Today I forced myself to socialize and the initial panic attack lasted maybe 40 minutes and then I was pretty much okay and glad I made myself go out and talk to people it's rather like going to the dentist--you feel so much better after you do and wonder why you avoid it forEVER. My Cookie Exchange Cookies were chewier than I would have liked but I am not on my culinary game right now and I should have cut the oven time down by about 10 minutes, I think. I worried today about the cookies being imperfect and my weird bloated face (Prednisone- inflamed jaw- puffiness) and I am sure I embarrassed myself somehow. Uck. Everyone was very kind and friendly I am just weird and anxious in these situations and I don't know why. I drank too much wine and talked too much about my boring stupid swollen joints because people asked me about them and came home and ate an inappropriate wad of leftover spaghetti about the size of my fist which was totally gross and now I am nauseated. Iced my knee and watched The World's End which was actually sort of boring and Simon Pegg was really unlikeable and so was Watson from Sherlock and Nick Frost so I scrolled through my phone throughout the movie like a Millennial with no attention span. The world continues to spin in my absence and people at work come and go and I will probably not recognize the place a month from now. I feel peripheral.
I wonder if my social skills are deteriorating. I used to be cool, really.
Leek and Potato Soup with tiny soft rolls broken
into to little pieces and soaked in soup
Yesterday instead of baking xmas cookies I sat on the couch and watched The Shining and moved my ice pack back and forth between my knee and my face and occasionally my weird numb arm/wrist. I committed to one of those cookie exchange things and immediately regretted it because I don't want to bake under pressure I only bake impulsively and for no reason. Then I was thinking of shorting the cookie boxes by a few so I did not have to bake any more cookies but I am too compulsive and it just feels rude. I will bake one more batch this morning even though I do not want to chop any more candied ginger or wash any more bowls sticky with molasses because I said I would and also I think I overbaked the first batch they are not as soft as I wanted and I cannot chew anything less than 79 times slowly. Letter arrived via email that said YOU ARE EXHAUSTED (of leave time for your broken body) and I already knew that but still it felt very apocalyptic.
Worked on Chapbook MS yesterday and felt pretty good about it. Like 2008 when I wrote all the time and was endlessly filling out online job applications and fretting over my student loans.
I am beginning to realize that things are never going to to back to normal like five months ago when I could walk without a limp and drive safely and open my mouth wide enough to eat a sandwich. I broke down and took pain pills yesterday though I don't like the LOOPY because I couldn't freaking stand it anymore and it feels like a failure. I have to keep saying at least I am not on crutches anymore to remind myself that things are progressing albeit slowwwwwly. Each day feels very small and spare and unpredictable and I do not know where anything is going. I like timelines and predictable outcomes so this is going to make me Catshit Crazy unless I figure out a way to keep being fucking hilarious through all this bullshit while everybody says OH THINK POSITIVE. Okay.
Today I woke up with a hot and swollen jaw and I am wondering how I am going to eat breakfast so I can swallow a handful of pills and not puke. Super. This is far, far worse than the immovable leg. I am going to go put a bag of frozen peas on my face and cry now. No, I am not going to cry because I am actually more angry and pissed off than anything else.
I am still going to work on that chapbook manuscript today. I have already mentally arranged the poems but I am going to spread the paper out on the furniture (can't do the floor can't get down there anymore with locked joints) and it's going to be very satisfying and writerly and shit.
The five of pentacles and the eight of cups keep showing up in my tarot reading. No surprises there.
One thirty a.m. I stayed up and made cookie bars and ate two of them and now I have super-sugary indigestion. Gingerbread with crumb topping. My knees feel like two water balloons are wedged under each patella so I will toss about with a pillow between my knees for another two hours and then fall asleep for two hours and then wake up again. What if I end up with two gigantic knee effusions and have grapefruit knees for the rest of my life? Tomorrow I will write something real instead of this garbage.
Once upon a time a million years ago I wrote things on this blog.
Writing and time slowly drifted away and with it poems and blog posts and whatnot but I may revisit this place and throw spaghettiwords at its electronic walls and see what sticks. Maybe I will find the version of myself that died back in 2011 or so. I have time to write now because of stupid medical stuff that leaves me with limited mobility and thus, a fuck-ton of time. I want to write again in the everyday sense like I used to before the 4 a.m. shift work and Dad's Alzheimer's disease and the run run run run run of being female and of a certain age where you are supposed to take care of everybody and there is nothing left at the end of it all except the desire to drink bourbon and watch three hours of Parks and Rec until you fall asleep in your ratty slippers and sweatpants.
Eye doctor to make sure the new meds I am taking don't make me go blind. I looked at pictures of my macula and it looks just like a disembodied eyeball should. Plus I am getting new glasses! I am wearing my happy gray cableknit cardigan and my favorite opal necklace for no reason. Once I wore the necklace to work and one of the women said that she heard opals are unlucky and asked her if she ever read The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter and she look at me like I sprouted a thumb in the middle of my forehead so I learned not to talk about books at work. Currently reading The Doomsday Book by Connie Willis. I also just finished book one of Hyperion by Dan Simmons. If I feel up to it I will make a pot pie later and look at the twinkly tree lights and pretend I do not have to deal with xmas because it is just too much with all the expectations for elaborate baked goods and fancy presents I cannot buy for people.
Something poem-like. It's okay if it sucks. Also: something gingerbread.
1. I finally started xmas shopping today. Yes, today. Good thing my list is short and my bank account, sadly lacking. One day, one store. That oughta cover it.
2. Somebody just totally spammed my cell phone and sent me a text asking if I needed $ as I was writing #1. Creepy.
3. Every time I get two days off in a row, I develop a vicious head cold. I'm pretty sure a family of icky green blobs has moved into my sinuses and are watching reruns of NCIS like, right now.
4. I would (very much) like it if NyQuil would develop a carbonated beverage. Rather like Mountain Dew, but with more kick.
5. Many people (but not all people) are sucky. This gives me the blues and makes me want to join a nice quiet nunnery, where everyone has taken a vow of silence and we make homemade champagne and raspberry jam while wearing full habits but with bare feet because we're secretly dirty hippie nuns.
6. I would like to abandon all things. That's right ALL THINGS. I am tired of you. Let's hear it for the glory of NO THINGS.
7. I secretly want to make a tuna noodle casserole with peas and eat the whole thing with Pillsbury crescent rolls and a big fat glass of Chardonnay. Because I am a classy gourmet and shit.
Susan Slaviero lives on the cusp of a hellmouth, where she vanquishes evil with poetry and cupcakes. She hopes to someday land a job as either a dog whisperer or a telephone psychic. In the meantime, she writes. She has a fondness for esoterica.
I have a BA in English from Lewis University, with minors in Philosophy and Women's Studies. I am the poetry editor and web designer for the online lit zine, blossombones. I also write stuff. Sometimes people read it.