Three Days To Go!

I am a freaking blog-a-saurus rex!  Not really.

Actually, I'm just a human sitting on the couch (this is my favorite cushy, typing zone) and wishing that instead of writing a blog, that my husband was home.  This, you see, is day 7.  I don't have a cutsey count-down system to tell you all about.  I just have the honest truth -- that hubby is gone on field training exercises for 10 days, and that I am not a huge fan of his absence.  Why didn't I mention it sooner?  Uh, did you read the "not a huge fan," part?  OK, all sass aside, the reasons are twofold:

1. I'm mildly irrationally paranoid that had I revealed this secret sooner, I'd be murdered as a result of posting it on the interweb (or my mother would be afraid of that, and send an Alaska State Trooper to my door), and
2. I wanted to see how I would fare through the experience before blogging about it at the onset with nothing to say.  Here's what I have so far:

I had good days, and bad days.  Shocking, right?  Sorry to disappoint.  Read on, perhaps you won't be so miffed by my mediocrity.

As far as I can figure, two full days kind of didn't count.  Why?  Because every 6-18 months, my jaw likes to throw a fit and semi unhinge itself and swell up to irk me.  So, I have low dose muscle relaxers that I'm supposed to take at night when my jaw has said tantrums, and this speeds the recovery process.  However, if I don't pop one of the pills by 7:30-8:00pm (my bedtime circa 1995), I'm in for a real treat the next day.  Let's just say that two of the days, I didn't opt to relive my childhood glory days of bedtimes, and went with something between 10:00-11:00pm for the relief.  UTTERLY and COMPLETELY one of the STUPIDEST decisions I've ever made in my life. I'll explain the general flow of things when I take the dose past my two-decades-old bedtime.

I sleep for a solid eight hours.  Before the angry mob of insomniacs with bloodshot eyes lynch me by beating me to death with their useless pillows, hear me out.  I knock out for a solid eight hours, yes.  However, I then wake up, feeling like a 100 lb bag of cement-congealed-death has been sitting on my chest and lungs for those eight hours.  The best is yet to come.  My brain works s...l...w...o...l... crap.  Let's try that again.  My brain works s...l...o...w...l...y.  Very slowly.  But, I don't truly notice it until a day or two later.  So, I get up, and put on my clothes for the day.  This seems like an excellent decision, excepting that halfway through, I notice that I neglected to remove pajamas before applying the new clothes, and this realization deeply depresses me.

(I do my eyeliner that well, too.)

From 6:00am - 12:00pm, I look normal-ish, but my capacity to function shifts between a drunken Dr. Frankenstein contemplating what he did in creating such a monster, and the Monster created, as he asks atrophied muscles to play nicely with crusty ligaments holding mismatched marrowbones together.

I generally slog through the morning hours in a normal manner, excepting that I am 97% certain that I am, in fact, wading through ballistic grade gelatin that has cleverly disguised itself as refreshing, Alaskan fresh air.  I may or may not mentally and physically check out for another two hours in the form of a coma nap.




 I'll wake up and experience only a 50 lb bag of cement sand has coagulated on my chest this time, and decide that I'm seemingly depressed and have been useless.  This is a good sign, as my brain is now functioning at a quicker pace, and I can now internally berate myself.  Progress, ahoy, Frankie!!

"I feel smarter and faster!"

So, why did I do it to myself twice, you may ask?  Because after the first day, I was so disappointed in my pathetic inability to deal with hubby being gone, I figured it was an emotional response entirely, and being that my brain was working as quickly as an albino snail in a snowstorm, I didn't even realize it was mostly a drug induced lethargy until I was staring at the evil bottle of relief again, contemplating night number two of eight-hour-coagulated-cement-lung-ever-so-restful slumber.  I slept with the aid of no muscle relaxer that night, and had a perfectly productive day that followed!  Joy!   Except for the jaw issue, which reared it's ugly head (ha, it's in my head, get it?) and kind of forced me to take one more pill, and sign on for the 16 hours of Lizzy-is-Laggy time ahead of me.

So, those are the 48 hours that I consider sad and lost, and I blame 94% of it squarely on those evil two milligrams of jaw-fixer-upper. Now, let's discuss the other five days.

In light of the fact that I live in a town in which I don't particularly know anyone, and the nearest big city is a 7 hour drive away, I find that my daily options are a bit different than my former residences.  Thanks to a wonderful SoCal friend who stashed away a close pal on the outskirts of Fairbanks, I had the semblance of a connection -- a friend of a friend, sort of thing.  We both figured that if we both shared decent enough taste to think highly of SoCal friend, we just might put up with each other well enough.  So, Fairbanks Outskirts Pal and I corresponded via texts and Facebook, and I ended up going to the 50th birthday BBQ of her mother!  I literally knew nobody there, and hadn't a clue how to find the address at which the party was held (thank God for Google maps!).  So, I baked some snickerdoodles, loaded them on a plate, plastic-wrapped them within an inch of their lives, and hopped in my little speed racer.

"Alaska's speed limit is 45mph?!"

Snickerdoodles were devoured, BBQ'd delights were savored, and I found that a hearty welcome.  They were genuinely kind people, and I was thoroughly thankful.  That nice Saturday evening was preceded by a Skype session with best friend, which is always a salve.

Another day was a signing lunch -- a BYOBB (Bring your own Brown Bag) lunch at a local place, where Deaf, terps, and signers of all levels get together and hang out, shooting the breeze while enjoying each other's company.  Sunday morning was visiting another new church, which, to my surprise, had the service interpreted!  I made my way to the front left (the designated Deaf section, it seems), and introduced myself to the people there.  Two of the gave me their phone numbers and said they'd love to get together for lunch sometime -- and one of them is a SoCal native who recognized me from SoCal Deaf events -- small world, huh?  But, I digress...

Fairbanks DMV

Two other days were spent mostly between the house (cleaning and job applications), Social Security office, and the oft dreaded DMV.

I'll not bore you with those details, but I will say that the Fairbanks DMV is surprisingly open and convenient, even if I chose the day with the longest wait time ever.

 It's still a slice of pie in comparison with California DMVs, where you're waiting outside the building before Starbucks is serving coffee.

CA DMV

Smile!

At the Fairbanks DMV, there's even a Mickey Mouse sticker next to the lens, so you know where to look and smile for the mugshot. Seriously.

I'm too tired to see how many days I've accounted for, so if any are missing, just assume I was a useless lump on a log.  Or, orrrrrr you can assume that I live in "the land of the midnight sun," my hubby's gone for 10 days, and without your typical full time, Monday - Friday, 9-5 job, this is roughly how every week looks to me:

alkdjfaeoftheyallfeelthesamealkdjfaeof

And with that, I bid you a good day.

(Feel free to take your pick).

Recalcitrant

August 14, 2013

I am a bit cranky today.  No, not just cranky.  This is a feeling much deeper than regular, run of the mill cranky.  A massive step past cranky, in fact!

I am recalcitrant!

Ah, yes, beyond normal childish pouty-lip, and hurling headlong, directly into rebellious and defiant!  I am utterly unwilling to submit to any disappointment aside from the one I was subjected to already (details below)!  Thankfully, no poor, unfortunate soul (in human form) lingered in my path long enough to endure my wrath while this mood has been abounding; I'm sure I would have become belligerent.

As I parked in the pothole laden lot of what I believe is one of the only surviving Blockbuster Video stores still on planet Earth, I vaguely recalled a pre-millennial memory from my childhood.  It was of a spiked-hair and braces sporting teen-aged employee of the seemingly prehistoric era of Blockbusters that rented out both VHS and, just before extinction, the newfangled "DVDs."  This flashback took me to a bygone era of pop-corn scented air, and walls of potential joy, just waiting to be checked out for the night.  It was the only way to bring the cinemas into one's home, and made the trek itself, an exhilarating experience!

  And now, the prolific remnants of such a pinnacle of my childhood memories was resuscitated for a fleeting moment, before being exposed as the bitter disappointment of it's current stagnant state.  I'd rather it have been beautifully mummified, as it was in my mind: extinct, but beautiful in it's timeless, untouchable, unmarred state, existing only in the museum of my memories...

NOPE.  No such luck.  Instead, like a junkie's high, my memories then were smashed to pieces in reality, as I beheld the desperate remains of the movie rental store -- unlike a junkie, I didn't want another hit, though.  I just wanted my memories to be untarnished. Can't we just enjoy internet streaming of movies, without degrading the museum-encased days of old?


Now, understand that while I wanted to explode in laughter when I watched Hubby hand over the laminated (yes, laminated) slip of paper that was his membership card to the Blockbuster, it was the same place that less than a week later would be repugnant to me.  Why the sudden shift?  From amused to affronted, what caused the change?  My perspective.  It's as simple as that.


And, that's really the way it is some days.  There are ups, and there are downs.  Like a wave, in order to have the crests, you sometimes will be dragged through the troughs, as well.  Sure, the frequency and amplitudes may vary, and sometimes the wavelengths are so long, it seems life has settled into a casual and consistent wave; but, any force exerted will change the wave, even if only your own perspective.

Is that my way of saying that in the mediocre moments of life, answer is always a big smile, and dramatic mind-over-matter shift?  Not always.  Not even often.  Sometimes, the trough is where I need to be, and the best and quickest way back to the crest, is to ride out the trough, and let it naturally deposit me back at the peak.  Even if the crest coming at me can seem like a looming disaster, I know that once it washes over me, I can rest comfortably atop.

Pardon my soliloquy.  I'll get off my soapbox now, and try to go rid myself of crankiness.  For every spoonful of ice cream that you eat, one spoonful of crankiness leaves your body.   Or, perhaps the ratio is 2:1.  Yeah, two spoonfuls ice cream to one spoonful of cranky. Excellent... Well, off I go!

 Just a spoonful of ice cream helps the crankiness go down, the crankiness go down, the crankiness go down... in the most deliiiiiightful way! 

Let me explain...

I thought about publishing two sentences as my first blog entry, in order to do a "test run," and make sure I don't make a fool of myself right off the bat.  But, that would be a drastic misrepresentation of my true self, so here you have it:

I'm a mid-twenties, Southern California born and raised, sunshine-loving newlywed, who's just been transplanted to balmy (ha!) Fairbanks, Alaska on account of marrying a military man. 

 Additionally, I add to my list of new accomplishments on a daily basis!  This morning's episode of exultation is going on the resume, for sure:

Before 8:00am this morning, I successfully took most of a shower ...

This enjoyable 66% of a shower occurred before the earth-shattering, heart-stopping, piercing screams of the smoke detector had the audacity to force me to leave my steamy, glorious cocoon of warmth (the shower, of course).  Now, seeing as I've only lived in this house a couple of weeks, for all I knew, I really did set the highly flammable log cabin ablaze through my amazing powers of potential-ineptness.

Of course, I did not spring forth from the shower (A.K.A. glorious cocoon of warmth) and frantically run in the nude through my window-laden-yet-curtain-lacking homestead like an excited bloodhound-sniffing every nook and cranny which I deemed devilish enough to produce potential combustion! Where areeee you, raging fireball of doom? I will sniff you out!

.

"Elementary, my dear flames, for you emit smoke, which allows my snout to detect you with ease!"

Okay, I did NOT do that, exactly.  

 In my initial 0.03 seconds of immediate cognitive response to the shrieking fire alarm, I thought the following: "I really don't want to call hubby and explain why I burned down the house by asking too much of the water heater for my scalding hot showers.  If the water heater can't hack it, why is it my fault that it burned down the house?! Well, if the house is on fire, I probably can't  save it myself, and I sure as heck am not gonna go meet the rest of the Fairbanks population and earn a reputation as 'the Southern California nudist who burned down the cabin she was renting.'"  I'll at least have the dignity of some clothing!" 

Time to make an excellent wardrobe selection!

Sure, those'll do!

I then donned my decade old ducky pajama pants, wrapped a towel around the rest of myself, and proceeded to sniff the basement, as well as the entirety of the upstairs and downstairs (I flatter myself by pretending it's large...only a Hobbit could comfortably traverse the tiny staircase between the two levels).  Yes, I did sniff the house roughly in the canine manner described above, which is to my shame, if any neighbors were home, and bored enough lucky enough to peer out their windows and into mine.  What a sight to have beheld: an adult woman, clutching a towel to her chest, wearing ducky pajama pants, running to and fro, manically inhaling what could probably only be assumed to be some sort of illegal, hallucinogenic substance.  

And, neighbors, that's me with dignity. 

My imagination's rendition of my fire-sniffing snout.  

Oh, I'll leave you with a tasty little tidbit of advice: steamy showers can set off older smoke detectors.  Trust me.