And speaking of sneakers, I've been on the hunt for an alternative to the Converse Chuck Taylors because Doc heard the price and just kind of stopped talking to me. Then, 15 minutes later, changed the subject. Vans makes a canvas high top, but they are also $60-$90. Walmart used to make one, but Converse sued them, same with Target. Sometimes Google will actually take you to the old pages. So I guess I'm just going to get a cheap pair of low-tops from Walmart online. I insist on a particular kind of underwear, only available from Hanes' website, so I'll be paying through the nose for those, as it is. And I really should buy another 32 oz. of lotion, it's been 8 years and it is running out. It's $35. But it is FABULOUS lotion. I don't want to run out of it.
And that is pretty much my need list for the summer. And, winter, really. I got gloves and a hat to go with my scarf last year. I have 6 pair of like-new socks. I have a pair of black jeans and a pair of blue jeans. I have tights and dresses and skirts to go with them, if I have to go out looking nice. A new pair of boots this winter would be nice. And we'll be able to afford it.
See, Doc has run out of FMLA (Family Medical Leave Act) time for the year. That means, even in an emergency, he can't stay home from work with me without penalty. The up-side of this is that he will be making a hell of a lot more of money. He works hourly. So two days off a week really impacted our budget. We were always living paycheck to my check to paycheck. It won't be like that for the rest of the year. We will have enough to continue living frugally, and to save money for a big purchase, like a car that runs. I'm very excited about this possibility. I mean, he worked for two straight weeks, and we had enough for a new washing machine. So it will be nice. It will also be good for my schedule. I'm supposed to spend 5 nights a week alone, with the computer and control of the TV. When he stays home, he mocks my TV shows and talks through them and monopolizes the computer, unless I seem really disconnected, then he will let me have the computer.
I WILL be recording some time this week. Maybe even tonight. I have to make sure the house is completely clean. And I need to read through the pieces (because of course I'm not at all familiar with them, and only read the first few lines before deciding to print them out to read) and decide how I am going to approach them. Once a piece is recorded and remastered, it will be made available for download for, you guessed it, Patreon Patrons, along with a posting of the "lyrics". I've decided to take a more aggressive approach to the readings, because that is how most of the pieces were born.
I felt a twinge today when someone on Twitter mentioned that there are a lot of people tagging their stuff slam poetry when it isn't slam poetry at all. I've only posted things that I either have, or would read at a slam, because really, it is all in the delivery. But I still felt a twinge, could they be lumping me in with "those"? Could they be talking exclusively about me? You know, artistic doubts. The fraud syndrome.
There was someone on Twitter who seemed to need some consulting on schizophrenia for something she was writing, I believe it was a play. I volunteered my "services". I don't know if I can be of help to her, but I'm willing to give it a try.
Oh, hey, my leg and butt are doing this new thing where they won't straighten out without screaming pain. Usually as I am walking. I have to stop and bend my knees and squat down wherever I am. Then, when applicable, call Doc to come help me up. This is getting fun! And I can go for hours with absolutely no pain at all, until I think of it, then it starts. All in my fucking head. It's just a game my brain is playing with me.
Doc and I kind of got into it today as he was leaving. He said, "I need to get you from point A to point B."
"The shortest distance between point A and point B usually doesn't exist in my mind. In fact, there is no promise that point A ever meets point B."
"I don't know what to do with that," He answered.
"Neither do I," was all I could say.
Then he left. He needs to understand what I am coming to understand. I'm not trying to be difficult, I just am difficult. There's this whole section of my brain that doesn't light up when it should, and a whole other section that lights up in my brain that doesn't light up at all in his brain. I'm wired differently. They are saying they are close to a blood test that can confirm a schizophrenia diagnosis (or test for it in childhood, to, I don't know, start medicating them early?). But there is nothing that they can do to bring back the confident Executive Chef that he fell in love with back. And that is what he wants. He met me at the peak of my potential. He wants that back, that is what he fell for, that is who he fell for. And no matter what he does, he can't seem to get me back, I just stay different. That is the crime of my illness. Because of it, I actually don't miss that person, or don't care. But he remembers and he cares and he wants her back. That's what he confided to B 3 years ago, that B later told me. It, for some reason, has stuck in my head like a permanent post-it note, pylon orange.
Enough. Enough. Cydniey, you do go on.
That's it, I'm doing it, I am finally going to add my name to the dictionary in this application. I'm tired of being red-lined every time I talk about myself in the third person. I know it's wrong, you don't have to tell me.