Oxymoron

I just do not get it. I struggle to stay awake during the day, yet can't get any sleep at night unless I drug myself up, which I do do from time to time. Last night I had a hot, squeaky, hard bed that I tossed and turned in with the little dog who was pretending to be a pig, grunting and groaning and rooting for truffles in the covers. I couldn't get the temperature right. Covers on, too hot. Peeled back, too cold. I couldn't find the right combination for comfort. There were no soft spots for me to melt into like I usually do. And the more I tossed and turned the more I thought about how I needed to go get the WD40 and oil my damn squeaky bed. Of course I had to move the bed around and try to make a tune out of the hideous squeaking, which made Sugarbowl poke her head in to see what the little dog and I were doing to make the bed squeak like that. My pillows had turned into hard wedges when I could have sworn they were comfortable soft billowy clouds the night before. I think I finally drifted off between 11 and 12, but I'm not sure. I won't let myself look at the clock after a certain point because I start adding up the possible hours of sleep I would get if I slept until ______. I woke up at 4 this morning. More like my eyes popped open and there was no sleep left in me. How I slept on that hard, hot, squeaky bed with hard cement squares for pillows was a mystery to me, because obviously nothing had changed in the night. The little dog and I fought in the bed until it was game over when he decided he needed to clean his wee wee.

I push myself all day long to wear myself out. Yesterday I was so tired after my exercise class that I really, really wanted to take a nap. I was hoping to get a decent night's sleep so I made myself get up and get moving. I cleaned the house and ran a few errands, all for naught. No matter how dead tired I am, it is impossible for me to get more than 6 hours of sleep. Every once in a great while I can eke out 7, and then I feel like I should get the gold medal in the sleep competition. All the different doctors I see want me to get at least 8 hours of sleep because they say a person with MS NEEDS their sleep. My pain doctor, who I am loving because his suggestions have really helped me, even talked about sleeping meds. I pooh pooh-ed that idea because MSers are known for having the evil beast called "fatigue." I do double up on my baclofen and sometimes take flexeril to help me sleep, but I don't want to get accustomed to those higher doses/extra medicines and have them not work anymore. This morning I have been thinking that maybe he does know what he is talking about, especially as he was so right on about my other problems. I hate to take a sleeping pill but am fantasizing about a full night's sleep...

Yesterday, when I went to get a few things from the store, there was an older gentleman getting the same kind of creamer as me. Said gentleman was wearing pajamas. There was no gray area about it. They were flannel pajamas of the variety that grandma and grandpa wear on cold winter nights. He even had slippers on. We were both grabbing the exact same kind of creamer and I noticed that for all his pajama-and-slippers-wearing-to-the-store ways, he was clean and smelled like after shave. Albeit an old man after shave, but a fresh smell none the less. We both laughed at us going for the same jug of creamer and agreed that it was the best kind. He seemed to be with it, so I figured that he must have the same lack of sleep problem I do and he wears his pajamas out and about to entice sleep to come visit him. If it works, I am going to start wearing my pajamas everywhere. Goodness knows it couldn't hurt.

Before I Forget

I had a day yesterday; maybe I should say day because it was... something. Before it all gets lost on my slippery memory, I have to share it. No need to thank me, even though I'm sure that was the first thing you wanted to do.

As I was getting ready to head to the shower, my ex called me to see if I wanted to switch cars. I wanted the truck because we needed to haul some stuff that just won't fit in a car, that and I was sooooo ready to have my truck back after driving his old road car with almost 350,000 miles and hardly a scrap of paint left on it. Plus, it is impossible to be sylin' and profilin' -- whatever that means -- in such an un-stylin' and profilin' car. So I skipped my shower, which I rarely do, tossed on some grubby clothes that I reserve for cleaning days, and headed out to meet him halfway, about an hour's drive for each of us. Princess went with me because she wanted to see that ghost town that I had taken pictures of and it is over that way. We switch cars, and I head back for my hour's drive home, taking a detour to the ghost town, and dreaming of the shower I am going to take as soon as I get home. But the gods of boob sweat had other plans for me.

When I get home, Sugarbowl wants to go pick up Princess' new bed. (Sugarbowl's ex took back his bed, the one Princess was using.) I decided that since we have to go that far down, might as well go even further and pick up the scripts for meds at my shrink's office. To say my shrink's office is in the ghetto is an understatement that defies an adequate comparison. I pick up my scripts, and at a stop light a homeless man comes up to my open window and asks for 30 cents. I give him 35 because I couldn't find a nickel and what is 5 cents between friends -- I would be homeless if my family didn't take care of me. (What the heck is 35 cents going to get him?! I would have given him more, over Sugarbowl's protests, but I only had change handy. And he told me he was homeless, I'm not just making assumptions.) So we leave that part of town without having any caps popped in our wigs or having our shizzles nizzled, again, whatever that means, and go to pick up Princess' new bed.

On the way back up, my bff from elementary/high school called to cement our plans to get together this weekend (she's moving and I am going to be the cheerleader to their huffing and puffing -- move it out! Shove it out! Allllll out! -- as I did for our recent moving adventure). While yukking it up with her, Sugarbowl says I took a motorcycle path in my truck at 80 mph, running so many people down I had to use my windshield wipers to get them off my windshield. I most certainly did not (I'm sure I never went over 65)! I found this very hypocritical from the woman who drives like she has a spiked ball up her anus that she cannot remove until she reaches her destination.

We get Princess' bed and head to Wal Mart to get my prescriptions filled and some flea and tick shampoo to add to our arsenal of weapons against the raging flea war we are in. At this point I feel so greasy, grubby, sweaty, dirty and every other -y that denotes that horrible feeling of I-shouldn't-have-skipped-my-shower-this-morning, that I am ready to give myself a flea and tick bath.

We finally get home and have to huff and puff and sweat even more to get Princess' bed up the stairs to her room. Then Sugarbowl and Princess gave all the animals -- no small task for our petting zoo -- a flea and tick bath. I really did not want to hop into the shower after all that crap was scattered all over the tub, so I feel ever grosser today. By the end of the day only the pets were fresh and the rest of us were left feeling dirtier and smelly-er than ever.

Today I only have my exercise class on my agenda. I am going to see what I feel like doing, if anything, after that. Yesterday was such a fun fest, I'm feeling all funned out. And like I may never be fresh again.

*Author's Note*

I have to say a few things then it is back to my boring life -- think I am starting to prefer boring because the not boring stuff usually SUCKS!

*When I wrote the blog about personality, I wasn't fishing for compliments, even though they were muy appreciated. It was more an "out-of-the-mouth-of-babes" type thing. I thought it was rather astute coming from an 11 year old to know that personality matters more than looks. That and it is too much fun to tease her -- and laugh at myself at the same time -- about me only having personality to recommend myself. Same thing about my class flocking to me. I wasn't fishing, just showing my surprise that after hiding from people for so long I realized that I don't need to. I just needed to be me and get over myself getting the MS. (You guys gotta quit with the compliments! You're going to make me conceited, and nobody wants a big-headed Blindbeard terrorizing the natives. This morning there was a huge spider wed right outside the front door and I was conceited enough to look for "Some Gimp!" written in it -- proof that I don't need any more compliments.)

*My dear Tara, yes, I do Sudoku. But I only do it when there is no risk of conversation because I go at it with such concentration that I can't have distractions or I forget where I was.

*Again to my dear Tara, I was going to write a post about your blog post, Dr Appointment Didn't go as Well as I Had Hoped For, but found that what I wanted to say was so long and boring it would cure insomnia for my fellow MSers. I can totally relate to what you are saying in that post because I, too, am in the 20% who are in grave danger of being in a wheelchair. When I was diagnosed I had several large lesions in my spine and one MASSIVE one low down in my back that was (and still is) of serious concern to my neurologists. That lesion is a huge threat to my walking abilities and a tiny bit worrisome to me. I have a predominately spinal disease, which we all know has the worst prognosis, and know the horror of knowing that if something doesn't slow down my disease things are going to get ugly in a hurry. But my offer to race wheelchairs is still there.

*Our war against vermin is still raging, I am very sorry to report. Princess found a HUGE cricket in her mom's room and is so freaked out she won't lay on the floor right now. I say, "crickets-schmickets!" I found several fat and thriving meal worms in my room and one good sized tick climbing up the side of my bed! With the way blood sucking pests are attacking my unmentionables, I fear I may need to give myself a flea and tick bath with special attention shown to those private parts.

But She Has A Good Personality!

I have been relegated to that group, not only by my mom but by Princess too. I know that I am not a stunning beauty and I really don't care. I am at that age and time in my life when I am ready to hang up all pretensions to beautimusness and let the younger girls have all the honor -- with zero bitterness or jealousy on my part; I'm not that shallow. In fact, I encourage the whippersnappers to enjoy it while they can because time makes fools of us all. The skinny will gain weight, the most beautiful will age, it's just a fact, my pretty, so rock it while you can.

The other day Princess and I were talking about how my ex cannot believe that I am not fighting boys off with a big stick, which flatters me that he thinks I am so great boys would want to storm my house and demand dates. Princess told me, "It's not like you are the most beautiful thing in the world. If boys wanted to date you it would be because you have a good personality and are funny." Wow. Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. I felt like boys see me and think, "But she probably has a good personality." Like I am now that friend that when my friends try to set me up with someone, the best compliment they can give me is that I have a good personality. I never aspired to great beauty, but I had flattered myself that I hadn't gotten so low that I only have a "good personality" to offer someone. I guess now would be the time to reassess what I have to offer and move "looks" to the very bottom of the list. Princess hates when I tell this story -- and tell it I do; I'm not offended, more amused -- because she says she didn't mean it that way. Maybe I am interpreting it wrong, but I don't see too many other ways to interpret it.

A few years ago, when I was at my highest weight, I went to church with my mom and survived. My mom goes to a small church where everyone knows she has a "sick" daughter. (I absolutely, unequivocally HATE being called sick when I am not any such thing. Sick implies bed rest, fluids, "take two of these and call me in the morning," and eventually you get better -- not exactly MS.) At the end of the service we were shaking hands with the pastor and he told my mom that I was beautiful. She said, "If you think she is beautiful now you should have seen her a year ago!" I stood there, shaking his hand, big fake smile plastered to my face and felt like a fat ugly "sick" woman. As we walked away from him, I asked my mom, "I'm not beautiful now?!" She back pedaled as well as she could but the damage was done. I still like to tease her about it and she still tries to defend her words and explain them with new meanings that were not implied when she uttered that statement.

Ahh, yes, it is good to know where one stands. I no longer have to worry about my looks because I now only have my "good personality" to recommend me. The truth will set you free, I suppose. Now my biggest problem is my lack of a good personality. Thanks for giving me a complex, family!

Nuggets Of Wisdom

While my migraine has not left me yet, it has loosened its vice grip on my head one tiny iota and I am not nearly as fuzzy headed as I was yesterday. I am starting to be able to process basic thoughts again, which feels so much better after yesterday when I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I was supposed to go to my exercise class this morning and went back and forth with myself whether I should go, but decided that rest would probably be best for me, especially as this migraine is kicking up some old MS symptoms. My MS Hug is squeezing the crap out of me and making it feel like hot knives are being drawn down my ribs, and my right side is all tingly and itchy. The comments to my last post inspired me to get on here and respond. You should be proud that you inspired me that way because I usually take a no-comment approach and like to let the comments stand on their own.

"Ahhh, feel better. I knew it was something since you haven't been gaming on FB. Was hoping it was some fun exciting new chapter in your life...*sigh. On 2nd thought maybe FB gave it to you. lol" -- Bubbie

I am pretty strictly a word and puzzle game kind of girl, and as I could not process the most basic thoughts, I could not game as I would have liked to. I could barely manage control over my extremities and knocked over my coffee twice yesterday, annoying the hell out of me because it spilled all over the laptops and even the surge protector. But as soon as I am able I will be back to fry my eyeballs on all those tempting games.

"Feel better. I anxiously await your earth-shattering post." -- Denver Refashionista

Me too, but I fear I have lost it to this lovely migraine and will have to wait for my next epiphany to shatter the world. One game that I have been playing a lot, and that does not require a lot of thought, is Bubble Town. Sugarbowl down loaded it for me, which made me feel very loved even though I do not doubt that she loves me because we tell each other that we love each other all the time. Every time you beat a level and/or die it gives you words of encouragement or congratulations. As I have been dying more than beating, it keeps giving me encouragement. One of the encouragements is, "Do or do not, there is no try." Every time I see that one I think of you, Ms. D.R., it sums up perfectly how I see your attitude about MS. You refuse to be beat by it and will either do or do not, not just try. I may have missed the mark, but you definitely give me that impression, which I say with the highest respect. You have my undying admiration for the attitude you express in your blog. Keep up the great attitude, my fellow MSing blogger.

Now I must go back to lounging on the couch and finishing "Gone With The Wind." Princess and I decided that we needed to watch the whole thing because this is the perfect time. I'm not moving from this spot and she has been wanting to watch the whole movie, so I get to fan the flames of my crush on Rhett. Frankly, my dear, I do give a damn.

Dense

I don't know why it took me so long to piece it all together. I was going to get on here and compose a blog of such truth and beauty it would have made philosophers weep, but it was not to be. I'm sitting here, drinking my coffee, thinking about how bad my head hurt, and fighting the urge to throw up, and I never throw up. Then it hit me: I have a migraine coming to visit. As my migraines usually last about 3 days, I will be back when this little bitch leaves town again. Until then, don't you stop being adorable (I know I have used that line before, but it is just so appropriate).

Love,
BB

Peppermint, Pests, And Procrastination

Peppermint

Last night Sugarbowl and I were sitting on the porch listening to the kids fighting in the house, hence why we were outside. We heard Jabber doing the laugh that usually precedes him crying, ie the laugh that he does when he has Princess in a lather and imminent doom is upon him. Sure enough about 2 milliseconds later there was a loud thud and he started crying. He comes boiling out of the house and starts telling the neighborhood, in the loudest possible voice his lungs could support, that his sister's pits smell like peppermint. She takes after him and he yells, "Don't you like peppermint?" Sugarbowl and I agreed that if someone announced that our pits smelled like peppermint, in the dead of summer, after sweating all day, and having your pit juice run out on you early, we would not be too sad about it. We would be flattered and would not seek revenge. For some inexplicable reason, Princess was not flattered. Maybe because she uses some of that teen pit juice that is in "Pop Star" scent and would rather he announce that her pits smell like a pop star. The last time she went out of town she took my pit juice by mistake and I had to use her's, and I can honestly say I would rather have peppermint pits than pop star.

Pests

Last night, while lying in bed reading and idly petting the little dog -- the ever-alert defender of my chastity, he won't let anything get in bed with me -- I found a tick on him. I was on the verge of sleep until my fingers happened upon that abomination. We are currently fighting off a flea epidemic, so I was none too happy to learn that ticks had joined the fight too. I burnt the tick and it exploded inches from my face like a nasty kernel of popcorn and I KNOW that it sprayed tick powder all over my face. I spent the next 20 minutes scrubbing the skin off my face and hands before returning to bed where I woke up throughout the night to scratch my head and check for ticks. Ewww! Even talking/writing about it is making me itch and I foresee more skin scrubbing in my near future.

Procrastination

I am banning myself from any more blogging until I catch up on your blogs. I have been procrastinating too long due to raspberries, my love affair with the riding lawn mower, and that damn game, Bubble Town, that has taken over all my short attention span. Now I must go boil myself and get ready for my exercise class. As Tigger would say, "TTFN."