Take a Shot at August

Well, two shots every month. Allergy shots have changed my life, but there are consequences. I feel like a dullard for up to three days afterward. I think it’s the fexofenadine. I went for the shots because I don’t react well to any medication. Pick anything for fibromyalgia and I can tell you a story where hopefulness crashed in less than 3 horrific weeks. Pain killers no thanks. Haven’t found a thing past a long walk that would allow me to get hooked. I even gave in a tried CBD. The grinding gut ache was not welcome. A doctor suggested remfresh (an otc) for my sleep disorder and it did nothing but keep me up all night sick as a dog.  They make you take a pill for the shots and it’s the pill that screws with me. In my younger days, I was a gal who could drink a healthy male under the table and wake up in the morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Now I’m a cheap drunk, why bother? 

Yesterday those shots really hurt. That was unusual. Last summer when I had the Mothership at the other lake I tried to inhabit I could just go into the RV and sleep it off. This year I share my space with Hubbin and Wu. We’ve learned how to retreat to separate ends of the house and not get on each others nerves but when we come together we share our malfunctions. Wu and I love coffee and keep weird hours. Hubbin had stressful bouts of mood swings, usually due to his autistic tendencies to react to changes  (even good ones) with paranoia or depression. He’s a wonderful good guy and has learned a lot of coping mechanisms to deal with this but I sop up his hyperdrive stress like hollandaise sauce. Evening knowing better we both chant the mantra “stop stop stop” at each other but there are too many factory seconds chocolate bars hidden all over the h0use or chips or taters or ice cream, or…

We’ve got a lot to work on. 

This morning I worked for 3 hours at recalling a long-ago trip to the space coast. I’m writing a series of travel books and start from the wellspring of my glory days and the Funk and Wagnalls encyclopedia set which has impossibly survived from the days when my mother bought them one at a time at Hank’s Thriftway. Why a physical encyclopedia in the age of Google? Some things can’t be lost when the wifi doesn’t work. Some things can be doodled on with colored pencils and tagged with post-it notes. My thought processes require me to touch and fiddle and fidget. My bunny trails need citations. 

Then I finished reading “The Beautiful Earth” which does play better to a middle-aged person than anyone who hasn’t cleared high school book reports. Today someone would probably pitch a fit that Pearl S Buck wasn’t “woke” in 1931. How dare she?

Now I’ve got to get up to Pup’s and go into town for Neurofeedback and I’m getting the start of a crummy headache. I’ve blown off paying bills and that can’t wait either. Yech.