When Small Appliances Die

 Saturday, the light and joy of mornings died an ignominious death, exsanguinating freshly-brewed love all over the counter. I tried all the life-saving measures known to me for small appliances, but there was no hope. I notified next of kin (the bread machine and Tammie) and plans were made. The body was dropped into the proper receptacle with a few words of thanks.

I'd kind of been waiting for that to happen. Years ago, before we moved to the coast, we'd gone through a phase where small kitchen appliances crossed the rainbow counter within mere weeks of coming to live with us. Now, we're not hard on said appliances. We do not mistreat them. We did not drop them on the floor, or into water, nor did we plug them into unsafe electrical sockets. But three coffee makers were sent to their final rest before we resorted to using a stovetop percolator, which was, to be honest, some of the best damn coffee I've ever had, but...you had to wait for it. I hate waiting.

We tried one last time and that's when the appliance gods smiled upon us and the wonder machine was procured. It took its place on our counter, serving us well through the next ten years and one move, serving us glorious hot coffee every morning. Until Saturday. After a game of "rock/paper/scissors," Tammie "won the opportunity" to seek out a replacement. Which she did, bringing home a suitable device which, while having a slightly smaller footprint than its predecessor, still promised 12 cups of joy each morning. And, it can be programmed to have coffee all ready before we are even out of bed. Providing I can figure out the proper incantation to make it have coffee ready when we get up. So far, "MAKE ME SOME COFFEE, DAMMIT!" is not it.

But the coffee is lovely, even if I have to push the button after staggering into the kitchen and groping all the counter banshees for the right button (I suspect the bread machine is into that kind of thing and will shift positions, extending the grope session). There's even a setting on the new coffee maker that we can use for BOLD brew, which is quite marvelous. It takes a little longer, but the wait is worth it. However, I am worried that if I figure out how to program it to make coffee sans grope, the bread machine will go on strike.   

Putting Out the Fires In My Brain

 I could feel it slipping away on a daily basis. A little bit here, a little bit more there. No matter what I did, no matter what I said, no matter how often I said it, part of me was shutting off. It was the part of me that wanted to write fiction, my first love in writing. In fact, it was my whole desire to create.

Fighting that recession of creativity was dragging me into an abyss of no escape, and it was binding me with heightened anxiety, fear, anger, and a whole host of other unpleasantries. Tammie described me as being "a bit explosive and easily agitated." She's not wrong, but nothing I did could change it. Oh, I tried. I did my very best to squelch those feelings of fear-fueled rage, but it was exhausting and all it took was a few minutes of low blood sugar and I became a seething, weeping, very loud bitch. Being in public meant shutting down to a level low enough that I could manage to at least get to the car before melting down. 

After getting to the point where I could no longer ignore what was happening, I reached out to my doctor. I answered a bunch of questions on their check-in website and set off a bunch of alerts and red flags. She said it was a good thing I was already scheduled for an appointment, or they'd be calling me in posthaste.

We discussed a lot of things from feelings to frustrations and we both agree that the current political climate is a bit on the toxic side and would definitely contribute to anxiety and fear. It was when I told her about my writing and lack of focus and desire to create, she stopped typing and looked at me.

"It sounds like there's more going on here. Have you ever been diagnosed with ADHD."

"Not officially," I told her and she laughed. 

"Of course, not. You're over 60 and you're female."

After more discussion, we decided on a treatment plan, and she prescribed ADHD medication. We both agree that if I can get some of this ridiculous scattered-brain bullshit to settle down, it might have the same effect on my anxiety. So, I'm not on anti-anxiety medication, I'm on ADHD medication, but guess what...It's working for both. I've been on it for less than a week, and Tammie has noticed a huge improvement. So have I, but I've been afraid to say anything in case it was just a case of a visit from the delusion fairy. I had that with some OTC holistic herbal woo-woo pills. Three days of "Hey, I think I've got this," then BAM! The bitch is back and she's super annoyed.

Now, I find myself having feelings again. Oh, I've been having feelings for a long time, but usually I'm feeling ALL THE THINGS, ALL THE TIME without respite. Lemme tell you, that's a lot of work and I was sure it would eventually try to kill me with worry, fear, rage, depression... all the fun stuff. But lately, I've been experiencing good feelings like...joy. Real joy, not that "oh, whee, we're gonna crash and die. At least I won't have to pay taxes anymore" kind of "joy" but rather a pleasant sensation while looking at the sunlight touching the leaves of the Rhodie out front, or the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, or the sound of the red-winged blackbirds calling out to "vote for Peeeeeter." 

Plain old joy, with no tinge of fear, worry, frustration, or general overwhelming angst of all the things. Just a soothing calmness. Gods, I like that.

I don't remember the last time I've felt that way, if ever. I realize now that most of my life has been riddled with this bullshit anxiety/ADHD and nothing was ever done. All through school my report cards would read things like, "Karen is easily distracted and has a hard time paying attention" or "Karen needs to spend less time daydreaming and more time on her work in class." Nothing was done, of course, because Karen is a girl and only boys need medication for "hyperactivity," girls just gotta knuckle down and PAY ATTENTION!

When I was an adult, I went the typical anti-depressant medication route, but my brain rejected them in the most interesting ways andafter a few years of trying to find a solution, we (my former healthcare provider and I) gave up. If it didn't try to kill me, it just intensified my craziness, and all of them removed my emotions and killed my creativity. I was living the zombie life, and I wasn't ok with that.

I mentioned all of this to my current doctor, and she said we'd start with this adhd medication and go from there. But you know what? I think we're there. I'm comfortable in my head. I can deal with the little frustrations that would at one point turned me into a raging honey badger with a toothache. It's not perfect, but I'm able to stop myself from saying things that aren't kind or helpful, whereas before the pills, I would just be rude and obnoxious and unable to stop myself. Knowing I can do that and not explode with frustration is kind of nice. 

I can slow down the spiral into the dark abyss of dismal thoughts and redirect my emotions to a more positive path.

I know I can have boundaries and use gentle words to let people know when they're crossing them, instead of waiting until later and losing my shit all over the place, or simply over-reacting in a very inappropriate manner.

Planning things has never been a problem, yet the problem came when implementing said plans: I knew I had to get from point A to point D, but I couldn't visualize all the steps needed to get there, at least not without a struggle that could last for weeks. Now, I can see what needs to happen and take appropriate steps. This includes such tasks as taking out the garbage. Sometimes the simplest tasks would stymie me to the point of tears, and it was getting worse with age. 

I feel better. I feel like I'm becoming the person I was supposed to be all along. I'm not there yet, but there's a plan, I'm on it and so far, so good.

Now What, November?

 October has traditionally been the month I start planning and semi-plotting my project for November's annual write-a-novel-in-a-month activity. I've been doing it for several years (going on ten, I believe), and it's one of those things that both energizes and stresses me out to the absolute maximum.

Especially those little badges they give out for reaching certain mileposts of word counts, making your daily goal, never miss a day of writing or posting, whatever. November is a difficult month to do that because there are holidays and birthdays and family stuff and, well, I always felt a little guilty slipping away to get some words written and posted to the site before jumping back into whatever fray was happening at the time.

Then things got...dark. I've not followed it too closely, mostly for my own mental health, but the gist of it is that the powers that be believe using AI to help write the damn novel is ok.

Now, to be perfectly clear and honest, I use AI when writing. Those red squiggles under my misspelled words, that's AI. The grammar suggestions that I may or may not ignore, again, AI. And my favorite? The "read aloud" thing on my word processor. Let me tell you, I can read my stuff over and over and it's fine. I can even read it out loud and it sounds fine. Why? Because I know where to put the inflections, I know what words are supposed to be there. But, when I have the computer read it to me, that bitch catches all my boo-boos. All I have to do is fix the part that doesn't sound good, and ta-dah! It's the way I want it.

But I do the work. I do not allow AI to do anything more than make a suggestion on whether or not that comma belongs in that spot, or if one of those words is extraneous. I still make the final decision. In that regard, I'm fine with AI. 

Allowing it to do most of the work, however, is where I draw the line. I don't want to just hand over my idea and let the machine put all the words together. That's not writing. There's no blood. There's no weeping. There's no yelling. There's no smell of fear or rage, or that sweet, sensuous feeling of the perfect sentence flowing from your brain to your fingertips. 

In regards to using AI for art, I'm kind of in the same camp. I cannot draw, and I'd love to see "pictures" of my characters, or the places they've been. If I could figure out how to use an art AI program, I'd probably have it show me those things according to my descriptions to see if what I say is what others might see. But would I sell that piece of art? No. Would I use it for the cover of my book? Again, no. 

That's where I'm fortunate to know several artists who will, for a fee, work with me on creating covers for my books. I appreciate those skills they've gathered over years of practice and study. I've taken art classes, but I still can't put the pictures in my head on paper and have it make sense. That's what artists do, and I'm thankful for them.

AI has a place in the world of art and writing. Even music, if you think of the synthesizers as AI. I'm not sure I do, but I'm sort of clumping a lot of computer stuff into the category of AI, so that might be where I'm derailing my brain train.

All this to say, I'm not sure what to do with myself next month. There will be no piles of sunflower seed shells near the keyboard; no packages of lemon drops stuffed in the spot next to the tower; no cups of cold tea or coffee on the desk; no drifts of scribbled notes piling up against the printer. 

Oh, who am I kidding, my writing area always looks like that, but in past Novembers, it just felt different, like it all had meaning. It always felt so magical, knowing thousands of writers were out there, doing the same thing at pretty much the same time. No spontaneous conversations in chat rooms about rabbit trails, plot holes, or being written into a corner of which there's no escape. I'll miss that ethereal comradery. 

Catch Up, or Cats Up.

 It's been a bit, hasn't it. To say lots has happened would be an understatement. The lead of this update will be on the heels of the previous post about cats, my not-so-favorite critters.

The feline population count has changed for us. We'd been down to two, and now we're up to six. The feral cats we'd been attempting to catch for a TNR treatment outwitted us and bestowed upon our lives six kittens, five of which now live in our house.

Miss Bitte is...annoyed. Thor crossed the great rainbow bridge, thus escaping the ongoing chaos the rest of the household is attempting to survive.

Kittens, even those just over a year old, LOVE to race through the house, and they're not picky about when or where it happens, or who might or might not be in the way. Also, they sleep with us. All of them. I suppose, if you think about it, we sleep with them because we're super outnumbered.

For the most part, they're a pretty laid-back group. Unless you accidently wiggle your toes, then be prepared for mayhem. Toe mayhem, to be specific. Hank, the gentle giant, and his equally large, but more muscular brother, Beans, will join forces with tiny sister, Samantha and attempt to remove said toes from your feet. 

Also, they all have this strange tendency to "flop," preferably while they are walking in front of you, "leading" you to your destination. This can alter one's destination from, say, the dining room where your coffee awaits you, to the floor because you've tripped over a flopped cat. At least they give you a little early warning before the flop. There's a glance back, to make sure the human target is still following, then an odd butt sway/stagger, then flop! Alert humans recognize the signs and make alternate plans to detour the feline floppage.

One favorite human trick is to cut through the bathroom, leaving the flopper bewildered and un-tripped over. There is much cat chagrin to be had at that point. They then seek out the former target and will home in on the shins of that person and ram themselves headfirst into the tender, bony body part. Then the flop will happen and tummy appreciation will commence. Or else.

The design of our home has a fun roundie-run-around section, where you can start in the living room, run full speed through the dining room, then onto the kitchen where the linoleum begins, into the futility room (where you can crash into either the washer, dryer, or the furnace door), through the pass-through bathroom to the hallway, where you can either turn left and return to the living room, or go to the right and explore the craft room, back bathroom, or the bedroom at high speeds. It's exceptionally hilarious when they leave the carpet and have to adjust to linoleum, then back to carpet. Sometimes the adjustment comes too late, and the bookcase in the hallway right outside the bathroom door becomes savagely disarranged by a flailing feline who managed to gain traction going from smooth floor to carpet too quickly and failed the necessary turn. Critical fail, dude.

They're also into arts and crafts...supplies. Especially the sponge daubers we use for blending inks on paper. They are a favorite of the diminutive Miss Sam, who believes anything that soft and squishy must be absconded with and stashed under the dresser in our bedroom. Tammie discovered this one day when she walked into the bedroom and found three cats staring at the space under the dresser. Sam is the only one small enough to get under there and not get stuck halfway in or out. With the aid of a flashlight, Tammie discovered the mother lode of squishy craft supplies and cat toys, or if you ask Sam, they're ALL cat toys and you can just put them right back under the dresser where they belong, thank you very much.

The kitchen is another favorite place to flop, especially on hot days, or while we're trying to prepare a meal. The opening of cans with pop-tops is the clarion call to the gang to gather in the kitchen and begin tapping on the legs of the human with the can. There is much meowing, patting, and flopping. There is also swearing, but that's not from the cats.