These shoes were made for laughing

My Dad was very nearly buried in his clown shoes.  Well, his whole outfit top to bottom honestly.  I'm kind of glad he decided against it, if only so that we get to see and touch his old clown things, his wig, his hat, his shoes.  I remember discussing the matter with him as he lay, the second bout with stomach cancer escorting him home to Jesus sooner than we would like.  He had a nice grey suit that he had worn to his Father's funeral, so he figured he might as well wear it to his own and get some good use out of it.  Plus, he said he came from a generation that kind of expected, you know, more gravity at a funeral.  (hehehe) I imagine that no one who knew my Dad would have been surprised had he actually worn his clown outfit in that casket.  But you know, the clown shoes never truly come off.  Before he went, I asked if we could do the hokey-pokey around his grave.  "I hope you do." was his exact answer.

I remember buying my clown shoes, the first pair that were actually mine and not just communal gigantic converse that anyone in the family could wear for a gig.  Every so often we'd head to Big 5 and see what was on sale, you know usually the really big pairs which was great for us.  And there they were, purple size thirteens.  I don't recall if I tried them on in the store or not, but I do recall putting my kid-sized sneakers inside them and wearing them that way for a couple years.  Then when my shoes would no longer fit inside, I just wore them on my feet which was nice since smart ass kids who were so inclined could no longer point out that my regular shoes were just just shoved inside.  Haters at clown parties are such a drag.

I haven't clowned professionally in over a decade, and in all those years I never stopped to consider how those giant purple sneakers have influenced my shoe choices ever since my clown days, until last night.  I was asked to bring my old clown shoes to my Mothers Of Preschoolers meeting just for fun, and as I was leaving the house and went to put my current shoes on, I noticed how they had an eerily similar silhouette, and were very nearly the same color purple, only of course my current shoes actually fit.  And come to think, I've had a pair of purple sneakers in-between that I had been given grief for for being out of style.  But I didn't care.  They had pockets on the sides, and were awesome.  But realizing last night that my current shoes just about match my old clown shoes explains so much...

Makeup, hair, clothes, all influenced by my long and early work as a professional clown.  Dad taught me how to do my make up before a gig.  I could go from human face to clown face in 20 minutes flat.  Nowadays I only give myself 5 minutes for make up when I'm on stage on a Sunday, because shoot, I'm not even doing white face!  It's not like my Mom didn't wear regular make up, she does.  I just don't remember really playing with it.  Maybe make up was too sacred.  And my Dad's sense of style was pretty crazy, even when he wasn't getting paid.  Like the time he showed up for my high school senior concert in the pink polo shirt from my Aunt that my Mom wouldn't even wear.  But then, I harass my Mom for dressing like a frumpy teacher, while I wear the same t-shirts and jeans like a uniform, so really we're all lost in the fashion world.  It's not like Mom and I don't try to look presentable, we get our hair done, we look at what the mannequins wear, but I swear it's to little avail.   We don't wear wigs or anything, but as a clown I gave up wearing wigs for hats, and that trend has certainly continued.  I have occasionally been accused of having my own "style", but it's ok, I know the truth.  The clown shoes never came off.

Tell you what 'though, it's kind of like being a court jester.  I get to say an awful lot of what I think, what a lot of other people would like to say but don't for one reason or another.  Being a clown has many advantages.  And making people laugh has always been a great hobby of mine, long before I ever got paid to do it, and long since.  And with all this food allergy/migraine mess, you can cry or laugh and don't you know I do both.  I call it balance.  It may be the only balance in my life, but at least I can both laugh AND cry about it!  And if laughter is truly the best medicine, maybe last night was a good time to notice that the clown shoes are still on.  "No foolish, no fun." said my Great-Grandfather to my Great-Grandmother.
#dorkrunsdeep

Counting Hope

It's not worth counting days anymore.  I'm just in it for survival.  The kids did not make it to school today.  They got their vitamin D from dairy instead of the sun.  Emily is becoming a champ at swallowing her vitamin B2 pills, in hopes they will help prevent her from getting so many migraines, but I have my doubts.  I highly doubt that we are deficient in Riboflaven considering our diet.  But we are grasping at straws, considering the September we've had.  And it's not over, nor showing signs of slowing.

The airshow is practicing over my house lately.  We live near the small city airport where small airplanes usually fly.  But once a year, loud jets soar and tumble in and out of impressive formation, leaving lines and shapes and one hell of a racket in the sky.  At nap time.  Due to the toilet fiasco one day and air show practice plus minimum day pickup from school the next, I had two blown nap times in a row. EPIC F***ING FAIL.  Today since no one made it to school save my Mom who teaches, I managed a great nap with the aid of some earplugs, and the fact that moving hasn't been a great priority of mine since maxing out on triptans by 6:50AM.  Actually, moving has been pretty taboo since about 6 last night, when I realized the magnitude of trouble I was in.

Suck it up or get back on the med I just quit.  Wait and see how well things go when the botox kicks in in t-minus-ohmygod-11 more days.  When I can't stare hard at hope, it stares at me with small but stirring excitement.  I can't put it back in the closet, it won't fit anymore.  It's not so small and dry as it used to be.  Jerk.  Hope doesn't tell me anything about the future, about when or how.  It doesn't make it easier to buy food and calculate risk.  But it does sit there brightly, and make me give a damn.  It makes me believe.  I hope for better.

Hopetember Anyway

What last month did for me was pull hope out of the closet and at least put it on the nightstand.  It's not like I wear it around my neck or anything, but I see it.  I remember it.  And I don't have to look far for reminders of undeniable progress.  In my box of meds right now is the most eletriptan hydrobromide I've ever possessed in my life.  That stuff is platinum in this house because it's a triptan that attacks migraines.  I used to ration it like water in the desert from one month to the next just for survival's sake.  I just took half a pill, and am hoping it will take care of the little knocker I've got going on right now.  Today's less-than-pleasantries could not be avoided thanks to the fact that we live in a house with one bathroom.

Every so often I get to test the hypothesis that I get a migraine when I skip taking a daily nap.  Yep, still true.  I'm not sure what happened, we all pretty much eat the same thing all the dang time, but for whatever reason our plunger failed us today.  And I'm talking, for all the years I've been alive and plunging toilets, I've never failed.  What the September man?  I'm pretty sure I'm going to be sore tomorrow for my efforts there.  Regardless of my failed efforts, I had a plan.  A plan that would still allow for naps.  A plan that would have worked but for the innards of a certain 4 year old cretan.

I left the house, plunger still in commode, to nab the wee child from school.  We evacuated innards at school.  So naturally almost as soon we got home, Sasha had to "go".  And I don't mean polite numero uno either.  Shoot, if that were the case I could have tossed her outside where Indie goes!  So with lunch still on the table I made her grab her shoes and whisked her off to the Starbucks by Home Depot, where, of course she did NOTHING, but I at least got a latte instead of a nap.  Home Depot made me the proud owner of a toilet snake and boom!, problem solved, clog be damned right along with nap time.  And come the evening, the small pain in my head grows and makes my stomach upset.  At least Emily was migraine-free today, praise the Lord.  And of course, we have a place to...read the paper.

I will look at hope before I go to bed, and pray the half-triptan kicks in by morning.  A whole triptan would make me a zombie by morning, and the kids would be late for school.  Then I would eventually feel so good that I'd end up overdoing it and feel worse in the long run and probably have to take MORE meds.  This is life, with no vice for rescue, in various stages of discomfort, pain and tortue, with the occasional August to remind me to pull hope out of the closet and look at it once in a while.  And in looking hard at hope I remember that we will get through this but to what I wonder?  Perhaps looking at it hard with a steely, often cynical gaze does not intimidate it.  It creeps into my soul just the same.

In more exciting news, my baseball team is rocking September, and also I'm thinking of writing a book.  About migraines.

30 days hath Sucktember

It would be easier to not write sometimes.  Well, nicer to NOT see the numbers all written down together in the same place at least.  At least on my phone the migraine journals are two pages apart, mine and Emily's, and it takes three pushes and two swipes to see all the migraines days that each of us has had in september so far.  September so far, so far to go...seventeen days in and I've had seven and she's had five, FIVE and that makes twelve between us.  But I've just had botox and we've both had colds and the weather's been migraine weather.  Mean.  Mean and uncalled for.  Sucky September.  Stupid September.  School Started, Pestilence Spread, Sky's Clouded September.

But, the botox will soon kick in.  And hopefully our bodies will recall our geographical location and realize that the artichokes adore the fog and the drizzle and get with the effing program.  It could be so much worse, we could live in morbid heat and humidity.  And if I'm going to be toast anyway and cough my head off (which of course triggers migraines) at least I got to play music yesterday, and maintain some callouses in the the ole' guitar fingers.  I didn't get to work on my 12 string like I wanted to, and had to play my old 6 string since my new 6 string needs the action lowered, but hey, no complaints here.  It's really really good to have something to do beside kids and food and ignoring the house.  I suppose not everyone walks around with a pack of 12 guitar strings in their purse.  But I kind of wish more women did.

There's a shortage of women guitar players.  I had one friend in Georgia who plays, and I have one friend here who plays a little.  I have some little cousins who play, and Em is learning the ukeulele.  There was one lady at church who played beside me, but she injured her wrist and is out for the foreseeable future.  I think that's it for female guitar players in my area code that I know, two of them aren't even in my area code anymore, and one is a 6-yr old learning the uke.  Why do women sing, play piano and violin, but not the guitar?  Violin is harder overall to play well, although guitar hurts your fingers more at first and is harder to push down on the strings, but then you can accompany yourself.  Taylor Swift plays guitar, Bonnie Raitt plays guitar, why don't more women play guitar?  Carol King plays piano...Hmm...

Music is good like laughing.  Probably the best prescription for me right now would be to sit around with some good friends, laugh, and play music.  The lovely intangibles.  You can record both laughter and music, but you can't bottle it to pour it on yourself.  It has to happen.  You can't purchase community.  Even with enough plane tickets,  you can't buy the day in and day out of your lovely friends from afar.  September may still be Salvageable.  The numbers would suggest that the last half of the month COULD NOT POSSIBLY be as bad as the first half.  And I have some lovely friends here I may yet get to spend time with, if not rock out with. (pardon my prepositions) Awesome August, Salvage September.  Ready, go.

Dog Fart Rehab

Our water smells like dog farts tonight.  It smelled like dog farts last night too, but I thought that was just because the dog was exceptionally farty, and I was having trouble shaking it.  My Mom says that the fields smelled like dog poop on her way to work yesterday, so who knows?  More like who wants to know.  Poop salad capital of the world.  It doesn't help that the dog is brown, poor kid.  I don't fault her for being farty, it was us who let her lick the leftover bean juice off the plates.  But who likes washing their hands in dog-fart-water?

At least it's only at night, and honestly it's better than when the water smelled like dead cat at night And in the morning.  We kind of have crappy water.  A Brita filter doesn't take care of it either, it has to be a Pur filter.  Once years ago when we were still using a Brita my Mom didn't think I could tell the difference between filtered water and unfiltered, so she filled up the jug with UN-filtered water.  When I came home from school thirsty, filled up a glass and took a nice big drink, I practically spit all over the kitchen before exclaiming, "What did you do, fill the jug with sink water?!?"  My Mom was surprised and delighted and replied through her laughter, "I didn't think you could tell!"  I hear the Espinozas have a mean streak, but I swear I get it from both sides.

Emily gets it from the cosmos by osmosis or something.  Not that she doesn't get stubborn and willful from every side plus the dog or anything, but being that she's really smart too, just makes it worse.  And boy, is she going through a spell.  School has improved greatly, but the primary caregiver gets to see the worst of the worst, and it doesn't help when the primary caregiver is having a minor botox meltdown.  Hehe, it's not as bad as it sounds 'though.

I overdid things last weekend for Sasha's birthday party, hoping I'd be ok since my whole month of August was so amazing!  Well, apparently I'm not Superwoman just yet, nor am I Geniuswoman as I forgot that as it was the week Before botox, all the previous botox would be completely out of my system.  Yeahwhoops.  So not only did I have to take regular attack-the-migraine meds for a couple of days, I also had to take the don't-drive-when-you're-on-these migraine meds, which I haven't taken in a few months.  Then I was wiped for a few days after than, then I got botoxed on Thursday which usually triggers a migraine.  Now for the good news: Although my head did hurt some later that day and the next,  I didn't even have take Aspirin for it, I just yelled at the kids here and there!  Now for the bummer news: While crawling out of the pit that is my life after fighting several days of feeling migrainey and exhausted, I got overwhelmed by the perpetual clutter of the house and the responsibility of constantly having to make alternative safe food for my kids just to participate in society and about lost it in the kitchen.  I seriously wanted to pick up every dish in the sink and smash it.  Instead I hid in my room for a while.

Food still pisses me off.  This is only the beginning of the 7th month that we've been eating Wheat and Corn/Corn Product free, on top of already being Peanut and Tree Nut (et al) free.  AND, today I discovered that the new bag of powdered sugar I used in my last batch of frosting has cornstarch in it, vs the previous bag which had tapioca starch.  I blame Mom who bought it, but also myself for not reading it before I used it.  (Different brand, stupid mistake) But, Sasha didn't die.  Clearly, she can tolerate small amounts of cornstarch vs cornmeal.  But I still get mad that nothing and I mean not a damn freaking thing is easy.  The soap company owes me a gallon of castille soap and is dragging their feet since THEY sent me the wrong product in the first place, one company that sells nut and gluten free products no longer has free shipping on Amazon, and there's another damn food activity at Emily's school next week.  But the cookies I made for a birthday party today turned out well, and were 100% organic, so bonus.  Of course, Emily stopped getting migraines, Sasha's hair stopped falling out and she stopped getting hives and crying all the time and waking up with new scabs every morning, and for the first time any med of any kind is working for me and these are my trophies!  Shoot, any ONE of them would be worth it!  But sweet Jesus...

If you've ever been any kind of sick for a long time, you know that getting better is hard work.  That's why there are long-term care facilities,  rehab, and support groups.  Every time I get a migraine, life backs up and I have to do serious recon when I start to surface.  I need a migraine rehab support group to remind me that migraines screw with emotions, and just because I start caring about life again, does't mean I'll be able to magically handle everything at once.  I need a "single mom with heinous migraines with kids with opposing food allergies" support group to remind me to feed my kids and not kill them. I swear, this is all a part of getting better.  Amazing August, Slow Start September.  One thing I do know, no more beans for the dog.