Xanax

Today was the therapist, and we went over the mind set that I had at the time of the two suicide attempts. I still don't fully know how I got from vague plans to spur-of-the-moment action. It makes me anxious about the future, to whether I can trust myself to just shuffle along in a gray haze without haphazardly setting a self-destructive scene in motion. So I "check in" with myself, looking for Telltale Signs. It's debilitating to second-guess my everyday actions and thoughts. Should I stop watching tear-jerker movies? Violent movies? Stay away from headline news? Should I be extra watchful when I read mysteries where suicide is a plot element? Is it a significant thought when I learn of an acquaintance's suicide, and my first thought is "How did they do it?"

So wearying.

First golf lesson tomorrow, don't know why I agreed to it. The golf shoes I bought are UGGGLY. My 15 minute attempt at hitting practice balls in the front yard showed me that I can get 30+ swings on 12 balls before I have to go find them. And that finding them is quite challenging, since they can be found anywhere in a 360 degree circle from where I stand. I did get a swell orange "Titelist" visor, bright orange, looks soooo great on my flame red hair that stands up around it a la Albert Einstein. Now all I need are plaid pants.

This weekend we got all three horses curried, clipped, washed, stalls cleaned, water buckets scrubbed, door name plaques up, the whole barn sprayed for flies, auto fly dispenser refilled, aisle cleaned, grain bought and put away, stall fans re-installed, etc etc ad nauseum. The farrier came as we were putting the final bits away, and, I'm sorry to say, did a very perfunctory job, having left their feet too long last time. Think I'll have to try another shoer.

So as I try to sleep tonight, I'll need a little help from my blue oval friends, along with a sleep mask and a CD of nature sounds. If you ever want to try sleepy-time music, I recommend ocean sounds. Under NO circumstances should you listen to Yanni or Kenny G, I find they make my ears bleed.....

A long time ago

When I was a little girl, maybe 8 or so, we lived next door to a family with two boys. Chuck was about my age and his brother Steve was older. I hadn't played much with boys, and these two were great guys, endlessly inventive in devising games, and didn't fight much, and even more incredibly, never told me to go home. The best time was when their father let me come along one night when they went surf fishing. It was wild being on the beach at night, the vastness of the sea, the loudness of the surf (not competing with screaming kids, blasting radios), the lights of ships waayy out on the horizon, how fast they moved. I had never fished at all, other than a worm on a hook in a pond, but Mr. C was endlessly patient, baiting it and casting it and showing me how to feel for a bite. I'm sure he got very little fishing done himself that night, and I don't remember us kids getting anything either, but we all climbed back in the car and promptly fell asleep on the ride home. Such a simple gift.

Mr. C developed a brain tumor a few months later, and died in a matter of weeks. The boys and their mom moved back to Virginia where she had family, and although they promised to write, they never did. I still grieve some when I think of them. I'm sure those boys grew up to be good men. And I've gotten pretty good with surf fishing, all in all.

Guilty!

I don't know why I feel guilty when I don't post for a while, I think I must have a guilt-gene defect that causes me to go to "TSK, TSK land" over faults that only I perceive. If I ever become a total hermit, it will be because I short-circuited trying to meet unreasonable expectations, even if they only existed in my own mind.

This last week has been a housekeeping nightmare. Maybe it's a spring cleaning thing. Maybe I'm on a straight shot to a fussy old age, going around picture straightening, wiping dry the kitchen sink, and washing the tires of my car every time I drive it. But lately it seem as if everywhere I look, I see some chore that has been let go too long already. And let's face it, I don't have the stamina to go on and on, vacuuming, scrubbing, tidying, and more. I get so tired so fast, I hate to even start a job knowing how beat I will be afterwards. I guess, at 57, I can't tell myself I'm "middle-aged" unless I plan to last until I'm 114.

And if I DO last until I'm 114, I am 100% certain I still won't have all the laundry done.

Mayday!

I've been running into a problem posting here, but I think I've figured it out. I re-uploaded the two posts below and they seem to be appearing OK now.

Welcome to May! I am SO glad to see spring, except for the "shower" part. The dogs are FEEEElthy, and even worse, they have these sticky seed pod thingys stuck to their coats, hundreds of them, and they take a really determined effort to pull them out. I think the dogs need to be Teflon coated.

Although Maggie, the Landseer, very seldom barks, Raven, the black Newf, kicks up a huge racket at everything: kids walking down the road, passing dogs, or just hearing other dogs bark. Her bark is, er, LOUD. So I got a "bark deterrent" collar that sprays citronella when she barks. So far it is working great, one little "woof" and then silence. I din't want to get a shock collar (I'm not sure it would even work with all that hair), and the "distracting noise" bark breaker I used years ago never did really work. Keeping my fingers crossed.

The dog I had years ago was a rescue Rhodesian Ridgeback, Simba, a lovely dog. He was big-- the size of a Great Dane, and we got him when he was 6 years old. He lived in the barn with the Newf we had then, and they were great company for each other. But Simba didn't like the horses, and he would stand inches from their faces and bark and bark. They are very tolerant, and just went on munching or dozing. But one day I heard Simba arfing away, then a yelp and ki-ying. I went out and here Blondie had kicked him, right in the head. (No horse shoes on). He was bleeding from the nose, and I took him immediately to the vet, who did x-rays and kept him overnight, but determined he was unhurt, and had just had his bell rung. When I took him home, Blondie was in front of the barn, and Simba swung a WIIIDE arc around her to get back in his doggy door into the barn. Blondie ignored him.

He never barked at the horses again.

(Here is where you must imagine a photo of Simba, which I cannot find ANYWHERE.)