There I was, over to the facebook, just minding my own business and taking the occasional survey--a good, safe pastime for me--when suddenly I was overcome with the irresistible desire to go google celiac disease.
Oh, relax. That's nothing new, I often have an irresistible urge to google something that has absolutely nothing to do with actual life and no one knows why I am overcome with a need to know .
I have been overcome with a need to know something so deep it was enough to wake me from a sound sleep and drive me to the computer at three in the morning. At least now it only happens when I'm awake. That's an improvement, isn't it? Yes, it is.
So, anyway, the celiac disease. I found this great site called diagnose something that promised to give me all the time my doctor won't, on account of the actual doctor is busy, and apparently the herd of doctor's they keep on call over there to the diagnose something site have limitless time to just read crap crazy people send them without even a small break for golf.
No, I don't know why they would have limitless time, how could I know that? Probably some guy kicked them out of actual medical school or something and this is their idea of revenge.
So anyway it takes like, about four years to answer all the questions, because they keep giving you these windows where you can write in the details and ask stupid questions, and what self respecting hypochondriac could possibly resist a chance to natter on endlessly about their symptoms?
I know I couldn't.
So, anyway, at the very end, after you have told them everything and remarked about how great they are, they tell you that for a small fee of only $55.00 they will be happy to send you their report.Of course, they fail to mention that until after you have already given them your phone number and mailing address. Even I am not stupid enough to follow that with my credit card number, but even so, they know everything about me now, right down to that birthmark on my butt that is shaped like Canada (if you squint).
So withholding my credit card info at that point is probably not going to slow them down for long.
But, anyway, I would just like to point out that on days when I must skip a dose of Lithium to have labs drawn, perhaps it would be wise if whoever is my keeper of the day denies me access to the Internet. Just get me set up with a nice game of the Sims (which I will happily obsess over until the baby reaches old age and dies) and just quietly disable the Internet.
I feel it is incumbent upon me to try and help with my care and feeding as much as possible.
Because, believe me, I require some awesome care and feeding. It takes at least three full time adults just to guarantee I don't sign anything, spend anything, or decide to take flying lessons and order a piper Cub just because I am convinced everyone needs one, or they will never live full, productive meaningful lives.
At least, I am better with the Lithium, but until I reach optimum therapeutic levels (in my case, it is possible that I will die of heavy metal poisoning before I get there) we all agree that I should not make decisions. In fact, we are pretty sure I should not even answer the telephone.
I will either
A) agree completely with anyone nice, even up to agreeing to donate large sums of money (which we don't actually have) to a good cause. Be advised that as long as it benefits dogs or children I am not only sure it is a good cause, I also think it's alright to hold people at gunpoint to make them donate.
Or
B) I disagree and have a tendency to dare the Klan to come and burn a cross on my lawn so that I can jazz up the annual Gay Pride picnic with a really colorful marshmallow roaster, and I have no fear so I sometimes invite them to come and kill me and threaten to shoot them on sight. Presumably while they're erecting the cross. Do not even get me started on neo-Nazis. They don't call me anymore. I may have killed one, I'm not sure.
So, overall, it's better to keep me off the phone. Keeping me off the porch is good, too.
If you are a Jehovah's Witness or a Mormon, please do not try to save me before June. One of us is going to have a life changing faith experience of epic proportions if you try that and it probably won't be me. Just so you know.
So, anyway, it's only four hours until I can return to being safely medicated. In the meantime, I am going to quietly play the Sims and let Jacob answer the door.
Probably.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Heeere's Pilly!
Couldn't think of a title, sorry. This whole sanity thing is a bit tricky--not that I'm complaining, mind, it just takes some getting used to. I used to just turn off my inhibition factor, (something that is fairly easy if you're Bipolar, since you don't exactly HAVE an inhibition factor) and before you could say Bob's your uncle, there I was with a Pilly story.
What that has to do with my new stove I couldn't begin to tell you, and that was what I thought I was going to write about. Clearly I was wrong.
Also, it seems I am no longer familiar with the computer keyboard, apparently sanity affects your fingers all to hell and gone. Who knew?
So, anyway, my stove.
Pellet stoves may be the greatest invention in the history of people. Seriously. Well, okay, it takes awhile before it seems alright to you to burn something that looks like a cross between rabbit pellets and cow feed, but aside from that, you couldn't ask for anything more, really.
They're clean, they're efficient and they guarantee that you no longer have ice in your bathtub. That right there is reason enough to love them, in my opinion. You pry a few frozen towels off the bathroom floor in the morning, you get right fond of a stove, I can tell you.
Alright, it thawed that block of ice under the kitchen sink and I was not entirely prepared for the ensuing flood, but it saved having to find a bucket to mop the kitchen floor, so it all worked out, really.
Seriously, I have the most wonderful husband in the world and I should quit poking fun at my life long enough to tell you the real Pilly story, which isn't funny, but is a good story just the same.
When I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder it was a tremendous relief to me, but it also was a scary thing. Not every husband in the world wants a truly crazy wife. Alright, it's true he stuck by me when I was completely insane, which you would think might have given me a clue that he probably was in it for better or for worse, just like the vows said.
But in real life, knowing that your partner suffers from a major mental illness, and knowing what that might mean in terms of your future, all too often makes people realize they really aren't in it for that much potential worse. And I'm not judging anyone. If you can't deal with that, you can't and the person is probably better off without you.
So I confess I worried about what it would mean for MY future. And my family's future. At least for the moment, I can't handle our finances or take care of any of our business and Jimmy has to be away on the road. As a rule, a truck driver needs a partner who can take care of home while he makes the many sacrifices needed to earn the family's living.
But it turns out that I am profoundly loved, and not just by my husband, either. It is a very humbling thing to realize that you are loved that much by so many people. It is, in fact, a little like God's love. The Love that exists, not because you are worthy of it, but just because you are. It makes you want to love back, with all your heart and mind and soul.
And if you are reading this, you are, like as not, one of the people in my life who has loved me. And so, I want to thank you for every minute you have been in my life and in my heart, part of the fabric of my life.
Thank you for all the times you tried to keep my safe, when the last thing I thought I wanted or needed was safe. Thank you for being exhausted by me, for never giving up on me, for not just pretending I didn't exist or disowning me when I gave you trouble or got in trouble or was the trouble, which I so often was.
Thank you for never trying to make me be somebody else, for letting me be what I was, for teaching me that love always loves, and always forgives and truly forgets, and values everything, good or bad, that makes up a human soul.
Because of you I know God. I know about His love, because you demonstrated it for me in the best of all possible ways. You were Saint Francis to me (preach always, if necessary use words, he said. You did. And you didn't need words).
And what did my wonderful husband say, when we discussed what my illness might mean for our lives?
He said, " I love you ," of course.
And he does.
What that has to do with my new stove I couldn't begin to tell you, and that was what I thought I was going to write about. Clearly I was wrong.
Also, it seems I am no longer familiar with the computer keyboard, apparently sanity affects your fingers all to hell and gone. Who knew?
So, anyway, my stove.
Pellet stoves may be the greatest invention in the history of people. Seriously. Well, okay, it takes awhile before it seems alright to you to burn something that looks like a cross between rabbit pellets and cow feed, but aside from that, you couldn't ask for anything more, really.
They're clean, they're efficient and they guarantee that you no longer have ice in your bathtub. That right there is reason enough to love them, in my opinion. You pry a few frozen towels off the bathroom floor in the morning, you get right fond of a stove, I can tell you.
Alright, it thawed that block of ice under the kitchen sink and I was not entirely prepared for the ensuing flood, but it saved having to find a bucket to mop the kitchen floor, so it all worked out, really.
Seriously, I have the most wonderful husband in the world and I should quit poking fun at my life long enough to tell you the real Pilly story, which isn't funny, but is a good story just the same.
When I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder it was a tremendous relief to me, but it also was a scary thing. Not every husband in the world wants a truly crazy wife. Alright, it's true he stuck by me when I was completely insane, which you would think might have given me a clue that he probably was in it for better or for worse, just like the vows said.
But in real life, knowing that your partner suffers from a major mental illness, and knowing what that might mean in terms of your future, all too often makes people realize they really aren't in it for that much potential worse. And I'm not judging anyone. If you can't deal with that, you can't and the person is probably better off without you.
So I confess I worried about what it would mean for MY future. And my family's future. At least for the moment, I can't handle our finances or take care of any of our business and Jimmy has to be away on the road. As a rule, a truck driver needs a partner who can take care of home while he makes the many sacrifices needed to earn the family's living.
But it turns out that I am profoundly loved, and not just by my husband, either. It is a very humbling thing to realize that you are loved that much by so many people. It is, in fact, a little like God's love. The Love that exists, not because you are worthy of it, but just because you are. It makes you want to love back, with all your heart and mind and soul.
And if you are reading this, you are, like as not, one of the people in my life who has loved me. And so, I want to thank you for every minute you have been in my life and in my heart, part of the fabric of my life.
Thank you for all the times you tried to keep my safe, when the last thing I thought I wanted or needed was safe. Thank you for being exhausted by me, for never giving up on me, for not just pretending I didn't exist or disowning me when I gave you trouble or got in trouble or was the trouble, which I so often was.
Thank you for never trying to make me be somebody else, for letting me be what I was, for teaching me that love always loves, and always forgives and truly forgets, and values everything, good or bad, that makes up a human soul.
Because of you I know God. I know about His love, because you demonstrated it for me in the best of all possible ways. You were Saint Francis to me (preach always, if necessary use words, he said. You did. And you didn't need words).
And what did my wonderful husband say, when we discussed what my illness might mean for our lives?
He said, " I love you ," of course.
And he does.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
It's cold.
How cold is it, Pilly?
Well, I'll tell you. It's cold enough that I seriously considered sinning in a big way just so I could be sure of going somewhere very warm after I'm dead.
But I scrapped the idea because, really, what if the Eskimos are right and Hell is just endless frozen tundra with no igloo? And frankly, I already live there, so what would be the point of dying? At least in Wisconsin, spring does come eventually.
I would just like my husband to know that calling me every ten minutes to inquire whether I am a popsicle yet is not really useful. I believe the pioneers only survived the winters on the prairie because there were no phones. One too many phone calls inquiring about how they were doing would have eventually led some settler to take an ax and wipe out the whole colony and the United States would all be east of the Mississippi, today.
This house leaves a lot to be desired in the way of comfort. On the up side, I cannot die of carbon monoxide poisoning because it's so drafty you can't keep a candle lit in the living room on a breezy day. On the down side, you risk frostbite every time you get near a window.
Well, that's life, you know. As Almanzo Wilder was wont to say, it all evens out in the end. The rich man gets his ice in the summer, but the poor man gets his in the winter, so it's all good, really.
There are some decided advantages to a cold house. For instance, if you forget to put the leftovers away they don't spoil. You have to thaw them in the microwave to eat them, but still.
I think I have figured out why the pioneers only bathed once in a winter. As the ice formed on top of the washtub they were sitting in they had to hurry in order not to be trapped til spring, and once of that was probably enough for them.
I'm still working out how they managed not to have to go to the outhouse until spring. Whiskey may have been involved. I read this really great diary kept by one of the lesser known Ingalls brothers who stayed in Wisconsin and apparently never did anything notable.
I'm not sure why he felt the need to keep a journal. Every day it's too cold to go anywhere, he gets lonesome for the neighbors, he eats the same thing once a day, occasionally he gets out to do some lumber jacking, once during a warm spell when it was only about forty below he managed to get to the neighbors cabin and have some coffee. He mentions that he told the guy's wife he guessed he'd have to get married.
She should have started sleeping with the ax next to her, there were decided overtones of, "If your husband were to fall through the ice, maybe I could move in."
Apparently he never went that far, however, as for the rest of the winter he does nothing but complain about his loneliness and have the occasional pancake.
I used to wonder how Ma Ingalls managed not to kill Charles, as every time she got decent furniture and a garden planted he decided to push on further west, Now I think maybe she was hoping it was warmer farther away. This is the man that burned hay to keep warm one whole winter in South Dakota. I think Jimmy might be one of his descendants.
So, anyway, here I am once again, trying to stay warm in one more fabulous antique of a house.
At least no one has asked me to plant a garden.
Well, I'll tell you. It's cold enough that I seriously considered sinning in a big way just so I could be sure of going somewhere very warm after I'm dead.
But I scrapped the idea because, really, what if the Eskimos are right and Hell is just endless frozen tundra with no igloo? And frankly, I already live there, so what would be the point of dying? At least in Wisconsin, spring does come eventually.
I would just like my husband to know that calling me every ten minutes to inquire whether I am a popsicle yet is not really useful. I believe the pioneers only survived the winters on the prairie because there were no phones. One too many phone calls inquiring about how they were doing would have eventually led some settler to take an ax and wipe out the whole colony and the United States would all be east of the Mississippi, today.
This house leaves a lot to be desired in the way of comfort. On the up side, I cannot die of carbon monoxide poisoning because it's so drafty you can't keep a candle lit in the living room on a breezy day. On the down side, you risk frostbite every time you get near a window.
Well, that's life, you know. As Almanzo Wilder was wont to say, it all evens out in the end. The rich man gets his ice in the summer, but the poor man gets his in the winter, so it's all good, really.
There are some decided advantages to a cold house. For instance, if you forget to put the leftovers away they don't spoil. You have to thaw them in the microwave to eat them, but still.
I think I have figured out why the pioneers only bathed once in a winter. As the ice formed on top of the washtub they were sitting in they had to hurry in order not to be trapped til spring, and once of that was probably enough for them.
I'm still working out how they managed not to have to go to the outhouse until spring. Whiskey may have been involved. I read this really great diary kept by one of the lesser known Ingalls brothers who stayed in Wisconsin and apparently never did anything notable.
I'm not sure why he felt the need to keep a journal. Every day it's too cold to go anywhere, he gets lonesome for the neighbors, he eats the same thing once a day, occasionally he gets out to do some lumber jacking, once during a warm spell when it was only about forty below he managed to get to the neighbors cabin and have some coffee. He mentions that he told the guy's wife he guessed he'd have to get married.
She should have started sleeping with the ax next to her, there were decided overtones of, "If your husband were to fall through the ice, maybe I could move in."
Apparently he never went that far, however, as for the rest of the winter he does nothing but complain about his loneliness and have the occasional pancake.
I used to wonder how Ma Ingalls managed not to kill Charles, as every time she got decent furniture and a garden planted he decided to push on further west, Now I think maybe she was hoping it was warmer farther away. This is the man that burned hay to keep warm one whole winter in South Dakota. I think Jimmy might be one of his descendants.
So, anyway, here I am once again, trying to stay warm in one more fabulous antique of a house.
At least no one has asked me to plant a garden.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Reflecting...
People who write do so for one reason and one reason only. Because they have a story they need to tell. And that is why I write this blog, to tell you a story. Sometimes they're good, sometimes they're bad, sometimes they're funny, sometimes they're not. But they all end up here because I can't NOT write.
So, I'm going to tell you a story.
Once upon a time, about thirty years ago I suffered a catastrophic psychotic breakdown. It completely rebooted my life and my personality and how I think. I have never had a second breakdown because I decided Dr. Jackson the psychiatrist knew her business pretty well, and so I made the changes that would ensure I would stay...sane. Or mostly so, anyway.
I'm telling you this story because I noticed something happening in people around me that I don't like, and in case any one reading this is somewhat like me, I'm hoping you'll take heed and avoid the disaster for yourselves. I hope I tell it well enough that you can read the map and avoid the pitfalls and find comfort.
While the world views a competitive spirit as the mother lode of good things in life, for some of us, it's a recipe for disaster. Because for some of us, the need to be the best, or even just to be better than whoever is standing next to us, is more than a nudge to try harder.
That need becomes the crystal meth of achieving. We will push and strive and compete til we weigh 80 pounds, have a resting heart rate of 170 and are completely insane, and then we'll keep competing until we're dead and we can't get up anymore.
That was me. There was no such thing as enough. I don't know why. I just know I couldn't live unless I could do it better than you can. Til I had more degrees and made more money and owned more things and was a better lover and knew more songs and played more instruments and was a better chess player and could play tennis at Wimbledon and anything else any other person in the whole free world could do, I could do better.
You probably don't know that about me. I hope you never thought I could be like that.
So there I was, exhausted, 89 pounds of total, vibrating, full out fight or flight anxiety and completely insane.
And I decided that I could go on, and die insane. Or I could let it all go and never compete with anyone for anything again. So I did.
I have stopped seeing people if they persisted in competing with me. Friendship wasn't worth the whistle, I can refuse to compete, but I can't refuse to be competed with. I don't work outside my home, I don't need to have any particular thing to prove my value, I don't care what you think of my house or my life or my children, and I don't want you to care what I think of yours.
Because what I think doesn't matter. Please know that. What ANYBODY thinks of you doesn't matter. Let it go.
If someone needs to be prettier than you, richer, stronger, wiser, kinder, better in any way whatsoever--let them be. Concede graciously and go do something you like to do. Something you really like to do, not something you think you should like to do or that will impress people if they think you like to do it.
I still play games sometimes, as long as I don't care if I win. If I start to care, I concede and go make tea. I write because I like to write. I'll never get famous and I'll never get rich at it and I don't care because that isn't why I do it.
I like to knit hats. I make perfectly awful hats, really. Some so bad not even my grandchildren will wear them to go sledding. But I still make them, because I like to knit hats.
I like to study. Because there are things I want to know. I know a lot of things, now, and I hope to know more as I go along. I do not need college credits or a degree to prove I have learned these things. That's not why I study. I study because I like to know things.
I really like to sing. I sing fairly well, dogs don't howl and children don't cry, but there are thousands of people who sing much better than I do. And that's okay, I like to listen to them, sometimes. But mostly I like to sing, so I do.
If I get too fond of something, I give it to somebody else. Nobody should care so much about things that they have to have them to be happy.
So here's my thought for the end of this year and the start of the next one:
Anything I can do, you can do better. Enjoy.
So, I'm going to tell you a story.
Once upon a time, about thirty years ago I suffered a catastrophic psychotic breakdown. It completely rebooted my life and my personality and how I think. I have never had a second breakdown because I decided Dr. Jackson the psychiatrist knew her business pretty well, and so I made the changes that would ensure I would stay...sane. Or mostly so, anyway.
I'm telling you this story because I noticed something happening in people around me that I don't like, and in case any one reading this is somewhat like me, I'm hoping you'll take heed and avoid the disaster for yourselves. I hope I tell it well enough that you can read the map and avoid the pitfalls and find comfort.
While the world views a competitive spirit as the mother lode of good things in life, for some of us, it's a recipe for disaster. Because for some of us, the need to be the best, or even just to be better than whoever is standing next to us, is more than a nudge to try harder.
That need becomes the crystal meth of achieving. We will push and strive and compete til we weigh 80 pounds, have a resting heart rate of 170 and are completely insane, and then we'll keep competing until we're dead and we can't get up anymore.
That was me. There was no such thing as enough. I don't know why. I just know I couldn't live unless I could do it better than you can. Til I had more degrees and made more money and owned more things and was a better lover and knew more songs and played more instruments and was a better chess player and could play tennis at Wimbledon and anything else any other person in the whole free world could do, I could do better.
You probably don't know that about me. I hope you never thought I could be like that.
So there I was, exhausted, 89 pounds of total, vibrating, full out fight or flight anxiety and completely insane.
And I decided that I could go on, and die insane. Or I could let it all go and never compete with anyone for anything again. So I did.
I have stopped seeing people if they persisted in competing with me. Friendship wasn't worth the whistle, I can refuse to compete, but I can't refuse to be competed with. I don't work outside my home, I don't need to have any particular thing to prove my value, I don't care what you think of my house or my life or my children, and I don't want you to care what I think of yours.
Because what I think doesn't matter. Please know that. What ANYBODY thinks of you doesn't matter. Let it go.
If someone needs to be prettier than you, richer, stronger, wiser, kinder, better in any way whatsoever--let them be. Concede graciously and go do something you like to do. Something you really like to do, not something you think you should like to do or that will impress people if they think you like to do it.
I still play games sometimes, as long as I don't care if I win. If I start to care, I concede and go make tea. I write because I like to write. I'll never get famous and I'll never get rich at it and I don't care because that isn't why I do it.
I like to knit hats. I make perfectly awful hats, really. Some so bad not even my grandchildren will wear them to go sledding. But I still make them, because I like to knit hats.
I like to study. Because there are things I want to know. I know a lot of things, now, and I hope to know more as I go along. I do not need college credits or a degree to prove I have learned these things. That's not why I study. I study because I like to know things.
I really like to sing. I sing fairly well, dogs don't howl and children don't cry, but there are thousands of people who sing much better than I do. And that's okay, I like to listen to them, sometimes. But mostly I like to sing, so I do.
If I get too fond of something, I give it to somebody else. Nobody should care so much about things that they have to have them to be happy.
So here's my thought for the end of this year and the start of the next one:
Anything I can do, you can do better. Enjoy.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Pilly's Christmas Carol
And if you're waiting for three ghosts and a trip back through time and an epiphany of life changing proportions, let me remind you that was Dickens. My Christmas Carol is not all that great.
So, anyway, Ida's very big and generous heart can stretch to accommodate limitless numbers of people for the Christmas party, but her house cannot, so she moved the whole thing to the community building where we can have all the bacchanalian glee we want and all the kids have room to do kid things.
I had the most stupendous time and I would just like to tell Betty that she has to get well and stay that way, on account of now that I have discovered what a truly great sister-in-law she is, I need to make sure she will be there for the next twenty Christmases.
I will even hold Ida at gunpoint until she agrees to raffle off that Chrystal sleigh and reindeer harnessed with silver chains.
AND I will personally knock down the guy drawing the numbers out of the hat and dig through til I find Betty's and make sure she wins. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "But who will be holding the gun on Ida while you are fixing the raffle, Pilly?"
HA! I have that covered. We will just make sure Larry is feeding her some devilled eggs at the time and everything will work out nicely. Just trust me. I'm good at this stuff. I took care of the whole deputy incident, didn't I? Yes, I did.
So, anyway, it was so wonderful I can't even begin to tell you how much fun I had. That Ida knows how to throw a party.
She brought seven million ride on toys from many generations of Clark children and had races for the little people. It's true that some little people clearly felt that all was fair in this no holds barred, highly important and serious quest for the best stuffed animal and were willing to do almost anything to insure that they had first choice. Up to and including riding over the top of other racers.
Emma at one point was so fueled by single minded determination to have for her very own a pink spotted dalmatian that she cavalierly shoved Aiden out of the way, rode over Ada (who was enjoying a nice sugar cookie in her walker) and even mowed down the judges, since that was what it took to win.
I am happy to say she is now the proud owner of a prize pink spotted dalmatian puppy. Later, Aiden threw her off his scooter and chased her around the hall as she rode the broom grandpa was using to sweep the floor, so it all evened out in the end. Well, not for Ada, but still.
It turns out Ada really likes Christmas. From the moment she entered the hall, it was clear that nothing in her life up to this point had prepared her for a holiday so wonderful as this one. The floor was a highly polished basketball court, thus making it possible to zoom around in a walker at 500 miles per hour shrieking "Ahhhhh" through a very big grin.
Then there was the food. Clearly this was heaven. Total strangers give you cookies, cake, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, fruit salad and more delicious things you never heard of. Other children share lollipops with you. You can run over your sister and nobody even cares!
And then, as if this was not glorious enough, Aunt Ida plops you on the floor and hands you a bag of presents. Filled with things that jingle, sing, shake, stack, roll and whistle. And someone hands you to Santa and lo and behold, he's your Grandpa! Which no one ever told you before and is obviously a delightful surprise.
Emma is not the least bit impressed that her grandparents are famous. If there is no competitive driving and stuffed prizes, Santa can go to the North pole for all she cares. Unless he can pull a scooter out of that bag, she's moving on to the pinata.
And so she did. I would like a word with the fellow who thought up the pinata. Did it honestly seem like a good idea to you to fill a cardboard box with treats, hang it from a tree and then allow blindfolded and dizzy toddlers to wander around with a baseball bat swinging at every sound?
No one really wants a subdural hematoma for Christmas. I'm sure it seemed like a giggle when you invented it, but you were wrong. And then there is the small matter of the pinata mix currently sold by wal-mart to fill the pinata.
Some things that do not mix well with drunken, blindfolded toddlers are hard candy, small toys with parts that can be swallowed and the kind of taffy that requires a trip to the orthodontist if you ever want to speak again. So why exactly are those things in the pinata mix? Do you have a secret kick back scheme with the emergency room and the dental community? Wouldn't hershey's Kisses do as well? Just think about it.
God knows I would not want to deprive you of the joy of ruining Christmas for countless human beings in America. After all, you are so good at that whole pharmacy business and you know how I feel about that.
But I digress.
We played bingo and tic tac toe, had fun prizes, ate until we were in danger of exploding, and best of all, got to spend Christmas with about 100 assorted grandchildren. Among whom was the newest member of my family, little Miss Bailey who arrived suddenly in Mommy's bathroom one morning. The earliest--and best--present I received this year.
I treasure Callies, kissing her dad and stroking Bailey's forehead, Autum playing bingo with me and Great Grandma Yvonne, Zoey running madly through the hall with Emma, laughing. I treasure Aiden cuddling with me in a chair, Nina kissing me and softly saying, "Gumma" as she laid her head on my shoulder like a weary little traveller reaching home at last.
I treasure my Mandy, and Linkin who smiles just like Jacob and is his Mama's mainstay, always. I treasure my little Heaven, who believes that Grandma can do all the magic things, even dance like a ballerina, and I treasure my little JM, another gentle little Jacob for me to love. I treasure Mabel Rainbow, sleeping safe under her mother's heart and willing to kick me now and then, to say hello.
I treasure Emma and Ada sharing a lollipop like two other little girls, long, long ago. And my parents, connecting us all from the biggest to the very smallest, with the golden thread that we so often take for granted, love.
I treasure my brothers-in-law and their wonderful wives and children, who share all their grandchildren with us. I treasure Ida, because I am sure she is the Saint of Christmas, but she has no idea she is, Ida who holds us together, our center, whose heart is the light that leads us home.
I treasure my two dads, who have both loved me and been there through all the moments of my life. Father and Father-in-law, If I could have had you made to order, I would have ordered you just as you are.
I treasure my mother, the person I am most like, which is an honor, always.
I treasure my sons and my daughter, you are not all the children of my body, but every one of you is the child of my heart. I am so proud of you, and I love you without measure.
I treasure Rob and Jim and Buzz and all my boys who let me adopt them. Rob who shares his heart and his sons with me, Jim who gives me my daughter, Kat , and his friendship and his humor, and Buzz who shares with me his wonderful way of thinking and his mom, my friend.
I treasure all of you and if I didn't mention you, it's not because I love you any less, but only that my heart is full and running over with the richness of your love, and with a measure as great and abundant as that, sometimes a drop slips by me, unremarked.
You have made me the richest woman in the world, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
So, anyway, Ida's very big and generous heart can stretch to accommodate limitless numbers of people for the Christmas party, but her house cannot, so she moved the whole thing to the community building where we can have all the bacchanalian glee we want and all the kids have room to do kid things.
I had the most stupendous time and I would just like to tell Betty that she has to get well and stay that way, on account of now that I have discovered what a truly great sister-in-law she is, I need to make sure she will be there for the next twenty Christmases.
I will even hold Ida at gunpoint until she agrees to raffle off that Chrystal sleigh and reindeer harnessed with silver chains.
AND I will personally knock down the guy drawing the numbers out of the hat and dig through til I find Betty's and make sure she wins. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "But who will be holding the gun on Ida while you are fixing the raffle, Pilly?"
HA! I have that covered. We will just make sure Larry is feeding her some devilled eggs at the time and everything will work out nicely. Just trust me. I'm good at this stuff. I took care of the whole deputy incident, didn't I? Yes, I did.
So, anyway, it was so wonderful I can't even begin to tell you how much fun I had. That Ida knows how to throw a party.
She brought seven million ride on toys from many generations of Clark children and had races for the little people. It's true that some little people clearly felt that all was fair in this no holds barred, highly important and serious quest for the best stuffed animal and were willing to do almost anything to insure that they had first choice. Up to and including riding over the top of other racers.
Emma at one point was so fueled by single minded determination to have for her very own a pink spotted dalmatian that she cavalierly shoved Aiden out of the way, rode over Ada (who was enjoying a nice sugar cookie in her walker) and even mowed down the judges, since that was what it took to win.
I am happy to say she is now the proud owner of a prize pink spotted dalmatian puppy. Later, Aiden threw her off his scooter and chased her around the hall as she rode the broom grandpa was using to sweep the floor, so it all evened out in the end. Well, not for Ada, but still.
It turns out Ada really likes Christmas. From the moment she entered the hall, it was clear that nothing in her life up to this point had prepared her for a holiday so wonderful as this one. The floor was a highly polished basketball court, thus making it possible to zoom around in a walker at 500 miles per hour shrieking "Ahhhhh" through a very big grin.
Then there was the food. Clearly this was heaven. Total strangers give you cookies, cake, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, fruit salad and more delicious things you never heard of. Other children share lollipops with you. You can run over your sister and nobody even cares!
And then, as if this was not glorious enough, Aunt Ida plops you on the floor and hands you a bag of presents. Filled with things that jingle, sing, shake, stack, roll and whistle. And someone hands you to Santa and lo and behold, he's your Grandpa! Which no one ever told you before and is obviously a delightful surprise.
Emma is not the least bit impressed that her grandparents are famous. If there is no competitive driving and stuffed prizes, Santa can go to the North pole for all she cares. Unless he can pull a scooter out of that bag, she's moving on to the pinata.
And so she did. I would like a word with the fellow who thought up the pinata. Did it honestly seem like a good idea to you to fill a cardboard box with treats, hang it from a tree and then allow blindfolded and dizzy toddlers to wander around with a baseball bat swinging at every sound?
No one really wants a subdural hematoma for Christmas. I'm sure it seemed like a giggle when you invented it, but you were wrong. And then there is the small matter of the pinata mix currently sold by wal-mart to fill the pinata.
Some things that do not mix well with drunken, blindfolded toddlers are hard candy, small toys with parts that can be swallowed and the kind of taffy that requires a trip to the orthodontist if you ever want to speak again. So why exactly are those things in the pinata mix? Do you have a secret kick back scheme with the emergency room and the dental community? Wouldn't hershey's Kisses do as well? Just think about it.
God knows I would not want to deprive you of the joy of ruining Christmas for countless human beings in America. After all, you are so good at that whole pharmacy business and you know how I feel about that.
But I digress.
We played bingo and tic tac toe, had fun prizes, ate until we were in danger of exploding, and best of all, got to spend Christmas with about 100 assorted grandchildren. Among whom was the newest member of my family, little Miss Bailey who arrived suddenly in Mommy's bathroom one morning. The earliest--and best--present I received this year.
I treasure Callies, kissing her dad and stroking Bailey's forehead, Autum playing bingo with me and Great Grandma Yvonne, Zoey running madly through the hall with Emma, laughing. I treasure Aiden cuddling with me in a chair, Nina kissing me and softly saying, "Gumma" as she laid her head on my shoulder like a weary little traveller reaching home at last.
I treasure my Mandy, and Linkin who smiles just like Jacob and is his Mama's mainstay, always. I treasure my little Heaven, who believes that Grandma can do all the magic things, even dance like a ballerina, and I treasure my little JM, another gentle little Jacob for me to love. I treasure Mabel Rainbow, sleeping safe under her mother's heart and willing to kick me now and then, to say hello.
I treasure Emma and Ada sharing a lollipop like two other little girls, long, long ago. And my parents, connecting us all from the biggest to the very smallest, with the golden thread that we so often take for granted, love.
I treasure my brothers-in-law and their wonderful wives and children, who share all their grandchildren with us. I treasure Ida, because I am sure she is the Saint of Christmas, but she has no idea she is, Ida who holds us together, our center, whose heart is the light that leads us home.
I treasure my two dads, who have both loved me and been there through all the moments of my life. Father and Father-in-law, If I could have had you made to order, I would have ordered you just as you are.
I treasure my mother, the person I am most like, which is an honor, always.
I treasure my sons and my daughter, you are not all the children of my body, but every one of you is the child of my heart. I am so proud of you, and I love you without measure.
I treasure Rob and Jim and Buzz and all my boys who let me adopt them. Rob who shares his heart and his sons with me, Jim who gives me my daughter, Kat , and his friendship and his humor, and Buzz who shares with me his wonderful way of thinking and his mom, my friend.
I treasure all of you and if I didn't mention you, it's not because I love you any less, but only that my heart is full and running over with the richness of your love, and with a measure as great and abundant as that, sometimes a drop slips by me, unremarked.
You have made me the richest woman in the world, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Adultery a Crime in Wisconsin
You heard me, it carries a fine of up to $10,000 and a potential sentence of 3 and 1/2 years in prison.
Am I surprised that the government has now decided to poke it's long nose not only into my private life, but directly into what my genitalia are up to? Not really. I think it's wrong to legislate a person's sexual habits, but I'm not surprised.
Why, just think, coming soon will be the official government virginity test for females desiring to marry! And who knows but what even men will have to find some way to prove they, too, are virginal.
Perhaps we can implant a computer chip in the genitalia to sound an alarm in case any child discovers the fun of masturbation. It will certainly be more effective than that "you'll go blind" thing we had going on a long time ago.
What kind of person wants their spouse to be faithful by main force? Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of love and faithfulness as a direct result of love? And if one were to make a mistake while young, commit adultery in the heat of the moment or under great duress or anguish of mind, and sincerely regret it later, is there no hope of forgiveness after that? Are we to assume that love itself can be eradicated by the making of one, small physical error that has no more emotional significance than say, moving one's bowels?
Is making my spouse pay a fine or serve time in any way likely to improve my marriage? What exact purpose does it serve? What is it's expected benefit?
It's not a deterrent, because we all know from experience that people break rules all the time, you're either a person who "won't do it because it's wrong" or you're a person who "probably won't get caught and is therefore willing to take the risk."
In other words, we are all human and fallible and subject to making poor decisions depending on the circumstances in which we find ourselves.
So what good do we expect to be accomplished by the moral police?
This country is going plumb to hell and one of us should really say something. We live in a country where our mouth has freedom of speech but our genitalia are regulated by law.
Strippers can legally take it all off and give any enterprising old man a lap dance, but the man's body better not respond or it will find itself in a prison cell with Bubba, for whom it is not a crime to commit adultery with the man's orifice's, and even if it were adultery, what's three and a half more years to a man already serving 25?
And I doubt the fine is going to be a lot of comfort to the old fellow, either, after all, they're not paying it to him. And if he should be so bold as to suggest they should, that would be soliciting prostitution and we all know where that leads. Right back to Bubba.
And I should like very much to know how one proves the crime of adultery has been committed. Is the appearance of guilt enough to secure a conviction? And if it is, don't you think you ought to start worrying about what other things you may find yourself in prison for based on a mere likelihood or appearance of guilt?
Did we not once have a Constitution and a Bill of Rights that both guaranteed us certain freedoms and protected us from certain oppressions? Where the hell have they gone? Shouldn't we try to find out? Do you want to wake up next to Bubba thinking, "I should have gone looking to see what happened to my freedom and protection..." Well, it's a little too late to do the right thing then, Buddy!
So, back to adultery and how to prove it, is photographic evidence required? Do we care at all how it is obtained or by whom or under what circumstance?
Battered Women unite! Big brother has just given the abusive SOB the perfect weapon. No one will dare to help you now, not even the shelters. Every wife beating bastard out there has accused the staff of being lesbians who exist for the sole purpose of ruining the marriages of good old red blooded American husbands who only want to own their wives and occasionally break their bones.
So how big a step is it for the rat bastard to claim you committed adultery with the intake volunteer? Then it's a big fine and off to prison, so how many women are going to be willing to leave the abusive bastard with her children while SHE trots off to prison for three years for committing adultery?
I suppose murders may increase. Dead rat bastards tell no tales and at least you'll know the kids are safe while you're rotting in prison.
This whole thing is an outrage. I am disgusted, disappointed and I disapprove. Heartily.
Am I surprised that the government has now decided to poke it's long nose not only into my private life, but directly into what my genitalia are up to? Not really. I think it's wrong to legislate a person's sexual habits, but I'm not surprised.
Why, just think, coming soon will be the official government virginity test for females desiring to marry! And who knows but what even men will have to find some way to prove they, too, are virginal.
Perhaps we can implant a computer chip in the genitalia to sound an alarm in case any child discovers the fun of masturbation. It will certainly be more effective than that "you'll go blind" thing we had going on a long time ago.
What kind of person wants their spouse to be faithful by main force? Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of love and faithfulness as a direct result of love? And if one were to make a mistake while young, commit adultery in the heat of the moment or under great duress or anguish of mind, and sincerely regret it later, is there no hope of forgiveness after that? Are we to assume that love itself can be eradicated by the making of one, small physical error that has no more emotional significance than say, moving one's bowels?
Is making my spouse pay a fine or serve time in any way likely to improve my marriage? What exact purpose does it serve? What is it's expected benefit?
It's not a deterrent, because we all know from experience that people break rules all the time, you're either a person who "won't do it because it's wrong" or you're a person who "probably won't get caught and is therefore willing to take the risk."
In other words, we are all human and fallible and subject to making poor decisions depending on the circumstances in which we find ourselves.
So what good do we expect to be accomplished by the moral police?
This country is going plumb to hell and one of us should really say something. We live in a country where our mouth has freedom of speech but our genitalia are regulated by law.
Strippers can legally take it all off and give any enterprising old man a lap dance, but the man's body better not respond or it will find itself in a prison cell with Bubba, for whom it is not a crime to commit adultery with the man's orifice's, and even if it were adultery, what's three and a half more years to a man already serving 25?
And I doubt the fine is going to be a lot of comfort to the old fellow, either, after all, they're not paying it to him. And if he should be so bold as to suggest they should, that would be soliciting prostitution and we all know where that leads. Right back to Bubba.
And I should like very much to know how one proves the crime of adultery has been committed. Is the appearance of guilt enough to secure a conviction? And if it is, don't you think you ought to start worrying about what other things you may find yourself in prison for based on a mere likelihood or appearance of guilt?
Did we not once have a Constitution and a Bill of Rights that both guaranteed us certain freedoms and protected us from certain oppressions? Where the hell have they gone? Shouldn't we try to find out? Do you want to wake up next to Bubba thinking, "I should have gone looking to see what happened to my freedom and protection..." Well, it's a little too late to do the right thing then, Buddy!
So, back to adultery and how to prove it, is photographic evidence required? Do we care at all how it is obtained or by whom or under what circumstance?
Battered Women unite! Big brother has just given the abusive SOB the perfect weapon. No one will dare to help you now, not even the shelters. Every wife beating bastard out there has accused the staff of being lesbians who exist for the sole purpose of ruining the marriages of good old red blooded American husbands who only want to own their wives and occasionally break their bones.
So how big a step is it for the rat bastard to claim you committed adultery with the intake volunteer? Then it's a big fine and off to prison, so how many women are going to be willing to leave the abusive bastard with her children while SHE trots off to prison for three years for committing adultery?
I suppose murders may increase. Dead rat bastards tell no tales and at least you'll know the kids are safe while you're rotting in prison.
This whole thing is an outrage. I am disgusted, disappointed and I disapprove. Heartily.
Pilly from the Edge
Of something, I'm not sure what. I have the flu and I can tell you, the flu is mostly composed of edges. The edge of sleep, the edge of breathing, the edge of death, you know what I mean. You are never actually sleeping, breathing or dead, but you feel any one of them could be close at all times.
So yesterday, in the midst of dying from the flu (I'm always sure I'm dying when I get the flu, don't panic) I had to drag my sick, sorry, old, put upon and mistreated self out of bed in the freezing cold and drive to town to see the judge.
I like the Judge, he's a gentleman, and lord knows I hope he stays the judge forever and enjoys perfect health to the end of his greatly extended life. It's just that I don't feel that way about the District Attorney, who has now managed to make Jacob both my brother and my husband as well as being my son, and frankly, I resent the implication that Dad and I had children.
Which is the only way Jacob can be both my brother and my son, I still have not figured out how they managed to get us married. Of course, if the District Attorney can claim to produce such miracles as the bilocation of human beings, what's a small matter like incestuous marriage? Piece of cake, I'm sure.
Also, while I love my dad with all my heart and soul and have admired him greatly since I first had memories, which was about the age of two, I assure you I never wanted to have his children and he never wanted to have any with me, either.
Well, there was that whole cloning debate where I toyed with the idea of how cool it would be to get to give birth to and raise one of your parents through the miracle of cloning. But we decided it would never work because Dad would just follow me around telling me I was raising him all wrong and God knows how he might turn out with both of us either spoiling him or arguing about his discipline, so we gave up the idea altogether.
At any rate, Jacob is just my son, not my husband and not my brother. No matter how confused the District Attorney might be, it's really fairly simple. Even when you consider that if I am married to my brother, and that brother is also my father, then my father needs to have fathered both me and himself, which is a neat trick. Never mind how incestous that would be, I'm fairly sure it involves time travel, and had we figured that out we would simply have gone back a year and stopped all of it before it happened.
We might even have gone back far enough to stop the District Attorney's mother from ever conceiving him and all of this would be moot.
So, anyway, that's why I didn't wear a mask in court to contain my flu germs. Because I did so hope I'd get to see the District Attorney, and possibly shake his hand. The opportunity to give him a kiss would have been ideal, but the circumstances didn't allow so I just coughed in his direction repeatedly and hoped a lot.
You're asking, what about the rest of the people? Aren't you? Well, war is hell and collateral damage and everything. And I hoped God would protect them. And I notice no one had any tender sensiblities when I was collateral damage and I'm sick of being the only one with a conscience, thank you very much Vernon County.
I have a new policy, it's called see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil, so don't expect me to ever be a witness to, for, or about anything ever again. If somebody decides to hold a massacre in the street in front of my house I plan to pull the shades and go to bed. If it wears a uniform it can stay right the hell off my porch. I have already informed the children that if I am dying of a heart attack and they call 911, I will disinherit them.
They can drive me to the hospital or they can let me die right there on the floor, what they may NOT do is call anyone likely to be reached at 911.
Not counting Bob the town Constable (and his lovely wife) whom I still love. I would help him with anything and he is always allowed in the house provided he is not accompanied by anyone else in a uniform.
So anyway, I got a fine. It costs exactly $100.00 to obstruct justice, just so you know. And I had a lovely visit with the judge, who asked me repeatedly did I understand everything, and frequently tried to explain things to me, til I finally just gave up to the buzzing in my ears the fever was causing and answered yes to everything.
And then they let me go home to bed, thank God.
So there you are, the end of Pilly's experience with a life of crime and all of it's consequences and the next time I tell a lie I'm just going to confession and giving the hundred dollars to the church.
And may I strongly encourage you to do likewise. When somone cleans house over there to the DA's office, we can go back to doing our civic duty. Until then, refuse to be intimidated.
So yesterday, in the midst of dying from the flu (I'm always sure I'm dying when I get the flu, don't panic) I had to drag my sick, sorry, old, put upon and mistreated self out of bed in the freezing cold and drive to town to see the judge.
I like the Judge, he's a gentleman, and lord knows I hope he stays the judge forever and enjoys perfect health to the end of his greatly extended life. It's just that I don't feel that way about the District Attorney, who has now managed to make Jacob both my brother and my husband as well as being my son, and frankly, I resent the implication that Dad and I had children.
Which is the only way Jacob can be both my brother and my son, I still have not figured out how they managed to get us married. Of course, if the District Attorney can claim to produce such miracles as the bilocation of human beings, what's a small matter like incestuous marriage? Piece of cake, I'm sure.
Also, while I love my dad with all my heart and soul and have admired him greatly since I first had memories, which was about the age of two, I assure you I never wanted to have his children and he never wanted to have any with me, either.
Well, there was that whole cloning debate where I toyed with the idea of how cool it would be to get to give birth to and raise one of your parents through the miracle of cloning. But we decided it would never work because Dad would just follow me around telling me I was raising him all wrong and God knows how he might turn out with both of us either spoiling him or arguing about his discipline, so we gave up the idea altogether.
At any rate, Jacob is just my son, not my husband and not my brother. No matter how confused the District Attorney might be, it's really fairly simple. Even when you consider that if I am married to my brother, and that brother is also my father, then my father needs to have fathered both me and himself, which is a neat trick. Never mind how incestous that would be, I'm fairly sure it involves time travel, and had we figured that out we would simply have gone back a year and stopped all of it before it happened.
We might even have gone back far enough to stop the District Attorney's mother from ever conceiving him and all of this would be moot.
So, anyway, that's why I didn't wear a mask in court to contain my flu germs. Because I did so hope I'd get to see the District Attorney, and possibly shake his hand. The opportunity to give him a kiss would have been ideal, but the circumstances didn't allow so I just coughed in his direction repeatedly and hoped a lot.
You're asking, what about the rest of the people? Aren't you? Well, war is hell and collateral damage and everything. And I hoped God would protect them. And I notice no one had any tender sensiblities when I was collateral damage and I'm sick of being the only one with a conscience, thank you very much Vernon County.
I have a new policy, it's called see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil, so don't expect me to ever be a witness to, for, or about anything ever again. If somebody decides to hold a massacre in the street in front of my house I plan to pull the shades and go to bed. If it wears a uniform it can stay right the hell off my porch. I have already informed the children that if I am dying of a heart attack and they call 911, I will disinherit them.
They can drive me to the hospital or they can let me die right there on the floor, what they may NOT do is call anyone likely to be reached at 911.
Not counting Bob the town Constable (and his lovely wife) whom I still love. I would help him with anything and he is always allowed in the house provided he is not accompanied by anyone else in a uniform.
So anyway, I got a fine. It costs exactly $100.00 to obstruct justice, just so you know. And I had a lovely visit with the judge, who asked me repeatedly did I understand everything, and frequently tried to explain things to me, til I finally just gave up to the buzzing in my ears the fever was causing and answered yes to everything.
And then they let me go home to bed, thank God.
So there you are, the end of Pilly's experience with a life of crime and all of it's consequences and the next time I tell a lie I'm just going to confession and giving the hundred dollars to the church.
And may I strongly encourage you to do likewise. When somone cleans house over there to the DA's office, we can go back to doing our civic duty. Until then, refuse to be intimidated.
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