When All the Sounds Leave

I'm going deaf.

Most of the time I'm too busy living this life to contemplate the reality of a world without sound. But then I get an earache. A pain that most of you would take some Tylenol for and then forget the ache. I wake in the night, my ear throbbing and I imagine the nurse in the ER asking me to rate my pain. "Its a three." A three?  How can it be a three?  I can't sleep. It hurts so bad that I'm crying.

Then I realize I can't hear the fan. I can't hear myself sit up in bed. I wonder, 'Do blankets make sound?' Anxiety hits. I try to remember all the other noises I've forgotten about. Paper rustling. Keys jingling. Feet shuffling across the floor. Birds. Can I still hear birds? Shit when was the last time I heard a fucking bird? I cry harder. My ear throbs. The left side of my face is hot and I can't open my jaw without it hurting. But its only a three.

Instead of counting sheep, I compose a list of sounds I want to keep. The crunch of leaves. The crackle of a campfire. Rain. Waves. Wind. Crickets in the summer. I rush on to the list of music I want to be able to play back in my head as though my brain could function as an MP3 player. From Beethoven to Nine Inch Nails...I want it all there. But what about the bands I haven't heard? Musicians not even born yet?  A lump burns in my throat. What about my future grandkids? Will I get to listen to their voices and laughter as they grow up?

My pain is at least a four. I take a prescription pain killer and put expired steroid drops in my ear. I'll see the doctor tomorrow. I'll get a Z-pack. More steroids. Better pain killer. I'll be warned to be careful. Be told my hearing is precarious. I'll laugh in agreement like I always do. I'll take the meds. I'll get better. I'll forget I'm going deaf. Or at least I won't think about it. I'll thank Heaven that there's nothing serious wrong with me...until I get that little throb again...and I'm reminded that someday all the sounds will leave me.

Another Day of Mongering

Ebay is like the toxic friend I had in highschool that I put up with because I thought this friend had something I wanted.. Just when I was ready to walk away from the relationship, there she was. "Wait!---"

And here eBay is.  "We've got a special offer just for you!"

Just for me? 'Yeah, right,' I tell myself, though I'm already plotting how to carve out the time to list "400 items for FREE!!!" Not easy to do when you homeschool a "special needs" child and are committed to finishing a second novel. 

Thanks to my friend Rachell, I've been eBay free since April. She pops her tent up three days a week at local farmer's markets. I've only committed to twice a month. Maybe I'm afraid of being caught in the tracker beam again.  If you think eBay takes effort, you've never worked a booth at a farmer's market in the desert.

Lucky for me, I like a challenge. First mission- how to display everything. (I'm gonna pat myself on the back and say "well done." I put all of that up there together for under ten bucks. Thank you Pinterest!) The second mission- keeping everything upright in the desert wind-not so easy.

This was our first day at the new prime corner spot, and I think we rocked it. Don't you love the line of people? The people are what bring me back. They're so much more interesting to talk to than eBay. Even the pets there are interesting.The pup pictured below was by far the cutest.  I wanted to snap a picture of the young woman and her hybrid lynx cat, but the kitty looked rather put out about its forced socialization with so many canines. 

The only drawback to the awesome corner spot is the ice cream man.  You see him?  That's my view for the day.  We get to listen to hours of tinny ice cream truck music. I manage to block it out until the loop returns to "Silent Night." The song is hard to miss when its a hundred degrees out and we're all melting.

Death by Insomnia

Fun find from Maud Starr on Etsy

I’ve managed to squeeze in three hours of sleep. I was up at 3:00am Googling the effects of sleep deprivation, so I know for a fact that my cognitive abilities are impaired.  My facilities have to be impaired If I’m about to pull back the veil and give you a peek at the reality of having an Asperger’s child.

Most people assume the biggest challenge of Asperger’s is the difficulty these individuals have with social situations. True, my son did have a series of mini meltdowns at the last big family gathering. In his defense, there were about fifty people, many of whom he’d never met. As soon as these stressful events pass, life pretty much goes back to normal.  My son goes back on the computer. He asks me again, why the kids in the neighborhood are screaming. In his head screaming signals trouble. So the high pitched squeals of summer play both worry and annoy him.

Worry.  Now that’s the big one.  Most people with Asperger’s deal with anxiety. My son’s is extreme, and fortunately is fairly controlled with a low dose of an antidepressant. But what happens when the doctor doesn’t return your calls about refills and then the pharmacy fails to contact you when your order is ready? Then you skip more days than needed and sometimes things can get a little hairy.

Sleep is the first thing to go in my son’s case. He’ll go more than 24 hours without sleep and then start worrying about why he feels funny. As the sleepless hours tick by he starts googling every psychiatric diagnosis known to man and rushes to me, asking if I think he might have a multiple personality disorder. I tell him to look up ‘sleep deprivation,’ but he’s so caught up in how the whole multiple personality thing works, that he totally ignores me.

Okay. Let’s go back to 3:00 am when I was on my iphone reading my son the laundry list of sleep deprivation symptoms. I’d made the small mistake, as one is apt to do when one is sleep deprived themself, and was reading a report on the use of sleep deprivation as a form of torture.  Not exactly bedtime reading material for a kid that freaks out over the kids out front playing on their bicycles. I managed to skip past the part of the report where every single puppy in lab experiments died from lack of sleep. Seriously? Who kills puppies for sleep studies? This is a rhetorical question people. Instead of counting sheep waiting for my son to doze off, I’m counting dead puppies.  My son’s anxiety slips under my skin.

Sleep deprivation was popular during the Spanish Inquisition, witch hunts, and more modern information gathering missions. My mind wanders from Guantanamo Bay to our local prisons. I think of the less than human animals there, caged for violent crimes, especially crimes against children.  The dead puppies bark in my head. “Why do those bastards get any rest?” they yip.  Shit. I can understand what they’re saying. When did I turn into Doctor Dolittle? Am I delusional? Which psychiatric disorder would my son diagnose me with? I glance over to check on him. He’s asleep.  He looks so peaceful. We’ve made it through another night. It’s too soon to worry about tomorrow.

Got this thing in the bag-mostly

Some days all I want to do is lie on the beach and eat chocolate.  Today is one of those days. Too bad I'm stranded at home, an hour inland, where it’s so hot your chocolate bar won’t make it back from the store without melting.  Forget working on the novel.  I’m not making any jewelry either. Thankfully its summer, so I don’t have to think about homeschooling my eighth grader. The only thing harder to motivate than a chocolate deprived woman, is my son with Asperger’s.  

Despite my whining, the day hasn’t been completely unproductive.  I managed to figure out how to get my six foot tall jewelry displays to remain upright for the next farmer’s market. YAY! I also designed some nifty new bags so that I don’t have to mooch of my business associate, Rachell, any longer. Click here to see what her and the  Black Swan Jewelry company is up to. And you can click here to visit The Winsome Wench on Facebook.

If I can't make it as a writer, I can always fall back on fluffing.

I'm the "Party Macgyver," the chick you want on hand when you discover that the top layer of your wedding cake has slid off, that the Mother of the bride is MIA at the rehearsal, or that the drunk best man is peeing in the kitchen sink next to the steam tray of lasagna. I've turned hotel rooms into makeshift floral shops. I've fluffed more balls than a porn star. Sure, they were tissue balls, but it still takes skill.  Finesse. Oh! And nothing thrills me like a shoestring budget. I've been addicted to Pinterest since its start. But I'm accustomed to being the wizard behind the curtain, not the hostess, smiling and being friendly. With just two days until my anniversary party, the beads of sweat are building. 

I eloped at eighteen. My soon to be husband had to ask our taxi driver to be a witness.  No wedding dress. No wedding flowers.  No gifts or cake. Don't get me wrong.  I wouldn't change a thing.  But now I can afford a pretty dress, flowers, a cake.  Part of me itches to "go all out," then there is the part yelling to just be me. The wrestling match was short and sweet. Can you guess who won?

I pulled a Pretty in Pink number for the dress. I ordered a blank cake from Costco, which will make the perfect canvas. And as for the flowers...this was hard.  I love fresh flowers.  But I went with coffee filters instead. Huh?  Yeah.  I know.  A little weird. Keep in mind I grew up in Santa Ana, CA, where making tissue flowers for Cinco de Mayo was part of the curriculum. 

My advice to brides---or anyone throwing a special party---do what makes your heart sing. BTW check back for pictures of the dress and cake. I was channeling Frida Kahlo while planning.