Travels and such

My husband left this morning for another job -- setting up computers for a conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He will be home on the tenth. We spent most of yesterday saying goodbye -- he cooked me breakfast, we went grocery shopping, and after we got home, we spent most of our alone time together getting physical. It amused Danny to no end, since we'd all be in the living room watching TV, and then I or Adam would get up, the other would follow, and then we'd disappear for a while and come back smiling. Lex, Lena and Ramon came by at one point, but Adam and I decided to go to bed shortly after, since we wanted to get up early enough to prepare for his leaving.
We spent last weekend and this past Friday at Billy and Charlotte's. Charlotte has declared that since my husband will be away on Thursday the sixth, my birthday, that I am to come over to her house after work on Friday, and Lena will come over too, and there will be cake and a small celebration and a sleepover -- Charlotte wants to throw Lena a belated birthday party too. Apparently this is a mandatory thing, my coming there for my birthday weekend. That is fine with me.

So I am sitting on the living room couch now, trying to breathe calmly and not get too annoyed. The kitchen is a mess. The living room is worse of a mess -- I just spent the last half hour picking up empty (and half full) beer bottles, scattered beer bottlecaps, empty and full shotglasses, broken glass, plates, forks, spoons, bottles of liquor, and an assortment of trash. The bottoms of the shotglasses were sticky, some were chipped, I had to throw a few out. I wiped down the sticky coffee table, cleaned up the couches, emptied the overflowing ash trays, picked up the cigarette butts, and sprayed air freshener. The carpet looks like the former floor at Ill Omen, stained with black spots from cigarette ash and gods know what else. I have vaccumed twice. I sat down and cried for a minute or two. This is not how I wanted my house to be. I cannot exactly ban all smoking from the house, though. I cannot ban drinking parties. I cannot force people to clean up after themselves. I really want to, though. I am in almost constant chronic pain, and while I can clean up the house just fine, I really would like some help after every weekend party. I really would. Adam and I will clean and wash, and ask people to help. We have to ask. I wish we didn't have to ask. Two other people live here. They pay rent. They have rooms. They use the kitchen and the living room. And guests should know where the garbage can is by now. I almost want to go on strike today. Say fuck all this, let everyone else clean up, I'm leaving and I'm not coming back until tonight. But I shouldn't. It is still my house. There is nothing I can do about the stained carpet, but I can wash dishes, scrub surfaces, pick up trash, and cry and yell for a few minutes. I have decided that if I ever have to have my parents or anyone not a friend visit, I won't let them in the house; I'll meet them someplace else. I am ashamed and embarrassed and humiliated by the state of my living room. The carpet has become something I abhor. I will do my best to fix it, and then I will make a polite sign and tape it to the fridge or on a fridge message board: "Please help me keep this house clean."
I don't know what else to do.

Okay, rant over. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I just had to vent and get it all out; you know how it is. I will probably just finish cleaning up and then see if Charlotte wants some company.

Travels and such

My husband left this morning for another job -- setting up computers for a conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He will be home on the tenth. We spent most of yesterday saying goodbye -- he cooked me breakfast, we went grocery shopping, and after we got home, we spent most of our alone time together getting physical. It amused Danny to no end, since we'd all be in the living room watching TV, and then I or Adam would get up, the other would follow, and then we'd disappear for a while and come back smiling. Lex, Lena and Ramon came by at one point, but Adam and I decided to go to bed shortly after, since we wanted to get up early enough to prepare for his leaving.
We spent last weekend and this past Friday at Billy and Charlotte's. Charlotte has declared that since my husband will be away on Thursday the sixth, my birthday, that I am to come over to her house after work on Friday, and Lena will come over too, and there will be cake and a small celebration and a sleepover -- Charlotte wants to throw Lena a belated birthday party too. Apparently this is a mandatory thing, my coming there for my birthday weekend. That is fine with me.

So I am sitting on the living room couch now, trying to breathe calmly and not get too annoyed. The kitchen is a mess. The living room is worse of a mess -- I just spent the last half hour picking up empty (and half full) beer bottles, scattered beer bottlecaps, empty and full shotglasses, broken glass, plates, forks, spoons, bottles of liquor, and an assortment of trash. The bottoms of the shotglasses were sticky, some were chipped, I had to throw a few out. I wiped down the sticky coffee table, cleaned up the couches, emptied the overflowing ash trays, picked up the cigarette butts, and sprayed air freshener. The carpet looks like the former floor at Ill Omen, stained with black spots from cigarette ash and gods know what else. I have vaccumed twice. I sat down and cried for a minute or two. This is not how I wanted my house to be. I cannot exactly ban all smoking from the house, though. I cannot ban drinking parties. I cannot force people to clean up after themselves. I really want to, though. I am in almost constant chronic pain, and while I can clean up the house just fine, I really would like some help after every weekend party. I really would. Adam and I will clean and wash, and ask people to help. We have to ask. I wish we didn't have to ask. Two other people live here. They pay rent. They have rooms. They use the kitchen and the living room. And guests should know where the garbage can is by now. I almost want to go on strike today. Say fuck all this, let everyone else clean up, I'm leaving and I'm not coming back until tonight. But I shouldn't. It is still my house. There is nothing I can do about the stained carpet, but I can wash dishes, scrub surfaces, pick up trash, and cry and yell for a few minutes. I have decided that if I ever have to have my parents or anyone not a friend visit, I won't let them in the house; I'll meet them someplace else. I am ashamed and embarrassed and humiliated by the state of my living room. The carpet has become something I abhor. I will do my best to fix it, and then I will make a polite sign and tape it to the fridge or on a fridge message board: "Please help me keep this house clean."
I don't know what else to do.

Okay, rant over. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I just had to vent and get it all out; you know how it is. I will probably just finish cleaning up and then see if Charlotte wants some company.

Travels and such

My husband left this morning for another job -- setting up computers for a conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He will be home on the tenth. We spent most of yesterday saying goodbye -- he cooked me breakfast, we went grocery shopping, and after we got home, we spent most of our alone time together getting physical. It amused Danny to no end, since we'd all be in the living room watching TV, and then I or Adam would get up, the other would follow, and then we'd disappear for a while and come back smiling. Lex, Lena and Ramon came by at one point, but Adam and I decided to go to bed shortly after, since we wanted to get up early enough to prepare for his leaving.
We spent last weekend and this past Friday at Billy and Charlotte's. Charlotte has declared that since my husband will be away on Thursday the sixth, my birthday, that I am to come over to her house after work on Friday, and Lena will come over too, and there will be cake and a small celebration and a sleepover -- Charlotte wants to throw Lena a belated birthday party too. Apparently this is a mandatory thing, my coming there for my birthday weekend. That is fine with me.

So I am sitting on the living room couch now, trying to breathe calmly and not get too annoyed. The kitchen is a mess. The living room is worse of a mess -- I just spent the last half hour picking up empty (and half full) beer bottles, scattered beer bottlecaps, empty and full shotglasses, broken glass, plates, forks, spoons, bottles of liquor, and an assortment of trash. The bottoms of the shotglasses were sticky, some were chipped, I had to throw a few out. I wiped down the sticky coffee table, cleaned up the couches, emptied the overflowing ash trays, picked up the cigarette butts, and sprayed air freshener. The carpet looks like the former floor at Ill Omen, stained with black spots from cigarette ash and gods know what else. I have vaccumed twice. I sat down and cried for a minute or two. This is not how I wanted my house to be. I cannot exactly ban all smoking from the house, though. I cannot ban drinking parties. I cannot force people to clean up after themselves. I really want to, though. I am in almost constant chronic pain, and while I can clean up the house just fine, I really would like some help after every weekend party. I really would. Adam and I will clean and wash, and ask people to help. We have to ask. I wish we didn't have to ask. Two other people live here. They pay rent. They have rooms. They use the kitchen and the living room. And guests should know where the garbage can is by now. I almost want to go on strike today. Say fuck all this, let everyone else clean up, I'm leaving and I'm not coming back until tonight. But I shouldn't. It is still my house. There is nothing I can do about the stained carpet, but I can wash dishes, scrub surfaces, pick up trash, and cry and yell for a few minutes. I have decided that if I ever have to have my parents or anyone not a friend visit, I won't let them in the house; I'll meet them someplace else. I am ashamed and embarrassed and humiliated by the state of my living room. The carpet has become something I abhor. I will do my best to fix it, and then I will make a polite sign and tape it to the fridge or on a fridge message board: "Please help me keep this house clean."
I don't know what else to do.

Okay, rant over. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I just had to vent and get it all out; you know how it is. I will probably just finish cleaning up and then see if Charlotte wants some company.

Do what Bruce Lee does

And I am reminded of why Jason is such a kick-ass fantastic friend and roommate.
After I vented and slammed my bedroom door twice, I realized that I still needed a tall person to fix the screen that had unrolled and was hanging in front of the television downstairs. Danny was asleep, so I asked Jason. After we had fixed the screen, Jason asked me how I had been this past week -- he had been sick for a while and had been a little out of the loop. I confessed that I was tired, in pain, and frustrated. And I vented a little to him. So he did something wonderful that I will never forget. He took me into the kitchen, handed me an oven mitt for my right hand, and asked what I had thrown into the trash can. Empty bottles of beer and vodka, chipped shotglasses, I said. Jason handed me a hammer, brought me over to the can, and said, "Before Bruce Lee would fight an opponent, he would close his eyes and imagine a piece of paper that listed all his frustrations, anger, and upsets from the past week. Then he would imagine a flame burning at the corner of the paper. And he would punch that corner, and let the paper burst completely into flame, destroying all his anger and frustration. And then he could fight his opponent with a clear mind, with no prejudice." He shook the bag in the can, looked at me, and said "Okay, go for it. Hit it. Break all those glass bottles."
I hesitated, looked at him, and when he nodded encouragement, I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and then brought the hammer down into the bag. For fifteen seconds straight, I smashed the glass with the hammer. I cleared my mind and just smashed and reveled in the crunch of shards. And when I was finished, I stood up, breathed deeply, said "Thank you. I feel much better!" and gave them hammer back to Jason.
Then he helped me clean up more of the living room.

I'm sitting on my couch again, watching comedy shows. I look at the carpet now. You know, it's not that bad. Nothing that a good carpet cleaning machine can't fix. And it is warm and sunny, and everyone is in good health. Even Ralph the dog is feeling better, and Friday night we thought he was dying. That's what happens when you're 20 years old and try going up and down stairs all day, you get hurt. Poor mutt.

You have no idea how much easier I can breathe.
Maybe you do.

Thanks, Bruce.
And Jason.

Do what Bruce Lee does

And I am reminded of why Jason is such a kick-ass fantastic friend and roommate.
After I vented and slammed my bedroom door twice, I realized that I still needed a tall person to fix the screen that had unrolled and was hanging in front of the television downstairs. Danny was asleep, so I asked Jason. After we had fixed the screen, Jason asked me how I had been this past week -- he had been sick for a while and had been a little out of the loop. I confessed that I was tired, in pain, and frustrated. And I vented a little to him. So he did something wonderful that I will never forget. He took me into the kitchen, handed me an oven mitt for my right hand, and asked what I had thrown into the trash can. Empty bottles of beer and vodka, chipped shotglasses, I said. Jason handed me a hammer, brought me over to the can, and said, "Before Bruce Lee would fight an opponent, he would close his eyes and imagine a piece of paper that listed all his frustrations, anger, and upsets from the past week. Then he would imagine a flame burning at the corner of the paper. And he would punch that corner, and let the paper burst completely into flame, destroying all his anger and frustration. And then he could fight his opponent with a clear mind, with no prejudice." He shook the bag in the can, looked at me, and said "Okay, go for it. Hit it. Break all those glass bottles."
I hesitated, looked at him, and when he nodded encouragement, I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and then brought the hammer down into the bag. For fifteen seconds straight, I smashed the glass with the hammer. I cleared my mind and just smashed and reveled in the crunch of shards. And when I was finished, I stood up, breathed deeply, said "Thank you. I feel much better!" and gave them hammer back to Jason.
Then he helped me clean up more of the living room.

I'm sitting on my couch again, watching comedy shows. I look at the carpet now. You know, it's not that bad. Nothing that a good carpet cleaning machine can't fix. And it is warm and sunny, and everyone is in good health. Even Ralph the dog is feeling better, and Friday night we thought he was dying. That's what happens when you're 20 years old and try going up and down stairs all day, you get hurt. Poor mutt.

You have no idea how much easier I can breathe.
Maybe you do.

Thanks, Bruce.
And Jason.

Do what Bruce Lee does

And I am reminded of why Jason is such a kick-ass fantastic friend and roommate.
After I vented and slammed my bedroom door twice, I realized that I still needed a tall person to fix the screen that had unrolled and was hanging in front of the television downstairs. Danny was asleep, so I asked Jason. After we had fixed the screen, Jason asked me how I had been this past week -- he had been sick for a while and had been a little out of the loop. I confessed that I was tired, in pain, and frustrated. And I vented a little to him. So he did something wonderful that I will never forget. He took me into the kitchen, handed me an oven mitt for my right hand, and asked what I had thrown into the trash can. Empty bottles of beer and vodka, chipped shotglasses, I said. Jason handed me a hammer, brought me over to the can, and said, "Before Bruce Lee would fight an opponent, he would close his eyes and imagine a piece of paper that listed all his frustrations, anger, and upsets from the past week. Then he would imagine a flame burning at the corner of the paper. And he would punch that corner, and let the paper burst completely into flame, destroying all his anger and frustration. And then he could fight his opponent with a clear mind, with no prejudice." He shook the bag in the can, looked at me, and said "Okay, go for it. Hit it. Break all those glass bottles."
I hesitated, looked at him, and when he nodded encouragement, I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and then brought the hammer down into the bag. For fifteen seconds straight, I smashed the glass with the hammer. I cleared my mind and just smashed and reveled in the crunch of shards. And when I was finished, I stood up, breathed deeply, said "Thank you. I feel much better!" and gave them hammer back to Jason.
Then he helped me clean up more of the living room.

I'm sitting on my couch again, watching comedy shows. I look at the carpet now. You know, it's not that bad. Nothing that a good carpet cleaning machine can't fix. And it is warm and sunny, and everyone is in good health. Even Ralph the dog is feeling better, and Friday night we thought he was dying. That's what happens when you're 20 years old and try going up and down stairs all day, you get hurt. Poor mutt.

You have no idea how much easier I can breathe.
Maybe you do.

Thanks, Bruce.
And Jason.

Just thinking

I ate a very big lunch, and it probably was a bad idea, because now my stomach really hurts and I can't exercise until I feel better. Adam made lasagna with eggplant and ground beef and mozzarella cheese, and I will have some tonight because my gods it is delicious. But I need the bologna and cheese and mayo and basil pesto on whole wheat to settle. Maybe two more hours.
It is about portion control, right? That is how healthy weight is maintained. Don't overeat too much, at least not too much of the bad stuff. I had a a couple of pieces of creamy dark chocolate, Dove, and I had some Newman's Own popcorn for a snack. I had two pieces of bacon for breakfast, with orange juice and a small bowl of oatmeal. I think my meals for today have been relatively healthy. But I haven't moved around as much as I wanted, because it is Sunday, and I have my laptop, and the television. The trap of the modern American household. *smiles* And I am not a fitness freak, of course. I will never be featured in Shape magazine. And I really should not read magazines like that. Staring at pictures of wiry-slender women with shiny muscled thighs, climbing walls... it makes me twitch. It makes me want to better myself and work out, yes, but it also makes me wonder what is wrong with me. I want to look like that! I could, of course, over time. I should buy a pair of dumbells. I should buy a resistance band and an exercise ball. I have the Pilates ring that Mom sent me for Christmas. My upper arms, back, and shoulders love it. I should do what I say I am going to do to get in shape. Yeah, the curves are nice. But muscle would be better.
So I know what I want to do, and I am going to do it.
And then I will have my lasagna.

Just thinking

I ate a very big lunch, and it probably was a bad idea, because now my stomach really hurts and I can't exercise until I feel better. Adam made lasagna with eggplant and ground beef and mozzarella cheese, and I will have some tonight because my gods it is delicious. But I need the bologna and cheese and mayo and basil pesto on whole wheat to settle. Maybe two more hours.
It is about portion control, right? That is how healthy weight is maintained. Don't overeat too much, at least not too much of the bad stuff. I had a a couple of pieces of creamy dark chocolate, Dove, and I had some Newman's Own popcorn for a snack. I had two pieces of bacon for breakfast, with orange juice and a small bowl of oatmeal. I think my meals for today have been relatively healthy. But I haven't moved around as much as I wanted, because it is Sunday, and I have my laptop, and the television. The trap of the modern American household. *smiles* And I am not a fitness freak, of course. I will never be featured in Shape magazine. And I really should not read magazines like that. Staring at pictures of wiry-slender women with shiny muscled thighs, climbing walls... it makes me twitch. It makes me want to better myself and work out, yes, but it also makes me wonder what is wrong with me. I want to look like that! I could, of course, over time. I should buy a pair of dumbells. I should buy a resistance band and an exercise ball. I have the Pilates ring that Mom sent me for Christmas. My upper arms, back, and shoulders love it. I should do what I say I am going to do to get in shape. Yeah, the curves are nice. But muscle would be better.
So I know what I want to do, and I am going to do it.
And then I will have my lasagna.

Just thinking

I ate a very big lunch, and it probably was a bad idea, because now my stomach really hurts and I can't exercise until I feel better. Adam made lasagna with eggplant and ground beef and mozzarella cheese, and I will have some tonight because my gods it is delicious. But I need the bologna and cheese and mayo and basil pesto on whole wheat to settle. Maybe two more hours.
It is about portion control, right? That is how healthy weight is maintained. Don't overeat too much, at least not too much of the bad stuff. I had a a couple of pieces of creamy dark chocolate, Dove, and I had some Newman's Own popcorn for a snack. I had two pieces of bacon for breakfast, with orange juice and a small bowl of oatmeal. I think my meals for today have been relatively healthy. But I haven't moved around as much as I wanted, because it is Sunday, and I have my laptop, and the television. The trap of the modern American household. *smiles* And I am not a fitness freak, of course. I will never be featured in Shape magazine. And I really should not read magazines like that. Staring at pictures of wiry-slender women with shiny muscled thighs, climbing walls... it makes me twitch. It makes me want to better myself and work out, yes, but it also makes me wonder what is wrong with me. I want to look like that! I could, of course, over time. I should buy a pair of dumbells. I should buy a resistance band and an exercise ball. I have the Pilates ring that Mom sent me for Christmas. My upper arms, back, and shoulders love it. I should do what I say I am going to do to get in shape. Yeah, the curves are nice. But muscle would be better.
So I know what I want to do, and I am going to do it.
And then I will have my lasagna.

I guess I am still not used to it

I forgot to take my Trileptal all weekend. Might explain the irritability and twitching -- and the thing that I realized was an aura. Whoops. Hey, I haven't ever had to take a scheduled prescription daily drug besides the BC pill, and that's just for contraception. I will have to get used to being on a drug schedule.
I'll be taking my 300 mg dose tonight. Maybe that will make me feel better.

Oh, and the OJ/bacon/chocolate post-seizure craving explained, sort of:
http://community.livejournal.com/epileptics/380199.html

I guess I am still not used to it

I forgot to take my Trileptal all weekend. Might explain the irritability and twitching -- and the thing that I realized was an aura. Whoops. Hey, I haven't ever had to take a scheduled prescription daily drug besides the BC pill, and that's just for contraception. I will have to get used to being on a drug schedule.
I'll be taking my 300 mg dose tonight. Maybe that will make me feel better.

Oh, and the OJ/bacon/chocolate post-seizure craving explained, sort of:
http://community.livejournal.com/epileptics/380199.html

I guess I am still not used to it

I forgot to take my Trileptal all weekend. Might explain the irritability and twitching -- and the thing that I realized was an aura. Whoops. Hey, I haven't ever had to take a scheduled prescription daily drug besides the BC pill, and that's just for contraception. I will have to get used to being on a drug schedule.
I'll be taking my 300 mg dose tonight. Maybe that will make me feel better.

Oh, and the OJ/bacon/chocolate post-seizure craving explained, sort of:
http://community.livejournal.com/epileptics/380199.html