BOO!

Eeeek. So many of you have wondered if I croaked long ago. One of my friends has been searching through Maine obituaries.

Some of you may have hoped that I did -- you know, because I am such a blazing beauty and such an incredible talent that living alongside of me in the world is too much of a formidable challenge.

There's that typical lame attempt at humor again.

Anyhow, since so many of you still stop by, I have felt increasingly like a dirty, smelly foot embedded with fecal-covered pebbles PLUS I really, really miss you.

I can't tell you that enough. Both parts. But the latter --- that is the last reason I am writing this now. I love you guys. I miss the energy we shared for a long time, and the understanding and humor we brought to each other. But, I didn't think I was worthy of coming back here. There's the shame and guilt stuff again! It didn't slough off like old skin. Since I have been gone, there has been some learning, but I am still having trouble overcoming certain destructive mindsets. I turned 38 in June, but I'm not beating myself over that. I have no control over the lottery numbers, the number at the deli counter, or that I was born in 1971. And, I firmly believe that a particular age does not signify that we are fully "grown up." At no certain birthday will the Maturity Fairy dance on your head at 3:00 in the morning, sprinkling tinsel and glitter in your hair, leaving a Good Job! greeting card on your nightstand before she flies away to decorate the next all-knowing being.

So, I have been staying away partially because of all of that mind-traffic. I also have been in the hospital a few times, have moved, and am getting ready to move again. I was also diagnosed with legal blindness back in the late Fall of 2008, and it has progressed/regressed?/worsened? significantly since, requiring a second pair of glasses and lenses within 4 months. I knew almost nothing about legal blindness at that time and was told by a friend that the diagnosis was going to be OK because one of her loved ones has the diagnosis and that person's life hasn't changed since. Whew. That put my mind at ease in a way, though hearing from a doctor the term "legally blind" was a shock to my system. Since that day, I have had far more testing and visited a specialist out of state. I have learned that it was a perfectly OK for me to feel alarmed and that each case of legal blindness is different in its cause, its intensity, and the direction it eventually takes. No one on either side of my family has ever had vision problems. My condition has been linked directly to over-oxygenation from the years of living and sleeping in oxygen tents, a problem rooted back in the 60's and 70's which has since been acknowledged and remedied over the years by the medical community. Steps have been taken to cut down oxygen usage in pediatric respiratory therapy so there is no vision loss in sick children.

Legal blindness basically means that a legally blind individual would have to stand 20 feet (6.1 m) from an object to see it—with vision correction—with the same degree of clarity as a normally sighted person could from 200 feet (61 m). Approximately ten percent of those deemed legally blind, by any measure, have/will eventually have no vision. The rest have some vision, from light perception alone to relatively good acuity. Approximately 1.3 million Americans are legally blind. My vision has been poor since I was a little girl and worsens yearly, requiring a new prescription. For example, without lenses, I can stand bout 1.5 feet from someone and look directly into that person's face and still not be able to make out any specific facial features (which might, in some cases, come in handy). I can see lip color and hair - that's about it. The rest of their head is one big blur. I have worn glasses since I was about 5. I remember the day my mom drove me to pick up my first pair; it was a beautiful New England fall day. After trying them on inside the office, I wore them outside and got into the car. As we drove down the street, I was in a complete state of wonder. It was the first time I realized that trees were not just big blobs of color; they actually had leaves that were not only separate, but even visible from the street. Give very young children a piece of paper and crayons and most kids will color their first tree with a thick brown trunk and a big green glob on top. That was certainly my childhood interpretation of a tree for 5 years, until the very day a pair of glasses were slipped onto my face. What a revelation.

As far as how the news is affecting me now? There's still fear there, but I'm not thinking about it much at all. There is far too much at the current time to deal with what might happen soon or later. The old googlers are getting more and more blurry and I have more appointments that I used to, which sucks. The specialist was stoic and doctor-like. When he sent his report back to my regular eye doctor with the pictures/films etc, I guess he left the poor woman doctor to say the following. I asked her if they had any idea of how my vision loss was going to be rolling out long term. So kindly, she said "If I were you, and were there things in the world that I desperately wanted to see, I'd aim to get there within ten years."

Otherwise, I can only be on the computer for about 2 hours at a time and I have to take a rest for my eyes.

I have been writing about 8-10 hours a day in the past 2 months (essays, novel excerpts, poetry and short stories) and have been sending stuff out to more elite literary magazines and larger prize contests. I need to bring in some income asap. I have sent my work out over the last two years to small online contests, or else to win smaller prizes and have done well, and have even been encouraged to go big by those smaller contests, but have been afraid to GO BIG. Now, there can be no excuses. No self doubt. None of it. I have to write through it. Sometimes I literally am typing away and simultaneously holding a verbal altercation with my brain..."You suck," and then, "Keep writing, don't listen to it, " and then a quick retort, "Listen? No one will WANT to listen to this lousy shit.." and it goes on. Because damnit, I just can't let this crap win. It's so freaking dire and I can't keep living this scared. Doesn't living this scared for so long kill you? Can't it? And as little as my life can mean in the grand scheme at this point, I do matter to a few people. But, I can't live with my heart beating in my mouth every second, and my stomach churning. The heating company says no heat this winter. We kept our heat on 50 degrees or below or OFF all winter in 20 degree Maine weather and got propane bills at $500.00 a month. And no one will fix the bill so it makes some sense or listen. The place was an ice box. My parents wouldn't even stop by because it was so cold; so we're stuck with a 1600.00 bill. I have had doctor's notes all winter, but they only take them for 5 months. The heating company calls 5 times each day on the home number and on the cell, and all we can pay is 100.00 a month. They take the payment, but since it's not good enough -- even though we never got heat this winter -- and their "technicians" never figured it out -- but ultimately it's our bill. So, we're cut off, and we have to get some money together to move, so we'll try to stay here until it's December 1. I just hope it's not too cold by then. I got a letter today that the heat company is filing a law suit this coming week. I paid them 200.00 on the phone, which took car gas money for the month (100.000 and food money for the month (100.00). Our electric is going to be shut off on August 17th, which means there goes my nebulizer. Our medical costs are 800 plus a month which rips away big part of our income. LoveBug's income derives from Bank of America, a company which threatens closing their huge call center here every day, but in the meantime took away the monthly $1100.00 bonus that has been part of our income for 3 years now. That's been a big part of our income -- it always paid our house/rent payment and our medical insurance premium. Since it's a bonus, it's not like there are any hours freed up to get another job -- same full time hours, just no sales commission. Sneaky, sneaky. No warning at all - just the week before Christmas the sales manager handed employees a little note about losing their monthly sales bonus until the economy picks up, and a tiny candy cane.
Losing that money, well...we had no idea that was coming. Just like so many people in this country had no idea job loss was coming. So what is everyone doing out here? Any advice for how to survive? We are a slight amount over food stamps in our income - seriously we are over by about $12.00 a week, but if we got them, we'd receive about 270.00 a month in food stamps. So weird. There is no way for either of us to have 12.00 taken from our weekly income,

I just had 3 surgical epidurals in my back on Friday so I'm a hurting pup, but this has been fun, and who ever has been here -- hello! Missed you! I'll come back sometimes if you'll still have me. But, for those of you who still come by, or anyone who is new, I want to hear what you all have had going on first. Did anyone take a vacation over the winter? Is everyone OK? Those of you with chronic pain, how are you hanging in there?? Life, with all of its hills and valleys, begs to be shared I think. Especially now. I think we need to join hands and support one another.

H.

(Kitty image from http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/)

Right Now...

(Right now I'm saying hello, I miss you, and I'll be back really soon.)

"Light On" -- David Cook Releasing 1st Post-Idol Single

"LIGHT ON” IS RELEASED TO RADIO THIS WEEK, WILL PREMIERE EXCLUSIVELY ON AOL MUSIC ON WEDNESDAY

David Cook's first single, “Light On,” produced by Grammy winning producer Rob Cavallo (Green Day, Kid Rock) is released radio this week and will be made available on iTunes on 9/30.

"Light On" will premiere exclusively on AOL Music on Wednesday, September 24, on AOL's pop culture news site, PopEater.com. Earlier this year, Cook had the biggest single premiere of the year on PopEater.com with "The Time of My Life" garnering more than one million streams in 24 hours.


(By the way, I'll post the song here.)

(Oh, and another thing. Does he look Conehead-ish to anyone else in the above picture?)

(Last post-script...I have always loved this picture and hopefully it makes up for the one above that looks crooked and Conehead-ish.)

Magic Numbers

Checking $1.47
Savings $0.81




I feel so little, so scared in such a big, busy world. Medical expenses clobbered us this month. How do we make it another week?

Flabbergasted but still here,

Hinsley

Things That Make You Go...

Hmmmmm.


John McCain and his wife, Cindy, own THIRTEEN cars, including foreign-made automobiles.



By contrast, Barack Obama and his wife, Michelle, only have one car to their name.



Vvvvrrrrrroooom!

First Dude

Were a woman to become President of the United States, what would her husband be called?

First Man? Nope. First Man was Adam and Adam has too many skeletons in his closet. He gardened in the nude and boldly displayed his genitalia to a woman he created with his rib.

He was a transient nudist, a picker of forbidden fruit, and fingers generally point toward him as carrying responsibility for the First-ever Sin.

I don't think we should go with First Man.


First Gentleman, I suppose, is the agreed-upon title we will go with should a woman become President. But, what if her husband isn't gentle? What if he is unmerciful, crude, and loathsome toward women, children and animals? What if he eschews the finer things in life -- waltzing with his wife at a fundraising ball or enjoying high tea with Queen Elizabeth? What if when in Rome he refuses to do what the Romans do? And what if he refuses to keep his hands well-lotioned in order to ensure a comfortable and diplomatic handshake -- how could we then tout him as our First Gentleman?

What if he publicly concurs with his wife's decision to rally the troops with a rowdy "Get 'er done!"?

What if when an adoring citizen hands over her baby for the obligatory politician-holds-baby photo opp he refuses, bellowing "I don't handle no farty-poopers!"


Ugh.

This issue keeps me up at night, and I have too many other issues to keep me on a steady diet of Trazadone and Ambien.

I say we call him First Dude. A dude is a cool guy, one with a firm handshake and some personal style. He keeps his hair cut on a schedule, but isn't whiny about it. He's not a metro-sexual, yet wouldn't be caught dead wearing a flannel shirt with lopped off sleeves. The First Dude would be as comfortable at a cookout as he would schmoozing at a black-tie affair. He knows a thing or two about wine and a thing or two about automobiles -- but not too, too much. He's somewhere in the middle between common man and gentleman.

One day, I'm positive we will all have to become more comfortable with having a female President and all of the "firsts" that will come along with it. Until then, my vote is for First Dude.

Love,

Hinsley


(As an aside, did you know that the term "First Lady" was first used in 1849, when US President Zachary Taylor referred to Dolley Madison as the "First Lady" at her state funeral?)

Halitosis and Skid Marks: An Open Letter to the Cats

Dear Cats,

I have a few items on the agenda I'd like to bring to your attention. Now may or may not be the best time for the discussion, but it never seems I can rally all three of us into the same place at the same time, or else one of us is in a pissy mood, one or more of us is snoring and drooling in hopes of escaping life's painful truths, or one of the two of you (or both) refuse to put on your listening ears.

I have chosen this time because I am fully awake and there is a computer in my lap. So You Think You Can Dance reruns are on the Reality Channel, and my medication has achieved a comfortable equilibrium.

And you two?


Wee Wee, you just tore into the bedroom carrying your bright yellow catnip banana in your mouth. The banana is half soaked with drool and also covered in brown stains (heck, bananas get brown spots) from earlier stoner-sessions. Before the munchies hit, I'm hoping you and I can come to a meeting of the minds over the following:

1. Just because an object is on a table or counter does not mean you need to test the laws of gravity. I know it's accidental when you stare me in the eyes and swing your paw like a golf club, causing the glass of water/remote control/pot of dried flowers to tumble to the floor, but I'm hoping you can be more careful. When I get angry and shout your name, I know you're trying to apologize by shooting off the next item you can find, a magazine, a candle, etc., but you really need to find a more effective route to an apology. How about lifting a paw around the house -- without breaking anything.

2. Wee Wee, this is an important one. The next time I might not be there to catch you when you use the kitchen ceiling beam as a tightrope. While your brain is merely the size of a walnut, the rest of your body remains sorely out of proportion. I wish you could see this from my perspective, but when you're asleep on the beam one hunk of fat hangs off of each side, and your tail swings like a clock's pendulum. The beam supports almost none of you, and I can't always be there to catch you when you yawn and stretch, completely forgetting you're 12 feet in the air. Also, 10 minute session with the catnip banana + beam = disaster waiting to happen.

3. I wish there were a kinder way to say this but your breath is STANK. Like absolutely FETID. After a breakfast of tuna fish you come upstairs to enjoy your morning bath -- on my lap. Since it's early and you're plumb tuckered out from the daily grind, you lick and yawn, lick and yawn, and then yawn some more. Then, you yawn again. While you're sucking on your toes, extracting litter and various debris, invisible molecules of odor spread far and wide. I'm sure it's not easy having that degree of halitosis, but perhaps you can take your morning tuna baths somewhere else. How 'bout the basement?

4. Since I'm older and wiser, perhaps I should clarify the meaning of the word "gift."

A gift is something with utility to its recipient. If there is no utility to the gift, it can still be appreciated if it's cute, if it smells good, if its expensive, or if the giver obviously put a great deal of thought into the gift. I understand you have a limited selection to choose from, but your ratty fur mouse (that's been behind the couch since Christmas) engulfed by the world's biggest dust bunny does not fit the criteria for "gift." Especially since somehow during the short trip from behind the couch to the bedroom the mouse absorbed more than its fair share of stink (see item 3 on the agenda). And about that ladybug fossil that you retrieved from the windowsill? It's not a ladybug; it will not bring me the luck I need to save our home before the bad Sheriff-man appears at the front door. It's a 6-month dead Japanese beetle, and you should know by now that they (and their squirting yellow fluid) are the bane of my existence. When it comes to the gift of personal services, your attempts are charming, yet abusive. Instead of a offering me a gift certificate to a spa for a facial, you've taken numerous stabs at cleansing my face with your tongue. An esthetician you are not, but why focus on my eyebrows when my T-zone is clearly more important? I understand that exfoliation is important, but it's not supposed to be a blood letting. Your tongue is a pink weapon that wields pain. In terms of aromatherapy, you might want to locate a better vendor. Your massage oil smells like a town dump on a foggy morning (again, item 3.)

5. Lastly, let's evaluate the efficacy of pounding your paws on my bedroom door each night at 3:00 AM. While I'm flattered that you miss me (or your spot on the bed) I need to grab every single moment of sleep I can get. I notice that if I don't open the door within 30 minutes, random objects are passed beneath it, including your yellow catnip banana, a few half-eaten pieces of kibble, my favorite pen, a set of car keys or...anywhere from 1-4 cat legs, all of which have incredible reach. I have also seen your tail on occasion, a sighting that confuses me. Somehow you have procured sticks onto which you've glued kitty parts. You only break them out after midnight and they scare me.


As for Mikey, your areas for improvement hover around one issue.

1. Dude, let's start with the litter box. I know you're Alpha cat, but can't you bury your poop? Tonight I was making dinner and, as usual, you dropped trou' and climbed in, 360'ed your twenty pound self, and stared at the wall in deep concentration. Last week I taped two glossy magazine photos there, right at your eye level. One shows a bright yellow bulldozer digging deeply into the Earth. I thought it would inspire a flashback of your mother potty training you, positioning her paw over yours to demonstrate the fine art of excavation. The other picture shows a 160 pound Mastiff sauntering through his yard, a sight I thought would unlock an instinctual ancient feline secret: Cover your crap and run! Still, as soon as you finish, you high tail it out of the box and run upstairs, leaving a toxic cloud behind. Your scent throw is amazing -- Yankee Candle would pay big for your secret. Sound asleep in the bedroom upstairs, behind a closed door, far away from the first floor litter box, we wake choking on your pungent scent. Oh my God, I'll say, placing my hand over my nose. Do you smell that? LoveBug (LB) rolls over and merely raises one eyebrow, soundlessly responding, What the hell do YOU think?

For some reason, Mike, you have the smelliest poop ever, and I know you can't change that, but next time heed the message of the bulldozer. While you're at it, the parcels you leave by the litter box...try to keep them inside next time.

2. I think you purposely leave skid marks on the carpet. I think it's a game you two have developed called Carpet Surfing. I used to think it was an accident, a once in a lifetime deal that happened after a bout of late night carousing, but now I think you like watching me on hands and knees spraying Woolite Carpet Cleaner. This urge to scuttlebutt -- I'm thinking you get the occasional anal itch -- might be mitigated by an effort to wash your own behind as you try to do your sister's (which she hates by the way. Ever notice how she beats you over the head with both paws and kicks you away with her giant bunny feet?) We desperately need to sell this house, and I'm having nightmares of a prospective buyer noticing a huge orange flash dragging its ass around the room with two front paws, a huge bottom trailing like a wagon.

Good to see we've had this little talk. Although you're fast asleep, Mikey, and WeeWee is high, her head resting on her catnip banana, I can't help but think this hasn't been helpful to at least one of us.

Heck, it made a good blog post.

What a Sad Weekend: Hurricane Ike and the Rest

So many things to be sad for, and so much to be cognisant of as we go about our usual Sunday business.

I can't help but slip my feet in so many people's shoes today, and while we can't spend our every minute focusing on disaster, I believe keeping up to date on information, lending our prayers and if we can, donating to the Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund is our responsibility not only as citizens but as fellow human beings. I'm sorry if my writing sounds a bit off, but between everything going on behind my front door and everything transpiring beyond it, I'm a bit scattered. My words aren't coming, which happens when my nerves are frayed. As I'm typing, I'm processing so many thoughts and worries and my writing really suffers. Please forgive.

In terms of these disasters on the world stage, please keep these people in your prayers and if you're focusing on small worries in your life, it's a good opportunity to get some perspective. I know I'm losing my home soon, but at least I can walk away from it alive, so I feel fortunate. My family is safe, my two cats are sleeping peacefully, and I have electricity, clean water, and a warm dry space to sleep. For all of those things I am SO grateful I can't even explain.

Now onto those who aren't so lucky:



1. The people who are dealing with Hurricane Ike and its aftermath in Texas. Who ever thought of naming storms anyway? Ike is the friend your Grandpa hangs out with on the front porch. They rock away, share remembrances, spin old yarns and talk about "kids these days." Ike is the man who slicks his grey hair back perfectly for the ladies and calls out the Bingo numbers at the nursing home. Ike is the kindly elementary school janitor who remembers the children by name and carries no criminal record. Ike was married to Tina Turner and we know he was abusive, but his abuse propelled her to go on to greatness.

But this Ike is causing so much suffering. Its taken away lives, homes, pets, and the safety and security of thousands. People are stranded on rooftops begging for rescue and others have returned to find their houses unsalvageable. Thousands will be without electricity, clean water, and their own homes for weeks, months, and if Katrina is any indication, over a year. Average families are barely holding onto their homes right now as it is, but when a storm like this comes, insult is compounded by injury. People will be without places to work, hence no income. Schools are damaged. People have lost all of their belongings from irreplaceable family photos, to clothing and cars. It's unthinkable.

If you're able, the Red Cross needs donations. You can call at 1-800-REDCROSS or go here. I'm donating something even though it's relatively small. Once isn't enough. If I can give again in 2 weeks, I will. What I can send will cover a few meals in the 250 overpacked shelters that will be serving people for many months to come. The need for support will go on. A considerable amount of survivors will be homeless for a long time, and while I'm sure they are grateful for their lives, they're facing many new challenges. Think about what you might be able to give up this week -- money you will spend on non-essentials like those few cups of coffee on the way to work, that new pair of shoes you've been looking at, a set of cute curtains for the bedroom, whatever. I can go without something - the quarts of Dairy Queen vanilla soft serve I get a few times a month. That's a few shelter meals or some blankets. Please, please give - you and those you love may need the same one day.

2. Please pray for the family members who lost their loved ones in that horrible train crash in Los Angeles, California on Friday afternoon. Please pray for the survivors with severe injuries. And here's another group I have learned to pray for: the rescue workers and other workers who are faced when cleaning up the wreckage and still locating fatalities. A year after September 11, 2001 I read a book written by the heads of rescue teams, members from clean up crews and engineers who orchestrated the massive cleanup. Many of these people even lost their families during and after the months of cleanup. People worked tirelessly at Ground Zero and were never home. Also, the experience changed them so much that they grew closer to those they worked with at Grand Zero and drifted away from their spouses and children. Search and rescue workers shared a terrible trauma and unthinkable carnage, just like those who have been trying to rescue survivors this week. We all know there are no more survivors from the train wreckage, so now these teams are working on retrieval. PTSD is a common affliction that individuals on disaster clean up crews experience for the rest of their lives. They live on medication, go through divorce, become increasingly depressed and anxious and live with nightmares. Their emotional sickness leads to physical sickness. Many become addicted to substances and others commit suicide. They can never shake what they saw, so please pray for them too.

3. Finally, there were no survivors from the jetliner crash in Russia. Seven children, a crew of 6, and 70+ others were killed. Looks like one of the engines on the craft (Boeing 737) failed. One American citizen was listed as on board, but there's been no news thus far on that passenger. I continue to pray for everyone who perished on board, those working on the ground and the many loved ones whose lives are now changed forever. May they find peace somehow.

I love you guys,

Hinsley