I've discussed before, I don't understand what race means.  How do we decide what our race is.  Do we go by color alone? Because basically all the people I've seen are on a continuum of the brown family.  Somewhere between ecru to dark mahogany.
Is President Obama Black or White? Well, he's brown, too.

 I don't think African American is a very accurate descriptor either for most dark brown people in the US.  The term African American makes sense to me if someone moves here from Africa and becomes a citizen.  Actually, it would make more sense in that case to say Kenyan-American or Tanzanian-American.  What if an ecru person moves here from South Africa and becomes a citizen.  Is he then an African-American, Caucasian, Aryan?  My ex could be called New Zealand American or an Australian American because he came from Downunder and became a US citizen.  My current husband is a Canadian, not a Canadian American because he is not a US citizen. But they are both usually just considered White.

An old beau of mine is considered African-American, but he nor his parents have ever even been to Africa, and due to some relatives somewhere along the line, he has medium brown skin and gorgeous green eyes.  He hasn't traced his family tree back to Africa.  I haven't either, though if anthropologists are correct, we all technically could.  I guess the consensus now is that humans started somewhere in Africa, so that would make us all African-Americans, eh?

No one refers to me as Scots/German American.  Takes too long to say.  They do call me White.  In fact, they call me very white since I don't tan at all.  But I'm actually light tan. Sometimes bright pink.

Of course, it's illegal in the US - and it should be - to discriminate on the basis of race.  Yet one of the first things asked on any government form is race.  I usually mark "other." Who can claim just one race? Who even knows what all the choices are? There are some neonazis who claim to be pure, but I reckon if one dug  deeply enough, they'd find some great, great uncle who wasn't completely Aryan and probably couldn't define Aryan.

 Some show on the History Channel explained that though the Nazis had a very clear definition of how Jewish someone could be - I think it was at least one great, great grandparent of 16 could be Jewish and one would be considered a Jew, but don't hold me to that - Hitler himself probably was a Jew by that definition.  Or at least he had to doctor his heritage to pass for "pure Aryan." 

Certainly in the US we see every conceivable shade along that ecru - mahogany continuum.  In Sunday School I sang a song about "Red and yellow, black and white, we are precious in His sight. . . "  People aren't red, yellow, black, or white. We are all colored.  We are brown.

I have a friend I sometimes call Negro.  Once someone overheard me and thought I was very, very wrong.  She can call me Caucasian, I don't care.  It would make more sense to call me Fay.  She could call me woman, human, tree-hugger, old hippy - all of those things would be partially descriptive of me, as is Caucasian.  It would make more sense for me to call Tiffani woman, mother of my would-be grand babies, professional, nursing student. . . . but hey, I don't always make sense.

When I am filling out a form about someone, I always ask them their race.  I've never had anyone get upset, which in itself is something amazing since some clients get upset when you ask them what day it is.  Some people are mildly amused when I ask them their race, but very often people like to talk about their heritage.  If they say "My great great uncle on my sister's side was 1/5 Japanese and Grandma was born and raised in Ireland, so I usually just say, American Eskimo."  I'll write down American Eskimo.

So here's what I propose we do.  Be creative with your race the next time you have to fill in a form.  Answer brown or green or yes or Formula One or Rat. These answers make at least as much sense at the questions.