Kiss My What?

Due to recent events I have been looking into new housing for myself and Princess. I don't spend too much time worrying about whether people would want me or not, but whether I want to rent from them or not. I know I am a good tenant, I am clean, quiet and pay my bills on time. So it came as a big surprise when a recent possible landlord was very concerned about the fact that I am disabled and didn't have any recent references. I have been married for 6.5 years and with my husband for over 8 years -- I haven't exactly been renting anything in that time. She was too concerned by my not working, even though I am able to pay the deposit, first month's rent and even a few months in advance if need be. My husband is a champion saver and I am getting a sizeable divorce settlement that is squirreled away in my mother's care. Also my mom was willing to sign the lease for me and say that she would be willing to cover me if for some reason I was unable to pay the rent, which she knows won't happen because she knows how much money I currently have. My mom has almost perfect credit and works full time, she is an excellent "risk." But did this matter to said bitchy-possible-landlady? Heck no. She went on and on about having to talk to her attorney about what they would have to do to rent to a disabled person and what modifications would have to be made. I told her that I am not in a wheelchair and as the apartment has no stairs in it, to it or around it that I would not have a problem. I was also willing to sign an agreement that if anything happened to me that I would not hold them responsible. But all she could think about was my not having a job and being disabled and what that could mean to them. Now, if you read my blogs at all I am sure you can guess how I feel about this. I want to pull an Eminem and circle their house with my windows down, my system up, screaming I don't give a F*CK! And being the forgiving person that I am I put a curse on them: for that apartment to be open and generating NO money for quite some time. Gosh, I am such a good person it almost brings a tear to my eye. I have a new found sympathy for those who are discriminated against. I have never been a person to discriminate against anyone, but now I have made a sworn promise to the God/s that I believe in (don't want to get into that subject and offend anyone, especially as I believe that your beliefs are a personal thing) that I will never, ever, for ever never and forever discriminate against anyone for any reason. I know how it has made me feel, like a lesser person, not quite as good as everyone else, and I never want to make anyone feel that way. So to bitchy landlady, doom on you and may your apartments be either empty for extended periods of time or filled with tenants who destroy them and don't pay! But I'm not bitter or anything...

Why Boys Come From Jupiter

I would normally post this on my other blog, but this is too good of a story not to share. Growing up we used to say, "Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider. Girls go to Mars to get candy bars." Not the most creative or painful insult in the world, but we thought it was. The other day, Princess (or my young ward, take your pick. She is not my biological child.) was talking about what people from other planets might look like. She is in that stage of unanswerable, ridiculous and annoying questions, "What would we do if hair grew from our backs and it was purple? What if horses rode on our backs? What if we thought cats screeching was music (after we heard some cats mating one day)? What would happen if we ate dog food and dogs ate our food? Don't you wish we could live on a cloud?" and so on and on and on. She liked the idea of people from Jupiter so much she decided to draw a picture of what they would look like. She called them, "Juperpeans" even though I thought they should be called, "Jupiterlings," but what do I know? Turns out that people from Jupiter have their arms and legs in all the wrong places, and their butts and heads are reversed. Lucky for me she labeled the parts because at first I thought she had drawn something way beyond her years or knowledge. Between the legs (I think they are legs anyway) were some... things hanging; big and long things. I'm no virgin so they looked suspiciously like testicles and I would have assumed they were if she had not labeled them for me as a butt. I enjoy that drawing so much I am going to keep it for her to see when she is old enough to see what that butt really looks like, but until then I am enjoying telling people that boys really are from Jupiter and I have proof. Of course I don't say this in front of her. I'm not ready for her to understand yet.

Nine Needles A Stabbing

And my arms look like a junkieeeeeeeeee's!
This last time that I got my Tysabri done they could not get an IV started on me; my veins would blow every time they tried to push the syringe of whatever-that-fluid-is into them. I blew (get it?) past my old record of 5 pricks (way too many pricks for any woman to deal with) into a new astounding 9 times! The last record was from the steroids, which we all know mess up your veins, and I was not particularly interested of breaking that record. It surprises me that I would be a hard person to get an IV started on, having garden hoses for veins, especially in my hands. I was not really worried about the difficulty in starting an IV on me, but my mother was. My mother is an RN (she got her BSN degree in her late 40's after my father walked out on us, an inspiring story of determination and tenacity that I can't relate to) and she was concerned about it. She was asking me all kinds of things, like if they considered trying my thumb, which she called the "nursing student spot," whether they thought about doing one on my leg, which would need a doctor's approval, or if they talked about starting a pick (right spelling? I don't know. I've never seen it in print, just heard the word.) line on me. Even before my mom was an RN she always worked in the medical field, so I took in medical terms with my baby food and beyond. We didn't get bruises, we got hematomas. Diarrhea? Never. But one could have loose stools. A runny nose? Not here. But you could have inflamed mucos membranes with discolored secretions. And God forbid we get a splinter! Out would come the needle and the bottle of rubbing alcohol. We hated the needle, so much so that we would rather have a 2x4 sticking out of our foot than deal with that painful extraction. So when anyone talks of things like pick lines, sub-q, IM and such I know what they are talking about. Even before I had MS I knew, but giving myself injections, both sub-q and IM, really brought it home for me. When she would come to the hospital to visit me when I was doing the steroids, she would check the bag, the rate of infusion, my blood pressure, all that fun stuff, just to make sure her baby was having it done right. Now with my arms all bruised and looking like the arse end of a drug binge, her best advice to me was to wear long sleeves so nobody would get the wrong idea. How pathetic. I expected better from the woman who asks for, "50 ccs of ketchup, STAT!"

Slow Lane

I always thought a great license plate for me would be NMBR 2, but the other day while I was tooling around town doing things that didn't need to be done (shopping) I was passed by a little hot rod that had the license plate "Fast Lane." My first thought was what a cop magnet such a vanity plate would be, then I thought how silly it would be if I had the same plate. I never speed because I have all the time in the world and no place to be at any given time. Also I don't work so if I got a speeding ticket my husband would have to pay it and how would I explain that I just had to get to that great sale to buy more crap I don't need? But that plate changed my mind as to the vanity plate I would get, if I ever get one. And, yes, you guessed it, it would be the title of this post. What a great license plate that would be! Me puttering along in the slow lane, lollagagging and rubbernecking at anything that caught my eye -- gotta keep a sharp eye out for those banners that say, "CLEARANCE SALE!!" I can no more pass up a great sale than I could sprout scales and live under water. I have a strict policy of never buying anything at full price, and am an object of jealousy for my great buys, everyone else in my family has to work and never gets to shop the sales like I do. I also think it would be great to be parked in the handicapped space with a license plate that said "slow lane." See that's funny because it's obvious! I love life in the slow lane, so peaceful, so much time to lollagag. You can keep your fast lane because I enjoy my slow lane so much more.

When I Grow Up I Want To Be A Bad Example

I hate fluffy feel good crap. I get all the MS magazines -- and I do mean all -- but I can't always read them. I get so irritated by all the happy-go-lucky stories of those whose have MS yet still went on to conquer Mount Everest while carrying the ones that could not make it on their backs and singing Kumbaya. I even think negative thoughts about some of the people whose stories are supposed to inspire me. How can I empathize with someone who is talking about their vision problems while they have eyebrows so overgrown it covers 75% of their vision field? I can't. Trim those woolly caterpillars that climbed onto your face and died there, then get back to me. I actually prefer the more technical magazines, like MSQR, because they just give information while keeping the sap factor to a minimum. Now that is inspiring! I want to know the how and whys about this disease without all the yucky feel good junk. I also hate memoirs. Don't get me wrong, there are some truly great stories out there, but if your story is, "I got MS and my life changed" I am not interested. Have we not all been there? Unless you have a truly outstanding story I do not care. It irritates me too when I hear these stories and the people have a much milder disease course than me. I want to hear about people who have an aggressive disease and how they deal with it, not from those who only have an attack every other year. I can't relate to that; I have been on a downward spiral from day one. I have never recovered totally from any attack and even now it keeps chipping away at me; so if your disease only rears it's revolting head once every 2 years and you still recover almost 100% after them, I don't care. I just cannot relate to you. My goal is not to put a happy, insipid, I-shall-overcome spin on this disease. My goal is to be the crazy gimp lady that scares kids -- you know, the one the kids don't want to take candy from on Halloween because it has to be tainted coming from me. I am not going to wait until I am an old lady to wear purple, I never wear purple because I am not fond of it and I look like an Easter egg in it. I am going to be eccentric and do as I please every step of the way, and I know I offend some MSers out there who want to be dignified and not have a sense of humor about all this. But, once again, go cry in your petticoat, because I don't care. I want to hobble around town with a stupid wig on backwards if I feel like it; use the motorized carts when shopping and run into displays (those damn controls are so touchy, and it takes off too fast); embrace my inner hideousness and make people think this is my costume for Halloween. I aspire to being the crazy cat lady as I age, to horrify kids who think I'm contagious, give stupid answers to those silly enough to ask what I did to my leg, drink my water from a brown paper bag all the while rocking and cackling to myself, I don't want to fit into any mold or inspire anyone. And I think I have a good start towards my goal.

Do I Have MS Or Does MS Have Me?

Yesterday the 2 people whose opinions mean the most to me -- they being the ones who don't pay lip service and say what they think without editing it to save feelings -- told me that I am letting my MS rule my life. They both felt that I have lost myself to this disease and am not myself anymore. Hearing this from the 2 sources I trust the most hit me like a train. I realized that I need to start working on ME again. It is true, I have lost myself, but couldn't everyone with a chronic disease say the same at one point or another? I am now starting a campaign to get myself back and put MS in the back seat where it belongs and not let it define who I am. So to show that I am fighter willing to become more than just a heap of rotten MS, I am going to list the attributes that I am going to make more important than what I cannot do. Sad thing is I have come a long way, but I realize that I still have a long way to go. But enough of this maudlin crap, here are the things that are going to be more important that having MS:

I amuse myself. I know no man is an island, but I am a peninsula. I am content being alone, never bore myself, and enjoy my own company. I hate cell phones because I hate people being able to get ahold of me where ever I am. I like my alone time and need my alone time to clear my head and keep me sane. This may not sound too earth shattering, but so many people need someone around all the time; I am not that clingy beeotch. I am okay alone, without a man, just my family and friends and I am happy.

I may not be able to walk the MS walks, but I have a toilet bowl that is spring time fresh. I am a meticulous housekeeper and very organized -- I liken myself to a Stepford wife. My clothes are always right side out and hung facing the same direction. I hate how clean I am sometimes, makes me feel like an old person with plastic on their furniture that makes you afraid to sit anywhere. I hope I never become that rigid, but I do enjoy a clean house. I feel like things are in order when my house is in order.

I don't mean to brag but I am a good cook. I almost never use recipes, just consult my own ideas of what would taste the best, and my family is usually pleased with the results. Of course, they are not too picky, so maybe I shouldn't toot the cooking horn too much.

I have several books that I have written for my nieces and nephews and I need to get off my lazy arse and look into publication. They enjoy the books and we read them all the time. Why I have not sent in the manuscripts all boils down to rejection -- can I handle it? Rejection hurts, but never trying may be worse.

Lastly, I am not shy, will talk to anyone or anything, sometimes to the embarrassment of my little sister. I can go to MS events alone and talk and have a good time and not worry about having no one with me. So if you get chatted up by a gimpy woman with too blonde of hair (I lost track of the time and it came out lighter than I wanted) it may be me. One sure fire way to tell is if I can make elaborate tunes from a nose whistle -- one of my more embarrassing talents.

Card Carrying Member

Update: I am also going to make myself a special Official MS Badge for when I need to "pull out the MS card." I have a feeling you will know what I mean. Too tired to go for a walk with my family? Pull out the MS card. Too hot to leave the house and others are trying to make you? Let me get my card. Forgot to get that ice cream again? I have a card for that too.

One of my favorite recent comments came from Braincheese herself, of course. She said she would tell me to join the club but I am already a card carrying member. This got the rusty wheels in my head turning and I decided I need to make myself a membership card. I am going to get a picture of me, sitting crooked -- because I have that body dismorphia (right term?) where I have a hard time figuring out exactly how to sit on stuff -- and put on a fabulous, ridiculous wig and maybe even include my arms at their strange angles they like to take and put it on my own card. I have visions of attending all the MS events this year with my card in hand, to prove that I am one of them. When I get it finished I will post it on here. I know I have said this before but it is worth repeating: The best gift MS gave me is the freedom from caring what others think of me. I let that liability go a long time ago, and I have never regretted it. Now, others who are with me may not agree that it has been a blessing but, you guessed it, I don't care.