Rambling catch up post!

First things first.

Hi there! I’ve been away from my blog for a long time (three months now?) other than the occasional random post and swore that I’d start back up end of May after the madness died down.

The madness, in case you missed my few random posts (and I’m sure most people did), was 85 percent work related and the other 15 percent was trying to battle the stress without beating myself up for accomplishing practically nothing at home after work and on the weekends besides walking Boska, mindless housecleaning, watching a lot of bad movies, reading, being used as a comfy contoured Mommy bed for the cats, and the occasional socializing. Oh yeah, and a couple of trips to L.A. and Humboldt. But no writing, no gardening, no going through boxes in the garage. The backyard was taken over by these weird leafy tree bushes and wild sweet pea plants that grew three to four feet in height. Alien pods could be planted back there and the only one of us who’d have known would have been Boska on one of her tentative forays to find a place to do her doggy business.

The madness at work involved an office move and a clump of special events, all of which needed coordinating, along with the regular day to day jobs, and there were only two of us to do it. Long hours were worked, lists made, boxes packed, and sleep patterns disrupted by random thoughts at 2:00am involving things that needed be done that day or should’ve been done the day before. You know the type of anxiety – the mental equivalent of sitting bolt upright and screaming ‘NOOOOOOOoooooooo!’ Or maybe you don’t. If you’re lucky, you’re one of those irritating and totally organized types that never has their sleep disrupted by stray work-related anxiety attacks. Or kitten anxiety dreams, where you find a bunch of stray kittens that you have to rescue and whenever you catch one, another gets away and then there’s more of ‘em and…and…

No? Okay, so I’m a freak. Sue me. Just don’t make me dream about kittens.

ANYway, on top of the existing work stress, I also had a nasty reaction to a hormone pill called Seasonale. It sounds more like a spice mix than a birth control pill designed to minimize a woman’s period (heh…Rimmer’s infamous Kajanski disguise and the line ‘I’m having a woman’s period’ comes to mind, for all you Red Dwarf fans) to four a year, thus supposedly stabilizing hormones and reducing hormone related problems, such as migraines, cramps and mood swings. My doctor prescribed Seasonale for my migraines and for stress relief back in January when I had my physical, but I didn’t start taking it until March because of a problem getting the prescriptions called into my pharmacy ( another stressful situation that went on for a month, but we’ll just leave it at that). I’d actually started to get a handle on the stress, headaches and was losing weight before starting the pill, one of those ironical (I love that word) things that made my reaction to Seasonale piss me off that much more. A week after starting it, my skin (smooth and clear and loving the foggy climes of the outer Sunset) started getting random breakouts, I was tired all the time and I started waking up in the middle of the night with heart palpitations after a couple weeks of uninterrupted sleep. After six nights of mini-panic attacks and a longer period of sleeplessness after each one (I averaged three hours of sleep a night by the end of it), I finally correlated the symptoms to the Seasonale, did some online research and found a website where out of 200 patient comments, only 3 were favorable, and took myself off the pill. It took a couple of weeks, but my skin cleared up, my sleep patterns slowly went back to normal, and I stopped wandering around with the desperate, hollow-eyed, and slightly homicidal stare of the sleep deprived.

But dang me, it was just wretched. And I was no fun to be around either. Moral of this part of the story is Seasonale is BAD. Hell, I’ll take the 12 periods a year, thank you very much! And better a couple days a month of fluctuating hormones than 365 days a year. Feh.

Then, the week of the Great Office Packing, Boska had a stroke. She was happily eating scraps off my dinner plate (yes, I’m one of THOSE pet owners) and just collapsed and went into little convulsions. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t get control of her limbs and we thought she was gone. Boska is at least 15, for those of you not familiar with my dog, and although she was in good health, that’s a pretty good age for a medium sized canine. Half Rottweiler, half Aussie Shepard, all wiggly butt and Thurber dog face.
We pretty much figured that was it for her. I called Brian in L.A. to let him know what happened and he made plans to come see her one last time on his way home to Humboldt.

Well, to cut to the chase, Boska is currently snoring in front of my coffee table, having spent a happy two hours romping on the beach. Dogs have an amazing recuperative ability when it comes to things like strokes. Kicks our ability’s ass. I’m not complaining – I’ve had a month’s worth of beach walks with her that I wasn’t expecting to get and she seems to be improving every day. She went from needing to be carried up and down the stairs and falling over when she sneezed to galloping after birds and making her own way up the stairs, thank you very much! She still slithers down ‘em if she tries to descend without our help, but sometimes manages a rather dignified descent. Her farts are still toxic. The smell wakes me up out of a sound sleep. I keep a little clove scented odor neutralizer on the bedstand. And she still makes disgusting lip smacky noises that only dogs seem to make. But again…I’m not complaining.

Ah well, the whole point of the Boska stroke story was that it happened in the middle of move-week, on top of everything else. I pictured my gravestone and what it would say if I died that week: That which did not make me stronger finally killed me. But I made it through to the end of the week and the unpacking hell of the week after. And now we’re pretty much happily settled into our new office, the big advisory board meeting has come and gone, and things are relatively sane.

Of course, I had to go and get Muni Grunge (see previous post for definition).

Have I mentioned that my murder mystery, MURDER FOR HIRE, is being published? I’m pretty damned chuffed about that. I’ve been working with the woman in charge of cover art/production/etcetera (which covers whatever I’m forgetting) on the author bio, jacket blurb, cover, and studying up on my self-marketing skills. On the advice of Tom Basinski, former policeman and author of NO GOOD DEED, a police procedural about a real-life murder in La Jolla, I bought HOW TO MARKET YOUR BOOK, which so far is full of useful advice. I’m also determined to lose more weight ‘cause looking at the pictures from the days of Murder for Hire, I want my waistline back.

I am not so fond of the middle-age spread. It’s stayed off my butt and attacked my middle. My legs and butt are quite happy with all the walking I make them do, but my stomach and waist keep demanding sit-ups and workouts on the Pilate’s exercise ball. Greedy, says I. I’m going to be getting a TRX, developed by Navy Seals, and will report back as to its efficacy…effectiveness? My sister swears by it. Of course, my sister swears a lot in general, so we’ll see. Although her arms have an impressive line of muscle. I’m gonna send her on a covert mission into enemy territory and see how she does. THEN we’ll know if the hype on the TRX is true!

I am watching COMMANDO as I write the end of this post. What is the deal with Ahnold’s arch nemesis, the Australian dude in leather pants and a chainmail tanktop? OR the dude that rhapsodizes about knives cutting into little girl’s throats like butter? Of course, the little girl in question is Alyssa Milano, back when she was an irritating moppet instead of CHARMing. Truly a guilty pleasure movie is COMMANDO. I plead VERY guilty.

And now I spellcheck and send. It’s nice to feel relatively sane again.

Relatively.