In Coffee Spoons

Erin and I showed this to Mom the other night and said "This makes us think of you."



Since the conversation about the Sarah Palin bumper sticker on Dad's truck, Mom's been singing it and whacking her forehead.

Have not been around due to internet kafucked. At the lab as much as possible, which will increase when fall semester begins kicking my ass in a couple of weeks.

Fall semester:

• Medical Ethics & Law
  
• Office Word Processing
  
• Medical Office Procedures
  
• Medical Records Management
  
• Medical Transcription II
  

At least all but one (Ethics & Law) is online/FLEX. I *was* looking forward to an entire semester in my pajamas, but I guess we'll see how it goes.

Enjoying limited tagging and unlimited reading on my whole entire three weeks of summer vacation. Trip to the dunes soon-ish. Mmmm sand.

Utterly unrelated:

The Rated "R" Meme
✘ comment with a character of mine. (Any game)
✘ receive three bits of trivia about their sexuality: practices, preferences, experiences, fantasies, kinks, etc.

Strike that.

I am still tired as all hell.

Cymbalta does not seem to be working.

But it's hard to tell. If I try and pay attention, I get worried that I'm overanalyzing every emotion and blowing things out of proportion. If I don't pay attention, I get worried that I'm coasting on a placebo. I guess if I ever find a really perfect combination of meds, it'll prove itself by getting me to stop worrying about whether or not it works.

I'm not depressed. I'm not as tired, either. But the OCD is bad like it hasn't been in some time. Which is strange, because the Lamictal is supposed to be for the OCD and the Prozac for the depression. Can Cymbalta just completely cancel out the effects of another med? I hope not.

I'm supposed to see Dr. V. in...three weeks, I think. So I'll stick with it and see how I'm doing by then.

Blurgh.

Journal's currently undergoing a makeover, as you can see.

Makeover somewhat fucked for completely unknown reasons.

ETA: I'm now thinking that I'd like to switch back to one of my old layouts and just keep this colour scheme and background, but I don't know if I could upload my header image as a journal title. Going to keep playing with it.

Also, posted the missing answers to the music meme.

...had an unfortunate adventure. Consequently, so did Erin.

Monday:

"I'm sorry, we can't send someone to turn your power on today because it's Memorial Day."

"Of course, I should have thought of that. No problem, I can spend another night in my old apartment."

Tuesday:

"I'm sorry, we can't send someone to turn your power on today because you need to fax your personal information to our Detroit office for verification."

"Okay...I can spend another night in my old apartment...I guess."

Wednesday:

"I'm sorry, we can't send someone to turn your power on today because the verification process takes three to four days."

"But...but...no way to speed the process up? No? Nothing? Well, I can ask my landlord if he'll let me stay a few extra days in the old apartment."

Friday:

"I'm sorry, we can't send someone to turn your power on today because we can only turn on so many meters in a day and we're already booked full. We can send someone out on Monday."

"I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH A MANAGER. PLEASE."

I tried three different departments and was told by five different people that I'm not getting my power turned on until Monday, but that it is absolutely scheduled.

My incredibly understanding landlord says he doesn't care if I stay in the old apartment until then, as long as I have it clean so he can show it to prospective tenants.

BLARGH nonetheless.

Sick evil death sick.

Internet intermittently fucked.

Messing with changing banks, money orders, and other unfun stuff.

Genuine update when situation improves.

Easter Sunday started out as a really nice day; not warm, but sunny and bright, with the ice finally melting.

Me: Hurrah for spring! I think I will go for a walk to celebrate the much-anticipated end of winter!

Michigan: HAHAHA FUCK YOU.

Halfway through my walk, it was cold and snowing.

Which is also about the time my foot the one, I swear to god the one single miniscule *one*, patch of ice on the entire dirt road, and I fell.

And landed with my full weight on my left wrist.

Awesome.

I'm waiting to hear back from the doctor about my x-rays. It's either a major sprain or a minor hairline fracture. Hey, maybe both!

In a brace now. It doesn't hurt at all if I hold it straight, but hurts like a motherfucker if I try to bend it either way. Actually, I'm on Darvocet right now, so I could probably bend it with a brick on top of it and not feel anything.

I pried my ring off when my fingers started to swell up, and not wearing it feels very weird. I've worn it since I was...19? Something like that.

My right hand does not like to help out. Stubborn bastard.

This is completely unrelated, but have you ever heard a song that's really bad, like embarassingly bad, but it gets stuck in your head and you can't stop listening to it? Yeah, see below.

The first couple days taking care of Dad went just fine. Because he was on a ton of meds and sleeping most of the day.

As he gets better, he turns more and more into...well, into himself.

And it's not that I don't understand. It sucks being laid up. Anyone in our family would be restless if they were laid up. And it's not that I mind helping him, because he needs it, and anyone in our family would do the same for me (have done, actually). He certainly didn't choose to need help.

I am not trying to be bitchy and resentful about being the one to take care of Dad while Mom works and Erin's in school. But I do need to rant about some of it. Especially since telling Dad himself is useless.

When I'm upstairs, I have my door open. I can hear you call me. You know this. But it does take me more than two seconds to get up, go to the stairs, and go down the stairs. You don't need to keep calling me, because I'm not ignoring you. I'm busy getting to the fucking stairs.

I don't mind getting things for you, Dad, but I can only multitask to a certain point. If you just asked me to clear your dishes and I'm on my way to the kitchen, don't call me when I'm halfway there to get you something from the living room, and then remember you also need something from the basement. Let me do one thing at a time, because you know when I come back I'll ask if you if you need anything else.

I don't mind fixing your meals, but you make it harder than it has to be. If I give you coffee, don't call me once and tell me it needs more cream, then call me a second time because it needs to be warmer, then call me a third time because it needs something else. Ditto foods that need more salt and then need a different fork and then need gravy and then need another napkin. Look at your mug/plate, take a little inventory of what it needs, and maybe save me three or four trips to the kitchen.

There are other things I do while Mom and Erin are gone. If I'm taking laundry upstairs, don't ask me to get something from the kitchen when I'm halfway up the stairs. Ask me if I can do it first, or wait for me to come back down, because you *know* I will come back down and ask if you need anything. If I'm doing the dishes, don't call me five times because you can't remember which movies are your Tivo and which are mine, because that can wait until I come back and ask if you need anything else.

Every time I go out to the porch, I can see him resisting the urge to say something about it, and of course it's only a matter of time until he does. Guess what? I don't fucking smoke most of the time! I smoke when I'm stressed!

Okay, rant over. I'm dealing with this a lot better than this entry makes it seem like, honestly. That's what entries like this are for.

Dad's knee is totally fucked.

Not only was there some fracturing, which they expected since he's hurt that knee before, but a tendon actually snapped clean and had to be stitched back in place.

Ow.

What the doctor did not say was how much of the damage Dad actually inflicted on himself. "It doesn't hurt unless I bend my knee. Hand me my cane, I can split the firewood if I just keep my leg from bending. Hand me my cane, I can use the snowblower by leaning on it."

"I am not handing you your cane. Just because I've come to accept that you're always going to do stupid shit doesn't mean I have to aid and abet."

He went to Clare yesterday for surgery and got home today.

He's off his feet for the next week or two, on crutches after that, going to be laid up for at least 6 weeks, so retirement is not definite *yet* but *very* likely.

He's on Vicodin *and* Percocet, so no problems dealing with him yet. We will see how this goes. After the third or fourth week, Mom may be the one taking the pills.