❝ don't worry, I'll be here when you're awake. ❞ - zoe

✷ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; FLUFF EDITION ( . 01 ) | @overnightheartbeats

❝ don't worry, I'll be here when you're awake. ❞

Even with his comforting words, Zoe couldn’t quite settle just yet. What kind of person invites their semi-not-quite-ex boyfriend to come over after persistently demanding space? Especially so late at night…but she didn’t know who else to call at the time. The only person she could think of was Eric. He plagued all of her thoughts, every morning, noon, and night. “I’m sorry…” she murmured, her fingers fiddling with the duvet, her eyes fixated on the broken clock ticking out of time on the wall. A loaded statement coming from her. After realising she never quite finished her train of thought with her apology, she cleared her throat awkwardly, a sigh escaping her lips. “Sorry for…” The words caught in her throat, like something was fighting her, weighing her tongue down heavily to stop herself from blurting out her pathetic apologies: Sorry for hurting you. Sorry for being the way I am. Sorry for ruining us. Sorry for all…this. Sorry for it all. Sorry for everything. “Sorry for getting you out of bed at this time for something that was nothing after all that messing around.”  

It was embarrassing, really. It had been at least two days since she’d managed to get any sleep and it was starting to make her irate (more than she already was) and paranoid. She could chalk it up to several different things but there were several times where she thought she was being followed… and when she came home from a late shift to find the door unlocked, it shook her up. Normally, she was ready for a fight, always ready to defend herself (something she could thank her ever shitty ass parents and the people they dragged in and out of her life for before she finally found her escape) at any cost but this had completely caught her off guard. After searching her place top to bottom, including every hidden nook and cranny, all of her hiding spaces and the hiding spaces within those hiding spaces to make sure nothing was removed, she sat there trying to devise her next moves listening to every single sound in the vast quietness and darkness of her home. Her place wasn’t very big, just small enough for the basics, really. It was only her after all. Since being back, it felt way too big. It was eerily silent, and the Eric shaped gap in her life forced by her made it only worse. It felt so very wrong after being accustomed to his place, after she moved in so they could stay together and ensure each other’s safety with the danger stemming from what was going on with Eric’s family. In the dead of the night, that was when it dawned on her - why this could be happening. A distraction, perhaps? If either one of them were in danger… being separated from him… the rush of panicked realisation was what had her scrambling for her phone, his number on speed dial. As soon as he answered, a sigh of relief escaped her and normally able to sound detached in her tone, she couldn’t conceal the concern. Quickly uttering things like ‘I just needed to check…are you okay?’ and ‘Me? Yeah, I’m fine… actually. No. Things really aren’t right around here. Can you come over? It’s okay if you can’t. I don’t even know what I was thi-you can? Okay then. See you soon. Thank you. I lo-See you soon.’ Why she felt the need to invite him over was another question entirely. She spoke to him…He was okay. And yet still something persuaded her to ask him over. A fresh pair of eyes, that’s what she convinced herself of in the end. Someone who wasn’t her…Problem was, there weren’t a lot of people she trusted. As for Eric, he was at the top of the list of those she did. Not that it was a very long list… then again, the list may have begun and ended with him. Even with their relationship tangled in knots, there was nobody she trusted more than she did with him; they couldn’t even come close. As expected, he arrived within minutes, he was here and Zoe tried her best to give him the rundown. The worry engraved into his features tugged at her heartstrings and instantly she wished she hadn’t bothered him. The words she once told him in desperation and anguish bitterly reminded her of the word she’d once inflicted: I’m not a damsel and I’m not in distress. Tonight was proof that those words couldn’t be further from the truth.

It was a relief to see him, to see him up close and real. Not just the familiar voice over the phone, or a text message here and there. It felt like an eternity had passed since she last saw him and seeing Eric again stirred up all of the emotions she tried so hard to burrow down deep inside her. He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping much either. Like he was feeling just as rough as she had. His hair a bit out of place, the shirt he was wearing slightly rumpled up from what she assumed he’d been sleeping - or trying to - sleep in. And yet he was still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

It was like he’d literally jumped right out of bed to see her, which both warmed and broke her heart at the same time. How willing he still was even after everything she put him through. In the dead of night, they had a second look around to make sure nothing was out of place or that nobody happened to be lurking around. They searched every room from top to bottom, two pairs of eyes on everything this time. When they were both satisfied that all was well, and that maybe Zoe was running on fumes due to overexhaustion and that maybe - though Eric never explicitly stated it - she was well and truly paranoid. Which led to this moment, Zoe sitting up, her body under thick blankets with him perched at the edge of her bed, close enough she could reach out and touch him but it wouldn’t be enough. “I just feel like an idiot,” she muttered under her breath, “Getting you out of bed in the dead of night for nothing but to prove that I’ve finally lost it and...” Finally, she looked at him, rushing her words out a little before he had the chance to reply. Judging by the look in his eyes, he disagreed with her, about being an idiot at least. She shook her head in silent protest, a sigh combined with a yawn escaping her lips. Funny, how despite everything, they could still have a conversation without words. 

That was the problem though, wasn’t it? When words weren’t involved, they could communicate perfectly. It was just words that were difficult. But not even that… the problem was Zoe’s inability to handle problems like a normal person. Her problem was not being forthright and as open as Eric had been with her. And immediately jumping to the defense over the smallest thing, which inevitably landed them in their current predicament. Which was why she was trying to sleep - and failing - in her own damn bed and not his/formerly theirs anymore. At a loss of anymore words, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him, like he might evaporate into thin air the second she averted her eyes. Even though he literally just promised her he would stay until she was awake. He deserved so much better. Those wretched thoughts of self hatred racked her brain once more, begging to swallow her whole. It was like trying to walk through the fog but never reaching the clear. But Eric was like the light that would lead the way, guide her to him. 

“You should sleep with me.” The words were out before Zoe had a chance to word them in a better way. What she said never even clicked until she saw his face contort with confusion, mouth opening and closing a few times like he was scrambling for something to say because he hadn’t expected it either. “Oh. I didn’t mean…” She could blame the exhaustion seeping in. She hadn’t slept in days. That was a perfectly acceptable excuse, right? “I meant…you said you’d stay until I woke up and I know that shitty couch is uncomfortable as fuck from my own experience. You’ll get a bad back, so…” She paused, clearing her throat as her memory brought her back to their last moment as a them, involving a couch - his - and how less comfy hers was compared to that one. Being snuggled up in his arms, his hands on her skin, both love and despair brought on by her own wrongdoing and misunderstanding. The last time she felt whole. Back to reality. “So, um. You’re not sleeping there. I know we’re not…but you can sleep here. Much comfier. Just…take off your shoes.” A slight hint of a smile pulled at the corner of her lips as she shuffled over, pulling the duvet down for him and patting it in an attempt to beckon him. 

It was then, and only then, Zoe felt like she could finally settle down. The calmness his presence brought to her, the sound of his breathing put her at ease and quietened all the noise in her head. She faced him as he settled down beside her, watched how he had no problem getting comfy, but it was like he was somewhat trying to keep a distance. She couldn’t blame him for that, she ended it after all. But instinctively, she urged slightly closer. It was selfish, really, but she couldn’t help herself. Sighing softly, she let her eyes close as she sank down into her pillows, into well needed rest. “Thank you, for being here, for coming here,” she murmured like a hushed secret, like the darkness would hold her secrets close to her chest. “And for what it’s worth, I really have missed you,” she trailed off as sleep called out to her, unsure why the words slipped out but it was the truth. If she’d been less exhausted and more lucid, she probably could’ve stopped herself. It was selfish, it was unfair of her to say this to Eric after all she’d put him through. But it was the last thing she’d uttered before she fell asleep, and by the time she woke up, she probably wouldn’t remember. 

This is the story of my day. It actually starts yesterday, when a heaven-sent rain swept in and cleared the smoke and cooled the air and tamped down the dust on the trails. I went on a bike ride because days like that are a gift. I have exercise-induced hypoxemia, which basically means that my oxygen drops when I exercise for reasons that we still don’t understand. Exercising with oxygen helps, but I still drop into the mid-80s. I knew I was too sick to ride and that doing so would make me much more sick, but I needed it for my mind so I was willing to sacrifice my body.

So that’s the first lesson of being sick. Everyone tells you that you have to be active and it will make things better and all you have to do is just push yourself hard enough. We’ve internalized this message to the point that many people believe sick people could get better if they just PUSHED. But that’s not always true. Sometimes pushing makes you worse. Sometimes it makes you much, much worse. And that can be true even if being active and pushing hard is something you love so much that it feels like it’s core to who you are.

I knew I would have to sleep for 12+ hours to make up for the ride, and I knew that I would have bad oxygen saturation stats because of it. And since I don’t have a real job, it should be easy to just take a lazy day (or week, or month) and get better, right? But actually I do have a real job and that job is to keep myself alive. It’s the job of a lot of us who are chronically ill, and it’s not a profession I would recommend. It’s not fun and it’s not rewarding and no one admires you for it and you’re not asked to speak to 5th graders on career day and you rarely get to move on to a newer, more interesting project.

Here’s what this particular day at work looked like for me. I woke up to a voicemail saying that my pulmonology appointment for Friday had been cancelled. I’ve been waiting to see a pulmonologist since March and was supposed to have an appointment weeks ago, but that was cancelled because the doctor quit two days beforehand. The other doctor in town couldn’t see me until the end of October, so I looked for a doctor in a bigger town hundreds of miles away. She comes highly recommended and in a way I’m happy because I strongly prefer female doctors, but for whatever reason she had to “clear her morning.” My new appointment is five weeks from now. I got off the phone and sobbed, which is not a good thing to do when your lungs don’t work. I probably could have toughed it up and avoided crying if I hadn’t worn myself down so much biking yesterday, but such is life.

I emailed my primary care provider asking for a note saying I could travel with my portable oxygen concentrator. I was supposed to get this letter from my pulmonologist, but now I won’t have a pulmonologist before I travel. The letter has to say that I use oxygen for sleep and activity, but it also has to specify that I won’t use oxygen on the plane. Which is a little funny because airplanes have extremely powerful oxygen-producing systems for emergencies, but they don’t like people who need oxygen because they don’t like the risk that comes with having sick people on board (think emergency landings). So people who need oxygen all the time need their own oxygen concentrator and battery power for the equivalent of 1.5x the time they will be in the air. I’m going on an 8-hour flight and it would cost about $400 to get strong enough batteries for that length. So I need them to let me carry my machine, which has lithium ion batteries that are otherwise prohibited. But in order to carry my machine I need to prove that I won’t be needing it.

I have a great primary care provider. I knew she would write the note. Easy peasy.

My next voicemail was from the specialty pharmacy that my insurance provider uses for certain drugs. I am allergic to a hormone all women produce as part of the menstrual cycle. This allergy is so severe that it has been responsible for 5 miscarriages, and it also means that I’m more miserable than usual for half the month. The good news is that all you have to do to stop it is take out your ovaries, but when you do that you go into full menopause. Which is not desirable because it increases your risk of cancer and osteoporosis and just overall mortality. Like not even from one thing. Just people who go into menopause early die early from all causes and we don’t know why.

That gives you some perspective on what the benefits have to look like in order for the cost-benefit analysis to still auger in favor of ovary removal. But since it is such a serious choice, you have to be sure. And the way you make sure is to stop your ovaries from working with a drug. The drug has hideous short and long term side effects, so if you feel better while taking it, that’s a pretty strong sign that an oophorectomy is the choice for you.

Approval for me to receive this particular drug was in limbo because the provider accidentally entered the wrong diagnosis. I have, as you can imagine, a lot of diagnoses. Entering the wrong diagnosis in this case was particularly funny because I’ve spent the last 6 months fighting with Blue Cross to get an expensive medicine that helps with my allergies. This medicine (Xolair) is approved for chronic urticaria (hives). It is not approved for progesterone hypersensitivity. I have both, which means I itch a lot for two weeks of the month and itch so much that I want to peel my skin off for two weeks of the month. Blue Cross argued that I wanted the drug for progesterone hypersensitivity. No medical provider said that, but it was the diagnosis they could use to deny the drug. Xolair costs $4000 a month. At that price it’s worth it to them to grind people down and hope they give up. It took four appeals and my lawyer (husband) to get the drug approved because I do indeed have chronic urticaria. It’s worked wonders for me, especially being allergic to the sun. You have no idea how easy it is to descend into madness when you are itchy all the time.

I went over all this with my new OB. I explained that, while the allergy shot solved the itching, it didn’t fix any of my systemic problems, which is why I was still interested in removing my ovaries. And because the conversation focused on how this ovary-suppressing drug (Lupron) specifically wasn’t for urticaria, it’s perhaps not surprising that she accidentally listed urticaria as the reason for the prescription. It’s like when you’re afraid you’ll mispronounce someone’s name. You tell yourself, “Say Kee-a, not Ky-a,” so many times that you’re basically guaranteed to call the person Ky-a.

So my ovary medicine was denied, of course, but I contacted my doctor’s office last week explaining the problem and they were very quick to apologize and resubmit. I returned the call from the specialty pharmacy but apparently they had just wanted to let me know that they were sorry for the delay. It was very polite of them but maybe didn’t require a phone call.

Then I got an email from Blue Cross Blue Shield. I logged in to read that coverage had again been denied (no reason stated) and that if I wanted to appeal the decision I would have to appeal through their specialty pharmacy. They gave me the name and number. Of a different specialty pharmacy than the one I had been dealing with for the past month. The one that I had already wrangled account numbers and diagnosis codes and special customer service phone lines out of. I typed up a polite response inquiring why I need to change pharmacies. And then I cried, but only just a little this time.

Then I called Walgreen’s because my medication for muscle spasms had been delayed and I received a note saying the pharmacist needed to speak to me. I am hypermobile so my connective tissue is just a little too bendy. My joints slip in and out all the time and my muscles have to overwork to hold my body together. Frequently they overwork so much that they lock up. This happens much more frequently in the progesterone-dominant phase of my cycle. Physical therapy is the best treatment, but sometimes I need muscles relaxants before I can even start physical therapy.

The man I spoke to at Walgreen’s told me I didn’t have a prescription for that drug. Then he told me I had a prescription but it had expired in March of 2020. I knew that wasn’t true because I hadn’t used it for years but had to start again when I got COVID. So I had no prescription in March of 2020 but I definitely did in March of 2021. No big deal. Just a simple computer error. Totally understandable in a pandemic, and I knew my doctor would refill it anyway. But he apparently felt that it was a big deal and wouldn’t submit the refill to my provider. I have no idea why. Maybe he thought I was engaged in drug-seeking behavior. Or maybe he was having a bad day. But he wouldn’t submit the refill. I hung up the phone and screamed. Loudly. Which really is not a good thing to do when your lungs don’t work.

Murry came up and rubbed the spasm out of my shoulder and listened to me vent and offered to be my medical power of attorney so he could deal with these people for me. But he’s the one with the real job that earns real money and when I’m sick he also cooks and cleans and does the shopping and walks the dogs. I may not be any good at the shitty job I had, but there’s no way I’m going to make him do it.

I switched tactics and chatted with someone through the Walgreen’s app. He was lovely and had no problem submitting my prescription for a refill. Easy peasy.

My final task for the day was calling to find out about the status of my CPAP prescription. I don’t have sleep apnea but while I’m asleep my breathing does slow down significantly enough that my oxygen drops (hypopnea). I need a special CPAP that adjust the pressure to my breathing, but it will get me off of oxygen at night. I’m very excited for it.

My insurance does not require prior authorization for CPAP prescriptions. However, St. Pete’s has its own prior authorization department that I guess makes sure you are not lying about not needing prior authorization? This department is, apparently, understaffed. I called my oxygen “rep” to find out how it was going. She very kindly bypassed the prior authorization department and called Blue Cross directly. Blue Cross informed her, as had I, that a prior authorization was not necessary. She could officially get me a CPAP.

Except that there is a national CPAP shortage. So she will try her best to get me one as soon as they get more. Hopefully this month. Even the rare, wonderful people who try to help you are sometimes as helpless as you.

I didn’t cry this time. Crying doesn’t fix anything and I can’t risk losing more oxygen. So I turned to writing therapy instead.

This was a bad day at work, but there are rarely good ones. It sucks to be sick, but I’m smart, articulate, overly educated, wealthy, and white. It could suck so, so much more. Someday I’ll turn all of this knowledge that I never wanted into something that helps people other than myself. Until then maybe someone will read this and know they are not alone. If being sick is your job, I see you. I would give you a hug—or a bonus!—if I could.

I love your writing, it's so good❤ I like that you put so much effort in your works and pay attention to the details) Can I have some headcanons for Liam from Monster Prom when he's making out with his unexperienced s/o for the first time? Something cute and little awkward maybe? (I kinda imagine that despite being very experienced, he can act pretty shy when he's taking a next step in relationship. I dunno, it's just my thoughts). (English isn't my native language, sorry if I made errors)

I don’t know if this is exactly what you wanted, but I hope it’s still okay :) 

Warnings: None

Liam is generally about as suave and romantic as it gets

Most times

Even after having about 400 years of experience, he can still be turned into a nervous mess too, trust me

And when his s/o admits that they’re not super experienced he pretends to be all cool with it, like it’s really no big deal to him

So on the outside he’s just as over the top and cocky as always

But he’s freaking out on the inside???

There’s just something about them makes him completely lose his cool and forget how to form a normal sentence, so how in the world is he supposed to make out with them and not become a blushing mess???

And he’s honestly worried about accidentally hurting them with this teeth???

So he takes things really slow, for both his sake and theirs. He doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable since they’ve never done it before, and rushing things would make him lose his “suaveness”

He’s very gentle and soft in general. Every little touch of his is genuine and conveys all the feelings he doesn’t have the guts to tell them with words

Definitely murmurs all sorts of sweet nothings to them to put them more at ease

They probably make out for the first time somewhere private where interruptions aren’t going to happen

Dim lights, fuzzy blankets, and soft pillows too (because Liam wouldn’t have it any other way)

His hands are probably on their waist or going through their hair because those are generally safe places to hold

And despite how hard they try to stay relaxed and cool, they both end up as blushing messes

But once they’ve managed to get over their initial nerves they’re just being dorks at this point and are messing around with each other in a really innocent way, even Liam

Liam will kiss their neck a little too. Nothing too sexual since they’re not used to it, just playful pecks and nuzzles

He won’t even think about nibbling or anything because he doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable, no matter how badly he wants to

But if they do anything like kiss his nose or neck he starts to blush like crazy

He’ll try to hide it by hiding his face but it’s so obvious that he’s blushing

They’ll probably end up cuddling together when they’re finished, simply because they like being close to each other

Quitting smoking - a ramble

A while ago I posted about my decision to quit smoking. Oh boy, how it has been a battle since that day. After researching on the internet about the best ways to quit smoking, I found that the “cold turkey” method was the most preferred one for a lot of people and so I gave it a shot. If those people could do it, why wouldn’t I be able to do the same?

After five days of no cigarettes, I went nuts. The app I installed on my phone told me the cravings should be cut down to 3 times a day now, but that certainly wasn’t the case for me. I craved a cigarette every second. I got so grumpy and mad, even my friends and family started to avoid me and were careful with what they said to me. I ate a whole fridge worth of food in less than three days and I exercised for at least 4 hours during that same period of time. And yes, I enjoy some exercise, but not in that amount.

One of my dear friends’ birthday came along and I was invited. By this time, he must have regret inviting me, because my behaviour was not really party proof. I knew I was being a pain in the ass, but I couldn’t help but being annoyed all the time. I’m actually grateful he didn’t take back my invitation.

This friend, however, is a severe smoker. He, his girlfriend and his other friends smoke like chimneys. I knew that when there would be alcohol involved, I would cave. So I knew I was going to fail that exact day. I tried to prepare mentally, but to be completely honest with you, I wasn’t really doing a great job at this quitting thing and so I foresaw my failure.

After hanging out with them for about 2,5 hours and 5 cigarettes for each person individually around me, I gave in. It surprised me I held out so long. I felt a battle inside, the monster in me finally went back wherever it came from but my consiences started shouting. I decided to not care that evening. And so I smoked a hell of a lot more than I would “normally”.

The day after the party I didn’t quit again immediately. It took me three more days to try again. But because I like my friends and family, and also it’s very expensive to eat the amount I ate in such a short period of time, I decided not to go the cold turkey way again. So I looked into ways to built down my nicotine-intake more gradually.

Vaping wasn’t an option. I tried to quit by vaping a couple months earlier and to be honest, I enjoyed vaping more than I should’ve. If I turned to vaping again, I would always have to face this high risk of getting back to smoking.

I’m not trying to advertise any product here, but I found nicorettesprays. It’s a spray that contains only nicotine (so no tobacco, or any other of the 400 substances that you could find in a cigarette) and it’s proofed to be very useful in the process of quitting. I didn’t know what made it so effectively, but I sure found out.

First of all, every symptom you get from quitting smoking (depression, hunger, boredom, cravings,...) disappears, literally in a few seconds after using the spray. So I get to keep my friends, yay. Secondly, it is very discrete. It’s small which makes it easy to bring with you, everywhere you go. You can use it inside so you don’t have to go and leave your non-smokingfriends behind or excuse yourself at the table when you’re having dinner with family. Plus, it doesn’t take a long time to use. Talking about a timesaver, especially when you think about the amount of time, at least for me, you spend on smoking. Having a cigarette took me about 5-10 minutes (taking your jacket, going outside, looking for a lighter, etc), while using the spray takes me about 4 seconds.

So you might think; “yes, allright, but now you’re hooked to this spray?” This gets me to my last argument to why I think this spray is actually the best option for me: the feeling I got from cigarettes is nowhere near the feeling I get while using this spray. I don’t feel badass, I don’t feel rebellious. I feel like a silly girl using an ugly, black, weird spray-thing, randomly. In public. Also, the feeling you get after using the spray, isn’t a walk in the park, especially the first few times you use it. Your throat and your tongue get really tingly, which is at least a strange experience to have. I always drink some water right after using it, because I can’t stand the sensation of the spray. As a conclusion to my arguments to use this spray, I could state that this method helps to not be a hungry monster but it simultaneously isn’t a blast to use either.

I’m keeping a chart from how many times I use this thing. I’m determined to quit using it by the end of July, or at least by the first week of August. This time there are no alcoholic parties involved that I’ll have to face, and neither am I going to meet up with friends who smoke, as they are all occupied the next few weeks.

I’m on the fifth day of quitting again. And to be honest, I feel much better than I did on my first, well technically second, attempt. I’m looking forward to spend the money I’m saving, on stuff I can actually enjoy. I already saw improvement in my physical achievements (yep, that quickly) and I see small, but noticeable improvements in my skin, hair and nails too.

For the first time in two years, I actually feel like I can finally taste my food properly. I smell the flowers in our garden again. I don’t feel a slave of the tobacco industry anymore. I don’t feel stressed about when I’m going to have a chance to smoke anymore. I don’t smell like I haven’t taken a shower in five days. I’m starting to have this blush on my cheeks again, as where I lost that for a long time. I looked dead compared to how I look right now, even after this short time of quitting.

Quitting smoking is a journey and there is no “right way” to quit. Whatever works best for you, you should try. There is no golden medal for those who can do it cold turkey (although I secretly do have a lot of respect for them) as there is no punishment for doing it at a slower pace. We’re all different in how we choose to fight our battles, but we’re fighting for the same purpose, at least in this case. It doesn’t matter if you fail, it doesn’t matter how long it takes you. You have nothing to prove to anyone. It all comes down to this one goal; taking back what was yours. Your freedom, your health, your money eventually, your power to be independent from this destructive behaviour. It doesn’t matter how you get here, it doesn’t matter when you succeed. It’s when you took the decision to quit, that you’ve already proven to be strong.

A Chinese expression -at least I think, I don’t remember where I found it, it might be facebook but to hell with it, I found it to be inspirational- says that it takes you six times to fall down and seven times to get up to succeed. It all comes down to you not giving up. Doesn’t matter how much you struggle, I know you can get there as I know I can get there if, or rather when, we find the courage to keep fighting.

I’m sorry if this post contains a hell of a lot writing errors. English clearly isn’t my native language and I apologise if this disturbed you.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

9:25 a.m. - 37 now to drop by night into the 20's - strange weather - strange angry people - my experiences with Israelis - born there called Sabras - which I think is a thorny tree - they are citizens of such an unfortunate country - combative - yes, nasty - I remember Israelis in Geneva to whom I gave a floor polisher that I had bought when we came there by mistake - I understood it was for a trial period but then the salesman clasimed I had bought it and my lawyer friend advised me, not worth fighting about - very occasionally it was used to bring our lovely parquet floors to a high buff - and when we were leaving I offered it as a gift to Israeles, who gruffly said, bring it, I had a car, I brought it to them, only to get a couple days later a nasty call - this is a piece of shit, come and get it. I did go and get it. Obviously remember it 60 years later.

So this latest Israeli - probably a menace - I will not even mention him by initials - did something really nasty that I will not take the time to detail - I did get angry with him and said a few words a lady might not have said, wrote a letter of apology - today I meet him - we look at each other and finally he says: I will never forget. I just wrote to him, reminding him of my letter of apology and saying - never forgive - and so be it.

Our first encounter was years ago when he remarked on the sandals I was wearing on a chilly day - later we met again - he never had much time for me but rushed up to the young waitressed to hold them in long, loving embraces - I did comment occasionally, but they told me they loved it. Well, when I was a waitress at 21 I would not have tolerated being squeezed at length by customers - though I did succumb to the charms of the young man who had started at the hotel as a dish washer and risen to the rank of assistant manager. Three years later he married me - a story I have written about. Also did succumb to the charms of the much older Alex in Paris. Never accepted casual squeezes from men. Some of me is a feminist. Women don't go up to men and casually squeeze them - or perhaps there are some who do. Enough of the topic. I never have.

Once again a proof how words can effect people - obviously his few unpleasant words - revenge! - effected me - glad for my blog to deal with it.

I had wanted to mention yesterday my feat of the day - reaching within a couple of minutes a very pleasant represantative at Verizon - this phone company that is fleecing us and loathe to do repairs, telling us the copper wring has become too expensive and we should soon forget land lines. In my pocket my cell phone - trying to get used toit before I get too old and also before landlines will be declared obsolete like so much else. I feel obsolete. For my cell phone and ipad that I still have not learned how to use - now AT & T is fleecing me - who, when I moved in with Paco in 1973 charged for his wall phone that he used very little - $12 a month.

I don't study bills often enough - did study my Verizon bill - unbelievable how many charges there are - had contracted with them when they offered for $17 a month forever permanent wi-fi connection (my sons in Massachusetts pay a small fortune for their connections that are not even reliable) - and I was reluctant to disconnect until I got a new computer - still working on it - because I might not be able to get it again - look at my bill and suddenly it is $24.99 - then I see two $8 charges that are nebulous - look at the five pages of the bill, no phone number to call. Find one in an old address book. Of course get a machine - by the time I say payment I get: I don't understand you - machines cannot deal with accents - I keep pressing 0 and lo and behold on comes a polite Jerry - tells tme the phone company noticed their error in billing me for wi-fi and will give me credit in two installments - one $3 and one $5 (they don't let go of money easily) - one $8 charge unnecxessary - the other were I to stop paying it would block my phone for long distance calls - now I mostly use the cell phone with unlimited calling in the U.S. (don't know about Canada) - and when I call Europe I use a prefix - but still want to be able to use phone for the occasional long distance call - like when cell phone says: call cannot be completed. Still, the amoiunt of money I pay every month for "communication" is absurd, many many many times the $12 a month we paid for the phone on the wall in 1973.

I try to explain to the anti-blog friends why I need a blog - last not least - they never answer their cell phones - in no way willing to listen to my trivia of the day, as this here computer is. I decided one great virtue of French Christine was answering calls promptly - the Aristocrat - yes, Christine I do miss you and if calling a cell phone in Paris would not be ridiculously expensive, I would enjoy talking to you. Hope you are doing well. And if you were to send me a snail mail letter - it seems you have given up on the computer - I might answer. Does not seem to occur to you. I am quite sick and tired of the answering machines that promise a prompt reply - a reply that never comes - and also of so many people who anser calls and messages with great delays. I do answer calls and messages promptly - also most emails - part of the aristocratic me. Not always there, alas.

I have come to realize, the longer I make these messages, the less response I get - and I understand. When I used to write long letters people often told me I overwhelm them - they feel they must write a long letter back and so they never write. When I would happen to meet them they told me how much they anjoyed my letter and how sorry they are never to have answered. Of course many of them would write drafts for letters, find writing difficult, only send out a perfect letter - that never came to be. In French: Vive la difference - long live difference, we all are different and that is what makes life interesting - no clones yet.

Today 40 miles an hour wind gusts are predicted - once again - making me reluctant to go out - last not least they make loose - air conditioners? - and what not, fall. I see the sun is shining - yesterday I did enjoy my outing to the Polish church - where first one of the many Poles who like other foreigners have spent their lives in their communities - often happier than I am - and barely learned any English - a not very happy looking woman - immediately vehemently waved me off when I tried sitting down next to her, she was alone at a big round table. My Czech friends in Prague told me I look like an "Americhanka" - that was what I must have looked to her - still of the generation when women got their hair set once a week and carefully kept every strand in place. Later an English woman came - of Slovak background, also every hair in place and she sat down next to her but started talking to me in English. The pay there is $1.25 - a small container of skim milk, a slice of bread with a pat of butter, canned fruit, soup, yesterday 5 pierogi with cole slaw - I took the milk, to use with a canned soup I bought that suggests skimmed milk - the bread and butter and three pierogi and most of the cole slaw home - the woman next to me had a container - I used the dishes it had come in.

It was from the squatters I learned going to churches for meals - I remember being in Vermont, excellent food and being welcomed - so many people love cooking - my friend! - and they do need appreciative eaters. It was my Polish neighbor here who died who first took me to that church - East 7th Street, between 1st Avenue and Avenue A - and yesterday I glimpsed a sign saying that some fund for the elderly is supporting this (Trump will look to it that it gets cut) -  these Catholic churches do have quite extensive properties, Parish housing and extensive basements with full kitchens (the food I ate yesterday comes from some Polish restaurant in Brooklyn) - there are I believe ten large round tables and they are not filled. Mostly Polish is spoken. There are many activities, twice a week Tai Chi - I may check that out.

At the Catholic Worker a lot of food comes from donations and is not as fresh as the food in the church. It is free and "the ladies" are mostly homeless women and some assistance with their problems is also provided  - I would have enjoyed helping with that but it was clearly indicasted - not my domaine. Once I visited a woman in a hospital and was severly rebuked by a Suzette - this woman is my territory, you have no business visiting her. I took the strong hint - though I had askwd Jane for permission and gotten it. More about this some other time.

At the CW there are proper dishes and silver - at the church all is plastic and thrown away - no dishes to be washed. At a Protestant church on 2nd Ave and 7th Street there were dishes and silver ware - an excellent dish washer - dishes on a belt going through it - no endless washing by hand as at the cw - work to be done by people like me.

From the church I took enough food home for my dinner. Then I passed by Weill Cornell where I had gone for physical therapy - so strongly recommended by my fried who has medicaid that pays for it - I got a $93 bill for a useless examination of my feet, neuropathy had already earlier been found - and yesterday I asked, what would co pay be on my physical therpay sessions - and was told the hospital charged medicare $400 for a 30 minute session - I still cannot believe that - sadly Trump does have some points - and since I had no supplemental, as I should - I would be charged 20% - this could come to $80 per session - thank God I've only gone for two and already had cancelled the ones scheduled - no one had warned me - this may cost me $160 plus 93 - 253? - for something totally useless - I cannot believe it - have not paid bills before and gotten endless call from collection agencies and threats and my bank told me I had lousy credit rating - infuriating. I'm glad my GP - who had told me physiotherapy in my case was useless, but my friend who did on medicaid get it for free is such anthusiast for it - it helps some people but I also met a few who have been hurt - I am stunned.

I came home and fell asleep. Too much. Then headed for Washington Square Park - beautiful warm weather, called my sweet grandson who works nearby and who came promptly - he so enlightens my day and is so aware of all the - let's call it bullshit - going on - needs n o explanations - one of the very few people who understands me and treets me kindly - makes up for all the slights and indignities I encounter as the old and somewhat weird old woman that I am - alas he did not have very much time, but every minute was a pleasure - then I handwrote an essay - about anger, rage, becoming a favorite topic - stopped at an exhibit at Grey Galleries, Inventing Downtown - I had stopped there earlier, called my Grandson to tell him about it - it's about the artists who turned the Lower East Side - a poor looked down upon slum into today's East Village - my friend Paco had been one of them and while I sadly never got into visual arts - yesterday read about the great teachers Bush had who now is an artist - also never learned about music, dance - my childhood under Hitler robbed me of a lot - still, I recommedned to him to see it.

Came home to my shot of espresso, some cake I had left, what I had brought from the church - messages to my friend unanswered - read, read, a lot of it interesting - at last an interesting phone call - phantastic things happening - slept fairly well - in the morning my healthy muesli, nyt, coffe and cake for $2.75 at Moishe's bakery, brief talk with Yougoslav woman - and hereI am - 11:15  decision - go to the church - perhaps   adios Marianne: