No Kisses for Mother (a comment on my last blog - and an obscure title some children's librarians will smile at)

I’ve been engaged in a monumental battle with Migraine Madness, which translates into me lying in bed, emitting soft moans or humming segmented sections of songs (The Band seems to be this week’s top contender in Hummville), to help me cope with the unrelenting, burning, no-sleep-in-sight, head-crushing oh-you-don’t-know-the pain I’m in.

But, wait - there’s a silver lining in this sad tale, because my Shiatsu guru came to the house this morning (yes, people still make house calls - in 2010, no less), and painfully redirected some of my pesky electric impulses which had clumped together and refused to fire correctly on all four of their pain-producing cylinders. After she was done torturing me, I experienced, dare I say it, some relief.

Look, Ma. I’m typing, my stomach is demanding food, the outside painters have stopped sanding and gone for a long lunch break, and perhaps the world outside my closed windows (the dust from the sanding is back) can once again be my oyster (if only – I’d love some right about now).

And you worker bees out there imagined I was enjoying all my free time, now that I’m retired! Ha, that’s not even vaguely funny, considering how little of it I’ve been able to experience this week.

I wish I was livin’ la vida loca, or doing the Limbo (just in case you wondered, which I now realize you don’t, since I’m telling it like it is), but I’m not. Instead, I’m trying to keep my lamp trimmed and a-burnin’, because there’s trouble ahead, trouble behind (…you know that notion just crossed my mind).

Yikes, look out for escaping random song segments, which continue to pop out every second, mingling with the paint dust, coating my car, the ground, my windowsills, some of my neighborhood, and me and my little old migraine brain.

High Anxiety

Two guys are out front (and alternately, in the basement), fixing our front columns and basement window (which, of course, needs more than just replacing, since the sill is rotted out and the plaster underneath is cracked). I’m trying not to panic, even though I just heard them arguing in Polish about the sorry state of something that’s terribly wrong with the columns and the faux porch above them. No, I don’t understand Polish – but I do understand what worried looks, pointed fingers, and loud voices mean: disaster.

The house painters are due tomorrow morning, and they’ll be living here for the next few weeks, which means my life will become a living hell as they scrape and sand up a storm. I can’t wait for the paint fumes to send me into Migraineland, a place I spend too much of my time visiting, as it is.

Yes, it’s a bone fide fact: I don’t do well with change, repair people, noise, smells, or life in limbo. Please, I’m begging you – don’t offer me any be positive comments, because they’re not going to lower my anxiety levels or calm me down. I’m on high alert, here, people, trying not to crumble like my old, needs-to-be-fixed house.

Oh, it’s gonna be a long, crazy September. Keep your fingers crossed that it’s sealed with a kiss.