w00t w00t booyah

Mom is in the hospital, after being in convalescent care less than a week - and not doing well.

This is my onliest parent, she's 89 and I go out to Hemet tomorrow to say goodbye. I am almost certain of it. The nursing staff said tonight I was "probably" okay waiting that long.

Please think of me, and hold me tight. I have my fella, but my back is so bare without my Mom.

Today, thankfully, did not fall on a work day. Today, I could actually take the moment to breathe in, exhale and do it again.

Thirteen years ago, about 1:30 AM, my late husband passed away after a five year race downhill due to diabetic complications after an injury incurred on the job.

He'd dropped a computer on his foot, and the injury went bad. The infection went systemic, damaging heart valves, which failed three years later, throwing blocks to the brain and heart. He had both strokes and massive MIs. They'd called it 'popcorn strokes' - because the CT scans looked like a bowl of popcorn. Too many to count.

1993 - 1998. And every year was one more significant whack downwards.

He died after all that, one AKA amputation, one BKA - on dialysis, nearly blind. 36 years old.

He's buried in one of the niftiest cemetaries I've ever visited in Sierra Madre - spooky as heck in the dark, but awesome during the day, Hitchcock used to shoot movies there all the time, I'm told. His headstone is a common granite boulder, taken from a streambed nearby - whenever I'm in the neighborhood, I go by and check to make sure everything is still good, legible and free from weeds.

Today, let Xander pick the flowers and he chose three bunches of bright yellow sunflowers and button mums. I took the biggest bottle of Tabasco I could buy...and a small bottle of sake.

catsonmars went with us - and while I really couldn't get Xander completely wrapped around the concepts (tut, he's 6), he could pay our respects, look around a bit and then go have a nice lunch.

He's just not as there as he was right afterward, and I can imagine why. Some of his closest friends have already passed as well - one of them had literally drank himself to death after his passing, and nobody had told me until he had been years gone. He's got Ronnie James Dio to talk to these days, for crying out loud. He's busy.

We opened the sake, toasted and drank - and left the remainder for him. Along with some new rocks.

Came home to find a message on the phone - Mom had called, another long-time friend of the family is not doing well. Demented, requiring 24/7 in-home care. But, happy - and not suffering, so that's to the good, says I. Not the only one in that place that I know of.

Such is where I find myself these days. Give them what you can - this too, is life.

So glad he didn't live to see 9/11 or what has become of his chosen industry. So much has changed and all of it would have left him behind without looking back.

But oh, I miss him. And wonder what it would have looked like without that injury and steep decline so very young.

Hope you're keeping busy, Cliff. It's a very different world without you.

Today, thankfully, did not fall on a work day. Today, I could actually take the moment to breathe in, exhale and do it again.

Thirteen years ago, about 1:30 AM, my late husband passed away after a five year race downhill due to diabetic complications after an injury incurred on the job.

He'd dropped a computer on his foot, and the injury went bad. The infection went systemic, damaging heart valves, which failed three years later, throwing blocks to the brain and heart. He had both strokes and massive MIs. They'd called it 'popcorn strokes' - because the CT scans looked like a bowl of popcorn. Too many to count.

1993 - 1998. And every year was one more significant whack downwards.

He died after all that, one AKA amputation, one BKA - on dialysis, nearly blind. 36 years old.

He's buried in one of the niftiest cemetaries I've ever visited in Sierra Madre - spooky as heck in the dark, but awesome during the day, Hitchcock used to shoot movies there all the time, I'm told. His headstone is a common granite boulder, taken from a streambed nearby - whenever I'm in the neighborhood, I go by and check to make sure everything is still good, legible and free from weeds.

Today, let Xander pick the flowers and he chose three bunches of bright yellow sunflowers and button mums. I took the biggest bottle of Tabasco I could buy...and a small bottle of sake.

catsonmars went with us - and while I really couldn't get Xander completely wrapped around the concepts (tut, he's 6), he could pay our respects, look around a bit and then go have a nice lunch.

He's just not as there as he was right afterward, and I can imagine why. Some of his closest friends have already passed as well - one of them had literally drank himself to death after his passing, and nobody had told me until he had been years gone. He's got Ronnie James Dio to talk to these days, for crying out loud. He's busy.

We opened the sake, toasted and drank - and left the remainder for him. Along with some new rocks.

Came home to find a message on the phone - Mom had called, another long-time friend of the family is not doing well. Demented, requiring 24/7 in-home care. But, happy - and not suffering, so that's to the good, says I. Not the only one in that place that I know of.

Such is where I find myself these days. Give them what you can - this too, is life.

So glad he didn't live to see 9/11 or what has become of his chosen industry. So much has changed and all of it would have left him behind without looking back.

But oh, I miss him. And wonder what it would have looked like without that injury and steep decline so very young.

Hope you're keeping busy, Cliff. It's a very different world without you.

Just in case you didn't hear me?

In the last month, I have heard stuff that is still curling my fingernails backwards. None of it directed at me, or happening to me, or anything like that - but.

Big stuff. Deaths. Seriously long-term, forever and a day relationships going PFFFT. Stuff that makes the now routine job losses look tame.

I am so sorry.

And this has been coming in multiples, people. Not just one or two.

I'd be stone drunk if every one had gotten their turn at the bar. Seriously.

I am so sorry. (Please God, do not let me get numb to this. Each one is terrible in its own right and deserving of notice and attention.)

I have some spoons here, not a lot of them, but I do have some. And I do answer the phone. If you need me, all you have to do is say something.

No, no details - to spare the parties involved. They're getting enough attention as it is, and they don't need more of what they didn't want in the first place.

I am so sorry.

And I am hugging my kitties, mah boys and myself as hard as I can.

Wil Wheaton is turning 38 today. If I'm to believe the Twitter feed, he is having a perfectly awesome day of things. But - earlier this week, he was also telling jokes and being an ass, and sincerely reminding me of Cliff in more ways than were absolutely comfortable.

My 38th birthday was two months after Cliff had died.

About the only thing that comes to mind to do about it? Isn't realistic in the nth degree. It's not like drafting a huge email saying 'I'm glad you aren't having my 38th birthday and this is why' makes any logical sense. Except I'm THRILLED for him.

Another blogger posted an update to a story seanan_mcguire had alerted me to the other day, one in which, as the parent of a child with a significantly reduced quality/quantity of life, instead of doing her day job, she told everyone what it was like. REALLY like.

She thought, oh, only a few people would get it.

Her ISP was sending her panic mail before the day was over. 22,000 hits. One day.

And she says today that we should tell our stories too.

Nuh uh. Not this little red hen.

I've been writing since I could put pencil to lined notebook paper, and my first real memory of writing something (and then hiding it) was before I was nine. I was on every school newspaper from sixth grade through college (and was editor of the high school paper in my senior year), wrote as much fan fiction as much as I could put out and planned my college education with an eye to writing for a living when I finished it. Wanted to write for television, and there's not much about the market for the one-hour dramatic format in the mid-80's I can't talk about.

Then I met a type I diabetic my senior year of college, and all that went into a box that gets opened only once in a while these days.

You see, things went bad, and I mean BAD to the point I can't talk about it without making a whole room cry. No, I don't want to try it again to see if that's changed. No, you cry - not me. I learned to stop crying when it scared Cliff. You think I'm kidding, ask Jim.

I could talk. I could start writing about it - but.

That was another life, and it's over now.

Cliff and Steve Irwin were born two weeks apart from each other. Cliff was programming in FORTRAN when he was 14 for Voyager. He spent many happy hours with his coworkers writing programs to get around the laser holes software companies used as copy protection back in the day of 5 1/4" floppy disks (and IBM PCXT machines). Because yo, we liked playing games.

He's the one who introduced me to Thai food, and Japanese food that wasn't teriyaki chicken. He's also the one who took me outside my comfort zone on a regular basis and taught me how to like it. We didn't buy furniture. We took trips outside the United States, and that had priority over everything. See the world we live in - it's wonderful, exciting and you won't learn much any other way. (He was right.)

When I lost my second job the summer the Olympics were in Los Angeles because the employer did not want to pay the agency fee for my permanent placement - and there was now no money to see the Olympics, nor find another job until they were over - and came home furious...he threw me in the swimming pool. When I came up drenched and furious (and keep in mind, this is back in the day of 'dress for success' - I'd been wearing a dress, heels, stockings, makeup, glasses, everything), he threw me in again. Coming up for air, he stood there on the side of the pool, looked down at me and advised me that yes, he'd do it again and to get over it. I would get another job, don't worry about it. This was a perfectly good pool, it was going to be a nice break and make the most of it, okay?

No time for whining.

He made me watch Poltergeist, the little shit. I DON'T DO HORROR.

Days like this, I really miss him. I'd rather you knew why instead of why he isn't here anymore.

Wil Wheaton is turning 38 today. If I'm to believe the Twitter feed, he is having a perfectly awesome day of things. But - earlier this week, he was also telling jokes and being an ass, and sincerely reminding me of Cliff in more ways than were absolutely comfortable.

My 38th birthday was two months after Cliff had died.

About the only thing that comes to mind to do about it? Isn't realistic in the nth degree. It's not like drafting a huge email saying 'I'm glad you aren't having my 38th birthday and this is why' makes any logical sense. Except I'm THRILLED for him.

Another blogger posted an update to a story seanan_mcguire had alerted me to the other day, one in which, as the parent of a child with a significantly reduced quality/quantity of life, instead of doing her day job, she told everyone what it was like. REALLY like.

She thought, oh, only a few people would get it.

Her ISP was sending her panic mail before the day was over. 22,000 hits. One day.

And she says today that we should tell our stories too.

Nuh uh. Not this little red hen.

I've been writing since I could put pencil to lined notebook paper, and my first real memory of writing something (and then hiding it) was before I was nine. I was on every school newspaper from sixth grade through college (and was editor of the high school paper in my senior year), wrote as much fan fiction as much as I could put out and planned my college education with an eye to writing for a living when I finished it. Wanted to write for television, and there's not much about the market for the one-hour dramatic format in the mid-80's I can't talk about.

Then I met a type I diabetic my senior year of college, and all that went into a box that gets opened only once in a while these days.

You see, things went bad, and I mean BAD to the point I can't talk about it without making a whole room cry. No, I don't want to try it again to see if that's changed. No, you cry - not me. I learned to stop crying when it scared Cliff. You think I'm kidding, ask Jim.

I could talk. I could start writing about it - but.

That was another life, and it's over now.

Cliff and Steve Irwin were born two weeks apart from each other. Cliff was programming in FORTRAN when he was 14 for Voyager. He spent many happy hours with his coworkers writing programs to get around the laser holes software companies used as copy protection back in the day of 5 1/4" floppy disks (and IBM PCXT machines). Because yo, we liked playing games.

He's the one who introduced me to Thai food, and Japanese food that wasn't teriyaki chicken. He's also the one who took me outside my comfort zone on a regular basis and taught me how to like it. We didn't buy furniture. We took trips outside the United States, and that had priority over everything. See the world we live in - it's wonderful, exciting and you won't learn much any other way. (He was right.)

When I lost my second job the summer the Olympics were in Los Angeles because the employer did not want to pay the agency fee for my permanent placement - and there was now no money to see the Olympics, nor find another job until they were over - and came home furious...he threw me in the swimming pool. When I came up drenched and furious (and keep in mind, this is back in the day of 'dress for success' - I'd been wearing a dress, heels, stockings, makeup, glasses, everything), he threw me in again. Coming up for air, he stood there on the side of the pool, looked down at me and advised me that yes, he'd do it again and to get over it. I would get another job, don't worry about it. This was a perfectly good pool, it was going to be a nice break and make the most of it, okay?

No time for whining.

He made me watch Poltergeist, the little shit. I DON'T DO HORROR.

Days like this, I really miss him. I'd rather you knew why instead of why he isn't here anymore.

When somebody reminds you strongly that your late husband is indeed, LATE and not here anymore...

...and you're the only one who knows why this is a Bad Thing...

It's probably a good reason why you've got a lot of free-floating FURIOUS going on.

...

Dammit. I miss him.

You would too, if you knew why.

Carry on, nothing to see here.

It finally came to me on the morning drive.

I really don't get the whole 'zombie' thing. I mean, sure - from a certain point of view, I suppose the whole thing could be entertaining, if that sort of thing works for you. But for me, the whole 'unkillable, eats your brains and then you become One of Them' just didn't ring very true. I mean, if that's your destiny - best to just get it over with, right? Very short story with a less-than successful ending, neh? The whole scream, flail and run just didn't make any sense. You die - they don't. I've played enough video games to know what happens when I find the hack to make my player unkillable - it really makes winning fast and efficient. *shrug* I'll start looking at my watch, if you ask me to watch a zombie movie. I mean...we know how this ends, right?

I can understand people using 'zombie' to describe a stuck process as well. And well, you 'kill' zombie processes, and they go away. Until something else flips a bit and gets stuck muttering to itself, taking up resources and generally accomplishing nothing.

Accomplishing nothing but creating more of the same...and none of it very pleasant. Rather stinky and evil, come to think of it.

Then it hit me. I have a number of relationships with real people I can easily call 'zombies.' Not the people, mind - the actual status of the relationship I might have had with them once. I have never experienced the 'break-up' - but this is the closest thing to it I can think of.

Remember, this is what I consider most important in life:

Always do your best.
If you make a mess, clean it up.
And remember your impact on others.

If I can't be excellent to you, I'll be nothing to you. Generally speaking, I have a sharp enough tongue that this takes care of itself.

But it has happened when I have very firmly taken three steps back and said 'this is going to end badly if I stick around' - and well, what's left?

Zombie relationship. It's still there, but it's pretty clear if I touch it again, something really bad is guaranteed to happen. Mind you, it's rare - but this is me we're talking about. I'm pretty much an expert on me. If I say something bad is going to happen if you put me in proximity to X factor, this is the smartest person in the world on that subject and you might just want to listen to her.

My memory is good. Good enough for me to remember what put the relationship into zombie status every time I think I might want to do something about changing things about it.

Some people are proud of their tempers. I know just how dangerous mine is - you get a peek once in a while, but it's been trained to a faretheewell.

So I don't chance it. I don't know anyone who really deserves that. And I don't wanna.

It's that whole 'I don't do this very well' - like shooting pool and arranging flowers. This is something I know I don't do well, so I don't volunteer for it. (Seriously. You want to kick my ass, play pool with me. I suck. We had the pool table in the garage for decades growing up. I never got any better. Trust me, there was plenty of opportuntiy for improvement. Take me bowling, and I'll kick your ass. Just saying.)

I don't do zombies.

And if you should find yourself facing such a place with me, you might ask yourself which one of us the zombie really is before taking offense about it.

It finally came to me on the morning drive.

I really don't get the whole 'zombie' thing. I mean, sure - from a certain point of view, I suppose the whole thing could be entertaining, if that sort of thing works for you. But for me, the whole 'unkillable, eats your brains and then you become One of Them' just didn't ring very true. I mean, if that's your destiny - best to just get it over with, right? Very short story with a less-than successful ending, neh? The whole scream, flail and run just didn't make any sense. You die - they don't. I've played enough video games to know what happens when I find the hack to make my player unkillable - it really makes winning fast and efficient. *shrug* I'll start looking at my watch, if you ask me to watch a zombie movie. I mean...we know how this ends, right?

I can understand people using 'zombie' to describe a stuck process as well. And well, you 'kill' zombie processes, and they go away. Until something else flips a bit and gets stuck muttering to itself, taking up resources and generally accomplishing nothing.

Accomplishing nothing but creating more of the same...and none of it very pleasant. Rather stinky and evil, come to think of it.

Then it hit me. I have a number of relationships with real people I can easily call 'zombies.' Not the people, mind - the actual status of the relationship I might have had with them once. I have never experienced the 'break-up' - but this is the closest thing to it I can think of.

Remember, this is what I consider most important in life:

Always do your best.
If you make a mess, clean it up.
And remember your impact on others.

If I can't be excellent to you, I'll be nothing to you. Generally speaking, I have a sharp enough tongue that this takes care of itself.

But it has happened when I have very firmly taken three steps back and said 'this is going to end badly if I stick around' - and well, what's left?

Zombie relationship. It's still there, but it's pretty clear if I touch it again, something really bad is guaranteed to happen. Mind you, it's rare - but this is me we're talking about. I'm pretty much an expert on me. If I say something bad is going to happen if you put me in proximity to X factor, this is the smartest person in the world on that subject and you might just want to listen to her.

My memory is good. Good enough for me to remember what put the relationship into zombie status every time I think I might want to do something about changing things about it.

Some people are proud of their tempers. I know just how dangerous mine is - you get a peek once in a while, but it's been trained to a faretheewell.

So I don't chance it. I don't know anyone who really deserves that. And I don't wanna.

It's that whole 'I don't do this very well' - like shooting pool and arranging flowers. This is something I know I don't do well, so I don't volunteer for it. (Seriously. You want to kick my ass, play pool with me. I suck. We had the pool table in the garage for decades growing up. I never got any better. Trust me, there was plenty of opportuntiy for improvement. Take me bowling, and I'll kick your ass. Just saying.)

I don't do zombies.

And if you should find yourself facing such a place with me, you might ask yourself which one of us the zombie really is before taking offense about it.

Remember this story?

THEY GOT HIM.

America's Most Wanted - holy fucking chrome. They deliver.

This morning, driving around the warehouses in Ontario, this exact thing was on my mind - oh, his family misses him. Misses him so.

Then I went over to Sis' after handling work stuff, and got the news.

Are the walls between the worlds running a bit thin right now, or something? Inquiring minds and all that, yanno.