Thursday, July 16, 2009
Hot And Getting Hotter, Weird And Getting Weirder, Old And Getting Older
Arrrgh and Accck and Damn-It-All-To-Hell and well, it's eight-thirty in the morning and that's how I feel already.
Not in DESPAIR, exactly (my usual morning default emotion) but all tangled and knotted as if someone was learning to weave by creating me on a crooked loom.
Oh, it's bucolic and lovely here in Lloyd this morning and the roosters next door are crowing and I can hear my chickens peeping and whistling and oh wait. Hold on. I'm about to have a hot flash.
How do I know?
Suddenly I feel as if the world is coming to an end and whoever is weaving me on that loom has grabbed the threads in her unkind hand and is yanking them up to the breaking point.
Yep. Here it comes, the face is flushing, the left hand has gone numb, the sweat is starting to break out on my entire body.
Okay. This is the first hot flash of my waking day and there will be many, many more.
I am sick of this.
I was pretty darn sick of it about ten years ago, too.
Last night was not a good night. I was tired. I went to bed. The house was not cooling down. I laid there with the covers off of me, seemingly in one unending hot flash. I fell asleep, and then something would wake me up. This happened over and over again. I got up.
I read for awhile, went to sleep in the Panther Room. I didn't eat Chex Mix. A few mixed nuts were ingested though, to be honest.
Anyway, there I was, finally sleeping when Mr. Moon appeared in the doorway a little after three a.m. Was he looking for me? No. He didn't even know I wasn't in our bed but when Dolly the Dog who was sleeping with me started barking, he figured it out. He is tall, that Mr. Moon, and even in the darkness, in my blind-state, I could see him standing there.
"There's something wrong with the AC," he said, in the same tone as one might expect if he were saying, "There's a murderer in the house!"
I already knew there was something wrong with the AC.
He went to the hallway to check the setting, the filter.
Me, I was thinking, I'm so tired. Please. Let me just go back to sleep. I had a fan on me. I was okay. I had been sleeping.
But no, he rattled around and took out the filter and took it outside, screen doors slamming, wooden doors slamming, etc. I laid in the darkness, feeling guilty because I hadn't cleaned the filter and because I was feeling so hateful. I wanted to sleep. I had only been asleep for about an hour and a half and it was after three.
He finally finished doing what I should have done a while ago. "The motor may be burned out," he said. Okay. He didn't say that. He said something more technical. I don't know what. But it was like that. A motor that makes the fan blow in the AC is probably burned out. More money, more money, MO' MONEY!
He went back to bed. I thought to go get back in our bed with him but I was paralyzed by wanting to sleep and feeling that if I just laid there and breathed, there might be a chance but if I got up and moved and went back to our bed, I would lay there all night, one hot flash after another.
I finally got back to sleep. I got up this morning. He was already up, dressed, and pissed off that we hadn't cleaned the filter in a while, which may or may not be the problem. Bless him, he is not blaming me directly.
"We should have thought about it," he said.
That was the night.
This is the day.
The chickens- we put the babies back in their little pen because Elmira is so small that she fits right through the wires of the big pen, even with those crazy feathers. She is a Houdini, that little one, and escaped from where I had them yesterday in the run. I found her trotting back and forth outside it, trying to get back in with her sibs and I feel so lucky that a cat or a snake or a hawk didn't get her while she was out.
And we leave for Mexico in one week. ONE WEEK and no, again, I am not ready. Not physically or spiritually or emotionally or any other way. I did not lose ten pounds. I have not gotten a strap for my bathing suit. I have not gotten my books together. I have not gotten in touch with my inner sex goddess. My fingernails and toenails look like those of a beast, and my hair? Dear God, I want to cut it all off. Shave it. Tattoo my head. Whatever.
But you know what? I am SO ready for a vacation. No chopping of vegetables or weeds. No baking, no simmering, no marinating, no mixing, no fixing, no washing, no drying, no sweeping, no cleaning up of dog poop and pee and vomit, no chicken-tending.
Wait. No chicken-tending?
Well, I guess that missing my chickens and knowing that I have a grandbaby coming will get me home again. Not to mention my other babies. Yeah, I'll come home.
And I hope that when I do, whoever is weaving this cloth of me (and would that weaver be...ME?) has figured out the pattern and has worked out the knots and tangles.
And that the AC is working. So I can sleep.