Book: Strangers She Knows by Christina Dodd

Strangers She Knows by Christina Dodd

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Great way to end the trilogy. The entire family has a renewed sense of appreciation for each other, and there's hope on the horizon.



View all my reviews

Book: Dead Girl Running by Christina Dodd

Dead Girl Running by Christina Dodd
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I received a digital copy of this book via Netgalley for the purposes of providing an unbiased review.

Y'all, I don't give five stars easily, but this one deserves it.

I got introduced to all new characters I can care about. Kateri Kwinault had a cameo. The mystery about Kellen's past was equally as compelling to me as the whodunit threaded throughout the book. I wanted to know, and I was not disappointed!

There was a subtle and low-key romantic undercurrent, which I cannot describe any better for fear of spoiling you.

Best of all, the book was chock full of women being awesome!

Go. Read. I think you'll be glad you did.

View all my reviews

Book: After Anna by Lisa Scottoline

After Anna by Lisa Scottoline
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I received a digital copy of this book via Netgalley for the purposes of providing an unbiased review.

While I did not like this book overall, there were things I did like. Caleb was an awesome kid and he rises to the occasion toward the end of the book. Wreck-It Ralph is a phenomenal name for a cat. The long-term relationship between Maggie and Kathy spans the gamut of emotion, and is a wonderful example of friendship.

Though the craptastic formatting was irritating, and I'm mentioning it, it's not included in my reasons for disliking After Anna.

The first chapter was good. I was certainly hooked enough to continue reading. The next chapter belonged to Maggie and the goddess of exclamation points, and I wasn't even to the bottom of that page before I was rolling my eyes and wanting to tape Maggie's mouth shut.

There was an instance or two early on of infodumping on the courthouse's appearance, which may be of interest to some, but I was reading, "blah, blah, blah" instead. Plenty of awkward phrasing throughout, and so many misused and improperly punctuated words - the proofreader needs to be tossed overboard.

I didn't enjoy the split reverse timeline method of storytelling. It can be done well and ratchet up the suspense, but here it was just annoying. I was at 80% before the plot became interesting again.

There was a glaring mistake in the final rescue scene, and it took me entirely too long to get back into the story for the last few pages.

I was disappointed in the epilogue: too much time was skipped over, and I felt like the characters didn't deserve the endings they got. In particular, too much was glossed over in the family's recovery for the end to be believable to me.

I can't recommend this book unless you are a hardcore Scottoline fan who must read every book.

View all my reviews

In addition to the above, there are some triggery scenes in he last quarter of the book. If you have triggers involving children or sex, please ask so I can help you decide if this book is for you.

Reminiscing

I have this temp Nana gig through the end of the school year. LJ is almost five months old, and he's just a doll. He's happy and smart and gods I miss Ryan! I adore having a baby around, though. I don't even complain about getting up at 0800 for him.

Anyway, as babies are wont to do, he opens his mouth anytime anything gets in the vicinity of his face, and I've taken to kissing the empty space where his mouth is open. It makes a nice echoing sound. I didn't think much of it at first, but after a couple dozen times, I realized it reminded me of my little brother, D. I used to "kiss" D that way when he was a baby, too. That was a long time ago - 1973. Can you believe it?

Having LJ around, I've noticed my pain fades more into the background. I'm more tired after he's gone home, but while he's here, I hurt less. Or rather, notice it less. It's been interesting to note the impact of simple enjoyment on the rest of me, body, soul, and mind.

On Tuesday, Landlady and I went to a Cutco kitchen event - they've been having them monthly since the store opened, and though it's not ideal, it's a reasonably fun way to get out of the house and have a free meal. Anyway, this last time was "Cinco de Mayo" and one of the dishes was a corn and black bean salsa. While the chef up front was prepping, he started cutting the onions, and it was the same way Dad did when we used to make stuffing together at Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was a bittersweet moment - I was so looking forward to having Thanksgiving with Dad two years ago, and now he's gone, it's an experience I won't be sharing with anyone, because the Potatoheads live in Florida, and I have no other children, or anybody else to "pass it down" to.

I'm starting on a new edit this week, and looking forward to delving deeper into this author's fictional world. It's the second book in a trilogy, the third set of books I've edited for her. It's been gratifying to watch her writing improve with each book. Her improvement isn't on me, but it still feels good to be a part of her journey.

My own writing has been hit and miss for months, and I keep trying. Every once in a while, I crank something out, but my word count so far this year has been abysmal. It's sad and frustrating. I WANT to write, but my brain will not cooperate. Blargh.

Watching Hawaii 5-O this week, I've been reminded of my ties to the military, and the many ways my psyche and personality were shaped by growing up an Air Force brat. Funerals especially, or welcoming home finally-identified bones, always gets me deep inside. So many people over the course of my life, haven't made it home, and some who did have never been the same. Being part of a military family is never a level life - there are moments of deep, abiding joy, and other moments of such grief it's impossible to put it into words. Somehow, H5O captures some of that, often, and watching from the beginning has been a reflective experience.

Speaking of H5O, I remembered during the opening theme doing this little dance with Ryan when he was bitty, while we were at my in-laws' house. I have no idea why that theme works on me that way, but it does make me want to "dance" with babies, if I have them around.

I know, I'm weird. Get used to it. I'm not getting normal in this lifetime. :D

Dear Dad....

Dear Dad,

Things were going well last year, though you were in and out of the hospital a lot. I was really looking forward to doing Thanksgiving with you - we made a good team with you cooking and me prepping. Last Thanksgiving kind of sucked without you.

This year, though, landlady and I had people over - mostly her friends, though a couple of mutuals - and it went well. I think the cornbread dressing turned out very well this year, maybe the best I've made yet. I tried one little new trick, and it was a nice touch. I did most of the rest of the cooking, too, and though it got close for a few minutes, I didn't kill anybody. I'm sure you're proud of me.

I'm hoping to be in Florida for xmas, with Amelia and Ryan and Sam, and maybe we'll make dressing and pink stuff, maybe not. It would be fun to do some of that with Ryan, I think, though. 

More important will be to get to spend some time with them, just being together. A few days last year for your memorial wasn't enough. Ryan's grown so much since the kids left for Italy, and I'm missing a lot, even though we talk as often as we can.

We never miss the chance to say "I love you," because after all the people we've lost, we know tomorrow isn't guaranteed. Amelia misses you. I do, too. Ryan didn't know you well enough to miss you, and I get sad when I think about that. You'd have been a marvelous great-Papa.

I had a bad moment last month, when I realized I was going to meet someone (or remeet someone, who knows?), someone who will be special to me, and you won't be around to shake his hand or welcome him to the family. That'll be on me, since the rest of us are so scattered about. It feels a little silly to be fifty years old and sad my dad won't be there to see me happily in a relationship, but I guess you'll see it from where you are. I'll miss the hugs, though, and the dry jokes you'd make that mostly only you and I get.

Vicky got married last month, which may be what made me start thinking about it, and I was the only kid not there. It didn't make sense, financially, to go to Seattle, but it was still a hard thing to miss my own sister's wedding. She'll have a reception/party later, but it won't be the same as being there on the day.

Anyway, things are plodding along. The depression's not too bad this year, even if I've had some really bad moments, and the year's almost over. January always feels better somehow, and I hope it does this time, too.

I hope you're happy and healthy where you are, where the cigars don't stink and the coffee doesn't raise blood pressure. I hope you're reading or writing or wrangling government contracts, whatever makes you feel good.

I'll see ya next time around, maybe. Or you'll visit my dreams. I love you.

Life in the Trenches. Or something.

A/N: This is not me passively-aggressively begging for money. This is me venting, hardcore.

I had a very bad day yesterday. I woke up mad at GuestDog, because she barked at the mail carrier and woke me up. Which she has done every single day she's been here, except Sunday. I love GuestDog, but I'm getting really cranky about the rude awakenings every day.

I found some decent clothes and went out and mowed the back lawn, then took a long shower. It wasn't what I wanted to do, which was break things or throw furniture, but it was something. The physical worked off some of my prickly energy, and the shower helped ground me some - scrubbing every inch of myself is pretty mindless, but also reminds me where the numb spots are, gives me something specific to think about. And I can listen to a playlist on my Kindle.

I may yet need some Angry Girl music tomorrow (as in Wednesday, because Tuesday hasn't ended for me, yet), but even if I do, I will already be better than today. Listening to Breakfast Club and Blast From the Past and Contact in the background while I did other things helped. A lot.

My depression is very "angry at myself" based. I'm angry at too many things, but not all the time. I get angriest when I get overwhelmed, when I feel like I'm failing, when everything just seems to be coming at once.

I had reached out to a local woman, asking her basically if I could pick her brain about business, since she owns one or two and is successful, and because of my miswired circadian rhythm, I fell asleep yesterday morning instead of staying up for her call. So being awakened by the dog barking at the mail carrier, me looking at my phone and realizing I'd slept through something important, something meant to help make this new direction in my life easier, was just that little bit too much.

Money is a thing for me. I grew up in a household where we never talked about money. That was Mom and Dad stuff, and none of our business. I knew we were poor, though things got easier by the time I got to high school, but I had no idea how my parents made ends meet, or if they didn't. I seriously wish my school had taught some kind of budgeting or living on your own for real class, because reality was a big surprise. I was one of those, "But I still have checks left, what the hell do you mean, I don't have money?" And I'm good with numbers. Gah.

Anyway, money's always a sore spot for me. Even if everything else in my life is going relatively well, not being able to take care of my own basic needs makes me feel like a huge failure. That is where I am - too many things coming down at once, with little income in the foreseeable future. Everything costs money that I need now, not in two months - my meds, food, a storage unit I'm desperate to get out of (we've even made room in the garage), bus rides, EVERYthing. And the bank decided my "extended" overdraft (all $30 of which is fees, which is completely asinine) was extended enough to close my account. So I'm in a really hurty "What kind of fifty-year-old woman can't take care of herself? How can you be such a failure?" place. My worst critic truly is myself.

Money failure always hurts more, pokes harder at my self-esteem, and sometimes, like yesterday, it makes me very angry. At myself. At my brain that refuses to go to sleep at anything approaching a reasonable hour, and equally refuses to awaken early enough for me to get anything done with requires leaving the house. If I want to leave the house, I have to simply stay up. Going to sleep isn't an option.

I honestly have no clue how I functioned all the years I was a single parent, except that it involved three or four hours of sleep a night and about five alarms in different places in the room. And out of the room, sometimes. And a kid who didn't get to school on time, sometimes.

Anyway, this one was especially dark because over the last week, I have come up with a fantastic idea for taking my editing to a new level, and it WILL change my life. I have absolutely zero doubt. I can feel it, deep inside my soul. The energy is changing. And I was am so excited about it.

And then, I get a day like yesterday, and it makes my usual depression feel like a stubbed toe.

I think of all the things I "have" to have money for, and it just seems hopeless. How do I go to my doctor appointment in two weeks, and pay a $5 copay, when I don't have the $5 to get on the bus to even get there? How do I send in my med mail order when I no longer have a bank account to give them the debit card number for? How do I find a way to pay for that storage unit, and for a way to get those belongings here, when I have neither the money for the storage place, or a vehicle with which to move the stuff? How do I buy the things I'm going to run out of tomorrow, which are part of my fairly strict diet, when I don't even have a frakkin' quarter to put in the buggy at Aldi, even if I had a way to get there.

I'm just so frustrated and angry and when my brain does this, it sucks the energy out of me and makes everything I do that much harder, that much more painful.

I think in my next life, I want to be a butterfly. I'd start out as a worm, hibernate, then get pretty for a few weeks, help flowers and trees have sex, and move on to whatever's after that. Yeah. Helping flowers and trees have sex. Sounds perfect.

Love Letter

Even though I consider myself a skilled word-user, I'm not entirely certain I can express just how much you mean to me. Hopefully, I can get some of it across without sounding like some crazed lunatic who believes we are destined to be together or some ridiculous crap. Ugh. It'll probably ramble a bit more than I'd like, but hopefully it'll make sense in the end.

There's a lot of backstory, which may or may not be interesting to you, but perhaps will help set the stage for why exactly you had such an impact on my life.

When you came into my life, in September of 2012, I was forty-seven. Alone. Sad. Searching for meaning.

I'd been a single mom for about fifteen years, and I'd taken my job seriously. I did everything I could conceive of to make my daughter's life a good one. I wanted her to grow up healthy and happy, someone I could be proud of, someone who could be proud of me, someone who would consider me a friend when the time came.

Though I didn't date, or have any other kind of "dating" relationships (read sexual, lol) during that time, it was more because I wanted to model healthy relationships for my daughter than for any other reason. I didn't go out of my way to find a romantic relationship - I considered finding a new partner pretty low on the priority list - and she had a life full of people who loved me and who loved her. Those were good relationships, ones I wanted her to learn from, to emulate.

My daughter and I had our hardships - money was always tight, I was lonely, I struggled constantly with depression, she was stubborn as hell, something she clearly got from my side of the family. We lost loved ones - a beloved dog, a special cat, a favorite cousin, my mother, and my daughter's best friend. That one was especially tough. Twelve year old girls shouldn't die.

I raised my daughter to think, to stand up for herself, to stand up for other people, to be independent. I also sometimes made things too easy. I went too far the wrong way to ensure she didn't have to suffer the same childhood issues I'd had, and she grew up more than a wee bit spoiled.

I was raised an Air Force brat, and I periodically get itchy feet, figuratively speaking. My solution when she was in school was to move from one apartment to another, always staying in the same school zone. I wanted her to have friends from kindergarten all the way through high school, something I'd never had. It didn't work quite the way I wanted, but it worked.

When she was still a teenager, we moved one more time. She'd just finished her freshman year of high school, gotten involved in dance, which she LOVED, had a gay boyfriend who was a marvelous dance partner and friend, and though she'd never loved school, that year was as close as she came to it. She didn't want to move. I didn't, either, this time, but there were mitigating circumstances.

Though we moved into a situation which was much better for us, that next year was the most difficult she and I had ever had - emotionally, behaviorally, financially - and I thought we weren't going to survive it intact, still loving each other. It was the first time I seriously considered giving up, believed I was a bad mom.

Though she hated the new school, and frankly, I did too, she slowly over the course of that year made friends. She got involved in drama, something she'd enjoyed in middle school, and while she was never truly happy that year, she got better. I got her into counseling again, an on and off thing since she was about four, and we worked at being honest with each other, communicating openly, being loving.

During her junior year, she met a boy. Actually, she'd met him during the prior year, but she'd had a mad crush on someone else, and this guy had only been a friend. That changed. He was charming and goofy and smart, loved my daughter, and was respectful to me, didn't ridicule my brand of weird. His life wasn't perfect, either, but he had a good family, a support system of friends, both peers and mentors, and he and my daughter became serious.

My daughter finally used her "sneak-out" rule - she could ask if she could go out after dark, and I could say no. If she felt like it was important enough to override me, she could, but only if she came and told me she was sneaking out of the house, so I could keep my phone on and come get her if I needed to, no questions asked. She didn't use it often, but she did use it.

She also had sex for the first time. I'd always told her that when it was right for her, she would know better than I would, and I only asked that she use condoms, and tell me when it happened, so that we could talk about it afterward if she wanted. She did wake me up one night, and I asked her if it had been enjoyable, and she said yes, and I said good and asked her if she wanted to talk about it and she said no, and I went back to sleep.

I don't know what kind of parent that makes me sound like, but our system worked for us. She knew there was absolutely NOTHING on Earth she couldn't talk to me about. Nothing was going to turn into judgement or a big screaming match.

Anyway, she and this young man continued to get more serious. He spent a lot of time at our house, and she spent a lot of time with his family, and they got pregnant. On purpose. And I have to tell you, I was livid. Not because she was too young to have a baby, which was true, but because she'd done this when I was already stretching our food stamps to feed one adult and two teenagers, because yes, I was feeding him too. I expressed my anger, and got it all out of the way, then I decided if I was going to be a gramma, I was going to buckle down and be happy about it. Carpe diem, because grandbabies!

My grandson is a wonderful boy - charming and supersmart and caring and strong and a handful and a half. I wouldn't trade him for anything. I absolutely adore babies of all kinds, but the love I have for him is something fiercer, deeper.

So, a year into their relationship, they had my grandson. My son-in-law's family were moving back to Florida from Texas, and he wanted to stay here in Texas for his senior year, after which he planned to go into the Air Force, to do something with his life, to provide for his new family, for many reasons. Mr. Potatohead (son-in-law) stayed behind, with one of his family's close friends, and due to financial circumstances beyond my control, we moved one more time.

Before Mr. Potatohead could enlist, he had to either sign away his parental rights or marry my daughter (AF rules). They got married. It was a beautiful day in a local park, and the story of how it happened is boring and entailed a lot of intense discussions with the man who provided it for them. Suffice it to say I did not get to plan any part of my only daughter's wedding, with the exception of her godmother walking her across the bridge aka down the aisle. I might still be a little miffed about that.

This time when we moved, my parents were footing the bill for a year. We moved into an apartment they chose, and we got the bare minimum - no cable, no phone, no extras of any kind. I even had to stop my meds because I could no longer pay for quarterly visits to the doctor. Things got really tight. But worse, Mr and Mrs Potatohead were separated by more than just a couple of miles of walking. It was difficult for all of us, but especially for them - being newly married and not able to live together and experience the pregnancy together sucked.

In the new school system, there was a separate special school for pregnant girls (and other high-dropout-risk kids), where they could work at their own pace and complete their education in a more relaxed environment. This was the first time my daughter actually surprised me in a good way. She finished her entire senior year by the end of October. This woman, my daughter who had always all but hated school, applied herself and managed to finish everything so that when she walked down the halls of that school with their every Friday graduation, in her purple cap and gown, she was accompanied by her newborn son, in his own purple cap and gown. It was an amazing moment for her, and I couldn't have been prouder if she'd been strolling the stage at MIT.

Mr Potatohead got through Basic Training. We went to his graduation at Lackland AFB. He finished Tech School and got his first duty station, in Italy. I didn't know the Air Force sent people OCONUS on their first duty station. Mr Potatohead went first, when Baby Potatohead was ten months old, and several months later, my daughter followed him to Italy, her first move as an Air Force wife.

Once Mr Potatohead had finished high school, he'd moved to our apartment, and after Baby Potatohead was born, he was there, too. So when they all left, I was alone, for the first time in nearly fifteen years, missing my daughter, missing my grandson, missing my son-in-love.

I had no idea what to do with myself. What I'd always considered my life's purpose, raising Mrs Potatohead to happy, healthy adulthood, was accomplished, and I was completely undone by the hole she'd left behind.

I have always struggled with severe depression, and that first year without my daughter left me lower than I could remember ever being. At the same time, I was dealing with packing up that apartment, finding a new place to live, reaching out to people when I could, and hibernating the rest of the time - I'm not good at asking for help. Things got bad; I knew they were bad, though I didn't really understand the extent of my emotional state until I was climbing out of it.

Fast forward (too late, I know) about two years, and I was watching Dollhouse, with Eliza Dushku and Tahmoh Penikett. I adored Tahmoh's character in Dollhouse and wanted more of whatever he'd been in. When I looked him up, there was Battlestar Galactica, and I had vague memories of more than one friend telling me I would enjoy it. I think I'd resisted because what I remembered of the original series was pretty campy and cheesy, and not really to my taste.

I watched it anyway, and before the mini-series was over, I was in love. Absolutely head over heels in love with Kara Thrace. I love Karl Agathon, too, don't get me wrong, but Kara Thrace is a once in a lifetime character, and I can never thank you enough for taking that part.

I was on a serious downward spiral, flailing about without the least notion why the hell I was still here on this planet, and not really caring much if I left, so when you came into my life, I was broken and hurting and aimless and lost.

Thanks to BSG, I got out of my head, cared about something so much I went to the internet to find other people who liked BSG, to find fanfiction, to commune with other BSG lovers. I started writing. I've never written fiction in my entire life, unless it was related to school, and had in fact always felt a little envious that everyone else in my family wrote, and my thing was polishing words instead of producing them. Suddenly I was writing stories, sad and funny and sexy and heartbreaking and wonderful stories. And not only were they helping me cope, people sometimes told me they'd needed that reminder at that precise moment. People liked my stories. My mind was blown.

I am never going to ask you to read any of my stuff (oh my fucking gods, no, Katee), though if you ever accidentally do, I hope you find a deep love and respect for Kara Thrace in it.

Like I said, I started writing. It was my shiny new boyfriend, and writing got me through another really rough year without my kid, and I was still alive at the other end. I met some fantastic women, made friends, learned I had something to offer others, something they needed, got better at writing, and in among all that, I finally figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. Took me long enough.

I'm an editor, aka a beta reader. I take people's words and make them better. I especially help writers whose first language isn't English to become more comfortable with their words. I seem to have created a niche for German writers. That's fandom, anyway.

I'm also an editor in real life - YA fiction, murder mysteries, LBGT works. I have a small but growing stable of writers who have trusted me with their work, and I'm slowly getting my name out there. I'm not with a big name publishing house. I'm the girl the indie authors can come to, the one they can afford. I LOVE my work, so much that if I could afford to do it for nothing, I truly would.

My first word-love is still writing, though, and Kara Thrace plays a huge part in that. Through her, I've explored birth and death and loss and depression and love and hate and so many other facets of human emotion. She's a fascinating and complex woman, and exploring her, I explore myself. Loving her, I love myself. All those ugly bits from my past found a mirror in Kara Thrace, and if she's lovable despite those "flaws," then so am I. Those old tapes have lost their power over me. I like myself, and that's something I haven't always been able to say.

Kara Thrace had a hard life, and she was one messed up woman, but no matter what, she never stopped loving. Sure, she hid behind sarcasm and cigars and sex and alcohol, but she loved, deeply, even if she pretended she didn't.

I've heard you say in interviews that if you played Kara now, you probably wouldn't be so fearless, that you were young and didn't know any better.

All I can say is, thank you for being fearless, for going ninety to nothing, for putting so much work into Kara Thrace. Because the bottom line is, Kara Thrace saved my life. You saved my life. And I am so fucking grateful for it.

I fell in love with Kara Thrace. And through Kara, I fell in love with you.

Even if you never impacted anyone else's life (which isn't true, anyway), you crashed into mine and pulled me out of some dark place that had almost succeeded in swallowing me whole. I can't truly put into words what you did for me.

But you weren't done.

Last year, my dad and his wife split up. They'd been married nearly forty-two years, since I was eight. They were doing the divorce dance of dividing assets and selling houses and keeping lawyers in expensive cars. My dad and I had been estranged, but he called me, invited me to meet him for lunch, and we had a good talk. He talked about how things had been for him, about falling in love with someone new, about the hold my stepmother had had on all our lives, and we continued to get close again.

He asked me to be his emergency contact at his apartment, asked me to manage the movers, asked me to come take care of him after he had his eye surgery, asked me to be his next-of-kin for medical stuff. We connected again, and had some quality clear-the-air conversations, learned new and surprising things about each other.

Then he started having heart attacks. I was cadging rides in the middle of the night to get to a hospital forty minutes away, terrified every time that he'd die before I could get there, and spending weeks at a time at his place to take care of him when he got out, and even though it was scary as hell, we kept talking. We kept saying the words. We made sure we didn't waste a moment on impatience or negativity.

His final heart attack was on August fifth, a year ago, when he was seventy-two, and though I miss him desperately, I'm beyond thrilled that I got seven fantastic months with him before he went.

Kara Thrace stayed in my head, helping me heal by sharing her many lives with me, and Victoria Moretti showed up, and reminded me family appears in the strangest places, and through those two magnificent women, you helped me through the loss of someone I had just found again, and gave me strength not to break this time.

I have absolutely adored watching you over the last three years. Battlestar Galactica, Longmire, Oculus, even The Last Sentinel (which we will mostly pretend never happened), Haunting in Connecticut, Riddick, cons and interviews and Ask Katee and motorcycle rides with Tricia. Your zest for life, and your unflinchingly raunchy sense of humor, and the obvious love you shower on your friends and family, both two- and four-legged, are not just encouraging, they're life-affirming.

I won't say never change, because hell, we all change. But keep being you, Katee, keep being the woman who makes lives better without really thinking about it. Keep. Being. You. Keep loving hard and living out loud and making the world a better place with your sparkle and shine and your infectious laugh (I LOVE your laugh).

And know, deep inside, there is at least one person on this planet, someone you've never met, who is grateful beyond words for all of who you are, one person who would pick up the phone, day or night, if you ever needed a listening ear yourself. One person who might be the reason you got out of swimming and into acting. The universe works in mysterious ways, right?

Because of my dad falling in love in his sixties, I know that fifty is not too late to find the kind of love I've wanted all of my life.

Because of Victoria Moretti, I'm open to possibilities. My image of who might be out there for me is much more flexible now.

Because of Kara Thrace, I'm ready to fall in love again. Really ready.

Because of you, I have friends I would never have met any other way than through fandom, women who helped keep me afloat during those long months at the hospital and the agonizing weeks after my dad's death.

I don't know what's in store for my next fifty years, but I'm ready for whatever it is, and I have you to thank for it.

I love you.

Thank you.

General State of the GrammaGirl

I've been struggling a bit since Dad died. I'm struggling more with a lack of social interaction than directly from grief, which is a little odd. I'm not usually the most social person, but I'm finding more and more I need SOME in-person friendsy stuff to keep me on a more even keel.

I really miss Mrs. Potatohead and Baby Potatohead. Florida's not as far as Italy, but it's still pretty far from Dallas.

The antidepressant is helping, but it's not enough. I'm functioning, but not functioning well. I'm glad I have that little bit, though. It's definitely better than the years I did without any kind of meds at all. I can feel it making a difference, just not enough of a difference. :/

Ten days ago was Dad's birthday, and coincidentally nine months since his death.

I slept through the day. Like nearly forty-eight hours' worth of sleep. I did that again this week. Went to sleep Monday, woke up Wednesday. I'm not sure what that's about, and I'm not thrilled with it. I'm just glad I have the freedom to let my body do its thing.

My editing work is on a bit of a hiatus, as one author has not finished his fourth book yet, and another one is taking her time going through my revisions on book seven. What this amounts to is not having ANY income in February, March, or April, nor thus far in May. That's eating away at my already trying-to-get-blood-from-a-stone budget. I had to ask friends for help last week so I could buy groceries. That wasn't fun - it's not in my nature to be comfortable asking for help, but I'm going to have to get over myself sometime, right? Maybe that's what the universe is waiting for - me to get over myself.

I had another author lined up for December, and that would have been good, but she misunderstood my contract terms and chose to retain her current editor. Life happens. I hope that she'll reconsider in the future, now that I've clarified my contract with her.

I definitely need more editing work, though, so if you know someone who's writing a book, or a paper, or anything with which he or she might need assistance, please let me know. I'm a good editor, and I want to make a living, and my prices are flexible because I work for myself.

For that matter, I can also do transcription, or any number of other things, as long as I can do them from home. I don't travel much to client locations, but I will here in greater DFW.

I'm not getting much writing done lately, either, which is also exacerbating the depression. I use the writing as a coping mechanism, and when I can't write, it just makes things worse. Catch-22.  However, I'm on a bit of a reading kick - finding books at the library which have long been on my wishlist, and I've been reading a LOT. My To Be Read pile never gets any smaller, that's for sure.

Anyway, that's the current State of the Gramma: keeping on keeping on. The Taurus in me plods along well. I'm stubborn for sure.

Depression as a way of life.

Apologies for the extremely long period of radio silence. Dad's death was hard and I just haven't wanted to deal with writing a post, not that I'm usually a post-every-day girl anyway.

Link to article with more information.

==========

I'm sharing this as more of a PSA or even a glimpse into my soul rather than any grab for pity or whatever. My depression is something I live with, always have. I cannot remember ever having a period of happiness that lasted more than a few weeks, though from pictures, I was brilliantly happy for the first four or five years. My baseline is below normal, and it's both the way my brain is wired, and long-term effects of a childhood gone way wrong. But my ultimate takeaway is this: I'm still alive. I survived my childhood and if I can survive that, I can survive anything life throws at me. It's gotten harder the last few years, I'll admit that, and suicidal ideation comes up more frequently, but it's not gonna get me. I may not be kicking depression's ass, but it's not kicking mine, either.

I've had to make adjustments to how I live my life. Things that are easy for other people aren't for me. I will gladly spend hours walking through IKEA with someone I love, but I'll pay for it later, and that's a choice I make. These are things I deal with on a daily basis, exacerbated by chronic pain from a body that started to break down in my twenties.

Some of these have been worse than usual since my dad died. The grief hit me much harder than I expected it to, and is compounded by the fact that we'd reconciled some old hurts and were getting to know each other again after half a lifetime of semi-estrangement. Seven months with my dad wasn't nearly enough, but I'm so very glad I had them.

The two glaring exceptions for me are guilt and sensitivity.

I carried around guilt for something big for a long time, but during counseling about eight years ago, the therapist worded his response to my confession in such a way that I was finally able to see, clearly, that what happened to me was NOT my fault. It was like magic! It made an enormous difference in my life. I mean sure, I sometimes wonder if I could have handled any number of things differently, but letting go of the guilt for that thing helped me let go of the guilt for so much more. I'm not ashamed of who I am anymore. I still hold people off, and I'm hard to get to know, but I'm me and I'm cool with that.

I'm not as thin-skinned as I used to be, either. Maybe it's age, maybe it's becoming comfortable in my own skin. Who knows? But I don't care what people think about me anymore. It's none of my business. So when people are intentionally or accidentally hurtful, I no longer take it personally. There are exceptions, of course. Nobody's perfect, for frak's sake, but I tend to respond now, if I respond at all, with a simple, "Thank you." It freaks people the frak out, and is such a state-interruptor they have to think about what they just said, and sometimes, it makes a difference for that person. Do I value people's opinions? Yes. I can use even hurtful words to examine myself and make changes if necessary. But I don't live my life in fear that someone doesn't like me.

Hopelessness comes and goes. Sometimes, things seem absolutely bleak and I can't see a way out, but I still hope, and I keep going, and eventually, things get better enough.

Am I Pollyanna? Not in a million years. Am I happy? Not very often. But I'm alive, and every day above ground is a good day.

==========

Indifference: Things that used to matter or were once felt to be important fade into the background. You lose enthusiasm and interest.

Energy Loss: It's very common to feel you've done a full day of heavy labor when in fact the day hasn't even begun. Energy loss and fatigue are common symptoms of depression.

Enjoyment bypass: For some reason things don't smell or taste as good as they once used to. Your senses lose their edge and the pleasures once enjoyed diminish.

Guilt: The most human of errors are judged disproportionately. Minor mistakes or indiscretions, even distant memories, may be thought of with shame or guilt.

Tears or Torpor: Some people with depression feel great despondency and sadness and cry a great deal. Others go emotionally flat. They feel flat and hollow inside as though their emotions have been drained.

Aches and Pains: There is often an increase in physical symptoms when people become depressed. They may complain of back pain, headaches or stomach upsets or just a vague sense of feeling generally unwell.

Hopelessness: When people are depressed the world and their future in it seems an altogether bleak prospect. There's often a sense that no matter what you say or do nothing will ever change except perhaps for the worse.

Anxiety: When depression strikes it is invariably accompanied by worry and anxiety and, not uncommonly, one or more stressful experiences is the culprit. The way we respond and adapt to stressful situations can have an important bearing on our vulnerability to depression.

Moodiness: Irritability and general moodiness are common ingredients in the depression mix. You may find yourself becoming impatient, tetchy, argumentative and intolerant.

Sensitivity: People with depression are on high alert for anything that fuels their vulnerabilities. Implied or direct criticism or rejection aren't received well and reinforce a state of worthlessness and hopelessness.

==========

If reading this resonates strongly for anybody, remember one thing. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

Yeah, sometimes families suck, too.

My little sister asked me a couple of weeks ago to pick her up at the airport tomorrow - she's coming into town early to spend a couple of days with our parents because she has to work over christmas.  I agreed to pick her up, knowing that I would have to figure out the gas situation and such.

Last week, my stepmother called me to find out if I *needed* my gift/check early.  I declined.  She said she hoped it didn't bother me that she'd called.  She also mentioned my sister.  So I texted my sister to ask if I was still going to pick her up at the airport.  She never texted me back, but messaged me on FB a couple of days later to say that mom & dad were picking her up, to save me the trip.

How kind of them.  And they probably think they're being nice, too.  Except that I haven't seen my sister in two years (oh, wait, I did see her for about ten minutes last year when she dropped off my "christmas presents" on her way back out of town), and I was looking forward to having thirty or forty-five minutes with her in the car on the way to our parents' house.  Now I won't get to see her at all.

And I'm feeling angry and resentful about it.  And sad.

All I can do is remind myself that I'm different. I'm not that kind of parent.

There is nothing, not one single solitary thing I can imagine, that my kid could ever do that would make me shun her.  Nothing.  I might not like her behavior, and I won't hesitate to tell her so, but I won't turn my back on her, ever.  It's definitely one of the things I learned about parenting from my own parents, and resolved never to do.

Those of you who have loving families, however dysfunctional or weird, cherish them.  Some of us aren't so lucky.

Whatever....Debbie Downer edition

Been a while. I keep meaning to update, writing the posts in my head, then never actual typing them up. :shrugs:

I'm feeling disconnected - from just about everything. Some of it is the season. I am definitely seasonally affected, and it seems like it gets worse every year. Last year was the first time I had to dig deep into reserves I don't have any more to keep from giving up - and I was discovering writing last year. This year, it's only October. How the hell am I supposed to get through the rest of the year?

My mom's been dead eleven years next month, and last night, I had the first dream I can remember about her. In my dream, she was tall and straight and strong, hair flaming red falling in waves past her shoulders. Happy. Much as she was before she made the conscious or unconscious decision to drink herself to death. What was weird about this dream, though, is that when someone told me they'd seen her, I dismissed it. "No, mom's dead. She died a long time ago." Then I caught sight of her, standing half a football field away in a crowded parking lot, and I was terrified. I ran. Then the dream switched scenes, as dreams do, and I was sitting in front of her, and she was saying, "Yes, it's me," all nonchalant like I see my dead mother back to life and beautiful every day. By the end of the dream, I was deeply resentful of her, and I don't even know why.

There was a con here in Dallas recently, where both Katee Sackhoff and Jamie Bamber appeared. I would have pushed past my crowd-shyness to see the two of them. Hell, I would have worked the thing to see them. I desperately wanted to go, but money was, as always, an issue, and I wasn't able to go.

I did get to spend the weekend with my smut-writing/TV friend instead, but things are different with her new relationship. Do I begrudge her the happiness? A thousand times NO. Do I still wish she had time for me that wasn't divided twenty different ways? Of course. We didn't even get any writing done, and not a whole lot of TV, for that matter. I came back to the house feeling exhausted rather than renewed for the first time ever.

My thirty-year high school reunion is later this month, and I won't be able to go. No way to get there, and no place to stay if I did manage to get there. My car's inspection and registration are both expired, and to pass inspection would take money I don't have or a deeply dishonest inspection station. Without the inspection, no registration. Those new state databases tell the state when your car's not inspected, and they won't give you a registration sticker any more - well, Texas won't. Not that I have the money to pay for it anyway. :sigh:

Thanksgiving's next month. I'd gotten used to going to my friend's house, spending the holiday with her, hosting Airmen for their first real break from Basic Training in weeks, and last year because her husband was home from Iraq, I didn't get to go. Not even sure why. He likes me fine - we get along well most of the time. I haven't even bothered to ask this year, because I when I texted & emailed her about reunion weekend, she never answered, and he's home for good. He's not retired, but for medical reasons, he won't be going back to the middle east.

So, whatever. I'm having a pity party, I guess. I miss my kid. I miss my grandson. I miss San Antonio. I miss my entire family, who aren't speaking to me for their own reasons. And yeah. I miss my mom.

My writing is frakked. Mostly I haven't been able to write, and when I do finish something, I'm not satisfied with it. It's been three weeks, and that, probably more than anything else, is getting me down. The thing I've used to cope for the last year is failing me, and frankly, considering where I am emotionally, that scares me.

On the other hand, things that make me smile:

The other gramma was in Italy to visit the kids, and this was Baby Potatohead getting tired of gramma taking pictures of him. Love the attitude.

Twenty Years Ago

Twenty years ago today, on a Friday night, I was as big as a house, and my father-in-law reminded me of that fact frequently.  It was all in fun on his end, but I hated it every single time he said that out loud.

OK.  I wasn't as big as a house, but I FELT that way.

Mrs. Potatohead was due today, and what did I choose to do?  I went camping.  Uh-huh.  It was the annual Celebration of Summer that my mom put on, and even due any damn minute, I went camping.  In the summer.  In Texas.

I think my mother made sure every pagan medical professional she knew would be on hand just in case I went into labor - we had record attendance that year.  Luckily Mrs Potatohead didn't make her appearance until Tuesday morning, after over twenty-four hours of labor.  But my mom made sure that if her grandchild was going to arrive out at Lake Tawakoni, she was going to arrive in style.

So I camped, and nearly everyone waited on me hand and foot, and I judged a Sun King competition, and my husband ran around the whole place naked as a jaybird and got sunburned in some interesting places.  I have to admit that remembering that gives me warm fuzzies.  He deserved it later.

Random cuteness overload

Hugz!!

He doesn't pout as well as his mother.  lol

Snapple wanted people *drinking* their tea, not eating their bottle caps.  

Whatever he's got planned, it bodes ill for someone.  :D

Thus endeth your cuteness quotient for the day, courtesy of my favorite grandson.

Merry Christmas!

(original post on livejournal 12/25/2012)
Made it to my parents' house about three, which was my ETA, so yay for that.  Took about an hour, driving in the falling snow, but mostly just careful driving, not problems.  There is much construction, so getting to the right street coming from the east was a tiny bit of fun. 

My stepmother was very nice (which actually makes me uncomfortable) during my whole visit, probably because several members of the extended family were there.   It was weird but good to see my dad.  He looks healthy, which is on the good side, for sure.  I think I might've gotten two minutes of conversation out of him over several hours, so, weird there.

In a concession to others who would likely think I'd lost my mind, I wore sleeves and socks, and brought a jacket.  I was actually too warm in the house, and sought out the cold spots several times, so I could cool off.  I even went outside once and stood on the front porch.  When I was leaving, my sister tried to help me into my jacket, and it was comical to watch her face as I declined, because it would make me too hot.

Food was fantastic, quite as expected, and we girls set the table like a well-oiled machine.  We've had lots of practice.  Because there were eight people, we used the sideboard as a buffet, and only had eating dishes and gravy on the actual table.  Talk was desultory, with recipes and lottery scratch-offs and dogs and cats and work/school as topics of the evening.  Met cousin's husband, and he seems like a really good guy.  He's weird enough to fit right in with the family, and he obviously adores my cousin, so he's a keeper.

I got an unexpected gift from my parents (from stepmother, actually, but she always puts both names on them).  Anyway, it's a gorgeous moonstone pendant, and she insisted I wear it today.  Makes me wonder if it's been cursed or something.  lol  She talked about amethysts and insomnia, because she said she wasn't sure if she should invite me, not knowing what kind of schedule I keep.  I told her my sleep doesn't really let me keep a schedule, because I just never know when or if I'll sleep, or for how long.  Anyway, on to the amethysts, and then later in the conversation, I said that I thought my brain was just fucked up.  She agreed, and that was the meanest thing she said during my visit, and it wasn't even mean.  Anyway.

Stepmother had told me to pack a bag in case the weather got iffy, and she mentioned it again when I got there, but I reminded her I'd lived in Misery for five years, and had delivered pizzas in worse weather than this, so I would be fine to drive home.  Driving home was quite the adventure, though.  Just getting to the actual freeway took nearly ten minutes, because the freeway entrances are not marked until *right there* and so I missed more than one.  I left Bedford about 6:30, and by that time the sun was down and the roads were starting to cool off, so I drove home even more carefully than I'd driven over, and there were LOTS of idiots, both driving too fast and driving too slowly.  People had caromed off into the shoulder, one into a culvert, just sitting there with his lights on, about half a dozen accidents big enough to require professional assistance.  Luckily, because I've driven in Missouri winters, this was nothing, and I made it home just fine.  Took me an hour and fifteen, but I'd rather take my time and be safe than be impatient and end up a statistic.  Had one close call where the guy in front of me slowed down just as we reached a bridge, and I couldn't brake, because the bridge WAS iced over.  I had to change lanes and pray, but it worked beautifully and all was good for the rest of the trip.  The closer I got to Dallas, the less the streets were messed up, though by the time I hit my neighborhood, cars and buildings were covered with snow that had stuck.

Found out one of the cats, my favorite, had died a couple of months ago.  I asked about her after dinner, and my uncle told me that she'd died.  Thank goodness I was talking to him and not asking my stepmother.  She gets very attached to her animals, and that would have been a faux pas, for sure.  Wish someone had told me when it happened, though.

I'm glad to be back in my own little room - trying to determine if I should actually attempt to accomplish something, or just veg for the evening until I fall asleep.  At the moment, I'm voting for anything that takes me closer to sleeping, so things are unlikely to be accomplished. 

Happy Day!

(original post on livejournal 12/18/2012)
Well, you know, as happy as it gets in December.

The roast I put in the crockpot at 0530 is the best roast I ever made.  From now on, I will always make my roast from a brisket cut!  Plus, it was spiced just right, and the juice was just exactly the right thickness that it was good gravy without me actually having to make gravy.  I had to write down how I made it so I can do it again and again and again.

While I was enthusing over my fantastic roast, the mail came, and my BSG Season 3 from swapadvd was delivered!  I inspected the discs, and two might have to be taken somewhere to be run through whatever it is that smooths out the rough edges (so to speak), but the remaining six discs are pristine.  So I am now the proud owner through the end of season three, with only three questionable discs.  I'm in line for the two parts of season four, but I'm kind way down the list.  I did transfer enough credits from paperbackswap so I can get them, so it's just a matter of waiting now.

I have started using Dr Bronner's liquid soap in the shower (Hemp Almond) and it's making my skin smooth.  I like that.  And though it's kind of a strange thing to be happy about, I hardly even have to dry off after my shower.  Also, my dry skin itchies, which used to be pretty severe in the winter, have hardly made an appearance at all.

I feel asleep smiling last night because I happened to fall asleep during a particularly enjoyable John McClane moment during Die Hard 4.  Yes, I love John McClane and I don't care who frakkin' knows.  lol  I am so anxiously anticipating #5 in February.  I conned a friend of mine into seeing it with me for my birthday.  I figured it I asked now, she couldn't say there was anything else on her calendar.  :D

It is too bad that I don't know anybody who needs gifts wrapped.  The only part of the season I really enjoy is wrapping gifts.  Speaking of the season, I got an email from my stepmother, telling me that a cousin and her husband were coming in to town to visit her mom (my step-maternal aunt), and that I was welcome to come over for dinner.  That it would be good to see me.  My first thought was that she only thought it would be good to see me because it's been two years since she set eyes on me and maybe she just forgot that she doesn't really like me.  I am still debating whether or not I can handle all the negative snark aimed my way, or if I should just decline graciously.  It would be good to see my dad and my sister, and my aunt, uncle and cousin, for that matter.  I guess I should just suck it up and go, but gods I hate listening to her putting me down. 

ETA:  I did go to my parents' house for xmas dinner, and everybody except my parents were polite and interacted with me as if I were a person and everything.  My dad said about five words to me, including hello and goodbye, and my stepmother talked to me, was even nice, but avoided me as much as possible.  It was great to see my aunt, uncle, cousin and to meet cousin's hubby.  He's adorable!  And so smitten!