Since the demise of my laptop it has been awfully hard to type on my desktop. Don’t get me wrong, I am endlessly grateful for the fact I have a back up computer. But there is something about the angle, the height of the desk, something, that just causes my operated arm to ache terribly after only a few minutes.
It limits the time I spend online, so I have not been writing, or corresponding, as I should be. I will be rectifying that before too long by either a repair or replacement, but I have not been up to getting that taken care of.
MS has been kicking my butt for the past few weeks. I suppose the stress of the surgery combined with the holiday, it just ramped everything into high gear. The exhaustion, even after doing absolutely nothing, is astonishing. I have had to cancel long looked forward to plans at the last minute several times because I could barely contemplate mustering the strength to brush my teeth, never mind get dressed.
I was thrilled to discover I had new readers this month who actually left comments. Unfortunately, they were Asian pornographers. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But I didn't think they were a particularly good fit with the rest of you. So I did delete their comments. If I am wrong and you guys would love some nice explicit Asian porn on my blog, just let me know. I can always reconsider.
No Christmas Miracle
Last Sunday afternoon I eyeballed my now useless laptop and thought “Maybe I could fix it?”
(Kindly reserve all laughter until the end.)
People fix computers. I am a people. Ergo, I can fix computers.
So I got my beading tool kit with the teeny tiny screwdrivers. I asked my beloved Grandma to be with me in spirit, because I know she knew how important my laptop was to my career and my writing. I put on a CD of Celtic Christmas Carols, you know, to get that ethnic support thing going. I ate a tootsie roll, for strength. And I got to work.
At the start, I was fully aware that anyone who was murmuring ‘righty tighty, lefty loosey’ as they unscrew teeny little screws has no business opening up an expensive electronic appliance. This did not stop me.
I opened everything carefully, stared at the contents in awe, blew away some dust and said a prayer. I put everything back together, confident I had performed a marvel.
Alas, it was not to be. And I always hated those freaking bagpipe Christmas Carols.
Christmas and New Year
All my children and my precious grandson came together to celebrate Christmas Eve at my house. I love them all so much. They are funny and smart and truly good people.
I grew up in New York City and my childhood Christmas memories revolve around the city. It was a ritual to visit my father’s Fifth Avenue office at Christmas time. I would be in my holiday finery of a crinoline stuffed dress, a wool coat with a velvet collar, usually leggings to match and a white fur muff that hung around my neck on a satin string. Patent leather Mary Janes and white tights completed the outfit. Hideously uncomfortable yet adorable. Just the way I eventually tortured my own children.
After being paraded through the offices, we would walk the few blocks down to Rockefeller Center. I would gape at Atlas holding the world, which for some reason always fascinated me. The lights on Saks always enthralled me too, and then, there they were, the familiar welcoming, trumpeting angels that preceded the tree.
I never remember eating dinner, although I suppose we did. Because next on the agenda was the Christmas show at Radio City. We always went in a private entrance because…I have no idea why. My grandfather was a popular police lieutenant in that precinct and I think that had something to do with it, he must have gotten VIP tickets. When we were dating and my husband once said something about the long lines to get into Radio City I had no idea what he was talking about. We would go in a side door and up an elevator that I remember was lined with tufted, wine colored velvet. I guess I was a little bit spoiled.
(This picture is Rockefeller Center in 1955, when I was a year old)
I want to say I have been under the weather, but for me that actually means under the covers in a major funk. And who wants to hear about that?!?!
While wallowing in misery is just about one of my favorite occupations, I do occasionally make half-hearted attempts to raise my self-pitying spirits.
There is therapy of course, where my beloved therapist offers me a million tools that I promptly forget the minute I walk out the door and revert to my one of my other favorite occupations, self loathing.
I also listen to meditation and affirmation CD’s. I know, I know, images of Stuart Smalley. So what’s so wrong with that? They actually are helpful, if slightly comical. (And by the way, if you have never seen Stuart Saves His Family, do yourself a favor, it is hysterical, especially for anyone who grew up in a dysfunctional household and/or has any familiarity with twelve step programs.)
My favorite inspirational CD’s are by Belleruth Naperstak. I really like her guided imagery but I love the affirmations.
These are the ones that speak to me the most:
Regarding my own strength:
I salute my ability to survive and my courage to heal in spite of what I have experienced.
I understand that there are treasures waiting to be discovered in the anguish of my past.
I know that I have things to do, gifts to give, purposes to accomplish that require my full strength and courage and peace of mind to do this.
Regarding obtaining strength from the people in my life, past and present:
I am aware that I am surrounded by a protective cushion of all the kindness, tender thoughts, good wishes, prayers, gentle smiles and sweet gestures that have ever been sent my way.
The most comforting of all:
I know that I am held in the hands of God and I am perfectly, utterly safe.
Happy New Year everyone!! I’ve missed you!
To leave you with a smile, here is the original trailer from Stuart Saves His Family. The cheapskates have not allowed any clips onto You Tube.