Chicken Monday: 8/31/09

Mah chickens, they are a-layin'!

Well, Ernestine and Henrietta are laying—Pearl, the white Cornish Cross hen, doesn't lay eggs. I think hens of that breed generally don't live long enough to lay eggs (i.e., someone eats them first). But I'm getting about 10 eggs a week, so far. They're slightly smaller than what we'd consider regular-sized eggs, but they're so tasty and fresh.

Left to right, in the background, at the waterer: Leroy (rooster, Rhode Island Red); Henrietta (hen—she and Ernestine are ISA Browns); and Big Chicken #1 (rooster, Cornish Rock/Cross).

Morning crises!

Well, I have crises—this kitteh does not. His name is Earl Grey. Fitting, no? He's the one who showed up about a month ago when a few of the neighborhood kids brought him by, saying that their mom wouldn't them them keep him. He's sweet and friendly, and will soon be going to the vet for shots and neutering.

The truck's in the shop this morning, after a tire blew out on the way home last night, and my elderly kitteh Cong is dying from kidney failure. I also found out that my stepmother, with whom I've not spoken in seven or eight years, has a rare form of leukemia that's caused her to have a stroke in addition to the other complications.

Isn't it funny how you find out about things (or how they happen) in threes? Weird, but it does seem to happen pretty often. The good news in it all is that I'm dealing with it pretty well. I feel a lot more balanced, and not all thrown off-kilter. That's a great sign.

Today's the last installment of my sister's series called "Something to ADD to the discussion," in which she shares what it's like to have a loved one with undiagnosed AD/HD. I hope you'll take a trip on over to read another great post that helps fill in the puzzle pieces of life when you know something's wrong, but you can't name what it is.

The other side of the story

My sister has just posted the second in a series of posts on what it's like to live with a loved one who has undiagnosed AD/HD. I hope you'll hop on over there to read yet another insightful post on the effects my condition has had on her over the years.

The person who has it never suffers alone.

Chicken Monday will return later this week, probably as Chicken Wednesday or Friday. Don't worry; the dino-chikinz are just fine.

A lot of stuff here at E&P this week has been preempted by a series of posts that my sister, Mile High Pixie, will be putting up on what it's like to have a loved one who suffers from undiagnosed AD/HD. As with many other disorders, the ADD or AD/HD person isn't the only one suffering—the condition affects the rest of the family, too, without anyone even realizing it.

So please click on over to Why Architects Drink for this insightful post on what it's like to be the younger sister—and best friend—of someone who lives in a fog of chaos and failure, but doesn't know why.

Kittehs on Bed, with Laundry

That's always how it goes, isn't it? (Front to back: Clark, Beignet, and Joy.)

Figuring out how to make my life work with ADD is challenging right now, so please don't give up on E&P. My job (yes, I'm still at Division II University—more on that soon) seems to be totally new and foreign now that I'm on meds, and I'm slowly figuring out how to structure my days so I get done what needs to be done, and don't at the same time get completely overwhelmed. So I hope you'll just keep checking in here from time to time. It's going to take me a while to get rolling again.

Beignet came home Tuesday

And is doing much better, thank you for asking. Here she's licking her nose right after I forced her to endure a pill AND antibiotic goo in her eye. She's still sneezing but has made a lot of progress—she goes back for a checkup next week.

Thanks, everyone, for all your thoughts and prayers for this fierce and feisty little cat.

This'll do!

Mom's starting to build quite the reputation in Small Town for custom dresses! She's finishing up a second dress for a local bakery owner, and is already choosing fabrics for a third. Here she is at Joann Fabrics, considering this plaid for a new Best Dress EVER for one of Pixie's friends.

A long-overdue Pupdate!

Here's my sweet, healthy boy eating breakfast this morning. Best. Puppeh. EVER.

Trite old sayings really chap my ass. (Part 5)

If you're just now tuning in, here are Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

**********

The more I thought about it, the more interested I became—maybe I shouldn't write off the possibility that I'd always had ADD. I spent an evening doing some online research at reputable sites (i.e., not run by drug companies), and found that I had at least 75% of the typical ADD symptoms.

On Amazon.com, I found two especially interesting books: Women with Attention Deficit Disorder by Sari Solden, and You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?! by Kate Kelly and Peggy Ramundo. I ordered them to ship via UPS Second-Day Delivery. Sure, it was expensive, but I had to find out more.

I have always felt different from everyone else. I have the hardest time with the simplest tasks, such as cleaning, cooking meals, organizing my belongings, and managing my time. I didn't want to believe the messages I'd gotten over the years that it was all because I was actually stupid, crazy, immature, and a loser. There had to be a different explanation. If not, what point was there in living? I couldn't keep on living if it turned out I really was a failure—but I also couldn't stand the thought of leaving Pixie and Mom behind if I killed myself.

The books finally arrived on a Friday afternoon, and I devoured both of them over the weekend. As I read through each one, I found myself talking aloud: "Wow, that's me! Hey, that's me, too! Holy shit, that's me!" The three authors described my life in excruciating detail; I had always thought I was the only person who experience life like this. Had they been following me around for the last 35 years? Often, I sobbed as I highlighted passages and put flags on the pages—this was me! This was my experience! And I wasn't stupid, or crazy, or immature, or a loser!

First thing Monday morning, I made appointments with both my physician and my therapist the next week. Thank God that both were willing to listen to my concerns and the evidence I'd unearthed. I began ADD medication two weeks ago, and the difference is like night and day. Slowly but surely, with the help of my doctor and my therapist, I'm reworking my life and addressing my sizable challenges.

Out of the dense, soupy mental and emotional fog in which I have lived my whole life, I am finally walking into the sunshine. Every day, I discover what it means to be able to finish a task once I start it...to be able to give my complete attention to what someone is saying...to be able to plan complicated projects...for the first time in my life to be able to pray and meditate because the two thousand channels of voices and static in my brain are relatively quiet.

Even though it irritates me to say it, everything truly does happen for a reason.

Chicken Monday: 8/17/09

About a month ago, sweet little Henrietta had to spend the night indoors at the HKC. She flew over the coop fence and had the misfortune of encountering Lucky—who couldn't believe his luck at this new feathered and fluffy friend to play with. He chewed most of the feathers off her butt, but I don't believe it was with the intention of eating her. Had he wanted to do that, it probably would've been too late when the neighbor's grandkids beat on my door yelling, "Miss Kitty! Miss Kitty! Lucky's got one of your chickens!"

Henrietta had fun during her night indoors, but is glad to be in the coop again with her friends. More pix (and a video!) soon to come—I'm slowly getting back to posting every day.

Saturday morning at the vet's office

A beautiful Abyssinian kitteh at the vet's this morning. Such a sweet and lovely girl!

Beignet was the reason I was at Piney Woods* Vet Clinic this morning. Her upper respiratory infection got a lot worse in the last week, and her right eye was runny and swollen. Dr. Rachel worked us into the busy vet clinic schedule, where we found out that while Beignet is negative for both FIV and feline leukemia, she does have a serious case of pneumonia. She's staying at the clinic until at least Monday.

Look what I found on my walk this evening

A piece of white milk glass, an old marble, and a hawk's feather.

Here's a small kitteh to brighten your day.

Beignet, aka "kitchen police," asleep in my lap after returning from a trip to the vet.

Trite old sayings really chap my ass. (Part 4)

If you're just now tuning in, here are Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Folks, I apologize for the long, long gap between this post and the last. I just haven't known where to begin—how to continue the story. This post and the next are going to be stylistically awkward and clunky, but I'm going to ramble anyway.

**********

An idea? At a time like this? Thank God. Anything was better than more despair and failure. But I hadn't expected this particular idea, especially not since I'd dismissed it a couple years ago.

Longtime E&P readers know that I've had a lot of trouble with procrastination—it's been so bad before that I've been in danger of getting fired over it (thankfully, not at Division II University). My problems with putting off everything until the last minute have dogged me for years—and on top of it all, I'm a fairly popular instructor and have won two teaching awards in the last year. I just have to work eight times as hard as everyone else, because I almost never do a lesson plan more than three hours before a class. Over the years, so many people (well-meaning and not) have told me, "Well, just try harder and get it together, start early! You can do it," but try as I might, I'm still burning that midnight oil and cursing myself the entire time for waiting until the last possible moment to get started.

Those of you who've been reading E&P a while also know about my nasty refrigerator. Remember how awful it looked before the Colonel bought me a new one for Christmas? Right. It was bad, wasn't it?

Now imagine a similar mess all over the house. Can you picture it? Hard to fathom, I know—but that's how the Happy Kitten Cottage has looked for years. Boxes and clothes and papers and books piled all over the place...floors that haven't been vacuumed or mopped in months...dirty dishes stinking in the sink and breeding flies...cat boxes that are lucky to get cleaned out every three weeks or so, when Mom drops by and has extra time...can't find a single thing, even if my life were to depend on it.

I've always been a messy person, especially as a teenager, when I was really proud of my wreck of a room. To my dad's family (with whom Pixie and I grew up), messiness equaled heresy, and my sloppiness was a not-so-subtle 'up yours' to them. Despite my rebellion, my mess still gives me fits, but for so long I've known no other way to live.

It's been more than ten years since I last threw a July 4th party at the HKC. Only a very small group of people are allowed into my home. Under no conditions are outsiders let through the door, no matter what. If I were having a heart attack and had called 911, I'd probably turn away the paramedics when they arrived: "Sorry, the house is messy, can't let you in! Come back some other time!" And just like with my procrastination, people mean well (or ill) and try to help: "Well, what you need to do is get all the crap out of that living room" or "You're living like an irresponsible kid in all this mess" or "Even my six-year-old knows how to pick up her toys, why can't you pick up yours?"

Well or ill, none of this helps. I cannot clean up. To do so would mean giving out more mental and physical energy than I could ever generate, and I already spend 99% of my energy procrasti-planning for my teaching job. At a loss as to an explanation, a few years ago I began telling people, "When I die, do I want my tombstone to say, 'She was dedicated to teaching, and she loved her students?' Or 'Her house was clean?' I don't have energy for both."

And for real, folks: no good night's sleep, no amount of Coca-Cola or coffee, no number of diet pills could ever gear me up for the massive effort cleaning my home would require. It is neither physically nor mentally possible. Believe me, I've tried, and so have my mom and sister. Not even with their help have I ever been able to do it.

All this sad, sorry history is constantly in the back of my mind, no matter where I am or what I'm doing—teaching, sitting in a meeting, answering student e-mails, out and about with Mom or Pixie, and so on. And as I was sitting here at the computer in the HKC's den, mulling over my future now that 1) it looked like I was about to fail Intro to Linguistics, and 2) I had just been sucker-punched out of a permanent position at D2U, this sad tale came back to me. As did my idea.

How come you had such a hard time in this linguistics class? the kind little voice in my head asked. It had been so long since I'd heard from it; the hateful echoes of my paternal aunts and grandmother had been drowning it out for so long. You're not dumb. You've made B's in similar classes. I didn't immediately have an answer to the gentle question. I kept surfing the internet and very lightly considering why I'd done so poorly in the class—which was actually very informative and not at all a waste of time, even if I had been making D's on quizzes and tests.

Maybe things have been more difficult lately than you'd thought, the little voice continued. You've sure made a lot of progress the last couple of years—remember? Even your therapist said you've had to process more in the last 18 months than most people process in a decade. The little voice had a good point. I kept on surfing and thinking.

Still, though, it kept on, this summer's been hell for you. Most people would've been bummed out about the class and then moved on, but you went downhill—and you truly could NOT help it. Don't doubt yourself on that. The disappointment was just too much to bear. Now I was starting to really wonder. These new realizations were so refreshing, as if I'd just had my mind scrubbed with good-smelling soap and hot water.

And then the little voice pounced. What if—and for real, now: WHAT IF—you really do have AD/HD?

I stopped clicking the mouse and just sat there. "Well. Damn. It would explain a lot," I said aloud.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Please tell me I didn't just hear her say what I think she just said.

I'm working on Part 4 of the "Trite old sayings" series, but here's something for your commenting enjoyment until I get it finished.

**********

Yesterday morning, I was sitting in my doctor's waiting room and hoping that my name would be called very soon. Usually, I don't mind spending a little down time at any appointment, since I can usually relax a little, but my doctor's office has recently installed a flat-panel television on the waiting-room wall—and I really hate TVs in public places. Why can't people just use their imaginations or daydream when waiting for their names to be called? Why can't they bring a book, or read one of the magazines in the waiting room, or just close their eyes and be quiet for a little while? Maybe it's because we Americans are so afraid of that down time that we feel as if we have to be entertained every single second of the day.

[end rant against public "idiot boxes"]

In any case, it was nearly impossible for me to concentrate on the book I'd brought, because not only was the TV blaring pretty loudly to keep the young children and old people quiet, but it was tuned to Fox News—specifically the Fox and Friends morning show. The Fox network in general gets on my last nerve, as do all morning talk shows, and I found myself having to plug both ears in order to really absorb what was in the book lying in my lap. No matter what I tried, though, the conversation from the TV still got into my poor short-circuiting brain.

The Fox and Friends host was at the very end of a taped interview with former First Lady Laura Bush, who was gracious, kind, and witty. Mrs. Bush talked about the things she's been doing since she and former President Bush left office, and how they're both working on memoirs. Her husband, she said, "is a lot more disciplined about getting up and writing than [she is]." She told the host that "he's in there at the keyboard every morning for at least a couple hours. You know, he's always been a good typist—when Jenna and Barbara were in college, he used to type their papers for them—"

And I didn't hear anything after that.

When I hear a parent say that, I automatically get suspicious, whether that person is just someone I meet in Wal-Mart, or the wife of a former U.S. President. What does that mean, to type your kid's papers for him/her? When you're the governor of a large state, should you be typing your kids' papers? Should you be doing that if you're president of a big company, or of a major world power? Should you be typing your kids' papers for them if you're just a regular everyday stay-at-home mom or dad?

Because when I hear "type his/her papers for him/her," I think "wrote the whole thing for him/her." Plagiarism.

These days, nearly no one under the age of 40 is lacking in computer or typing skills, especially not young people who attend major universities (as did the Bush twins: University of Texas and Yale University, respectively). What would be a young person's reason for having a parent "type his/her paper?" What would a parent's reason be for doing so for his/her college-aged child?

Help me out here, folks, because even though Mrs. Bush didn't wake up yesterday morning planning to disturb any college English professors in her audience, what she said really disturbed this one.

Trite old sayings really chap my ass. (Part 3)

If you're just tuning in, here are Part 1 and Part 2.

**********

In less than two weeks, I had faced one big meltdown and was looking another square in the face. I had thought that I was well-liked at Division II University, and that I was performing well (i.e., the two teaching awards)—but here I was on the receiving end of a major shaft job. I had also thought that I was good at school and could pick up new material quickly—but here I was doing D-level work, even after studying hard and keeping up with the readings, and looking with utter despair at my fading hopes for another graduate degree.

If you've ever taken a first-aid class, you're familiar with shock. And while I hadn't been in any circulatory danger, I was acting sort of like someone about to bleed to death. I wasn't making any sense to the people around me—I'd lost just about all interest in the fun things in life, and while I've never been a very energetic person, my lack of energy had now completely bottomed out. (It's a wonder my eyes didn't roll back in my head.) It had been a long time since this much had happened to challenge who I thought I was, and the plans I thought I had for the future. The first time almost killed me, and I'm not sure I really ever recovered from that. Now here was a second set of crises that I felt would surely undo me for good.

There were still three-and-a-half weeks left in the semester, though. I still had obligations to fulfill, even though I really felt like walking away from everything. I wanted to disappear, to go somewhere where I wouldn't be followed or bothered, to deal with everything that had happened. So how to get through the last month or so of Summer Term?

I went into what I call "armadillo mode." Maybe some of you have resorted to this way of doing things in times of serious stress: you roll yourself up into a hard little ball emotionally (and physically, to an extent) and roll through the routines of everyday life until you can get to a resting point. I met with students only when I had to. Most days, when my class and teaching obligations for the day were done around lunchtime, I went straight to the truck and headed home—I didn't want to be around happy English professors chatting about their latest summer research projects. Once I got home, I'd check a few e-mails to see if my online class needed help or had questions, and then I'd sleep. I'd barely prepare that evening for the next day's classes, and then I'd sleep as much as I could until the alarm rang the next morning. It was hard to brush my teeth, eat, bathe, and feed the kittehs and chikins and puppeh. At least I got the animals fed—everything else could just fall to the wayside. I hoped that the extra deodorant and body spray I spritzed on was enough to make me smell good. I put a scarf over my hair to hide its days-unwashed greasiness. There was just no point in all that upkeep; I couldn't manage the oomph to get in the shower or get out my toothbrush.

Here's the tape that was playing in my head through all this:
I went and got a Master's, and returned to teaching after near-bankruptcy and abject failure. I busted my butt working at what I thought was my calling, but now it's not. It's not meant to be. I've given almost five years to D2U, and for nothing. I really should've known I wasn't cut out for this. I need an PhD, and I'll never be able to get one. Maybe that whole Master's degree was a fluke—they felt sorry for me because my dad got killed while I was in school, and they just passed me to get me out. Maybe they knew I wouldn't ever really be a serious academic, anyway; a "pity MA," so to speak. And now the teaching thing was a fluke, too. I wasn't really meant to do this. The D2U people just made me feel good so they could get some classes covered, and my service and dedication mean jack-squat to them now that they got what they wanted. I should find something else I'm good at...but there's not anything else I'm good at that I can get paid to do. Dad's family was right: I'll never amount to anything. I've failed at an acting career, at exotic dancing, at teaching, at graduate school. I'm really below average and have been all along. What a waste.

But one day, for just a few minutes, I actually felt good. For just a little while, the broken record in my head wasn't playing, and I could really see my situation and focus. I looked across my hopeless, hapless living room at the piles of crappy quizzes and cardboard boxes and kitty hairballs and linguistics textbooks and ungraded papers and unopened letters and unpaid bills—and I had an idea.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Here we go again.

A very pretty boy, around eight months old. Appeared this evening; hopefully, he'll stay around a while.

Trite old sayings really chap my ass, Part 2(finally ready to post)

If you're just now tuning in, here's the link to Part 1.

**********

I hadn't seen Sammy* very much during Summer Term, and I was certainly surprised to see him here beside this small faculty parking lot away from the center of campus. He and I had become friends, as our offices are very close to one another, and had shared a lot of teaching strategies and ideas. And overall, Sammy is just a nice guy.

"A personal question?" I shrugged. "Uh, sure." I wondered to myself whether he (or someone else) had noticed that I hadn't been around the English Building very much lately.

Sammy took a deep breath. "Okay. Were you, umm—one of the applicants for the permanent Lectureship position?"

"Yeah."

His brow furrowed. "How did that turn out?"

I shrugged again. "Well, I didn't get the Lectureship, but I did get another Temporary Full-Time gig for another year. Dr. Pepper* told me that the only reason I didn't get the Lectureship was because I don't have a PhD."

Sammy blinked hard and shook his head. "Uhhh...okaaay," he said slowly.

"Why do you ask?"

He paused. "I got the Lectureship," he said, still shaking his head.

"Oh, wow, that's great!" I said. "I'm so glad you'll be here with us!" It wasn't sinking in.

"No, it's not great," he said. "You were supposed to get that, not me. You've been here a helluva lot longer than I have. You won two teaching awards this year. That was supposed to go to you." (For the record, I started at Division II University in October 2004, while Sammy joined us in August 2007.)

The conversation with Dr. Pepper flashed through my mind. "Okay, wait. You have a PhD, right?"

Sammy's frown deepened. "No. I have an MFA."

I suddenly felt dizzy and leaned over onto the handrail by the parking lot steps. "Okaaaaayyyy." Nothing was making sense now—as if it had been making any sense before. "So, wait. If I have an MA, and you have an MFA...and you got the Lectureship..." My mind was spinning. "I wonder how that works?"

"It works like bullshit, that's how it works," Sammy said forcefully. "You were supposed to get the lectureship, not me."

"But wait—" Why was Sammy was more upset about this than I was? "Dr. Pepper said to me on the phone—and I remember this conversation clearly, because when my cell phone rang I was in the car on I-65 south outside of Huntsville, and I had Lucky in the front seat beside me—and she said, 'Kitty, the only reason you didn't get the Lectureship is because you don't have a PhD.'"

"Well, there's something fucked up going on here," Sammy replied, "and I want to know what it is. When Dr. Pepper called me to let me know I'd gotten the lectureship, she said for me not to tell anyone just yet, because there were people in the department who'd applied for the same position, and they hadn't yet been notified."

"She told me the same thing, too, not to talk about it," I said. "And then, about two weeks ago, I finally got a letter from her, just a form letter, saying that my qualifications didn't fit what the department was looking for, and that someone from Cow-Tipping University had been chosen. And since Lance* just finished his PhD at Cow-Tipping U, I figured he was the one who got it."

Sammy nodded. "She told me the same thing, not to talk about it just yet. But I've been dying to know who got the Temporary Full-Time position, and now that I know..." He mopped his brow with the handkerchief he always carries in his back pocket. "It's just bullshit, the way they treated all of us who applied, and especially you."

"Well, really, I'm just glad to have a full-time job and health benefits for another year," I replied, feeling more and more anxious to get in the truck and head home. "Sammy, let's talk about this some more later. If it had been anyone else but you getting the Lectureship, I'd be pissed."

The truth was, though, that I was too numb to be pissed off—or furious, or sad, or anything. The turmoil of the last couple weeks still rushed through my brain like a wet weather spring during a frog-choking rain. I said goodbye to Sammy, got in the truck, and headed home. The Colonel would be taking me to lunch around 1:00.

Sipping a cocktail at lunch, I told the Colonel about Sammy's and my conversation. I was still too stunned to really understand what was going on. "So, I mean—I'm just not sure what happened—"

"You got screwed out of the position that was rightfully yours. That's what happened," the Colonel said firmly. "Plain and simple. Sammy has a degree that's about the same as yours, just a different area of study. You were told that the reason you weren't awarded the position was because you don't have a PhD, and then the position goes to someone who doesn't have a PhD?" He took another swig of beer. "That is fucking bullshit, baby."

I sipped on my sweet tea. "Okay, but here's exactly what Dr. Pepper told me when she called to tell me I had a full-time job for another academic year: 'Kitty, if the committee had awarded you the position, it never would've stood up in Human Resources. The ad in the Chronicle stated that a PhD was preferred, and we had PhD's applying from all over. It would've looked rigged if we'd given you the position, with your MA. So as department chair, I used my chair power to remove you from the Lectureship search pool—'"

The Colonel cut me off. "She removed you from the pool of applicants? You didn't even get a chance to interview?"

"No, no, I made it to at least the first round," I said, trying to finish my story before I completely lost track of what I wanted to say. "I did the thirty-minute phone interview with the committee and everything."

Now the Colonel was looking at me hard, and his face was turning red. "So you were right up there in competition with all these other candidates, you have a proven and excellent track record with D2U, you're a known quantity, and you made it past the screening process up to the phone interview—and then Dr. Pepper just ZIP! takes you out of the running. She tells you later that the only reason you didn't get the permanent position is because you don't have a PhD. And then goes and gives the position to someone else...who doesn't have a PhD. And then tells you not to talk about the whole thing with anyone?" He looked out the window and paused for a moment. "Baby, you have an Equal Opportunity case here. Clear as day. You were passed over for a position for which you were just as qualified—if not more so—and lied to about the reasons why."

The Colonel knows his employment stuff, and his government regulations—twenty-eight years in the Army honed his knowledge of all the laws and requirements in EO cases. And I wanted to ignore all his knowledge, too. I had already been reeling from doing so poorly in Intro to Linguistics, which had thrown off balance everything I thought I knew about myself and my abilities. Putting some other new problem into the mix now would bring me down even further—if I could go any further down than I was already feeling.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Umm...errr—well...

I want to know where they got "Lenny." Guy's a natural, I tell ya.



Too bad that the folks who really need a product like this will probably be the last ones to buy a bottle.

I thought I'd post a little something to tide you over. Hope to have Part 2 up tomorrow. Sorry for the delay—just trying to sort everything out and write something coherent.