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!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.)
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.)
Monday, November 22, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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!!!
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!!!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, November 12, 2010
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)
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)
Monday, November 8, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
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!)
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!)
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