Monday

Medical
Not half bad. Woke up early, as I'm out of 3mg Lunesta... I have another insurance-company battle coming up today, after coffee and Curves.

Epilepsy
Epilepsy Advocate: strength in numbers.

I don't talk about my epilepsy all that much these days; fibro's grabbed the spotlight, as it is more constant.

But I still live in near-constant fear of the seizures. Just so you know. Some days, I don't think about it at all. But there's always that low-grade buzz in the back of my head, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The things that are wrong with me are permanent. I am always at seizure risk. And I'm always in some degree of pain. So if you ask how I am, and I say I'm okay, what that means is not that I'm pain-free, but probably that my pain's below a 6 and that the details would bore you.

(I am actually in a good mood this morning - don't let this fool you!)

Hate
I don't like The Hate Project. I post it here because some of you may find it cathartic - melanie's daughter was called names, so she had the idea to create a blog where people could wear signs that say the epithets people have thrown at them - fat, ugly, dyke, whore, et cetera. I understand why she's doing it, and acknowledge that it may be a good thing for some. But I think it's aimed in the wrong direction. I don't see the need to hold onto those labels. Was I called names in school? Oh, hell yeah. I bet you were too.

But I'm not in school anymore. I have shed my skin, and I shed those labels long ago.

What would *I* do? I'd think less about the labels other people have tossed at me and more about the labels I choose. Survivor. Mom. Writer. Fighter. Warrior Princess. Beloved.

Why waste time and energy on their labels? I don't get it. But if it helps you, good.

Adventure
XKCD rocks today, by the way.

Orgasm
feste_sylvain sums up me talking about orgasms thusly:

# "Oh, you showed up. Nice."
# "Oh WOW!"
# Total brain explosion

I'd rate the first one more specifically as "physical release only", and it's one of the two types I get while masturbating... one of those eventual things the body tosses off as "If I do this, will you put the vibrator away? Kthxbye." The second one's the more common - garden-variety orgasm, beautiful and intense and briefly mind-blowing. I never get the first type with partners - always the second, rarely the third.

The third? Sends me out of my head, nearly out of my body, and just doesn't stop - waves, crests... mmm.

Pictures
Picture of the Day is on hold, as my camera has died utterly. I have a backup camera, but no card reader or charger or anything for it. Pfft.

Daily Science
What is string theory?

Daily BPAL and Other Scent-Stuff
OMGUpdate. Ordered Hunter Moon and Aeaea, and a bunch of imps. Went decant circle for Libra and all the new Halloweenie stuff (I still have two bottles of Samhainophobia and one of Samhain from last year; don't need more). And Hunter Moon tee and Inquisition. I am insane. Did not order the soaps, as I really do have enough soap. Want massage oil. *sigh*

( New perfumer: Violette Market )

Plans
* Curves.
* EJ's doctor appointment.
* Finish the writingbit I started yesterday.
* Dinner with friends? Unconfirmed.

(no subject)

(this is a first draft. this is what came out of me yesterday. there will be more. if I ever get some writing time.)


My Daughter

My daughter’s handwriting has changed during our summer apart.

She is twelve, and this is her sixth summer spent with her grandparents in Florida. She’s always loved these summers, loved her day camp, and while it’s hard for me to let her go for two months – to be without her, to give her to parents whose skills have ever been in question – it gives her so much joy that I do it.

This year has been different. She’s quiet, my mother says. She misses Boston – her new home. She misses her friends. She misses me.

Every year my mother worries that my daughter won’t return. Every year I reassure her that my daughter loves her, loves camp, looks forward to this all year.

This year is different.

As we wait for the bus, I look over her shoulder. Her handwriting has gone spiky, a sharp change from her generic-childish rounded script. It has slimmed and lengthened like her face, her limbs. My daughter has lost her baby fat. My daughter is starting to look the way she’ll look when she grows up.

We are waiting for the bus to take us to Woods Hole.

We are going to Woods Hole:

1. To visit my aunt, all alone since my uncle passed away this December
2. To let Elayna poke around the Marine Biological Laboratories, because she loves biology, and especially loves marine biology, and
3. Because I went to Woods Hole when I was twelve.



Me

The first morning of my visit, when I was twelve, I say – I walked out into the dining room, and my aunt and uncle had laid out this amazing spread. Meats and cheeses and pastries. My aunt greeted me merrily and asked if I would like coffee. No one had ever asked me this before, and I said that yes, I would like coffee. (To this day, my mother claims that this stunted my growth.) My aunt poured me coffee, served me fruit and bagels, and she and my uncle proceeded to talk to me.

No one had ever really talked to me before.



My Aunt

My aunt is sweet and ladylike and mischievous, and not much taller than me, as I am not much taller than my daughter; we look like nesting dolls, three generations.

My aunt found her soulmate early in life.

My uncle was a biochemist and marine biologist, dry-humored and tightly focused; he was widely regarded to be brilliant. They were married for fifty-two years, twined around each other like vines; she made merry and he retreated to microscopes, he made discoveries and she typed them up. They supported each other.

Not once in my life did I ever see him take her for granted.

The first night my daughter and I are there, my aunt and I stay up late, talking. Her talking, really. Me listening. Stories of hated former employers, of movie parties in the 1970s with rented projectors.

I never used to be a chatterbox, she says; I don’t know why I’m talking so much.

I know, but do not say, that it’s because she’s used to having her conversations in bits throughout the day – brief exchanges with my uncle. Parry, riposte. And now her days are long and silent. It builds up.

My aunt’s hands look like my grandmother’s.

( My Grandmother )

ZOMG baby 'jaguar!!!

*bounces and squees with happy tears in her eyes*

Oh oh oh congratulations to haikujaguar on the birth of her amazing baby!

*zooms around with 'splody happy energy*

(no subject)

My cat is sitting on the desk, right next to the computer, purring loudly at me as if to say "Write, mama."

*hugs cat, who squeaks in an undignified manner before purring even louder*

I am now intimidated by the response to the first part of the thingie.

And it is the first part. It only gets us up to 1:30 on Friday. There' still a huge chunk of Friday to deal with. And then Saturday.

My cat is being very supportive.