Aging Sucks.

For the last couple of months I've been waking up with stiff and swollen-feeling hands and wrists. Sometimes, the sensations diminish as the day progresses; sometimes they don't. When I mentioned it to my husband (the medical provider and, IMHO, most brilliant diagnostician I've ever met), he asked me several questions, examined my hands, then told me I had RA - rheumatoid arthritis.

Oy.

In case you were wondering, RA is a debilitating auto-immune disease which targets the joints, usually starting with the small joints (hands, wrists, feet, ankles) first. It's two to three times more common in women than in men, and usually starts between the ages of 40 and 60. (I'm almost 44.) There's also a genetic component; in my case, both of my parents have it.

And there is no cure.

Swell.

The best I can do is begin to take medication to stave off the pain and swelling, which will slow down the debilitating and disfiguring effects of this disease.

I'm a bit at a loss with this; yeah, I know I'm getting older (gray hair doesn't lie), but I hadn't expected anything like *this.*

This sucks. It really, really does.

Timing is Everything

"You gotta know when to hold 'em,
Know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away,
And know when to run...."
- Kenny Rogers, The Gambler

Knowing when to make an exit is a valuable skill, whether it involves a party, a visit to a friend's home, or the fellowship of a group.

When your participation in any of the above causes you more grief than it does pleasure, you know it's time to go. The cause of that grief may or may not be aware of what he or she is doing; in the best of all possible worlds, we would all have the introspection to realize when our behavior is toxic to others. Unfortunately (with apologies to Dr. Pangloss), this is not the best of all possible worlds, and confronting the source of the conflict often does more harm than good; in that event, the only other option is to remove yourself from the situation, which is exactly what I have done.

Kenny Rogers had the right of it. Now, if only I could get that damn song outta my head....

Ugh.

DH has been on call all weekend for his job in the medical profession. His place of work called him at least 3 times during each day, and at least once each night, waking us both from sound sleep. After each call, it took me at least 30-45 minutes to get back to sleep.

Consequently, I'm going into what's going to be a heavy (and early) work day more than a little sleep deprived. Add to that the fact that the cat has just yarfed all over the house (three times!!), and I'm cranky, to boot.

Even if Mondays didn't exist, the first day of the work week would still kick our collective asses.

(/rant)

Unapologetic Misanthropy

I hate stupid people, I really do.

I'm ready to work on some issues with my FOO that have been festering for a while. After wading through a total clusterf*ck between me, my EAP and a snotty "I obviously hate my job" counseling clinic receptionist two weeks ago, I thought I had come away with an appointment - today at 1:30.

But when I went to the clinic today at 1:30, the yotch of a receptionist said she had no record of me ever having scheduled an appointment.

No apology. No accepting of blame or responsibility, even though she'd obviously screwed up; they had my EAP's authorization number in their system, but not my appointment. Why in the hell did she think I showed up on this day, at this time - for funsies?! She just gave me an apathetic stare and a halfhearted offer to "try" to find me another time to see my counselor.

I wanted to leap through the glass window and strangle that stupid c*nt. Instead, I told her (and the office manager who was lurking behind her) that she'd already screwed up twice with me, and I wasn't feeling charitable enough to give her a third chance. Well, but maybe I'd think about it and call - I suggested she hold her breath until I did.

When I returned to my office to call my EAP to get a referral to another counselor, I ended up on hold for 15 minutes while they tried to find my file. By the time they located it, I had to go back to work. The EAP agent got snippy with me because I didn't want to hold a three-way conference with the stupid yotch at the clinic; the agent had absolutely no empathy for my situation, despite the fact that I was in tears by this point. She snottily said she'd have someone call me back later.

Yeah. Later.

All I wanted was some help. I've been depressed and anxious for weeks leading up to and since the latest Hallmark holiday (Mother's Day). Instead, I get apathy, ignorance, and incompetence all rolled up in one putrid bundle. All I want is for people to do their jobs. All I want is some help in exorcising my demons. (And a pony, and a plastic rocket...) But all I've ended up with is a case of seething, raging, unapologetic misanthropy.

Stupid people suck.

Stuck

For everything I've written lately, there's a ten page limit; I write up to that point, then either get stuck or bored and don't write anything more on that idea.

What is it about these stories, these characters, that bore me? I just can't seem to get into them enough to care. For everything on which I've worked for the past month, that disconnect has prevented me from getting truly "into" my writing; I can't get into my own head to pry out these concepts and images.

I suspect my deep-seated fears are still strangling me, continuing to distance me from the camera in my mind. Although despair often tempts me to just call it quits - for good - I'm not ready to give up yet, dammit.

I know I can write. I can write well. But still my subconscious seeks to protect me from a host of shadowed terrors.

I just have to out-stubborn myself.

Twisted, innit?

Noah? Is that you?

Three days of constant rain.

Over two inches of rainfall.

One wet basement.

*grumble*

Why are we here, again?

It's Broke, and We Can't Fix It

And by "it," I'm talking about the medical system in this country.

The doctors are in bed with the insurance companies, with big pharma making an unholy menage-a-trois.

We pay ungodly amounts of money to the insurance hucksters month after month in the deluded hope that when we need healthcare, it'll be paid for.

WRONG.

My bout with perimenopause racked up about $2,000 worth of lab work and doctor's bills. And the insurance company, predictably, isn't going to pay for most of it. Worse, they won't even tell me why. I'll bet they're sitting in their cubicles using Magic 8 balls to determine whether they'll pay or not. Mostly not.

Here, ladies and gentlemen, is greed at its finest. It's not about taking care of people. It's not about doing the right thing. It's about the Almighty Dollar, about seven-figure executive bonuses, and us ordinary folks are screwed six ways from Sunday.

Pissed off? You bet I am. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do. The Medical/Insurance/Pharma complex knows this, and expect us to just bend over and take it.

It's just not fucking fair.

Vegas Vignettes: Day 1 - Arrival

Yes, we got there. And that's about all the good I can say.

After waking up at the ungodly hour of 3 AM to catch our 6:30 flight, we drove to the airport...in a blizzard. Yes, Mother Nature had to go on the rag the day we left; the snow resembled wet concrete, roads not plowed, people meandering all over the three lanes. When we got inside the airport itself, we discovered that the airline queue is a gazillion miles long. It took us half an hour to get up to the counter, only to discovered that we'd been assigned separate seats for the second leg of our flight. Had to pay $30 a head to arrange to sit together. Then, they wanted $15 for each suitcase. Once we got on the plane, they told us we had to be de-iced. Unfortunately, they had only 1 de-icing truck. 1-1/2 very stuffy hours and two crying toddlers later, we finally departed.

We arrived at our stopover, hurried to our gate...and I realized I'd left my jacket back on the plane. I ran back to get it, cursing all the way and giving myself a blister in the process. Boarded the plane bound for Las Vegas - we're seated in an exit row - and I found myself crammed in the middle seat between my husband and an overflowingly humongous guy on the aisle. Great.

Three cramped hours later we arrived in Vegas - and we couldn't find the shuttle to transfer us to the hotel. We wandered around outside, dodging massive numbers of lemmings...er...other travelers (all of whom were towing massive amounts of luggage), fended off overeager barkers hawking limo services, and finally found out we had to go back inside the terminal, take the elevator to a *different* level, check in with the transfer service, and THEN get to our bus.

Once we got on the bus, our hotel is the first stop. Once inside the hotel, however, we discovered multiple lines of people checking in/out. We waited another half hour in line, being jostled at almost every step by numberous careless and arrogant Eurotrash, all to be checked in by a snippy receptionist. Keys in hand, we then dodged more Eurotrash, almost every one of them with dangling cigarettes in their hands, and head for the elevators. When we arrived at our floor, we discovered our room was at the far, far, far end.

By this point, both my husband and I were beyond cranky. All we wanted to do was unpack and get something to eat, both of which we did. I ate and drank waaaayyy too much (one of the hotel's signature cocktails is like liquid crack - I couldn't resist), but managed to stumble from the restaurant to the hotel's salon to make reservations to get pampered over the next couple of days.

Our evening consisted of slaloming through the still-growing crowds of tourists in the casino to reach the elevators, then a retreat into our room, where we crashed...HARD.

End of Day 1. Thankfully.

Stay tuned for Day 2!