Some might have wondered why I haven't been posting or writing here in this forum.
It was all part of my grand experiment.
So, you will be seeing less of me, as the experiment showed me that not being in this forum makes me happier and I accomplish more and feel better.
This place does not build me up. It's sick and dysfunctional and censored. It's crippling to be here, like walking on eggs with crutches. I love many people, but I don't love being here anymore.
The other night as we ate dinner, our daughter called frantically on the cell phone. "Mommy!! is our house on fire? I had to pull over to let fire trucks by and I can see black smoke filling the sky. Are you okay?" "Nothing's wrong here," I assured her.
Just then, I heard fire trucks go by and saw three ambulances follow. We had been about to eat fresh strawberries and whipped cream for dessert but all of us at the table jumped up as one and ran out the front door.
We found indeed t
One day, you're a teenager telling Mom to quit bugging you. Then one day, you're over 30 and something happens. You look in the mirror and see Mom's face in yours.
Pausing with the hairbrush in your hand, you suddenly see why everyone says you have her eyes, why her friends stop you in the supermarket and do double-takes.
For them, it' s a time warp.
"You're Hazel all over again!" they exclaim. But they don't say much else.
It used to bother me, but looking in the mir
April was Sjogren's Syndrome Awareness month and I didn't write about it as I thought I would. I guess that's because I'm already all too aware of this disease. I have it. Believe me, I'm aware. But I didn't write about it because I was angry at the community here. I've cooled down now and I know the anger wasn't really about anyone here. It was all mine. And the disease I have was part of it.
Around four million Americans have this autoimmune disease. More than 90 percent of them a
I'll say it here, right out loud. I never went to my prom. Neither did my husband. We, two self-proclaimed geeks, have a social butterfly daughter. Pretty, athletic, smart and funny, this girl has always easily made friends, won sporting events, and has gone through her life embracing everyone and everything with a caring heart. There's an easy explanation for this. She's adopted. She didn't get the double geek genes from her parents. Lucky escape.
So it was some months back that
"I'm tired and I'm living in the last half of my life." Those words aren't mine. They belong to my former English Composition professor and they appeared in an essay he wrote about sitting in a cafe in Paris contemplating his growing older. For some reason they stuck in my head.
And for another reason, they sometimes pop into my head. Like today.
It's been a rough month. Sjogren's Syndrome makes me tired enough--and April is Sjogren's Awareness month, by the way. So I'm going to
The ides of March for me have been bad.
March 8 seems a diabolical anniversary. On this date, in 1973, I got engaged to someone I thought was a wonderful, God-fearing man. I soon learned he was domineering, tyrannical, and abusive but I thought I had to stay with him anyway because the church said I had to and my minister said it was God's will that I do. God hates a divorcing, they told me. So I resolved to make it work.
Within 6 years, on March 8, I had cancer surgery for the
Sometimes a phrase gets stuck in your head. It's like having a tune such as "Yellow Submarine" playing in your brain for weeks. Someone I once knew calls this a "mind worm." It happened to me again this week. The mind worm struck.
The phrase in question was something the neighbor of a missing girl told the press. "When something like this happens, it reminds you of the dangers of ordinary life."
My ordinary life is dangerous, all right. It always has been. When I was two, m
Beeeee Yourself!" says the genie to Aladdin as he woos his princess. "Just be yourself!" moms urge their kids as they head off to the new school, nervous about making new friends. "Don't worry, just be you!" My Dad used to say when I'd ask if I looked okay.
So it hit me the other day, that lately I don't feel like myself, what ever that means and I'm having trouble being something indefinable.
Just what does it mean to be yourself?
Father Edward J. Flanniga
This is Burnie, the cat who cans. LOL
He likes it when I organize storage or clean shelves. He thinks I do it so he can have a new spot.
Aside from this, Burnie is the cat who follows me everywhere and is involved in anything that I do in this house.
As you see, I was moving over the pears to make room for some apple sauce here. But Burnie had other ideas.
I should add here that Burnie is really named General Ambrose Burnside. (My husband named our cats after Civil
This is a Civil War fifer. It's my dear hubby, John. Yep, that makes me a fife wife, LOL
Playing the fife isn't easy. The first lesson includes learning to get a sound out of the instrument. This can take weeks in some cases. It is said that if you can get a sound out of it right away, you have talent as a fifer. That's not entirely true. Both John and I were going to do fifing together. I could get a sound out of the thing immediately and the fife group was impressed mightily. However,I
This is an experiment -- I'm not used to blogging. It feels strange. I don't know if I'll keep up with this. Anyway, it's good to be in the new message boards and although I am fighting Sjogren's Syndrome brain fog today, I am learning the ins and outs of the place.