Hi Darling Ones,
The first of the month is known by two things around these parts. I consider it Filter Day and Los Gatitos consider it Friend Liberation Day.
It’s Filter Day because it’s the day I change all the filters, and by that I mean two of them. The furnace’s air filter and the coffee maker’s charcoal filter that does something, I think. On certain months there are four filters to change, the one for the water in the fridge and the one for the air purifier. I live a very filtered life.
Changing the furnace filter makes me feel like the most excellent and responsible homeowner. I change it very month because the furance repair guy I thought was gonna sexually harass me after the repair told me to. “Buy the cheapest filter you can fine and change it every month,” he said.
I thought he was gonna sexually harass me because after he made the repair and as he was repairing my bill he said, “Look, because I like you and you’re funny, how about. . .”
And then he said if I wrote a check out to him he’d charge me for the part at cost, saving me $400. At that point I wanted to sexually harass him (kidding, sheesh).
For the record, I HATE HATE HATE having to let repair men into my house. It gives me high anxiety. Appraisers, plumbers, delivery men, etc. I even got into it once with ol’ Shovelly Joe, my former neighbor, because he wanted to check my water heater to see it it was leaking and I wouldn’t let him in.
While the chance of me being raped and/or murdered by the guy delivering an appliance or fixing my toilet is slim, it’s not zero.
Anyway, I don’t mind changing filters, even post-stroke. What I do hate is changing the calendar on the kitchen wall. It’s the seemingly easy task that hits all my stroke issues all at once.
- Standing
- Standing while raising my hands above my shoulder
- Trying to use my floppy scoop to get that small nail through a little hole
It’s a scary, nightmare. Last month I had to dramatically grab my walker as I stumbled a bit because it took me so long to get that nail in the hole. Yeah, I could have my mom or sister do it for me, but I get “asking for help fatigue.” Plus, I like to live dangerously.
Los Gatitos, which is what I call Wendell, Fergus, and Mortimer, like the first of the month because I open the utility coset door to change the air filter and thus free all their friends they shoved under the door. It’s a combination random garbage (bottle caps, a clove of garlic, a pistachio shell) and their actual toys (small pompoms, pipe cleaners, teeny mice). It takes about two days until all that crap is back under the door.
Well, Darling Ones, my goal for April is to write more because it’s good for me and makes me feel better. Since my tremor has come back with a vengeance, I’ve been down in the dumps. Downer and dumpier, I mean. I’ve been pretty down in it since BFK cut me out of her life, the tremor just makes it worse.
Now that the tremor has struck my head and upper body, I call it The Wiggles. When I focus on it, I can do a really good hob of controlling it. But when I’m not paying attention, my head wiggles on my neck. I’m literally a bobble head.
My theory is that this is why walking has gotten so much more difficult. My brain is so busy trying to control The Wiggles while simultaneously convinced I’m plummeting to the ground and mustering up the energy needed to lift my right foot that feels like it weighs 88 pounds that walking is a lot for it to handle. Poor damaged brain.
Love,
Jodi