Listening to your body...

How many times have I heard those words. Too many to count, to be sure, and each time I hear them, they seem to ring more and more true. And somehow...I don't listen. Or rarerly do, anyway.

Today is one of the days I did. Coming home from work last night, I was in more pain than I cared to admit to. Yeah, I know, whine, whine. But I did it. I went to work. Made it through the entire day. And by the time I got home, I felt terrible. Don't know if it's a fibro flareup, a cold coming on too hard, or just general achiness...but regardless, I didn't feel like I could make it to work today. I knew if I didn't rest it was only going to get worse.

So I did it. I called out. Did I get anything done? Did I tackle the mountain of housework that I could have done instead? No. I accomplished absolutely nothing, and at this point in time I'm proud of that fact. I slept. Slept most of the day. At some point I think I might have heard someone knocking on the door, but I didn't bother to answer. It was probably just the elderly neighbor anyway with gossip about who in the neighborhood was doing what, and I'd wind up standing in my front door for 20 minutes hoping that she'd leave (if I let her IN the door, it's an hour, easy.) So, I avoided that.

Do I feel any better? I'm not sure. I'm going to go have some tea in a little bit, and once I get my imp to bed, I'll probably settle in and watch some Forever Knight. Depends on my mood. All in all, though, I really can say that it's helpful to listen to your body. (Now, go ahead and add that to the number of times someone has said that to you, only DO it this time.)

And Still I Rise...

Yes, the title is from a poem, called, interestingly enough, And Still I Rise.
Here is the poem in its entirety:

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. This is a beautiful poem, showing the strength of a woman...the strength of anyone who's had to go through anything. And I have so been in dark places lately...reading poems like this does me good. A friend once told me that she thought people who don't have dark places are boring. That may be true...but sometimes I wish the dark places would go away a little quicker, or at least be a little quieter. Reading keeps me going....it always has. Writing keeps me going...it always has. Still, like air, I'll rise.

Back at work

I was on medical leave for two months and have just gotten back to work in the past week. The short story is I tore a rotator cuff. I've been through physical therapy and a steroid injection (yeah, between that and the asthma and bronchitis, my body is LOVING steroids right now.)

You might reasonably wonder what is so hazardous about working in a bookstore that would require me being off of work for two weeks. Well, for one thing, I am left handed, and since the torn cuff is my left shoulders, that creates all sorts of interesting problems. I'm having to train myself to reach with my right hand, to pick things up with my right hand, to bag the books with my right hand. But no, it is not as easy at it sounds like it might be. In short, I've been back at work for a week now, and my shoulder is KILLING me. My back isn't too happy either. But, you know, with five herniated disks, spinal stenosis, slight scoliosis, and bone spurs on every vertebrae of my spine (that's coming from a doctor, this is not me making things up.), I'd be surprised if it was happy at the moment.

Yet still I go. I love the interaction with people. I love being around the books. In fact, one of my biggest problems with working there is that my to read list keeps growing, and growing, and growing, and growing. I actually have dreams of starting simply with the "A" authors in general fiction and working my way all the way through. I doubt that will ever happen, of course. So many authors to choose from...one really does have to be picky about what one reads.

Lately I've been sticking mostly with the fiction, and mostly in the sci fi or paranormal genre. I stated in the previous entry that Kevin Hearne was one of my favorites, and indeed he is and shall remain so (Start with Hounded when you pick him up.). I of course also adore Kim Harrison's Rachel Morgan series (start with Dead Witch Walking.) Rachel is o

J. R. Ward is also an amazing writer...at least in the early works. She now has two series out: her Black Dagger Brotherhood books are the best (or at least they are until the last one, which I personally was not thrilled with, but that's a story for another time.). With the Fallen Angel books, I'd give them a try. I liked the characters, liked them a lot. There were some great one-liners. But it really was not enough to move me to continue with the series. I gave it two books in; I know it's difficult to judge a series by the first book because so much setting up is being done. Still, as much as I enjoyed the characters, it wasn't enough to save the book for me.

And my current favorites: the Larissa Ione books. I've started with her Demonica series, and am just finishing up the second book. These guys are demons who work in a demon hospital...yes you read that correctly. The books are hot, sexy, and the plot an character development will really grab you.
She has a Four Horsemen series (horsemen of the Apocalypse), which I have not tried yet (want to finish the Demonica first) but have heard amazing things about the books from several other peole.

That's about all the book wit and wisdom I have to offer today. My brain is starting to protest and threatening to shut down if I don't go to sleep soon. So happy reading, folks. See you on the flip side!

Insomnia Strikes Again

I know, I know. Insomnia with me is not exactly something new. Even Ambien tends not to work anymore, and that's a frightening prospect. I do try, don't get me wrong. I really do try. I'll lay in bed and try to sleep. I'll recite every prayer I know: Christian, pagan, Sanskrit mantra chants. You name it, I've done it. I've tried counting in English. I've tried counting in French. I should try counting in Russian, but I don't know it well enough at the moment, and I think that would tax my brain so much that I couldn't sleep at all.

I'll lay in bed for about 20 minutes, sometimes up to an hour. Then I'll get up and try to read something. Or listen to music. Or write. Or read something. Sometimes I play a video game. My current favorite for that is SSX Tricky, since I usually wind up throwing Brodi off a cliff or run him smack dab into a rock wall.

I'll try drinking milk. I'll try taking a hot bath. I have homeopathic sleep aids. I have Valerian root. On the other end of the spectrum I have xanax. Occasionally have Ambien, although I haven't asked to have that one refilled because I don't want to use it too often.

What keeps me up? Sometimes it's just my mind refusing to slow down. Sometimes it's too hot, or I'm in too much pain (gotta love fibromyalgia and arthritis), or I'm having trouble breathing, or coughing my fool head off.  You name it.

As Hamlet said, to sleep, perchance to dream. I should probably attempt that soon.

The Talk

It is time to have The Talk with my 9 year old daughter.
For one thing, she is already developing. Thanks to hormones in meats and milk, I fear that puberty will be settling in early. God knows I already have a 9 year old teenager.
Then my mother in law tells me that the women in her family always seem to go into puberty at an early age anyway. We have, maybe, a year. Hopefully two, but I'm not betting on it.
For another thing, when I picked her up at school on Friday, she was talking nonstop. And talking nonstop about BOYS. Apparently there is a child in her class who feels like she must have a boyfriend. And then I hear these words from my daughter. "Every man she's been interested in has just walked away from her." Did I just hear the word, "man"? Oh, yeah. It's time.

You must understand that I am in new territory here. My mother did not give me "The Talk." She was way too embarrassed and shy to have done anything like that. In fact, I'm reasonably sure that both of my parents (God rest their souls) were convinced I was still a virgin when I announced that my husband and I were going to have a baby. As a teenager, most of my information came from a cousin: information which, by the way, was WRONG. I had to figure things out for myself. Thankfully I was one of the dreaded "good girls" and didn't have any issues. Then a couple of health courses and some women's studies courses in college straightened me out.

I don't want to risk my daughter having to wait until she's in college to figure this stuff out on her own. Now, she's way too young (IMHO) at the age of 9 for me to just hand her a copy of "Our Bodies, Our Selves." I'm thinking maybe of going more along the lines of the American Girl series of The Care and Keeping of You. There are some other books that I will flip through...but I have to decide how much to tell her.

When I informed my husband that we had reached the age in which we must give The Talk, this was his response. "Oh no. YOU have to give The Talk. My part of the talk is, "I will kill the first boy you bring home, as an example to any future boyfriends." Yeah, that's a dad for you.

Oh boy. Here we go.

School days....

And it's started again. The first day of school. I drove my daughter to school this morning instead of making her ride the bus, and I think that helped her first day jitters. The other thing that helped was blasting Skillet's 'Monster' all the way to school.

I remember the excitement. New clothes. New school supplies. I loved it, and I loved the idea of school, even though I was an outsider and pretty much bullied all throughout school. But, I did well, got through school, and I like to think that education from a small town school has served me well.

Caitlin, if I do say so myself, is a brilliant child. She's an old soul...she often says things that make you look at her and think, "wow." She makes leaps of logic that a child her age should not be able to make. I couldn't tell you if she's an Indigo child, Rainbow child, or Crystal child, because I'm not up on the timelines...but yeah, the kid is something.

She was nervous about school though. First day back. First day of 4th grade. First time with a male teacher. First time in AIG...lot of firsts. It's a lot for a kid to handle at once...but I'm sure she's going to come through with flying colors.

The Great Quest

Everyone needs a great quest, don't you think? Or several. One must have something to strive for.

My current great quest is Turning Yarn Into Stuff. Like most yarners, I have a Stash. It began several years ago when I was hospitalized for a severe bout of depression. While I could not, for obvious reasons, have knitting needles, I could have a crochet hook, and during the times when I wasn't in group therapy or some inane activity or another, I would sit in the dayroom and crochet. My stuff was kept by the nurses, and when I wanted it I just went to the nurses' desk to ask for it. They inventoried what was in it, let me take it to the dayroom (never to my room), and when it was returned they had to check the contents again. At first it was nothing but one skein of yarn and a crochet hook. Then a fellow hospital mate told me she had a lot of yarn that she never used any more, so the next time she went home on a weekend pass, she brought back a HUGE garbage bag full of yarn. I hadn't crocheted with any regularity in years at that time, so I was attempting to reacquaint myself with the art. The project that I started in that hospital ward was a granny square. I was not allowed scissors (again, for obvious reasons), so instead of getting up and going to the nurses' desk and having one of them to cut the yarn every time I finished a square, the square just got bigger, and bigger, and bigger. I wound up with a good sized blanket that was nothing but a giant granny square.

I've fine-tuned my skills since then. I've made many baby blankets, a few scrunchies, a couple of booties, some doll clothes...the list is endless. My favorite pattern is one that belonged to my husband's grandmother. It came to me when she suddenly couldn't remember how to turn it at the end of a row; I was asked to reverse-engineer it. His grandmother is not in the advanced stages of alzheimers, unable to crochet even a basic chain, but I have used the pattern a lot. It's the only one I use for baby gifts; it's my way of honoring her.

My skills have been honed. My stash is ever growing. My mother-in-law helped me do some cleaning and organizing recently and asked me, do you know how much yarn you have? Yes, yes I do. Perhaps it should have been a clue that I started my first big yarn stash while I was in a psychiatric hospital. I know my husband thinks so.