Cranky Fibro Girl

Harnessing the healing power of snark

The Day When Eight Was Not So Great

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Those of you who’ve been hanging out with me for a while know all about  my torrid and passionate love affair with The Number 8.  (Or, as I refer to it, “Perfection”.)

I haven’t really thought much about 8 lately, but today I was going through some of my archives and I found this post, which describes, in all its glory, the awesomeness that is The Number 8.

I guess I must have run out of happy Number 8 stories, because the only new story I could think to write about was, sadly, The Day When Eight Was Not So Great.

It was back in 1998 and my husband and I were traveling through Spain. We were in Seville about halfway through our trip, and for some reason we hadn’t eaten all day. Luckily we happened to pass by a McDonald’s, so we stopped in for some lunch. But because we were so hungry we became super-focused on the food when it arrived, and unfortunately we stopped paying attention to what was going on around us.

We’d been eating for a few minutes when we were approached by a trio of twenty-something guys. They didn’t say anything, but one of them tapped my husband on the shoulder and pointed to a coin lying on the ground by his chair. He picked it up and we were grateful for the kindness and thoughtfulness offered to us, strangers in a strange land, right up until the moment when we discovered that they had “kind-ed” us right out of our camera and our little traveling backpack.

We didn’t really think we’d recover any of our things-THANKFULLY, our passports and money were NOT in the backpack. But we decided to report the theft anyway so that later we could file a claim with our insurance company to replace our camera.

We walked into the local police station ready to speak to one of the Guardia Civil.  But instead we were greeted by a little electronic kiosk which instructed us to type up a little report detailing the nature of  our complaint. And unfortunately, rather than soothing us it actually made us feel worse. Because we were  already feeling stupid for letting this happen to us, and violated, and very far from home. Then instead of maybe getting to tell our story to a sympathetic (human) ear, we had to give our details to a very not-personal machine.

But the final demoralizing straw came when we clicked on the first screen and began filling out our report. We entered all of our personal information, and then clicked over to the screen which asked for the details of the crime. We were all set to lay out our own, personalized mugging experience story in exquisite detail, but instead found ourselves looking at what was basically a “choose your own adventure” style crime menu. And there it was: Theft By Distraction.

So even though we felt especially and personally targeted by our thieves, officially we were just another foreigner who got duped.

Needless to say, we were pretty down by the time we were finally ushered in to a tiny room and greeted by two officers. My husband doesn’t speak Spanish, so I spoke with the men and then translated for him. The computer program had turned all of our information into an official report, and we were called in so that we could answer any additional questions and then sign our statement.

The printer spit out one copy, and we both signed it. Then came another one, which made sense because it’s always a good idea to have duplicate copies of important documents. But then, the copies kept coming. And KEPT coming, with no end in sight.

Since  we had all only spoken Spanish this whole time, my husband and I would occasionally have little mumbled conversations off to the side. We figured we were safe because there’d been no indication that either of the officers spoke English. So when they kept handing us sheet after sheet to sign, we finally turned to each other and asked, “How many copies are there?”

At that the officer in charge straightened in his chair, turned to face us, and, smiling broadly, replied in tones as clear as a bell, “Eight!”

Grammar Girl Powers, Activate!

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As you may know if you’ve been hanging out here for a while, my husband is an avid gamer. And while I’ve dabbled in gaming myself, I much prefer to be the audience or, as I call it, his “gaming groupie.” A lot of the games have really good stories which completely suck me in, except for the times when I MUST SPEAK IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS TO DENOUNCE THE EXPLOITATION, ICKY SEXUALIZATION, AND BASIC PORTRAYAL OF WOMEN IN VIDEO GAMES.  It’s a fine line.

Right now he is playing a game called “Tales of Vesperia”, and I am so excited to watch it because, in addition to its fun story, there is a actually a realistically dressed and proportioned female character whose weapon is the power of her mind. Not a power as in being able to kill someone using only her thoughts. No-her weapon is her intellect.  As in, she hurls mathematical equations at all the monsters, and they die a painful, agonizing death.

Now, leaving aside the fact that this so clearly and accurately depicts exactly how I felt in every single math class I ever took, and I am struck by the occasional traumatic flashback as I’m watching, how cool would this kind of super power be?!

In the throes of some road rage? Well then-let me tase you with some Irregular Verb Forms.

Trying to rob a bank? Then expect some serious Stem Changing Verbs coming your way.

And people-don’t even make me go all Pluperfect Subjunctive on your ass.

But alas, we have not as yet reached this enlightened kind of society. So until then we can only dream of life, liberty, and Perfect Grammar for all.

 

A Year With Myself-Chapter 3

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So this post has been marinating inside me for a while, and I think it’s finally ready to be written.

Whereas Week 1 looked at the moment of crossing the threshold into the new year, new desires, and new dreams, and Week 2 talked about connecting to your roots so as to be very grounded in this yearlong journey, Week 3 is all about our personal stories in general, and then what author Sarah Blackthorne refers to as our “core stories” in particular.

Now this week’s topic has been kind of tricky for me, because for as long as I can remember I have identified as being a story teller-even when I had no idea that’s what I was, and before I could ever even articulate that kind of thought. Because, stories? YES PLEASE! Consuming them, telling them, dreaming them up-that is the stuff, the substance, the structure that makes up my life. So how can I possible identify with just one? Can’t be done.

Plus, for as long as I can remember I have viewed myself and my life with this weird kind of parallel double vision. I’m in my life, living it. But I’m also a little bit separated from it, viewing and watching and describing my  life internally as the heroine of a story that is constantly being played out/written in front of an audience. I am always narrating everything that happens in and around me, sometimes in my mind, and sometimes out loud (So in case you ever pass me in the grocery store and why the hell I’m babbling to no one, this is why).

It’s so weird, but from the very first time I wrote an entry in my very first diary, I have written “to” some sort of audience. As I’m writing, I’m also seeing and hearing an audience receiving this words. So it’s never just me and the writing; it’s me, and the writing, and this invisible, yet extremely real presence of other people who are interacting with my words. It’s weird. And kind of hard to explain.

Part of it is probably because I’ve been performing in front of people in some kind of way since I was very little. And now, thanks to a recent diagnosis, I know that part of it is due to the fact that I suffer from  a type of dissociative disorder, the other defining symptom of which is, “Identity disturbance, such as a significant and persistent unstable self-image or sense of self”, with some pretty severe mood cycling.

So I have the part of me that is constantly creating new stories (both pleasant and enjoyable, as well as dire and tragic) and not only can‘t identify with just one, but who would die of boredom with only one story to play with. But then I also have a bunch of weird brain wiring that constantly, desperately compels me to find One Story, One Answer, One Permanent Thing that I can cling to and say, “THIS IS WHO I AM!”

Yeah. So that‘s a lot of fun.

I wish I could tell you that I’d had some kind of miraculous breakthrough and found the solution to this constant push-and-pull, but the best I can do right now is just to notice:”Oh, look. I’m trying to ‘all-or-nothing’ myself again. And I know that doesn’t work. So I’m going to shift my focus over to something that feels good.”

However, despite my constantly (and exhaustingly) ever-shifting internal sands, I can say that there are lots of consistent threads that have weaved throughout whatever my particular story was at any given moment.

Passionate pursuit of God.

Constant seeking of new information and new experiences.

Fierce loyalty.

Entertainer.

Teacher.

Mind-bending courage.

Holder of Opposites.

Wicked sharp sense of humor.

Joyful One.

Creator.

Lover of Life.

So I may not have One Tidy Answer (which I probably wouldn’t even want if I actually had it). But I have found a pretty amazing place to land.

And the fact that I can always, eventually, find these soft places for myself to land? Well, I’m happy to be able to tell you that, no matter what might have gone on in the story preceding it, more and more often, this is how the chapters of my story end.

 

A Year With Myself

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A few weeks ago, I heard about this program called “A Year With Myself: A Yearlong Adventure Of Empowering Yourself“. Every week you receive a new lesson with articles by well-known people in the personal growth and creativity fields, with some writing prompts and some actions you can take to dig into the theme for each week. It’s a go-at-your-own-pace kind of a thing, which is good, because I’m just now getting around to posting about weeks 1 and 2, the themes of which are “The Threshold”, and “Roots”.

So, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before or not, but I am really weird about my name. I think it stems from the fact that my name is Jennifer and I was born in the early 1970’s, at which time every other girl was also named Jennifer. So I grew up always having to give both of my names, to distinguish myself from all the other Jennifers around me. But I never really thought about it, because that was what all the Jennifers had to do. It wasn’t ever any kind of “Thing”.

Then I hit 5th grade, and the weirdest thing happened. We were all asked to write our name on pieces of construction paper that would then be taped to the front of our desks, and for some reason, which I still haven’t figured out, I watched myself write down “Jenny”. It was so odd. I have no idea where that came from. So now, for the past almost-30 years, I have been Jenny, at school, at work, and with my friends. But not with my family, who still call me Jennifer or Jen.

(On a related note, for some reason this topic came up over Christmas, and regarding my self-assigned “nickname”, my mom said, “Well, you’ll notice that we completely rejected that, and refuse to call you by that name. And I burst out laughing and said, “Well that’s OK, because all this you’ve not been allowed to call me Jenny.”)

Then in addition to all of this, for some reason I inspire those around me to make up their own nicknames for me, some of which have included J.D. Hogg (from “The Dukes Of Hazard”, based on my initials), J.R. (ditto), and my personal favorite, bestowed upon me by a fellow bookseller when I worked at one of the big chain bookstores, “Jennyer”, which is defined as “a heightened state of being Jenny”.

The reason I’m bringing all of this up now is that this is the year I turn 40, which is a h-u-g-e threshold for me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about how I want to transition into the next decade of my life, and as part of this transformation I’ve wondered if I want to go back to being called Jennifer (I’m leaning towards no.)

The other big difference between the start of this year and the start of the last few years is that I’m actually feeling fairly good, physically speaking. Things have been sort of stable  and manageable for a while, which means that I actually have energy and excitement and ideas about some new projects I might work on, and some new goals I might work toward. (I’m saying this all very quietly, because I don’t want to scare it all away.)

So in response to the writing prompt by Patti Digh from chapter 1, ” What spaces are you standing between? What ‘monkey bar’ (explained in the article, if you want to check it out. Chapter 1 is free to download) are you moving from, and what monkey bar are you moving to, in 2012?, I would say this:

I am moving from a year (or 4) of fighting for my health to the exclusion of everything else, to a year that already has lots of space and inspiration for welcoming in my new desires.

It is a still place. It’s not stagnant, just still. It is a place of breathing deeply and easily. It is a place of gathering resources and planting desires. It is restful. It is peaceful and calm. It is supportive and nourishing and welcoming. It is not scary at all. And it’s been a hell of a long time in coming.

After mindfully considering and actively engaging in your current thresholds, chapter 2 then asks you to consider your roots, and your compass. It asks you to think about the foundation that will sustain you, and the tools that will help guide you and keep you connected to yourself as you undertake the journey of this year.

This week’s prompts come from Goddess Leonie Dawson who asks, “Have you found your soul’s compass yet?” And then, from the creator of this program, C.A. Kobu, “What do roots mean for you?”

As I’ve been learning over the past few years, my most basic, fundamental grounding in this world is my body. I couldn’t experience anything here were it not for living inside this body.

So then there are roots to support my body: eating, drinking, taking care of my health, movement, building strength and endurance, staying limber.

And then the roots to support these practices are my beliefs:

-I deserve to be here, just ‘cuz

-I am allowed to take care of my body

-I am allowed to have places where I start and others begin

-It is OK to enjoy being in my body

-I can trust my body, because it knows exactly what to do

Everything else flows out of this place.

Until next time.

 

The Attack Of The Two-Headed Christmas Baby

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So we’ve just passed through what some people claim is The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year. However, I prefer to refer to it as, The Time When All The Crazy Comes Out To Play.

You know what I mean. It’s the time when you’re sitting at your sister-in-law’s house opening gifts with your husband’s family, and your brother-in-law is struggling to open a gift from his wife that is covered in tape, and then your sister-in-law says, “Don’t worry, it’s only a three-way,” and then, because you apparently spend all day hanging out with 12-year old boys,  you start snorting uncontrollably, which just proves once and for all that you are a terrible example for anyone to follow, most especially the baby that your sister-in-law is due to have any second now.

It’s also the time when people have gathered around the kitchen table admiring something that someone is crocheting for the baby, and then someone pipes up and declares, “I’d be afraid to have a baby these days.” And you wait for them to say something like, oh, the world was much better when I was growing up, and there wasn’t as much violence, or a comment of that nature. But instead they say, “Because I just saw a report on the news where there was one baby born with two heads.” And they are not drunk. Or kidding. And then you wait for them to elaborate on this commentary, but they never do. It’s just, “Hey, two-headed babies are being born. AND YOU MIGHT HAVE ONE.”

Needless to say, this is a FANTASTIC time for me, as someone who has dedicated themselves to The Pursuit Of Crazy. And happily, this year’s Christmas dinner conversation did not disappoint.

But before we go any farther, I need to give you a bit of background.

My dad’s family is from New England, specifically a place that requires getting on the highway and then going north, and then a little bit more north, aaaaaand, oh wait, MORE NORTH!, until there is no more North left in the entire world, and then hanging a quick left. But be careful, and make sure not to hit the moose whose head is sticking through the kitchen window.

It’s a really nice place-lots of clean, open country, clear blue skies, and tight communities. But it is also a really small town, which means that if you were born there, then you’re “in”forever . But if not, then you will never really have any idea of what’s actually going on. Because what this means, of course, is that the “in crowd” has  an efficient form of verbal shorthand which makes it easy for them to have conversations, but is kind of a problem for everyone else, as then there is no need for the stories to include such vital information as the names of the people involved, the location where the story took place, the date the story happened, or any other kind of specific, identifiable facts.

So we were all sitting around the table letting dinner settle, and someone started talking about the last time they were up visiting in that neck of the woods. And at first I could follow along because they mentioned their hotel by name, as well as some of the restaurants they’d eaten at while up there. And then things got a little bit more interesting.

“Well,” said my grandfather, “now this is a little bit gory for Christmas,” and we all laughed, thinking that he’d caught himself and was going to change the subject. But no-he went on.

“But you know there was that 30-year old murder up there that never got solved.” (Um, no, but ok.) “Well, the man that worked there up at the place that was on the hill before they built that restaurant, he died a couple years back. And when they went to clean out his house they found a big freezer, and when they opened it, they found her body inside.” (Yep, he was right. GO.RY.)

“Well,” said my grandmother, turning to face my dad, “now didn’t you have a friend who did the same thing?”

The entire left side of the table then contracted simultaneous neck injuries as my aunt (his sister), my uncle, and I whipped our heads around and fixed him the expression of, “Dude-WTF?!”

“Um, no, mum,” my dad replied, “that was squirrels. He kept squirrels in his freezer.” And clearly, this was a story requiring further in-depth investigation, but I didn’t have the chance to ask anything else because the conversation then took yet another interesting turn.

“Oh, well speaking of squirrels,” said my aunt, “you know [family friend, who has starred in other of my family’s crazy adventures, such as this one] hurt his back a while ago and couldn’t get out of bed. But he had squirrels that were eating through part of his house. So every time he heard one of them, he sat up in bed, reached for his shotgun, and started shooting at them.”

“Now that,” she continued, “is one of the reasons that it’s so good to be married. Because then you have someone who will turn to you and say, ‘Why in the world would you think that’s a good idea?’ ”

(As you know, if you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, that is a role that my husband is frequently forced to play in our marriage, the most recent example of which took place a couple of days before Christmas.

We had been out doing some last-minute errands, and when we got back I was dying for a soda. My husband went into another room, and I went to the frig to get a drink. We’d just put in a new frig pack, and no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t get it to open. So naturally I reached for a steak knife (as would you,) and began to jab away at the perforated end of the carton.

Well, the only problem with jabbing a sharp knife into a can of pressurized sodas is the fact that you are jabbing a sharp knife into a can of pressurized sodas. But apparently I am somewhat unfamiliar with the laws governing the physical universe, and so I was completely unprepared for the volcano of Diet Code Red Mountain Dew that erupted all over me, the refrigerator, and the kitchen floor.

Naturally I started to yell, and naturally my husband ran into the kitchen to find me stunned,  soaking wet, and clutching a dripping steak knife.

Now, I have known this man for 22 years-or I should more properly say that he has known me for 22 years. So my feeling is that really, he shouldn’t have been all that surprised.  But apparently his feeling was more along the lines of, “YOU ARE 39 YEARS OLD. It never occurred to me  that I would have to specifically forbid you to stab a can of soda with a knife, but apparently I do. NEVER DO THIS AGAIN.” So, OK-now I know.)

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “I thought you were going to say that it would be good to be married at a time like that, because then you could poke your spouse up in the middle of the night and say, ‘Honey, it’s those damn squirrels again. Get the gun’.”

Thanksgiving 2011

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Unfortunately, we couldn’t go to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving this year thanks to my unexpected tooth surgery. But because of the magic of Skype, we were able to visit with my family that afternoon.

My little, 18-month old nephew was there, and having recently gotten steady enough on his feet to RUUUUUUUNNNNNNN! everywhere, I mostly just saw the top of his little blond head whiz by from time to time.

His parents were eventually able to get him to sit on Grandma’s lap for a few minutes so they could show off his latest tricks.

“Hey, buddy,” prompted my brother, “can you show us your teeth? Where are you teeth?”

And the baby clicked his teeth together for us.

“Good job, buddy! And where’s your tongue?”

And the baby stuck out his tongue.

And then, in the middle of our mad cheering and clapping, I heard my brother say, “Hey, buddy-where’s your peepster?”

“Yes,” said my sister-in-law as we all fell on the floor laughing, “we’re part of the new wave of parenting. We don’t teach him things like arms and feet-just the really important parts.”

“Well,” said my dad, summing things up in his position as family patriarch, “that one’s definitely a keepster.”