Recovering from Boxing Day

direct from the perch:

Yesterday, upon awakening, I was informed by the FSM that the Spaz was in a good mood because it was her favorite holiday-- Boxing Day. This is understandable for a joey. We celebrated with leftos and a long walk along the beach. The beach always puts Kaz to sleep.

Funny conversation with K's hubby, who doesn't like the sea. I would like to live long enough to get him in the kayak some day. When you've swum since before you remember yourself, as we say here, and you feel like the sea is better than the sidewalk, it's strange to meet someone who doesn't even want to get his feet wet! The sibs and I can't wait to wash the heat away and race into the water. At the Preveza "Dog Beach" (thus named because I let the dog swim there), I swam in my underwear because I couldn't resist, and the Dapster pulled her skirt up as high as decency allowed and waded around. Kazzie starts swimming lessons next month and we believe she'll take to the water, too, so with so much pressure, maybe her Baba will give in and give it a try on waveless days.

I spoke of leftos. What did we have left over, you wonder? Well, here are some images of the Christmas prep. Nick oversaw the lamb, of course.

G made old village-recipe white bread and several loaves of whole wheat with flour from the water mill. He also drove out to this crazy spring and got the famous spring water which comes straight from Mt Helmos and used this in the recipes. The potatoes also went into the outside oven.
And whoever wasn't on a ton of medication or breastfeeding imbibed spirits from our local organic winery.

Later, Kazzie opened her (monogrammed!) stocking, which Dap and I had ordered from the UK. So, of course, we chose the name! Here she is checking out her teddy bear, which Grandpa Nick hadn't noticed says Sakis Rouvas on the tshirt! K fears Kazzie may enter the mainstream way too soon with such toys. So much for making the poor little thing listen to Kosmos Radio all the time, Mummy.

Our Christmas-day walk to the source of the life-giving smell did not produce the smell, but was otherwise wonderful. The Spaz and I enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. BIL/Baba pushed us far up and down hills and got a crazy holiday workout. Until somebody had to shove my inert self up and down those inclines/declines, I never realized how many there were on that walk!

Tomorrow the men hit the city so George can meet with his surgeon. We will update you if appropriate. The ladies remain on the perch to hold down the fort and protect it from GYPSIES!!! (coming soon)

The ambivalent eye

On the perch, it's hard to tell it's Christmas Eve.

Things keep happening to set us back. First of all, I already mentioned that I got out of the hospital on Saturday. I needed five whole blood transfusions and two platelet ones, as well as a bunch of white cell jabs, a hematocrit jab and a course of powerful antibiotics. Thank the powers that be for the "collar bone mega multi-mainline", which prevented me from having to have a little annoying catheter in my arm to worry about having break. My poor veins are sick of being insulted, too. How would the docs like to be called slippery, weak, nonexistent, collapsed or, worst of all, too small???

Anyhoo, the morning I was told I could go, G called the Dapster from the rat's nest and told her he had a fever with chills so the two of them decided that he'd spend a couple more days in the capital while she and I proceeded to the country, namely the perch. He could accompany K and the Spaz on Tue morning. That way there would be no danger of me catching anything, which could take me ages to get over. Well, the flu kept getting worse, K delivered chicken broth and staples, then the cough started. WHICH WAS SO BAD THAT IT CAUSED A HERNIA TO POP OUT. WHICH IS NOW THREE HERNIAS! So G is basically over the flu, but a residual cough remains, and he has to have surgery (not immediately, but) sooner rather than later. He's supposed to take it easy-- can't lift or stretch or do anything that could make the situation worse. I blame the pumpkins, but he may blame the fact that he recently had to carry me down a flight of stairs and into the car.

So, on the perch you've got: useless me, who just creates more work for everybody, a handicapped handyman who has to keep being reminded not to do stuff, the mother of a joey who is going through a clingy and fussy stage, therefore severely limiting Mama's mobility, and two senior citizens who deserved to get a little respite this holiday season, but who have ended up doing most of the work. Also a small, spazzie joey. Tomorrow when the B.I.L. arrives, he's probably going to get assigned a few tasks...

Anyone would think we had been gazed down upon by the hugest evil eye ever to open. HOWEVER, at yesterday's bloodtest I was allowed to go home for Christmas instead of being kept in the ospedale. George is going to work with the wonderful Dr. D, a good friend who is going to perform perfectionist surgery and keep the cost as low as possible in the city's newest hospital. Kazzie is allowed to be fussy sometimes because she brightens up our days and provides me with life-giving energy and a reason to keep fighting. K loves the Spaz even when she's being an insane crankypants, so no worries there. The (grand)parents may stay fit and young-at-heart if they have to work hard...

As long as he doesn't fling himself about Top-Chef style, G can cook. Tomorrow's menu includes lamb on the spit, overseen by Nick, of course, fresh bread in the outdoor oven, lettuce and cabbage (salads) from the garden, twice-baked potatoes and pumpkin pie with Nick's pumpkin. K and the Spaz managed to fit in a recipe of mellow-macks yesterday while the rest of us were in the city for my tests.

Also tomorrow Kazzie and I will take our Christmas constitutional in my new wheelchair. I finally gave in and rented one so that I can take long "walks". Right now my legs can get me to the bathroom and back. In the chair the possibilities are endless! In order to keep the style as slim and mobile as possible, we got the kind you can't push yourself. So, I will sit regally in the chair with Kazzie in my lap. We will gaze about at the scenery. Someone will push us along. If this person is moving too slowly, we will call out, "Faster!" If we want to turn left or right, we can simply indicate it with the wave of a hand. Tomorrow our destination is the source of the life-giving smell, towards Katholiko village. Today we practiced on the balcony.
Tomorrow we won't be wearing pj's, that's for sure. And because it's been a while since we've graced you with a Kazzie/Auntie's thighs shot:

Kazzie and I are considering switching our dog choice to Newfie, the gentle giant, for a number of reasons. Of course, the purchase of a car will have to accompany such an adoption, because I don't think they allow 70-kilo dogs on PT. So the financial aspect will have to be worked out. All assuming I get well, right?

I've decided that my upcoming controversial post will be about gypsies. I'm sure there will be a good number of you who will disagree with my opinions. Some of you will be driven to comment.

Well, I wish all celebrants a merry Christmas and let's hope I get another one next year to wish you the same! Be well, be good to each other, do good and selfless deeds, smell the roses!!!

BITE ME!

Actually, Dec 17
Hi, it's me, Barney, that annoying, huge purple beast that toddlers love and parents want to kill. I know you think I was arrested for child inappropriacy or some such disgraceful situation, but no, I write from the ospedale, resplendent in my purple coat. "But, Barney, aren't you supposed to be jolly and fully porpherus, rather than a grouchy, pitiful sicky with huge violet patches up and down your flabby arms and legs?" "Bite me."

Dear Dr P:
You are a sweet guy. You are knowledgeable and attentive. You don't mean to test my pain threshold on a daily basis and cover me in ginormous purple bruises. You certainly don't mean to break my veins and subject me to weird thrombosis treatments including aluminum water (?!?) held in by a giant diaper. However, this is what you do. I politely request, with all due respect, and with your needle at a distance, that you BITE ME.

My niece sends a spazzy threat and a two-middle-finger salute (half the peace sign, as G would call it) to the next person to treat me rotten. So there!


When do you officially become a certified vromyar? If your nose is partly clogged, and you can't smell yourself, does it count? If you're visually tidy, but bodily stinky, does it count? If your family is too nice to tell you you're reeky, does it count? Just wondering for academic reasons...

I will spare you the details of last week, when I sat about the perch with what turned out to be a hematocrit of 12. Are you familiar with those rubbery, jelly-like, amorphous toys sold by the Pakis in Monast? You slam 'em on the ground and they spread out with a plop? 'Twas I. Also, almost no platelets (cause of 2-day (!!) nosebleed of which you really don't want the details), almost no whites. Turns out the mustard is eviler than we thought.

The handyman has agreed to do some guest blogging as soon as he thinks of a good topic. Hopefully he will also address the existence of photos such as the following:

Is this just an innocent fitness planning chat, or is it part of the attempt to usurp my favored status and stage a coup de direction that will shake the very foundations of the KAS? Attention au grisby, Tonton Pierre! Attention au grisby!

may be getting out tomorrow...

18 Dec
Update: got out. Todo bi. On the way to the perch. Περαστικά, G, join us soon. Bring sis and Precious P.

Greetings from the perch

From the perch, on the new mobile internet stick, which is a bit slow, but it's pay-as-you-go, so the best solution for now...

The walls of the rat's nest were starting to close in on me. It's sunny for at least part of every day here, but the sun isn't hot enough to come through the awning, and if we raise the awning I feel very exposed, because the building that used to block the view of my balcony from the next street got torn down and replaced with a parking lot. So I decided to escape to the perch for a few days, to be joined by the handyman, K and the Spaz on Tuesday.

In other news,
'twas with great pride that I listened to the super-duper tile guy praise the tiles I had gotten for the bathroom floor and walls. Porcelain tiles (white on the back instead of ceramic-colored), great quality, from the discount tile place. (Also, the rat's nest bathroom is really small, so in any case, nothing would have broken the bank.) (Except these amazing little ones made of real stones with a few glass ones, costing close to 500euros a square meter.) So apparently one of the reasons these tiles are so great is that they're really hard, which was proved when I broke every single one of my drill bits trying to put up the towel rack. Oh! Also proved Thursday night BY MY FACE!

One a.m. I was writing a delicate email and really wanted to finish while I was inspired. Mom, however, had gone to sleep. The Princess of the Fake Orgasm started up. She had been active throughout the rest of the day (including common silence time (siesta)), but I had decided that I wouldn't do anything unless she actually woke me up. But it really pissed me off that she would wake up my mom, so I got up from the couch and headed to the kitchen to get a frying pan to bang on the wall. Head rush, dizziness, jelly legs, face crashing into the bathroom floor (hadn't made the turn into the kitchen yet, but that "mosaic" marble is probably not much softer than porcelain.) Question: When other people fall, why do they catch themselves with their hands, while I fall, quite literally, flat on my face? Actually, a little more to the left, because that is where the forehead and chin goose eggs are, as well as the dark purple bruises that make me look like I have an off-center BLACK goatee.

I know that you think, especially those of you who have known me a long time, that I exaggerate here, because I want to make a good story. I am capable of exaggeration, but here I am not exaggerating. No amount of concealer is going to cover this up, and with only around 2,000 whites, I will be extra freakish for a while. Maybe on Friday, when I have to go to the city for my blood tests, I'll wear a mask. That way, I'll look like I'm being cautious, and will not get chastised by the docs. I'll already be in trouble because I was supposed to tell them if I got a fever, but I knew they'd check me in if I told them I have had a low-grade fever every day since Wednesday. I don't care because I sometimes have to feel like I have a little control over my life. If I had real control, of course, I would kick my blood's ass and make it do my bidding! I am missing my scheduled chemeo because of my low platelet count. I was supposed to have my next therapy tomorrow, but now it'll be next Monday at the earliest.

In other news,
Kazzie is gifted. Besides knowing how to instill people with healing Kazzie power, she can now roll over! The fact that she can roll over on K and B's mushy-gushy padded mattress means that on a nice firm mattress (like mine on the perch and in the rat's nest) she should be able to do cartwheels. Also, she can speak! If you can't understand her magical language, that's your problem, but she has become quite vocal.


I hope you're not friends with K on fb, because she seems to have gotten a jump on me with this news!!! With the same picture! That day at the rat's nest, Dap also got a pic of K and the Spaz, with me in the corner, stuffing my face with pickled peppers! I'm glad K didn't post that one, and I'm sure not going to! Here the Kaz is mesmerized by a papier maché cat, gifted to me years ago by fantastic student, Lina Banana. I am holding her and absorbing Kazzie healing power and anti-fever power! This may be the last pic I post from the perch because it took about 30 min to upload with the new stick. A bit slow, you see.

Starting with a piece of open correspondence
from the
Rat's Nest
to
my new neighbor,
who gives new meaning to the word, garçonnière
or, rather, revives its true meaning with a feminist twist.

Dear Princess of the fake orgasm,
In case you care, the wall that separates my slumbering head from your ear-splitting cries is exactly one brick, two licks of plaster and two layers of paint thick. Actually, I think you might have just a touch of the exhibitionist in you, so you probably don't care. What about this: despite his ugly, ill-fitting-jeans swagger, loverboy (I won't say boyfriend because when the two of you aren't having the loudest sex in the neighborhood, you're fighting at top volume) must be a tad inexperienced, because he thinks he's actually bringing on your repeated, bad-porn-flic-inspired, perfectly-synchronized-with-his orgasms.

I do not care what you do in the privacy of your own home, but waking up a poor, pitiful sickie 4 times a night is RUDE. I will not complain about what you do during the day, which seems to be fun or funny, because your cross-between-Janice-from-Friends-and-Nanny-Fine laugh (this is absolutely NO exaggeration or misrepresentation) echoes through your flat and bounces over the balcony divider to make my ears ring. But party on with that.
Yours truly.

Friends, I hope you know that I am not a prude. The young woman who lived in that flat previously was in a committed relationship the whole time she lived there, and I only overheard intimacy a handful of times. This is understandable in an apartment building with the kind of walls I described above. The new chick is out of control. Last night I slept with a big wooden spoon next to me so I could bang on the wall if they woke me up again. Luckily, I didn't have to use it. Loverboy also smokes in the hallway and the elevator, which really bites.

I told my mom they're going to have to tell me their safe word, too. I'm not really joking about this because the first time they woke me up the other night, she was screaming, I don't want to, I don't want to. In my slumberly confusion, I imagined myself going over there and offering to take her to the hospital to get her rape kit done and then to the police station to file the complaint. The follow-up sounds convinced me that this would not be necessary, but I did have a little scare.

[Confidential to Zo if you're out there: I should send her to your place for a couple of days to really blow that ground-floor witch's mind. The old bat would seriously end up in the loony bin και θα ησυχάζατε εσείς επιτέλους.]

In other news, I had my first outing in months and months yesterday, when Jiora came in the big black SUV to rescue me from the confines of the rat's nest and take me for a cup of coffee on the beach. Brilliant waves, bright sun! Don't be jealous, Chicagoans-- at one point I did need to put on my cotton cardigan to keep warm because it was a little windy. I should have taken some pics but totally forgot. Anyway, they would have been on my old mobile, which doesn't have good resolution, nor do I know where the cord is to upload them to my computer, so it's all moot, I guess, or mute, as Dappy's favorite coworker used to say.

Sickie update is that although they have put me on the 28- rather than the 21-day program for the new mustardy chemo, doing my next dose on time would put my tanking, bad-blood days right in the Christmas holidays. Since I am planning on being on the perch and, even if I were in the city, staffing in the ospedale will not be up to its full complement, we are scooting me up to this Wednesday (rather than the following Monday) as long as my blood work is good on Tuesday.

The biggest things I have to complain about these days are, in order of annoyingness:
* jelly legs/no power
* bad cough
* hoarseness/no voice
The latter two are probably because of the pressure of the tumor on various internal organs and workings. The top one is probably left over from the summer's Vincristine, not helped by the cortizone.

I struggle a lot with the ideas of optimism and hope and positive attitude. Everyone says that it helps to be positive and believe you're going to get well. I was like this the first time, before my relapse. But I have been disappointed so many times that now I wonder if it's worse to be hopeful and get let down than it is to be realistic and objective until I get some hard facts and results. On Friday I asked one of the residents on my team if they had seen anything on my previous (4 days before) x-ray to explain the cough, or if there was fluid in the lung or anything like that, because the cough really is annoying. He said there was nothing worrisome (cough-related, because obviously my big-ass tumor is front and center on all my chest x-rays), but added with great caution and reserve (and admonitions of "don't get your hopes up") that the film seemed to show that the tumor seemed to be stable and maybe just a bit gathered-up since the last x-ray. Of course, the impression docs get from an x-ray in my situation is about a hundred times less clear and measurable than a CT, but still...what do I do with this info? Do I let myself cheer up a bit or do I say, hold on, the higher you rise, the harder you fall?

[MAUVIE GUILT TRIP ALERT:] I haven't seen the Spaz in ages (since Thursday), which is probably why I'm settling into a bit of a funk, despite happy pills. If you're friends with K on fb, you will see a brilliant new pic of Kazzie, as joey, featuring my forearms. If not, wait till my next post, when I will hopefully have fresh material.

Speaking of K, she did me a steady (Is that an expression? I think it might be.) on Saturday morning! She and B took Kazzie down to the modern-day agora (as they do every Saturday morning), and, along with their shopping, picked me up some sausage! From a reliable butcher! (Don't ask too many questions.) Apparently the kind with the orange peel, but without the orange peel, if that makes any sense. Now we await barby access to make, perhaps, sausage sandwiches piled high with grilled peppers. You know what I miss from the States? A nice, fresh kaiser roll, lightly toasted. It would be perfect for my sausage sandwich.

I also miss the fact that I know the exact pair of g.d. jeans I want but they are not available in Europe and ordering them from the US (for only 40 bucks--they are tried and true, style, fit, etc, I'll wear them every other day so totally worth it), even if I have them mailed to a friend's house in the States and ask them to ship them to me here, risks customs and I am never taking this chance again. Besides port customs (LIVING NIGHTMARE), airport customs is one of the worst bureaucratic experiences you can have here. Last time somebody sent us something and it got caught up in customs, we almost told them to keep it to spare us the trouble, but it was too good so we couldn't!

Not much else going on around the rat's nest. Happy birthday to Nick who's never going to read this all the way from the perch but I'll sign off and call him now before I forget!

Thoughts about shopping

First, a message from the rat's nest:

I hope all y'all United Statesians had a good Thanksgiving. Here we don't observe it, although I hear that some friends try to keep the tradition going on this side of the Atlantic! If we had been on the perch, we may have made more of it, but probably just for the food, not to celebrate pilgrims and Indians*. Nick has some great pumpkins just waiting to be turned into pie. I got a good recipe for pumpkin pita (pie with phyllo) where you use grated raw pumpkin instead of boiled or roasted. You sautee (actually, sauter) it with onion and add some liquid to soften it up, but also add some sugar and cinnamon. I think this would taste pretty good, especially since the plan is to bake it in the outdoor oven.

Ooh! Just remembered the handyman does fabulous pizzas in the outdoor oven. I will play the sickie card to get some this season. Notice I am not being too good about the salt thing. After 3 no-salt years I am on a salt binge and it isn't pretty. The other night at about two am I craved olives like crazy and downed a couple of dozen lickety split. Then I started feeling guilty and had to check how many calories they have because I don't want to fill up all my loose skin from lost muscle tone with gushiness. But they're not that bad-- less than ten calories each, if I recall, most of it fat but unsaturated. I also yearn for sausage, maybe the kind with orange rind in it, or the kind with leeks, but I don't want to be disappointed by it. I want somebody to tell me at what butcher shop it's clean (okay, I know, but relatively clean) and delicious. Then I will make Nick pop some on the grill (barby). Then I will squeeze tons of lemon on it...mmm...

UPDATE: Orange crop is starting! It's the beginning of months of huge, delicious, free organic oranges from a friend of the perch who no longer picks them for commercial gain. They fall off the trees unless we go pick crates and crates of them! Cannot wait for my first sample of the year!

Anyway, I wanted to share a few musings about shopping and consumerism. Some questions, too. I have often said that there are a lot of people I do not understand. I probably should have taken at least one psych course in college so I could be more in tune with the zeitgeist, or the pulse of the times, or whatever it's called.

So the puzzling thing I'll wonder about now is "Black Friday." Why is it called BF, because all those stupid fucks fighting each other to get into the Circuit City Superstore at 6am trample each other and some of them end up in the hospital, just to get a special deal on a TV two inches wider than the one they have now? So it's "black" because some die?

Huff Post featured some stupid cow who had set up her tent on Wednesday to be one of the first in line. Who was she planning her shopping for? Hopefully not her family, who she cares about enough to blow off Thanksgiving for. I guess she's raised her kids to think consumer products are more valuable than her company on what is perhaps the most important US family holiday.

What is the incentive to go shopping on Black Friday? Are the bargains that good? Maybe they are, and as usual I just don't know what I'm talking about. More likely, you go in for something specific that's a bargain but end up getting sucked into buying so much other stuff as part of the consumer fever, that you spend way more than you can afford and wind up with stuff you don't really want or need. Plus you get filled with rage at the crowds, the lines, people's behavior, the hassled sales assistants, the empty shelves when you finally find the thing you went for (or where it used to be).

Have you ever noticed how on the Super Nanny (Jo Frost US version), the families always live in these McMansions and the kids have rooms full to overflowing with toys? Lots of times the mountains of toys are so high that the kids can't even access the ones at the base and they forget they even have them. (I will not get into the fact that the kids are way more in need of a little attention and discipline than they are another action figure.) Why oh why do we keep buying STUFF? What empty holes does it fill, and for how long? Why do we need to be surrounded by this stuff? What does it symbolize? These days, when I see somebody walking down Ermou, laden with shopping bags, I just assume they've maxed out their credit cards, and certainly don't envy the fact that the lipstick will be long gone when they've paid off the 12th "interest-free installment".

Don't get me wrong. I don't believe we should live in undecorated hovels and wear crappy, torn clothes. But there are limits.

Another semi-related thing I want to mention about shopping, fashion and economics: Here, over the past few/several years, a lot of Chinese-owned discount clothing stores have cropped up. There are some issues regarding their legality, but since I don't know anything about this, I'll let it slide. Their clothing is very cheap in price; also in quality, but a lot of people shop there because they can't afford anything better. If you've ever been poor, you know that sometimes it feels good to have something new, even if it's not going to last very long. My beef is that all the styles LOOK cheap. Jeans with lots of writing on the back pockets and over-the-top "wear and tear" markings. Women's shirts with stupid and incorrect English sayings and sequins. Dresses with super ugly patterns (when you're dying a piece of fabric, it doesn't cost any more to use tasteful colors). Announcement: Just because somebody is poor and forced to shop at your store does not mean that they have no fashion-related discretion. As a result, however, I feel like the difference between social strata is quite obvious (at a glance!). Next Thanksgiving, give thanks if you live within fifty miles of a T.J. Maxx or a Ross Dress Best for Less. Never paid more than ten bucks for CK and BCBG jeans.

PS: Rest in peace VALUE CITY. I will never forget you. All the ignorant people who didn't shop at you and allowed you to go out of business can bite me.

*I know Thanksgiving is about being thankful, not just about sweet potato casserole and Indians and pilgrims. I am thankful that I am still alive because I was told a few months ago that I might not be. I am thankful that my new treatment seems at least to be stabilizing the tumor. I'm thankful that my family will be all together soon even if King Arfur, Prince Jimmy, Princess Kazzie and Sir Lou Reese have to declare martial law on the perch. I'm thankful for absolutely brilliant life-long friends, loving and supportive relatives, and doctors that give way more than a damn. I am thankful that living in this country means that every day includes some sunshine, despite our many problems.

Update from last post

the rat's nest updates,

not about the group spooning (this we can all please forget about now), but the spazzie fitness duo, G and the Kaz.

So I mentioned they are teaming up as workout buddies. I also mentioned the Kaz will kick some butt, especially in the boxing ring and leg "pedalling" events. Also, swimming lessons begin in two months and we are ready to go. She will not go to the snobby posh pool near her house, however. We cannot be a liberal, working class joey and swim in the snobby posh pool!

Do not let her girly appearance fool you in the following pic. This is misleading. It serves to put all competitors off the scent.
Instead, observe the uncensored spazzie gaze, the determined set of the mouth and the disciplined, GI Jane-like (albeit fuzzy wuzzy) hairstyle.

Now I don't mean to completely offend the handyman before his arrival, but it's probably relatively safe because I think he bought his ticket today so there's no going back. So here's a pic lifted from a newspaper (won't say which for reasons of self-protection), showing the pumpkin artist formerly known as Pierre, hard at work. I will say that he at least shaved before carving our president's face into this giant member of the squash family. (In collaboration with another artist/carver, I believe.) But look at that insane head of hair! Check out the generous sideburns! Does this scruffy dude look ready to take on the Spaz?
[Check out the whitehouse blog to see another pic of the finished product and a few more.]

(Also, G, no offense but that lame-o t-shirt does not hold a candle to the pumpkin crew sweatshirt you guys sent me last year.)

I know what you're all wondering: Why do I always pick on the sibs but let the Dapster fall through the cracks, avoiding my rapier nastiness? Well, don't forget that she keeps me fed and prevents the rat's nest from falling into vromyarness. She also deals with all the sickie-related bureaucracy, of which there is plenty. So you can understand that it is not in my best interest to alienate her through this medium. So I am forced to say something positive!

You may know that Dap's mother and sister had long careers as nurses. Dappy did not become a nurse due to chickenshitedness (mine did not come from nowhere, friends), and has sometimes expressed regret about this when we're sitting in the ospedale room and the cool, hardcore nurses come in and do their jobs. K learned to do my jabs (under the skin in the fleshy part of the gut) and has taken care of it, but lately it's so hard to go over to her place or make her drag the Spaz over here, just for the sake of the jab. D tried once but gave up when the medicine leaked back out after she removed the needle. (Needless to say, there is no way that my own well-developed and nurtured-over-the-years chickenshitedness would ever ever allow me to give myself a shot like those diabetes people.)

But yesterday she forced herself to try again and she gave me a painless jab, and repeated the procedure today. Smooth as you like. Perhaps she missed her calling after all. (Plus she likes those little white dresses and caps.)

Keep your hands to yourself

Location: Rat's nest
Condition: Tired but wired
Beverage: Decaf PG Tips
Recently read reading material: Fall Carleton Voice

About which this post is. Not the TSA groping, as the title may have led you to believe.

Don't get me wrong. Carleton was stellar. My only "academic" complaint would be that somebody who worked as little as I did shouldn't have gotten my GPA. My classes could have been a little more hard core, but I think that they had to be dumbed down just a smidge to accommodate for how bad some people's French and Spanish language skills were. Both my "science for dummies" classes kicked my ass, as did Chaucer. I hate the Canterbury Tales and I hate the kind of English they're written in and I think it sounds stupid when you pronounce it correctly. So there.

People at Carleton were cool: nice and smart and liberal. BUT. There was a vibe going around that made me cringe. A lot of people there were way too touchy-feely for my taste. Those of you that know me (everyone who reads this) know that I am not this way. Please do not offer me a backrub, greasy creepy druid. (And please, 4th Hue neighbor, please for all that is holy, do not approach me to participate in the back rub "chain".) Please do not meow at me as you give me a bone-crushing hug, VAXlab dude. (What oh what was I doing "working" at the VAXlab?) I have had to mentally block out other examples.

So anyway, what do I read in the shiny new Voice? Carleton students challenged the guinness record for: most populous group SPOONING! Over 500 students (I think this would have to be about 20% of the student body) gathered in the Bald Spot (self-explanatory name), lay down, and "spooned" with their arms around the person in front of them. This lasted for about 5 minutes. As I say OOOOOOOOOOOOOO-NO, I am also signing it in American Sign Language. How typical, yet how wrong. How glad I am that this did not happen 15 years ago when I could have been there to witness it. Ughety ugh, ugh ugh.

PS: Mac Shack Man

Medical update:
Visual: My gut, not very attractive at the best of times, is covered in big purple bruises. This is thanks to low whites (need for jabs) and low platelets (easy bruising). Some very short hair on my head. Lots of nasty extra skin hanging down due to too-rapid sickie-related weight loss. Crone-like puckering around the mouth. This is ugly.
Mental: Not bad, perhaps thanks to happy pills.
Ospedale: Back on Friday. If I need platelets, I will have to check in, will probably waste the weekend there, miss the arrival of the handyman.
Jelly legs: Check.
Next mustardy chemo: 2 weeks?

Lest you should get the impression from the above that I am limping lamely but surely towards death's doorstep, I include a photo from the KAS archives to prove I am happy (jutting-out chin indicates I am smiling) and absorbing maximum Kazzie power on an almost daily basis! Here we are seen in our viewing station (peanut gallery), from which we watch others do housework. We offer moral support and commentary.


So it sounds like the handyman is going to work one of his crazy detox, exercise, cleanse, whatever regimens when he gets here. He is also going to help me start getting a little exercise myself to facilitate the passage of no power jelly legs to amazing Kazzie-power strength. Speaking of exercise, G and the Spaz, the two of them have decided to become training buddies (G's suggestion, no objection from the joey). I don't know if G will be able to keep up because she is strong. Really strong. And she has been doing calisthenics every morning for the past 16 weeks whereas the handyman has been playing with pumpkins. (Just kidding no offense to the Greatest Glow on Earth!!!)

Let's keep embarrassing the handyman now that we know he reads the blog.
Ya know how I always say things come full circle. Well, my sibs have both been involved in the Christmas light business in the past, and there's a chance G will pick it up again next holiday season. And guess who's gonna be out in the cold on the perch wrapping branches while yours truly sits on her backside drinking hot spiced apfel sapf? (And holding the joey while K gets roped into helping.) Anyway, full circle. The following pic was lifted from the perch and scanned recently.
The handyman testing the lights our first Christmas in Wilmette. Full circle. Don't worry--we got rid of that carpeting as soon as the still-packed boxes were out of the living room.

commentarios

When Lou first started this blog, no one knew the address, so it was kind of like a personal diary which I knew no one read. Now at least ten people that I know read it at least occasionally, but there are almost never any comments. And when there are, it's always the same people (who I love and appreciate). It's like a voidy vacuum that isn't. Granted the things I talk about do not inspire much controversy. But it feels like when Korye and I hosted the radio show "Talk It Up" and nobody would call in. Then I'd meet some random person who would tell me they listened to the show, but we never knew that because we didn't get the feedback.

So I think the solution is to write a very controversial entry which is bound to pull people out of the woodwork. Something really shocking. I will mull this over and prepare for it. Right now I do not know what it could be but be warned that it'll be a shocker...You will be forced to comment. I mean, on fb people say the most mundane things and get like 8 comments. My NJ cuz J says "TGIF" and gets 16 responses. What is up with that?!?!?!

Maybe the answer is to be mundane. And maybe give a little personal info to make it spicy. Here goes:

My least favorite tile in mahjong is the bird. I hate it and try to get rid of the two stupid pairs as quickly as possible. My next least favorite is the black dragon, followed by the red one.

I think the numbers in sudoku have personalities. The 7 is a pilot, and sort of scary. The 6 and 9 are austere, and the 3 is kind of slutty. Will Shortz, you have seriously imbalanced my mental condition.

I sit alone in the rat's nest. All the balcony doors are open. It is really cold but I don't want to close them. I want to hold on to the idea of nice weather a bit longer. My fingers are numb as they stick out of the sleeves of the pumpkin show sweatshirt and try to type.

Fun Kazzie Facts

from the rat's nest,
home of the Auntie,
who, undeniably, gave an interesting (second, unfortunately) name to her niece,
as you will soon read

1) Saint Kazzie was a great beauty and pursued by the emperor of Constantinople. She rejected him for the monastic life so she could focus on her music. She is the most important and prolific female hymnographer in the Byzantine tradition and her works survive to this day.

2) The Kazzie tree is a brilliant plant specimen, with colors ranging from pink to purplish to yellow. It graces tropical climates with its cascading blooms.
It also provides us with:

3) Kazzie cinnamon, a favorite spice around the world!
4) In the Old Testament, Kazzie (Keziah), one of Job's daughters, is a symbol of equality among women.

5) There are three cool Kazzie ancestors in Dappy's family tree!

6) And now a descendant:
Off I go to get my fix as soon as the washer finishes (2.25-hour cycle, which always surprises United Statesians). Speaking of washing, yesterday I had enough power to wash a few dishes and change the cover on a queen-sized comforter. Evil side effects be gone!!!

A long time ago

Reminiscences from the rat's nest,
after a brilliant overnight at the priests' hole (details to follow)

So we used to spend all our summers here, never went to camp, never did the family trips to the Grand Canyon (must visit the GC--I am borderline obsessed with going there), would always hit the Dells off-season. We came to Diak, to our rented flat within walking distance of the beach, turned brown as nuts, and returned to the Chicago environs in time for school to start. We were lucky to squeeze in some time in New Jersey some summers. I remember a lot of bike riding and working on my cousin Nick's bottle-top collection and playing with the other summer renter kids. No organized fun, just summer chaos alternating with summer lethargy.

One year, however, our landlady and some other neighborhood ladies planned something special. We were to have a mock baptism with all the trimmings. And in an Orthodox baptism there are lots of trimmings. The babies in question were a couple of little plastic dolls, which got slathered in olive oil and dressed in little white outfits. There were candied almonds and little crosses pinned on our fronts. We seem to be in our Sunday best, all participating in the ceremony. K (in Mom's emergency black funeral dress) as priest:

G as godfather:

Me as involved onlooker (saying goodness knows what with my hands):
I remember how much fun we had getting ready for all this and how our moms thought it was so cute that all the neighborhood kids were participating, and we took it kinda seriously, too, with K probably reading a real prayer. And now I think back, and my current self and way of thinking kind of taint this memory. I think about conversations I've had about religion in the past few years, thoughts expressed on El's blog and other places, reactions I've had to actions taken by the religious right all over the world. Would I let my kid participate in something like this today? (Had I a kid.) Was this cultural/religious indoctrination or just a bit of fun? Is this just another case of me overreacting and overthinking things because I sit around the rat's nest and have nothing better to do?

Yesterday, during a fantastic and way-overdue visit with Z and her Mom, in our all-over-the-place conversation, I mentioned that I believe in preserving history and tradition. And in this place, religion and history and culture are intertwined to a huge extent. You can't draw thick black lines between things.

Anyway, just some thoughts and old pics.

So yesterday Z and J came to the priests' hole and hung out with K, Dappy, the Spaz and me. 5 hours were not enough to catch up, especially since I have been in social isolation for so long. Dap says she wishes they lived next door and I can't disagree. A few good friends is all you need, as I always say!

Then I went to the little salon and got my wolfman appearance under control. Readers of this blog are surely sick of hearing me talk about hair: loss of it, regrowth of it in various places, etc. But I have to say one last (yeah, right) thing. After the second-to-last chemo, the really evil summer one which had nasty side effects and no results, my face hair grew in like crazy. It took a couple of months (as usual), but it came out insane. My eyebrows were about an inch thick (in width!!!), I had a thick mustache (not with bristly shaven hairs, obviously, but millions of little soft hairs), and beard hairs. I should have taken a picture but it was way too nasty and embarrassing. Mom wouldn't bring my wax to the hospital because I had no whites and she thought I'd give myself an infection somehow and create worse problems for myself.

Anyhoo, eventually I did a half-assed job on my own in order to be able to go out in public without scaring small children, as I'm enough of a shuffling, scarf-wearing freak show as it is, but yesterday I was professionally epilated and this is a wonderful and huge piece of news about something that makes me feel halfway human again, therefore I mention it in my blog. In 500 words or more. So there.

One last pic for those of you who know the handyman. Even at five (?), he knew how to pick out the cutest girl in the bunch and lay on a little charm. (Look how he's holding that doll-- like a baby chick. :) ) Hurry up and get your half-moons over here, G, or I will start calling you Pierre again.

Must sign off because the Spaz is on her way to the rat's nest and I must prepare psychologically to receive maximum Kazzie power. Also I've rambled on long enou' for one day. Hasta Lou Reese to all.

The vast Mediterranean

Oh it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor...
even if you are stuck in the rat's nest.

No neighbors, actually, just wanted to sing that song.

So on the other side of the Mediterranean, in the North African country of Marocco, apparently people like their pictures with some context. Therefore the joey's baba has decided to start taking pictures with some scenery around them, and criticized K's beautiful portraits of the Spaz in this respect. Dappy and I do not believe that Granny F would rather receive this picture:

than this:

but that is why we are not culture experts, alas...
To be fair, today they were going to take the Kaz for a walk and shoot her pic in front of some monuments and ruins. A bit more picturesque than Lola the car.

Yesterday K bought me a peck of pickled peppers (I wish-- just about a pint) for fifty euro-cents at my favorite supermarket (or hyperagora, as they say on skai). I've almost gotten through them, especially since I had about ten with my breakfast. This salt fetish is very strange after a three-year no-salt diet. My chem panel shows low sodium (Natrio) in the blood. Maybe my body just knows what it's doing (kind of a late starter?) and is craving salty foods, like olives and feta and the decadent pickled pepper. Next is tinned sardines. Just kidding. Of course with 32mg of cortico-steroids per day, Miss Piggy face is the price you pay for salt. I'll have to find the happy medium.

Thanks to those who suggested funny stuff. I have downloaded some stuff and done some you-tubing. Keep the suggestions coming, though. Last Real Time (Bill Maher) on Friday till Jan 14th. It was a good one. Love love love Bill Maher.

Laughter

Somebody told K or G that the best thing for a sickie is to laugh a lot. My problem is that it is very hard for me to laugh out loud. Isn't that sad? I think I've been like that for several years, even before getting sick. I can acknowledge intellectually that something is humorous, or smile at it, but almost never laugh. Yes, this is sad. K started me off with an SNL DVD (highlights of the last 25 years) and I have bookmarked internet sites that show funny clips. Again, funny but no laughter.

Then recently I discovered: The only person to make me laugh: Karl Pilkington. He was on the Ricky Gervais Show on the radio and then on his podcasts. Apparently he has a cult following. He is impossible to figure out. He's fascinating-- you feel a little bit guilty laughing at him because you're not sure he's all there. He's funny because there's a human foible side to him. It's hard to describe. It's like the reason why a good practical joke or a good hidden camera trick is funny. It's the reaction to somebody saying or doing something completely unexpected. In this case, you're the one reacting. I also find the quebecois hidden camera show Juste pour rire really funny. Here they used to show it dubbed with music (because it was in French) and it was still hilarious. My favorites are when people get pissed off. (I won't provide a link because apparently the JPR thing has expanded to become a whole comedy festival, so if you google it, you get tons of links to the fest, not the TV show.)

Most people who know me well have heard this story but I am going to repeat it anyway:
One year in high school, I think frosh, I had 3rd period free for a semester, but none of my friends did and I didn't want to go to the student lounge alone and I certainly didn't want to go to the library. (I didn't like the NT library. Unless my amnesia is particularly bad, I'll say I probably went a scant handful of times in 4 years.) So anyway I used to sit cross-legged outside my 4th-floor locker and read or catch up on homework. The 4th floor was shaped like a T and the vertical bar of the T was separated into two sections, with about four stairs you had to go up to get to the "lower" section (which was physically higher, but I'm trying to continue the T analogy). I was near the top of the stairs, so in the "lower" part of the T.

ANYWAY, the point is, one day, I had been smelling something "off" and finally looked to my left. Somebody had barfed at the top of the stairs. I was kind of processing this when the bell rang. Suddenly people started pouring out of classrooms, coming up those four stairs, stepping on the barf and sliding several feet down the hall, on their feet if they were lucky. Some people got barf all over their clothes. A small circle of bystanders started to form (I was further back). But nobody warned the people coming up the stairs, who would potentially slip, get hurt, get dirty, etc. It was just too fascinating and, yes, funny. I didn't laugh out loud, because I have better manners than that, but it was like a slapstick movie come to life, and funny this time because it was real and not annoyingly scripted. Unfortunately, you witness stuff like that live once in a lifetime, and for me it happened when I was 14. I'm not sure what to make of all this, just getting it out there in this post about laughter.

One thing I am almost positive would not work on me is those classes where you laugh fake in the beginning and then you keep doing these various exercises/games and saying, HA HA HA, and eventually you are really laughing. I think I would feel stupid and I think the whole thing is phoney. However, if it works for some people, go for it, as Mer and I used to say.

Irrelevant 1: Gillian Michaels is my hero, and my role model if I ever get well.
Irrelevant 2: Today Dappy told Kazzie she'd got my calves. Way to curse a child, Mom. Well done.
Irrelevant 3: G aka my handyman is coming for Christmas! Have not seen him since May! He's never met Kazzie! Perhaps some progress for the rat's nest is in the works? Of course, Nick has all kinds of jobs lined up at the perch, including collecting the olives (combing the olive trees with a mini rake), decorating the front yard for Christmas, etc. [Last year the rents were slow to decorate, and when people didn't see any lights, they thought I may have croaked, and that's why my family wasn't being festive. Ahh, village life.]

Bonne nuit à tous!

SHOUT OUT TO C.H., MY NEWEST READER, AND ANYBODY ELSE FROM WORK WHO'S STARTED READING. (sorry not to provide better quality)

Spared incarceration

From the rat's nest, yay!!!
Went to hosp today, quickie blood tests, part one of mustardy goodness (trying to be positive here) and *back home* to the rat's nest!!! Another hour-and-a-half treatment tomorrow, then home for 3-4 weeks as long as I don't tankety tank too low. According to internet sources, side effects last the first week only...

Dare we be optimistic, just this once?

I will now go to the place on the green machine where scanned things are stored and try to ready the pics for my upcoming post about a weird religious experience in my past. Teaser: K dressed as a priest.

Oongawa

Back in the rat's nest...
returned from the perch.

Strange psychological undercurrents on the perch. Sir Lou Reese consumed by jealousy and acting even weirder than usual. The joey and cats palpably ignoring each other. The joey identifying and focusing on objects invisible to your and my naked eyes...



Also an excellent visit with a new friend, born four days after Kazzie to very nice and down-to-earth friend E and her partner, the wine master. Cool because I knew and loved both of them before they even started dating, and now they are a brilliant family, including a very pretty little girl. Kazzie and Ch. may become great summertime friends and when they are teenagers we can tease them with this picture. Another meeting is already in the works but basically we must plan for summer! Ch.'s grandfather's house has a private sandy beach about ten minutes from the perch and E's house!



On this same day we stopped at the beach and had a little photoshoot in front of the water. Not one of my best ideas, since Kazzie was asleep and then got a bit cranky when we woke her up. Also I fell down and couldn't get up due to jelly legs! Finally K had me turn around and she yanked me up by my belt loops. I thought I was going to have to live out my days on that beach. I kept thinking of that lady in that medic alert commercial who said in a very annoying voice, I've fallen--and I can't get up! The thing is I'm on a campaign to get some pics of K with her baby so Kazzie doesn't grow up thinking she was adopted from the PIKPA. K is good about getting tons of pics of the joey but rarely poses with her. Auntie usually feels uncomfortable about her sickie appearance (I've only had eyebrows again for the past month). I guess there are mostly pics of the Spaz and her baba.

It was a really beautiful day, though. There were even people swimming further down. November 5, it was, friends.
And now I must ask: Who does this child look like? Who? Even without the almost-bald head. Whose expression is this? Think of what somebody you know looked like years ago, not as a repulsive sickie. Think hard. There is no prize if you guess right because the answer is obvious. The nose may give it away.
[Confidential to El: Aunties of the world unite to shape our nieces in our own flawed but well-intentioned images!]

Now you're wondering: What's up with that title? What is Oongawa. Well, it was G's first "word". Kazzie's was "agoo", but weirdly enough, we think she has also said oongawa. She has never met Uncle G (not that he still says this) so this is very strange. I will continue listening and keep you posted.

Tomorrow it's back to the ospedale to get some blood tests and possibly check in to begin the next chemo regimen: the dreaded mustard gas derivative. No internet in the hospital this time so I may be patchy on my postings, depending on how long they keep me in. Interesting aside: I read that this chemical costs 3000USD per dose in the States and 300USD/dose in Europe. "Food foh thought, food foh thought", as Mrs Guhbuh the sub used to say as she passed around one saltine each.

unrelated to anything

1) I heard something on Bill Maher a couple of months ago that keeps niggling at my brain which must be true but how is it possible? He said that more than half of the casualties (meaning deaths) of American soldiers in the current wars are the result of "friendly fire". WHAT?!?!?!?!?! Is that possible? That is insane and blows my mind and offends me on a hundred levels. [It goes without saying that our even being there and killing women and children and others who didn't invite us offends me more.] It's just that this idea of blundering idiots (or poorly trained, scared shitless kids) on the same side blowing each others' brains out and joining a war statistic is something I can't fit my head around. PS: A medium amount of internet research did not allow me to confirm or deny the statistic.

2) I did not vote in the recent US mid-term election. This is mostly because I didn't get my absentee ballot. Ex-pats are only allowed to vote for federal positions anyway, and I don't think I would have voted for the cuz, so I wouldn't affect the outcome in any case. Also they don't count ballots from abroad unless it's very very close. Also there is the question of whether somebody who has been living outside the country for over 14 years has an ethical right to help make decisions about the country's direction when nothing that happens there really affects her.

That said, in what corner of this universe or any other is the word "Boehner" pronounced "Bay-nor"? Having only read the name but not heard it until Tuesday, I logically called him Boner, with a small reservation that it could be Beaner. But Baynor, no. Sorry. As an avid amateur linguist, I cannot go there. I know you can call yourself whatever you want, but sorry, dude, for me Boner you began and Boner you shall remain.

3) I just ate over thirty black olives. Salty and vinegary binge.

Happy New Month

The Greek Elvis chided me for not having blogged for a month. This is true. However, a fever put the kabosh on my plan to write when I got out of the ospedale the first time. So I was in for two weeks, came out and saw the Spaz ONCE, then returned to the rat's nest and succumbed to the fiery temps. So then the docs made me check back in and I was there for another two weeks. I got a lung infection somewhere, so I had to take several days of VONCON (I like the name of this drug), and they had to wait for my whites to come up (from the high-dose methotrexate I went in for in the first place), and I had a few transfusions to build up my hematocrit and blah blah blah.

I have mentioned previously in this blog that I am a potential nudist. This is because I have no modesty or dignity left, so it would be no big deal for me to walk around naked in front of a bunch of strangers. I have been stripped of all bodily propriety. Case in point is the crotch blood-letting. Never heard of this? Allow me to enlighten you. If you have no and I mean no accessible veins and your collar-bone main line has these tiny tubes that accept fluids but don't give blood, which defeats part of their purpose, then the docs have to take blood from an artery, which they usually try to avoid. Not sure why. They always take from a wrist artery when they want to see the gases. This hurts like I cannot describe.

ANYHOO. So an artery they like to take from (this is not pervy doctors, just regular ones) is near the pelvic bone that sticks out in the front. In order for them to gain access to the area, however, you have to drop your drawers pretty much all the way. Ok, they're doctors, they've seen it all, cool. WHAT ABOUT THE OTHER EIGHT PEOPLE THAT WALK IN, THOUGH? CLOSED DOOR, PEOPLE. The sweet girls who serve the food (for the hundredth time, thanks but no thanks on the rock-hard, completely unseasoned chicken breast and greasy (with bad oil) potatoes), the roommate's deaf mother (nice excuse to do whatever you want and pretend you didn't hear you weren't supposed to), cleaning lady, high-school-aged nurses in training, shall I go on? So when you see my snow-white half-moons jiggling down Super Paradise (over the rocks to other side, of course), don't be shocked or surprised but please oh please don't take any pictures.
Tomorrow I leave for the perch. I will be joined by Dappy, K and...THE JOEY!!! Who is the joey, you ask. The joey is a small baby that spends time in a pouch, has biggish feet (in the right shoes), likes to punch (box), can bounce (in her bouncy chair), and more. The joey is Kazzie!
We will return on Saturday and on Sunday we vote!!!!!!! THIRD PARTY I cannot say this loud enough. THIRD PARTY candidates!!!!!!!! The top two parties have turned us into an indebted, third-world shithole!!!!!!!!

I will still try to write about some of the topics I listed in my previous post. I have to do some scanning on the perch. Until then, my friends!

SHOUT OUT TO FIRST COUSIN, CODE NAME: MAR-MAR, WHO I RECENTLY FOUND OUT READS THIS BLOG.(OF COURSE I NEVER OUT MY READERS BY USING REAL NAMES!)

ELECTION TIME

Back to the rat's nest to say:

It's time to vote all over the world. Here we have municipal elections and...baby elections!!!
Our favorite baby is in a contest and she needs your support!
The point of the contest is to pick the most "zoulouhterό" baby. This means the cuddliest, most huggable/pinchable baby. (Not some skinny toddlers they've got on there who should have been disqualified.)

*THE K.A.S. ENDORSES KAZZIE FOR THIS CONTEST!*

Go to this site and click on Kazzie's picture (bottom row center, arms up in the air: Αμαλία). It's the same photo as above, but cropped.
Then the next page asks for your first name, last name (ok to type in English), cell phone number (make up a 10-digit number starting with 694) and email address, in that order. Then verify and your vote will be counted. K says if they win the grand prize of two large (euros), they will come to the States and visit friends, relatives and sickies!
You can vote once a week, I think.
[K: Write sth in the comments if you have anything to add.]

PS Spent a week on the perch. It gave me inspiration for a couple of good topics to write about ("good" as defined by this blog), including a bizarre childhood quasi-religious experience (here I will include photos), the tendency of things to come full circle (here I have only one picture of G to expose to the world--no worries, very cute) and stay tuned for my extra special Halloween post which will include a seasonal Kazzie photoshoot, pictures from (gasp!) that magical year, 1974, information about The Greatest Glow on Earth and more!!!

8 WEEKS

and counting in the life of the most brilliant niece. I will lift the following photo from the KAS archives (photo credit:FSM):


Remember how (I can say it now) scrawny and puny, yet extremely lovable, she was when she was born? 2.2 kilos, the weight of two bags of flour and a box of baking soda. Now she is just plump and substantial enough. And strong. The recipe for this is: plenty of milk and morning calisthenics.

Luckily K is very good about sharing her baby with Auntie so I don't have to take drastic underhanded measures. Also I am able to manipulate the situation due to my sickie status. When Kazzie is at her pleasant and appealing best, I have her placed in my lap for some conversation. We have tons of plans to make for when she gets a little older. When she becomes an insane crankypants, I have to pass her off because I can't hold her standing up or dance her around because I might drop her due to lack of power. Although she has a pretty good grip so she could probably hold on. But I wouldn't take the chance.

SUDDEN K.A.S. BULLETIN!
IRREVERENCE TOWARD A LOVING AND UNDESERVING (OF IRREVERENCE) AUNTIE!
(The following photo just reached the offices of the KAS):
(I don't believe any further comment is necessary.)

La raquette anti-moustiques

This from the rat's nest:

The Telemarketing people have my vote, folks. There's this thick catalogue with all the wacky stuff you see on late-night infomercials-- all kinds of exercise equipment (tons of weight-loss crap), gadgets, etc. The girl that lived next door kept getting the catalogue after she moved, so I just grabbed it one day. It's fun to look through, kind of like a Miles Kimball or something. Anyway, when I needed a thin mattress topper to cover my hospital bed because my back hurt so bad I started hallucinating that the bars of the bed were pushing up through the mattress, I ordered the brilliant "Dormeo" from the catalogue, and rounded out my order with a great metal LED flashlight for ten bucks (I never really owned a flashlight for the apartment, weirdly enough) and 3 mosquito rackets!!! Delivery smooth as you like in two days, follow-up call to make sure I'd gotten it, additional follow-up call to make sure I liked everything and to thank me for my business. Who does that these days?

SHOUT OUT to my three readers, Rach, Mer and El (age before beauty, El):

So ladies, let me get to the point of the post. Let me take you back 20 years to the N........s back yard in Wilmette. Recall, if you will, the triangle of black-light-lit bug zappers whose musical dzz would accompany any barbeque, gathering or concert of Captain Apathy, eliminating any small winged night creature within a several-mile radius. God, the neighbors must have thought we were so weird. Those zappers were probably our trademark in the summer. Everybody else seemed to follow some kind of cookie-cutter West Wilmette status quo, and I think we may have been the nutters. But I digress.

So the mosquito "terminator" (instructions and label in French!?!) is like one of those bug zappers, except on a stick. You wave it around and kill flies and mosquitoes in mid-air. I had seen one last summer at Eva's and experienced how cool they are so when I saw them in the catalogue, I snapped up three: one for the rat's nest, one for the perch and one for the priests' hole. Kazzie's baba has the racket down to a science and my father is also getting the hang of it. In bed at night, when he hears a mozzie, he just waves it slowly in the air over his head without even getting up. Dolly and I have not had much practice since the rat's nest doesn't get that many mozzies, thanks be. But you know how sometimes you spontaneously give somebody a little present, and you hear they are really getting into it and use it? Isn't that a treat? Especially when it was relatively cheap. Cheapskates like me always get that extra little bit of glee from something like that.

I will close with 4 words: "Savoury Potato Cheese Soup" (Gram's recipe)

It's getting harder and harder

to find spazzy pictures of the Kaz to post. Pretty soon she will have outgrown her nickname but no worries, nicknames are thick on the ground around...

the priests' hole, from which we write.

I had some time with Kazzie this morning, absorbing valuable life-giving energy. In the following photo I am holding up her head, not giving her a right hook to the chops.

Compare the size of her hand, no, the size of her head, to my hand. When I tell you she's small, you've got to believe me. I don't remember what we were talking about and why her expression is so spazzy. I DO remember that we were listening to a Luis Miguel tune. You Trevia folks remember my poster, right?

Jelly legs

I cannot convey how absolutely weird it is, how utterly unnatural, to be in your mid-thirties and not be able to walk across a room, to be exhausted all the time and need to lie down between the simplest of tasks. Looking out car windows, you see people twice your age booking around on sturdy limbs, and you feel envious. It's crazy to read about friends preparing to run marathons and you're wondering if it's time to buy a walker or rent a wheelchair. I don't feel sorry for myself, exactly. Supposedly this is going to pass when the chemicals from the last rounds of chemo (which you've already guessed was ineffective or I'd be partying, right?) wear off a bit more. It's just that this mollusc is not me (I). I don't like or know this person. She lies around while time slips by. She is completely dependent on other people; can't carry her own water glass into the living room...GO AWAY I'M SICK OF YOU.

KAZZIE POWER: ACTIVATE!

This is one of the phrases on my new board of inspiration, a strip of cork my parents helped me (I watched) attach to the back of the bedroom door. I have included pictures of myself when I was well, pictures of my life-giving niece and inspirational notes.

It's worth noting that about a month ago, maybe a bit more, I lost a biggish scab shaped like the island of Krete. I mean it totally disappeared off the face of the earth. I had been so careful not to pick at it and I was really looking forward to getting a good look at it when it finally fell off. It was a remnant of that gaping hole I had left over in my side from the garden-hose sized (zero exaggeration) tube I had leading from my chest cavity to the plastic graduated container which caught all the yucky fluids. So anyway, one day in the hospital I asked my mom to look at my scab and see how it was doing, and she said it was gone, and there was only a scar in its place. We looked everywhere for the scab (bed sheets, floor, etc) but it was nowhere. We didn't really think anybody else would want it...so what happened to it? I think it must have come off at night and when I got up to go to the bathroom, it fell out of my shirt without my noticing, and the cleaning lady swept it up the next morning without realizing what it was. So I never really got closure with that chest hole. I mean I did in the literal sense, but not in the emotional sense. Now sometimes I feel the tug of a phantom scab, like amputees and their phantom limbs. Very strange.

I am now the proud taker of anti-depressants, along with the ten other pills I take every day. When the consulting psychiatrist asked me if I'd like something to boost my mood, I said, Bring it on, it can't hurt. So in about a month or so I will be chipper, pleasant and optimistic. For now, not quite.

Dude it is weird to type with no sensation in your fingertips.

Para la victoria siempre

Somehow the Spaz knew that the KNE festival is taking place these days. The day this particular photo was taken, there was Maxairitsas, Paschalides, Thalasinos and Tsaknis (possibly featuring Cheese Pie Guy). Don't worry, Kaz, we'll go next year. She will be one year and seven weeks old. Old enough to appreciate good music.

Speaking of good music, why is the Kermit the Frog version of "The Rainbow Connection" so lame? Obviously Willie Nelson is superior in every way...

you choose

Would you rather hear about my failed chemo and hopelessness or see pictures of Kazzie?
I thought so.


I apologize that every picture of my niece I post has to include my thighs. I am spending some quality time with the Spaz since getting out of the clink (hospital) yesterday afternoon. The Vincristine leaves me with very little strength so I sit up with my knees bent and sit her up facing me. We have serious conversations, tell important secrets and sing songs.

Our favorite songs:
On Top of Spaghetti
Monster Mash (without the scary sound effects at the beginning)
Back to Back, Belly to Belly (Zombie Jamboree)
Hokey Pokey
Rubber Duckie (just joined the list)

Kazzie Bradshaw

Kazzie has been the recipient of many, many wonderful previously-loved clothes and toys from cousins and friends, as well as some shiny new things. Yesterday she wished to model some of her footwear. Thank you to Auntie Meredith for the beautiful shoes!!! (The Kaz also acquired a pair of wellies (I think from Miss N via Rach?) but wouldn't hold her foot stiff enough for me to get them on.)



If I'm not mistaken, the onesie came in the hernia-inducing box from Iowa (Auntie Jane and Co.). People have been so generous and the Spaz appreciates all her treasures! Sometimes she changes several outfits a day and now that she's started to put a little meat on her bones, the newborn stuff almost fits.

Greetings and thanks to everybody! (Spazzy little wave)

WAH!

UNCENSORED!

Too hot to hook

or so you'd think. I'm not sure how hard up I'd have to be to pour myself into a black nylon dress and put on high heels and stand on a street corner, then get it on with a sweaty stranger in 42-degree (Celsius) heat. I imagine I'd have to be pretty f-in' hard up. And this woman last night had a big smile on her face, and her hair done. O la la. Γεια στο κουράγιο σου, κοπέλα μου.

I have some good pictures of the Spaz from yesterday, but they're on K's cam, so who knows when I can share them? ALSO, there is a chance they will be subject to CENSORSHIP!!! I wish to share with my few but select readers the full breadth of personality that is KAZZIE. Unfortunately there are those who would hide some of the spazzier shots behind the censor's heavy black curtain. I am not naming names, but you can probably guess who is behind the heavy handedness.

Carrot confounds

from the rat's nest,
another snap or two,
of the wondrous niece,
bemused, befuddled and perplexed
by Carrot, rat's nest denizen and world traveller.

What to make of this wide-eyed, wide-lipped creature?

Spaz Attack!

this from KAS HQ
(the rat's nest, dontcha know):

In my waking dreams I am the ideal Auntie. My niece Kazzie and I ride our scooters through the woods, accompanied by my (our) faithful dog, the legendary King Arfur of the House of de la Haye. Kazzie is wearing a helmet and knee and elbow pads. Arfur carries sandwiches, juice boxes (Capri Sun) and art supplies in the pouches of his utility vest. I am full of fun, energy, pep and verve.

In reality, however, I have turned out to be a bit of a dud Auntie. I'm not sure I would hire me to be a free nanny some day.

In the week that I have known the Spaz, we have spent most of our time together NAPPING. I do not mean that she (rightfully, as a small baby) (and I mean small) (she is really little) naps as I flit about the rat's nest making myself useful. I mean that we both sleep sleep sleep. The spazzie life-giving energy makes for good snoozing karma.
I have one more week to recover before I go back in for the second round of the most evil chemeo yet. This time I know what to expect so it's almost worse. My neck will have barely recovered from the mega mainline before they slice into that nice chubby jugular (?) to reinsert the new one. Hopefully I'll get some energy back in the next few days and will liven up some. Then the Spaz and I will be able to hop and dance around a bit, which she seems to like when her Granny does it.

The KAS reports:
**Today during one of our naps Kazzie had a grip on one of my fingers. We were both snoozing when she suddenly had a spaz attack and squeezed my finger so hard that I woke up...
**We are all afraid that the Kaz may have inherited my nose. Both her parents have very nice noses. If, despite the best of parental intentions, you got my schnoz, Kaz, I'm really sorry, baby.
**Kazzie likes to sleep with her arms over her head, fists closed, in a victory gesture. I will try to get a pic as this is very cute.

varias co

Just a quickie:
There are some cool teenagers out there. I don't remember how I ended up reading parts of a 16-year old's blog, but I followed from link to link and saw that there are some smart teens writing and making waves and influencing other young people and society. Being over a decade and a half past my own teenagerhood, I've just assumed my bright and interesting teenaged students are exceptions to the rule. But apparently there are a lot of kids out there who don't look up to Pariss Hilton (deliberately misspelled so that my post doesn't come up when people google her name).

Speaking of getting names wrong and being an adolescent, I remember I used to think that the best way to get back at a "popular" kid that said sth nasty would be to pretend you didn't know who they were. In my high school this was plausible since there were almost 4000 students in four grades. So anyway, I always thought I'd reply with, "Wait, who are you? How do you even know me?" And that would make them feel small and unimportant, the worst punishment for somebody who valued their popularity.

The weird thing is, I don't think anyone ever made fun of me. Unless I've blocked it out. So that really speaks to my old insecurities, doesn't it? I was so afraid of some confrontation that never even happened that I had my comeback ready to go. Actually in the 6th grade this dude Tom (big guy with freckles and red hair) said something obnoxious to somebody and I said "Tom, you're rude" and he said, "you're fat". Also in the second grade John "Liver Diapers" made fun of me because of my lisp (cured by Christmas thanks to the speech lady). (By the way, K and I only called the L brothers "liver diapers" between ourselves because they were mean.) Gee I'm on a roll. Maybe I'll think of lots of other examples of people making fun of me and have to come back and revise this post.

PS: A piece of me trivia: I still know that John Liver Diapers's birthday is January 26th. HOW THE HELL DO I REMEMBER THAT??? Probably because we were the only two January birthdays in Mrs Larson's 2nd grade. ALMOST 30 YEARS AGO.

Another good (private) insulting name K and I had for a nasty cow: Barfella aka Barfelle. She was older than us but skated at Centennial and was mean. She was also fat and ugly as mud, but apparently thought it was appropriate to tell other people they were.

Speaking of the speech lady, am I unkind if I say that people with speech impediments shouldn't be TV and radio presenters? Isn't the voice what it's all about? Shouldn't the network make them visit the speech lady for a few sessions? Also cops and riot police who are so out of shape they look like heart attacks waiting to happen. Isn't fitness a huge part of their job? As you know, in my current condition, I couldn't run a block without keeling over and I've heard my voice on tape and it's terrible. So I'm not making these points from a position of superiority, but I'm also not applying for either of these jobs.

Some things just puzzle me, that's all.

See how I started my post pointing out something positive and it spiraled into negativity? I think my recent depression is to blame. I like to believe I'm a nice person. Cutting out the 'roids is probably responsible. No worries, though, as the new chemo regimen calls for a full 60mg a day, so I'll soon be my old Miss Piggy-faced, good-humored self.

Random memory:
Late bus home from high school after staying late for yearbook, bus driver trying to figure out who my sister was, light dawning on his face: "Oh, I know her. She's the happy-go-lucky one."
I'm really not sure what it means to be happy go lucky, which is why I've never called anybody that, but ok, sure.

a scrap of poetry from the rat's nest to the universe

To my adopted country

I apologize for
(almost)
every time that I
have called you a
third-world
shithole
and the thought of leaving you
makes me sick
to my stomach.

Even the rat's nest
is starting
to look good
and that's...
saying something.

ADVANTAGE OF SPENDING THE NEXT 6 MOS IN THE US:
potentially getting rid of cancer

DISADVANTAGES OF SPENDING THE NEXT 6 MOS IN THE US:
missing the birth of the Spaz
I repeat, missing the emergence of the Spaz
being away from my flowers
missing out on organic veg all summer
no sun* or swimming for another year
being away from my stuff
etc etc etc

In the spirit of my niece, I got a really spazzie dress for Eva's wedding.

Do you think we'll beat Argentina tonight?
Just kidding.

I hereby promise that my next post will be positive.

*No offense but our sun is special.

WANNA SPANK YOU

Actually, it was WANNA SPANK YOU.
In silver sequins.
On a black t-shirt.
Worn by an over-the-hill priest's wife.
With black skirt, pantyhose and shoes.
And a somber expression on her face.
And a similar somber expression on her husband,
the priest's, face.

Ah, the papadia, role model of society,
Spanking people.
It just won't do.

By the way, it costs over a million bucks to get a stem cell transplant at Stanford if you have to pay cash. If you were wondering.

OMG Can't believe I forgot to write about this!!!

Okay I know it's really late and Jiora is picking me up at 11 am and then I'm having company for lunch. BUT:

I have to make a huge announcement. Huge in the context of this blog, very minor to utterly insignificant in almost any other context. [Dude, got the mozzie!*] So the other night I confronted Vromyar II about the stogies!!!!!!!!!!!!

Allow me to set the scene: The entire rat's nest smelled like el cheapo cigars from his nasty, filthy habit, which I have mentioned in previous posts. The smell was so nasty that the membrane on the inside of my nostrils was irritated! This caused a headache. I couldn't close the balcony doors because it was too hot. I was psychologically f-ed up due to general sickiness and an annoying email from doc. I started coughing/wheezing uncontrollably and couldn't sleep although it was late (2am?). I finally fell asleep only to be reawakened by renewed stink.

SO I DONNED the Lewis R French sweatshirt (for the sake of decency, not warmth, since as I mentioned it was hot) and the flip-flops and flip-flopped downstairs to his filthy door and knocked for sth like 3 minutes. Finally he came to the door and I told him off. To be honest it was somewhat anti-climactic because he was kind of agreeable and apologized and said he'd had no idea and he'd try to cut down. But still, it felt good to finally face off with the dude. Needless to say, when he opened the door an absolute cloud of reek billowed out.

I can't say that he has reformed completely but it does seem that maybe he's cut down some. Vamos a.

*see asterisk of previous post