Bluestalking

Sunday Salon: July 15, 2012 - Touch Not the Cat

 

 

 

 

 

Busy reading weekend if not a particularly remarkable week, otherwise. The highlight was taking the cat to the vet to find out if there's a medical reason he's "leaking" all over the place. Turns out kitty has an infection of the urinary tract - and how the vet took the urine sample I do not want to know.  All I can say is when they brought him back to the exam room he was so freaked out he attempted to hide in one of those tiny pull-out keyboard trays - the kind that's about a foot long by three inches high. He launched himself up like a rocket, compacting his body into the tray, haunches and tail hanging out. It took two of us to pull him out the first time.

THEN HE DID IT AGAIN.

The physics involved, my friends... I can't even go there. This is not a small cat. This is a 14 pound, spoiled rotten cat who pees in the house like a damn lawn sprinkler.

WTF?

All this - plus cat hair up my nose, down my throat and blowing across the floor like tumbleweeds - to hear Oliver needs a tiny bottle of antibiotic liquid, the cost of which is roughly equivalent to the price of gold per ounce. "The dose is small", the vet told me. "I'll have the tech come in and show you how to do it."

Okay. She shows me the syringe and tells me to fill it to one ounce. She doesn't do it for me, mind. She just shows me how, handing the box and syringe to me before bolting out the door. I pony up the $ 140, shove the cat back in his carrier, and it's on my merry way I am.

I got home and it seemed as good a time as any to go ahead and give the cat his medicine. After he's just had a nervous breakdown and all. What could go wrong? I filled the syringe to one, picked up the cat, cradling him like a baby and tried to stick the syringe in his mouth. After I wiped up my blood and found the cat again, it was round two: Oliver 1, Lisa o.  This time, in the blur of flying hair and drops of blood, he opened his mouth all the way and I squirted that medicine in for all I was worth. Good thing the family was home to tie a tourniquet around my bleeding stub of an arm. But hey, the cat's on the mend.

CAT, YOU ARE THE SUPERIOR BEING.

If all this doesn't work (and why would it, really?) the next thing it could be is "kitty stress," exhibited, apparently, via his preference for lying around the house on his back, like a bear rug, directly in the path of my Point A to Point B. I have to stop short rather than trample him, momentum taking me up and over, like a cross between a rag doll and a ballerina, landing when some part of my body encounters something sharp or otherwise unforgiving. Then I curl into a ball while I bleed and cry simultaneously. Looking on, the cat licks his crotch and leaves. I have spoiled his solitude. No doubt his having to drag ass out of the room contributes to his tension.

Thankfully, there's a cure for kitty stress, too. It doesn't even require a feline psychologist. It's a little something they call kitty phermones, phermones that promote kitty relaxation. Kitty weed, in other words. It's sprayable, or you can buy the sort you put in a warming thing in the electric outlet. Hell, if this works I'll be snorting the crap.

I was going to go on to talk about books after I quickly caught you up to date on Oliver but now, to tell you the truth, I don't even feel like it. I've exhausted myself. I was up late, hopped up on the rusty smell of blood. I didn't sleep much.

So I'm going to take a nap. Screw it.

Sunday Salon: June 24, 2012. Wot a week, wot a week.

What am I saying... they're all like this. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and getting the same result, yet you still do the same things over and over. Getting the same result.

Ha.

In my case, this translates to: I have the best of intentions to do something, become overwhelmed, then crawl into a corner and whimper because nothing ever gets done. I come out of the corner, eventually, to find the cat has relieved himself of urine on top of the still relatively new sofa, go back into the corner and sob until I've thoroughly emptied myself of water.

And I have no idea why nothing gets done!

So you know, I DID start Ulysses (SEE: Project 2012, Ulysses) though I was traveling over the weekend of Bloomsday and wound up starting a day late. I KNOW. For this I deserve a scolding and rap across the knuckles with a ruler but the good old days of scowling nuns are behind me, more's the pity.

Speaking of, Sister Jeanne, @!$%*@!!.

I started the book in the train station in Memphis, of all places, about as removed from Dublin as you can get. I made it through the first section, now I need to visit Frank Delaney's wonderful instructive video tutorial on this section, so he can tell me what I read.

No, really, a few pages made sense, at least to my mind, which regularly jumps around like a monkey in heat, much like Joyce's style. Stephen Dedalus was talking to Buck Mulligan and some Haines person, in the home they share. Mulligan right away shows us what a prick he is, for telling Stephen he caused his own mother's death by refusing to kneel beside her bed and pray for her as she was dying, Stephen leaves their abode justifiably pissed off. Then a bunch of other stuff happens.

Try using that on your exams, literature majors.

In other reading, my interlibrary loan of Kate Summerscale's Mrs. Robinson's Disgrace: The Private Diary of  Victorian Lady arrived and I started reading that Friday night, when I was gifted with insomnia until 5:00 a.m., fell asleep sitting up and nearly missed my Saturday morning doctor appointment, which was at 10:00.

 

Speaking of a monkey in heat, Mrs. Robinson (this is a true story,  mind) was. Very Madame Bovary so far but in Mrs. R's case she kept a diary of her sadness and attempted exploits, which eventually damns her. Duh. Silly, stupid woman! Didn't she know she was supposed to suffer in silence, like a good little Angel of the House, sneak around but shut the hell up about it?

Amateur.

Wot else? Oh, I read some here and there but nothing much to speak of, since I spent so much time alternating corners in which to cringe and weep. Still haven't completely unpacked from the Booktopia trip last weekend but I did manage to do something that has needed doing for months: I cleaned out the back of our van!! Calloo! Callay!

My children call our van the "bookmobile" and avoid it like the plague. Actually sitting in it involves the sweeping of books, magazines and various papers off the seats, the general atmosphere rendered toxic by the surplus of papers, pens and the occasional granola bar (In the wrapper!) that's been stepped on five times but which may come in handy should I find myself stranded some day and flat granola bars retain their nutritional value, thankyouverymuch.

When I make a turn - or stops suddenly - something's bound to fly through the air, with the potential to knock an unlucky soul unconscious. But no more! Half the crap has now officially been donated to Goodwill, the other half brought into the house in laundry baskets, now sitting in the entrance to the living room we never use anyway - well, save at Christmas - where it will reside until the time comes I'm unstuck from my usual ways again and repeat the process of separating wheat from chaff.

There was physical therapy for my piriformis syndrome issue, as well, and I am happy to report I'm finally seeing some improvement, cross fingers. Weather hotter than hell (giving me the opportunity to acclimate) and there's been no rain in forever, so the grass is turning that yellow/brown color I despise. Oh, and Forbes came out with an article listing Library and Information Science the absolute most useless master's degree!

We're number one! We're number one!

Shoot me.

I'll end here, while I can still refrain from crawling into a corner, and wish you all a lovely remainder of your weekend, depending on your time zone and I promise to vomit forth more eclectic and thoughtful prose in the very near future.

Ta.

xo

Sunday Salon: June 3, 2012

Made it through another week but it was a squeaker. So much going on Chez Guidarini. Too much going on Chez Guidarini.

I had my consultation with my new physical therapist on Friday, in yet another effort to work on getting me to the point I'm able to walk like a normal person my age, instead of an ailing 90-year old.

Chronic pain is depressing, you know? That's like saying people breathe an awful lot of oxygen - duh. But if you've never experienced it you don't realize to what extent it makes you feel awful or in how many ways. It has an impact on everything you do, from the inability to walk more than a half hour before you need to lean on something, to walking around hunched over for five minutes to warm up your legs enough just to straighten  them - in terrible pain, holding onto things for support - after sitting for any length of time. It's wicked nasty and it's gotten me way, way down. I have to plan around being unable to walk, so shopping trips or even leisure activities are a serious concern.  So I'll do what my doctor advises, exercise in the way the PT has approved and follow all the necessary steps until I get better.

As to the toll it's taking on me, I didn't have as far to fall as a lot of people, seeing as I battle chronic depression already. So in a way I'm used to it but it's easy to fall into a self-pity trap, thinking no one has so much to deal with as I do. Granted, there's a lot on my shoulders but then I hear about other people who have it potentially worse than I do and it adds a feeling of shame to my already overwhelming sadness.

I haven't talked about depression for a really long time here, partly because I was trying to turn into this New Person, so much more serious about blogging, trying to impress potential editors, etc., to keep the work coming in. Now that I've reached that tipping point, having taken on more than I should, I still want them to consider me professional. But I also want others suffering the same malady to know they're not alone, that a lot of people can relate; a lot of people have been there, or are there. If that's unprofessional I frankly don't care.

Clinical, chronic depression isn't a sanity issue. It's a chemical imbalance that occurs in the brain. A lot of my issues are Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder related, due in part to heredity and partly because I grew up in an abusive situation, raised by parents so far from normal I still don't always know what normal is. I lost a brother who was only 36. He had controllable diabetes but also a compulsion to eat what he shouldn't. In essence, he committed a very slow act of suicide out of what I now believe was chronic depression.

Depression is facing self-hatred every day, blaming yourself for things logic tells you are not your fault, feeling inadequate, afraid and alone. It can manifest itself in so many ways. You may not realize what you're feeling is clinical depression. Some people lash out; it's common to find yourself unbearably irritated by the people closest to you. Others are shopaholics, alcoholics or battle addictions to gambling, drugs or any number of other things. Then there are the sad ones who find themselves crying all the time, having no energy, taking pleasure in nothing. In a way I'm lucky, never having become addicted. Mine manifests inwardly, mostly, though you can ask my family how irritated I get, how much alone time I need. Those depression commercials are so right: depression affects everyone around you.

There is help out there, in the form of therapy and, in some cases, medication. But you have to do your own work in digging out from under depression. It requires so much work and it's so exhausting. I'm not in a position to give anyone the key to a magic cure. I still fight it every day. But it's so important not to feel ashamed, to tell your doctor, to ask for help from friends and family. It took me about 40 years until I started asking and I've been battling with help for six years. I still don't know when or if I'll think of myself as normal. Maybe I never will. Sometimes it's a matter of promising yourself - and others - to stay alive, day by day. Then you may have a reprieve lasting anywhere from a few days to - if you're lucky - weeks or months. But it comes back eventually and you have to use all the skills you've learned about battling the disease to get through to your next period of "remission."

Remember, when you're depressed concentrate on life's basics: try to eat well, get moderate exercise, take your meds (if prescribed) according to the doctor's directions and get enough rest. Concentrate on accomplishing these tasks, even if everything else feels beyond you. When you take care of yourself it will eventually convince you you're a person worthy of being cared about. The process is slow. You really have to work hard but it will happen.

If you know someone who is or may be battling depression keep judgment to yourself but help them, please, if they want help or not. And if you are fighting the battle you can always email me: lisaguidarini AT yahoo DOT com to chat. I will answer you.

Take good care - of yourself and others

 

Sunday Salon: May 27, 2012

 

 

Mood: Pissy to partly pissy.

I'm angry there are people actually celebrating that it's 97 degrees  today with nasty humidity: people who are biking, running, moving in any fashion, not shut away in their homes with air conditioning blasting. And it's blindingly sunny. When I'm pissy I hate the sun. Quit your smiling, people! If you don't I'm going to steal your Christmas. I hope all your shoes stick to your now-partially-liquid asphalt driveways.

You people who are out and about provoke my scorn. Have you lost your minds, riding in your cars with the windows open instead of hermetically sealing yourself in air-conditioned comfort? What is wrong with you? Don't you know your careless behavior slaps the face of whoever discovered freon?

OH, NOBLE GAS!

I was out earlier today, risking my life hunting and gathering bagels for the family's breakfast, braving the 75 degree heat. That was about 20 degrees ago and I already had the windows up and the A/C blasting. Now I'm holed up, blinds pulled, a/c rumbling, cursing just about everything and everyone, but especially the fact at my son's eighth grade graduation ceremony I damaged something in the frontal area of my knee, beneath the patella - something by that one vertical tendon-thing. AND IT HURTS LIKE HELL! And it's hot outside! And I lost my iPhone last week! And I think it may have been accidentally (or maliciously) thrown away!

[You may notice a marked snarkiness to my overall demeanor. Just be glad you aren't here.]

Okay, let's do this thang. Maybe it'll get my mind off the almost overwhelming urge to rip the heads off squirrels with my bare teeth.

 

Book stuff this week:

 

Turn of Mind by Alice LaPlante, Grove Press, 320 pages, March 2012

[Read for online book club facilitation; free copy from publisher]

 

 Former neurosurgeon, Jennifer White, is descending quickly into dementia. During her long career she was an esteemed neurosurgeon, specializing in hands: the repair and amputation thereof.

A couple houses down the street, her friend of decades, Amanda, is found murdered, her fingers removed with surgical precision, though not completely "finished" as a professional would have done.

Could Jennifer have committed such a heinous act toward her best friend? If so, why?

The story is told both in current times and flashbacks, as the story of Jennifer's life is revealed, layer by layer. Meanwhile, the investigation into Amanda's death is ongoing. Jennifer is the prime suspect but too far gone to be reliable. Only one policewoman, Inspector Luptin, sticks with the case - a policewoman who's also lost a loved one to Alzheimer's.

The book's hard to put down, a "stay up late" read. I'm fascinated by novels that delve deeply into the psyche of those who aren't "quite right." Normal people bore me no end.

And I love flashbacks for the bits of revelation they give, things you can refer to after the book's done to see how the author pulled everything off. If it's written well, that is. A good writer always leaves a few breadcrumbs.

My only complaint is a couple threads are never resolved but some of that is a factor of the disease itself and Jennifer's inability to wrap things up neatly. But it's a fast-paced book kept taut all the way through. The ending may or may not feel satisfying but the overall a great read.

 

Ongoing:

Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake by Anna Quindlen, Random House, 208 pp. April 2012

[Kindle, personal purchase]

This is a girlfriend read for the more mature set. I'm younger than Quindlen (she proclaims with glee) but can still get where she's at in life, especially with my oldest perched to leave the nest.

I'm not quite halfway through yet but far enough to say Anna Quindlen speaks in a friendly, open and honest voice. If she's deceiving the reader I certainly can't detect it. The book feels like you're sitting with the author on her front porch, rocking on wicker rockers side by side, the ubiquitous cold tea at your elbow. Very comfortable, very laid-back.

Lots here about marriage of a long duration, how it isn't supposed to be happy, happy, joy, joy and why that concept is so unreal. Her husband irritates her, and she irritates her husband. It's very real.

Occasionally, she thinks the completely human "What if..." questions, what if I'd chosen a different path, etc. But, all things being equal, she's a happy woman. Not annoyingly so or I wouldn't still be reading this book.

Happy people are unbearable, really. Can't find a dark cloud for your silver lining? SEE ME.

 

The Red House by Mark Haddon, Doubleday, 272 pages, June 2012

[Free review copy from publisher]

 

Any new book from Mark Haddon is reason for much rejoicing. Yes, even from this prickly old librarian. About halfway through The Red House and it's almost as unputdownable as Turn of Mind, so you may imagine this pleases me as well as anything ever does. Not counting attending a Sebastian Barry reading, that is. Or anything involving Sebastian Barry.

What ho!

Basic story: the matriarch of a family dies. One of the children - Angela, a mushy, middle-aged hausfrau, lived near her and did all the work taking care of her mother until her death. Meanwhile, her brother Richard - a disgustingly well to do doctor with a young trophy wife - doesn't show up 'til the funeral. And the mother had only asked to see Richard during her illness, natch.

Angela carries a bit of a grudge. Who could blame her? To try and make amends, Richard and his family offer to pay the way for a vacation in Wales with Angela and her family. Angela accepts, with reservations.

Turns out the area of Wales is a gorgeous backdrop as this family makes an attempt to let bygones be bygones. With occasionally very funny results.

A favorite quote, Angela's husband, Dominic, looking at his wife:

"She disgusted him now, the size and sag of her, the veins in her calves, almost a grandmother. He dreamt of her dying unexpectedly, rediscovering all those freedoms he'd lost twenty years ago. Then he had the same dream five minutes later and he remembered what poor use he'd made of those freedoms first time round ... All those other lives. You never did get to live them."

 

Amen.

In contrast, Louisa, wife of Richard the doctor:

 

"Richard had remarried six months ago, acquiring a stepdaughter into the bargain. Angela hadn't gone to the wedding. Edinburgh was a long way, it was term time and they'd never felt like brother and sister, just two people who spoke briefly on the phone every few weeks or so to manage the stages of their mother's decline. She'd met Louisa and Melissa [daughter] for the first time at the funeral. They looked as if they had been purchased from an exclusive catalog at some exorbitant price, flawless skin and matching black leather boots."

 

You see the set up. Not only are these siblings at odds but their children are so radically different. Melissa, Louisa's daughter, is high-maintenance, high fashion and hot. Alex, Daisy and Benjy, on the other hand, are - in order - athletic and hot for Melissa, going through a religious phase and very conservative in dress and manner, and intelligent in that acting very strangely, as if he's been dropped on his head as a child, way.

And it works... Does it ever work. Very, very funny.

So, that's not all there is but I need to take my daughter shopping so I'm cutting this off. It's a miracle I got this much in (that's what she said).

Have a day.

 

 

 

 

Sunday Salon: March 25, 2012

It's a loverly day here in Chicagoland: sunny and in the 70s. It would be ideal to get out and do something fun, like pulling weeds in the garden, but alas I must work from 1:00 - 5:00  this afternoon. On the way home I'll stop for groceries, then make dinner and switch loads of laundry, which pretty much shoots the day. May as well be a typhoon outside, as much good as it does me.

In Lisa's New Interest news, I've gone mad for an ethnic group called The Irish Travellers, or Tinkers. Sometimes they're called "gypsies," though from what I've read don't appear to be related to the Romanians - the more traditional origin of true, stereotypical "gypsies."  Rather, they're a group mostly settled in Ireland, as well as in several spots around the world, including the U.S.:

"Travellers in the United States are descendants of Travellers who left Ireland mostly during the Great Irish Famine of 1845-60. Travelers in the U.S. divide themselves up into groups that are based on historical residence: Ohio Travelers, Georgia Travelers, Texas Travelers, and Mississippi Travelers."

- Wikipedia

The group is very distinct keeping to themselves, marrying within their own group - which may explain the high number of deaths due to congenital problems. Their average life expectancy is 39, with very high infant mortality rates. Scotland has a group of Travellers, as well, and I don't really know yet how the groups differ, if at all. They're discriminated against, that I do know, wherever they settle.  I've only just started researching them so I've yet to confirm or deny details I've come across so far.

I learned about them via the program "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding," something I'm forced to mention, but believe me, it doesn't make me proud to admit I watched such trashy TV! I was tired, you see... Not up for anything too intellectually stimulating, obviously.

 

What disturbs me is the amount of ethnic prejudice levelled against the Travellers. Seems to me they're similar in many ways to groups such as the Amish, another distinct group that keeps itself segregated from mainstream society.  There's also another group in this country, called the "Melungeons," equally mysterious in origin and different genetically from the general population of Americans. Likewise, they've also settled largely in the South.

But anyway, this is my latest bit of interest. Wanted to pass it along as I find it all so fascinating. Perhaps I should have been a sociologist or an ethnic anthropologist of some kind. Then again, the next best thing to majoring in anything is being a librarian, now, isn't it. Because if there's one thing we have at our fingertips it's information.

End of public service message.

Hope the weather's as lovely where you are as it is here.