Meanderings and Musings

I was rescued by two strange men

2011-09-28T11:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was always going to be a busy day. Get up early to zoom over to the house and pick up some much need items (books! need books!), over to Mom's doctor's appointment, two different banks, and then back to Karen's in only a couple hours. It's tight, especially given that I didn't sleep a wink the previous night and Mom, even though she's walking independently w/o the walker, still needs me for support and tires easily.

So I'm walking around like a zombie getting everything ready, but when I get out to the CR-V the little remote open-the-doors clicky thing doesn't work. Great, on a day like this, the battery died. But it's a slight inconvenience and it doesn't really matter. Until I put the key in the ignition.

And turn it.

And nothing happens.

No little red signs. No ticks. No rr-rrrs. No nothin'.

My sister tried it, but she too lacked the magical touch. By the time AAA was called and the technician came out, we had passed the point of no return for Mom's appointment. She missed the doctor. And the worst news of all: the battery is completely dead. Not one volt left. The little printout said it's supposed to have something like 400 amps and it had 200. This is an ex-battery.

Great. Now we have to go home to leave the CR-V and pick up another car, like my Pathfinder. So we make it, no trouble. Dad's there and he takes it to our mechanic to get the battery and oil changed. Everything's hunky-dory.

Until I walk into my room. My nightmare this whole time at Karen's is that Dad might feel compelled to clean my room. It's a mess. Even for me, it's a complete wreck. I favor an organizational scheme based on piles, which drives Dad nuts, and he's always trying to get me to clean it, even when I consider it fine. Now that I'm gone, I feared he might take the initiative and just do it.

And he did.

And now I can't find anything. All my books, which were so lovingly organized, now pishaw! Just higgledy-piggledy! Everything is now re-arranged and I don't know where to find anything anymore. Yargh. Turns out he didn't even do it for me: someone's coming to see the bathroom off my room and he didn't want them to walk through a messy room.

Okay, so I get past that; Mom and I get ready to leave. A storm comes! I get rained on while I pack up the Pathfinder.

At this point we're still trying to make it back to Karen's for Mums' 4:00 physical therapy appointment. Despite having to go the bank. And my unfortunate stomach ailment, which I won't discuss here for reasons of tact.

So we get to the bank just fine - despite the rain! - but when I turn the key in the ignition, guess what? In the ignition of a DIFFERENT car from this morning? Oh, wait! It starts and then phizitch!!

Nothing.

I turn it again.

The air bag light comes on.

I bang my head into the steering wheel, "Not again!"

Oh, yes. Again.

I wait a couple minutes and try it. There's that pesky air bag and a few ghostly lights on the dashboard, but that's about it. So. We call AAA. Again. For the SECOND time THAT DAY. Do you know when the last time I called them was? Pro'lly 8 years ago. I must be breaking a record.

We wait, with my unfortunate stomach, and call Karen, who declares Mums and me 'car jinxes'. Until Bret, his rock star blond hair, and his tow truck arrive. It's the battery this time, but it's good. The connections, though? Awful. They're corroded and loose and we should take it to get maintenance as soon as possible or it's just going to happen again.

We've now completely missed Mom's physical therapy appointment, but at least we get home safe. I try to drive my poor, little Pathfinder (Ethel) as softly as possible so as not to shake something loose. But evidently something must have happened, because it won't start today.

Sigh.

I need a horse.

Train of Thought derailed at the station

2011-09-27T01:25:00.001-07:00

There are 818 messages in my inbox. I'm not usually good with email, but this is extreme, even for me. Thank goodness for gmail's new 'important' filter. Haven't done more than skimmed the subject lines since June, really. Haven't had the time, what with Mom being sick and taking care of her. Haven't even had the time to write in complete sentences. 'Course, i' they were commands, then they'd be complete sentences, 'cause the subject of the phrase would be understood.

I'm sorry. But I can't sleep. It's 1am, and I've been lying here for an hour waiting to ride the soul train to the sweet Land of Nod, but the engineer got stuck in traffic and everything's runnin' behind schedule. This is not good, because tomorrow starts bright and early and lasts long 'til the 'noon sun sinks to the Western hills. I need my beauty rest. No, I need my let's-not-get-a-migraine-and-forget-how-to-drive rest.

Okay, have run out of things to say. Except this: Alexander Hamilton? Omigod. Handsome! Have you looked at a $10 bill lately? Do so immediately. Chiseled jaw, strong brow, sleek cheek. Mm-hmm. If given my choice of the founding fathers, I'm taking Hamilton. I can't quite get past Washington's wooden teeth. And the name George. Not sexy, the name George. Sort of like Esmerelda. Just not sexy. Alexander, though? Good name! I approve. It's all strong and Alex-Baldwin-like in 'The Hunt for Red October'. Good movie, that. I approve of that, too. Sean Connery as a Russian defector with the worst Russian accent ever; 'course he was Bond, once. My sister asked me how old James Bond is supposed to be in the movies. I thought 30s - 40s, max. She said 40s to 50s! Bond! 50?! I don't see it. Daniel Craig preparing for AARP? I shudder at the thought.

Um. So, that's what happens when I let my mind wander. Imagine that, 24/7! With some random literary references, and you've basically got my brain. Especially sleep deprived. Time for bed, I think, and, hopefully, sleep.

Good news!

2011-09-26T00:32:00.000-07:00

I've slept! It was the most beautiful thing in the world. Mmm, sleeping. Better and more welcome than a snog. Saturday night I laid my head on my pillow and drifted happily to the Land of Nod, escorted by a cotillion of sheep. Absobloody amazing.

The trouble, apparently, was not the flu, but detoxing. Ah, detox. How I hate thee. It's sort of a long story, but the gist of it is that one of my migraine meds ran out while my mom was in the hospital and I didn't have a way to get to the doctor so he could renew the prescription. I just titrated myself off the dose gradually over the course of a week-and-a-half and thought it was okay. When I started feeling like the black death, I just figured I'd picked something up from the hospital or my sister's kids. But while browsing the web yesterday, I happened upon information about that drug. And apparently it takes 6 MONTHS to titrate off. Um, yeah. That's just a teensy longer than a week-and-a-half; no wonder I've been feeling like a plague rat.

On a bright note, though, I lost 7 pounds! Not eating for a couple weeks will do that for ya - not recommending it, mind you.

My dad has stopped calling. The first week we were here, he called every night to check in and came by on Sunday. But now there's nothing. No call or voicemail or even e-mail. This is probably the happiest my parents have ever been in their married life. Dad gets to do exactly what he wants, when he wants, in the manner he wants to do it without having to check with anyone else; and Mom is free of Dad's presence. It's an ideal arrangement for the two. I very sincerely hope that this time at my sister's helps Mom either divorce him or legally separate. There's just been too much misery there for too long. It's not healthy for either of them.

Well, that killed the mood.

On a happy note, my mom is doing great. She's been feeling better than me these past two weeks. She's upbeat, perky, and back to her old self. I was beginning to lose hope, but she's really rallied.

Status Report

2011-09-24T02:56:00.000-07:00

It's 2 o'clock in the morning and I can't sleep. I haven't been able to sleep for the past two weeks. For the last couple of nights, it's because of restless legs - if the CIA could do it, they'd use it at Gitmo. My muscles and sinews are being played like the harpsichord and it's damned awful.

Of course, sleeping problems could come from my sudden and drastic change in living quarters. My mom and I are living with my sister Karen, now. My sisters and I had been thinking for quite a while that our dad was more of a hindrance than a help to mom's healing. They, um, have some issues. So when she was in the hospital for pneumonia the last time - oh, did I mention she went back into the hospital?

To review: she had bilateral pneumonia in July and spent basically the whole month in a hospital of one form or another. When she came home, she was doing really well, but after a week of weird neurological events that no one can seem to explain, she started going downhill. My dad refused to accept her frailty, state of being, and general illness, and instead demanded that she get up, do chores, and threatened to get rid of her wheelchair. Anyway, she got to the point one Saturday that I took her to the ER, who did a CT scan showing she had pneumonia again, but discharged her saying, essentially, there's nothing wrong with her. We followed up with one of her docs and she was admitted to the hospital, where she stayed for 5 days. She came home Saturday and on Sunday I packed both of us up and drove to Karen's. It's across the street from Sabino Canyon, so it's gorgeous and peaceful. But small. But not like a Tardis. So Mom's on a hospital bed in the living room and I'm on a mattress squeezed between boxes in the loft Karen's using for storage. It's atop a tight spiral staircase and a bit of a risk to traverse when you're tired or not paying attention.

My beautiful, blessed dog is staying at my other sister's, Amy, house. No room for her here; besides I'd have to get up at 5 and stay up to walk her. That's no good. Especially since I've had a rat-nasty flu for the past two weeks. TWO WEEKS! I haven't eaten anything in a good week-and-a-half, which, on a bright side has helped me lose some weight. Did I also mention that I've gained like 30 or 40lb.s? I'm getting cellulite on the front of my legs. THE FRONT!!!Despite what you might expect, hospital cafetrias do not have healthy food: a sad&measly salad bar, pizza, fries, hot dogs, vending machines full of chocolate. A rolling stone may carry no moss, but god, once I started putting on weight, it just padded it on.

So this is my new life. Living in a loft on a mattress, without my dog. Haven't seen anyone besides my family or medical professionals since June. I am exhausted. I'm chubby. My legs are restless. My head hurts. And damn it, I need a good snog. One day I will feel better, and one day I will have a social life. Just not right now.

No love for the food

2011-08-25T02:51:00.000-07:00

My mom is a wonderful person who loves people unconditionally. This is not to be said of food. When we go to an Italian restaurant, she always orders fettuccine alfredo, but asks for the alfredo sauce on the side. Garlic bread, like at Olive Garden, is asked for without garlic. She is picky, picky, picky.

Which is fun, fun, fun for me! Tonight for dinner she wanted a baked potato and ham, but I couldn't just bake the potato - oh no. First, in the microwave in a minute, thirty. Then, back in for another minute. Then out! Stripped of peel and cut into big chunks. And only big chunks. If they were too small, I would have had to bake another potato. Would that annoy you? 'Cause, yaurgh!, I'm about to wring her neck!!

Sigh. I love her, it's just been such a sudden and strange switch. A Freaky Hospital Friday. She took care of me and now I'm taking care of her. And she still must feel that I'm the child that needs taking care of, because she still micromanages me. Helpful when I have a migraine and can't remember my name; notsomuch now. She was sitting in the chair, covered in the blanket from the bed, and when I took it off her so she could get up, she said, 'Put it back on the bed, hon.' No, really? Put the blanket back on the bed it came off of? I never would have figured that out

Getting ready for bed

2011-08-23T00:59:00.000-07:00

It's half past midnight and I'm just climbing into bed, because Mom only finished getting ready for bed herself and will be lying her head on the pillow as we speak. Usually I'd still have to get ready for bed myself, but I was smart this time and did my nightly rituals while waiting for her tonight.

Mom started getting ready for bed around 9 tonight, but she's only finally getting to sleep 3 hours later. First on the list: night meds. But she has to have something on the stomach. Okay, I have to prepare a small meal, tonight was pineapple and cottage cheese (it's actually pretty good). Because of her swallowing issues, she can't have any thin liquids besides water, so first I have to drain the canned pineapples. Then, since she's only supposed to be eating tiny, tiny bites, I have to cut up each and every pineapple chunk on her plate. This takes a while. And eating takes a loooong while. She has to follow swallowing techniques; drink every three swallows, then cough to make sure her airway is clear.

This takes an hour.

Then she takes her meds. In applesauce, following the same precautions.

So, 10 o'clock, she's finally in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. She starts with her teeth. She got pneumonia because she aspirated a little bit of a thrush infection while under anasthetic during foot surgery. Mom is prone to thrush and to aspiration in general, so the idea is to keep her mouth clean. Swallowing tests showed that liquid started down the back of her throat before she swallowed; that's another way for water to get into the lungs and pneumonia to start. That's why she can only have water. The lungs can handle water, but not so much with fruit juice or soda. So before she drinks water she she has to go through a crazy procedure which she repeats before bed:

brush each section of the tooth with a toothbrush with a little bit of toothpaste
cleanse that section with a swab or clean toothbrush
rinse mouth with water for 1 min
rinse mouth with hydrogen pyroxide rinse for 1 min.

And then there are all the other things that she does to get ready for bed, which isn't much anymore, because she seriously downsized in bathrooms moving from the upstairs bathroom to the downstairs.

Pretty soon it's 11, or after, and she's finally in bed - the big hospital bed we're renting and which is taking up a sizable portion of both the living room and kitchen. Mom's always tired by now, if not from the day, then from just getting ready for bed, and she can be easily confused. It can be hard talking to her and figuring out exactly what she means. So insistent, but so meaningless. The hardest part of the day, trying to find the woman you grew up with in that troubled face.

Invariably, we look at her foot - the one that was operated on, of course! It's actually not that bad. Her first operation was awful - this is nothin'.

And then it's midnight.

Almost time for another day.

A short update, a taller one to follow

2011-08-21T23:20:00.000-07:00

Sooo...long time, no see. How's life?

(long sigh)

Okay, so I haven't written in over a month. After my mom was extubated she spent another 5 days in the ICU and 2-3 days in the Medicine Ward. She was eventually transferred to Health South, a medical rehab hospital, where she spent another 2 weeks before coming home with a walker. She couldn't come straight home because she had a nose feeding tube and wasn't walking.

Nose feeding tube? Yes. Mom has a very small mouth and, apparently, throat and trachea and when they tried to intubate her, the doctor couldn't do it. After several tries, they had to call for an ER doc. So Mom's throat got the hell torn out of it and after the tubing was taken out, her throat was too swollen and sore for her to swallow. So she had a tube that went all the way up her nose, down her throat, and into her stomach. She had it for three weeks, poor dear. Even now that it's gone she has to be careful about what she eats and drinks and how she eats it.

She's home now, and I'm helping to take care of her. There's more to say, but I'm very tired and it's late and I have to get up early to make a doctor's appointment.

I will fill everyone in on everything! Just, not now!

Difference between night and day

2011-07-13T03:10:00.000-07:00

Try as I might, I can not approve of my dad's behavior throughout this ordeal. In the words of my sister, Amy, he has not acquitted himself well.

Mom should have gone to the ER before last Tuesday; he should have realized that. Our front fence has been in sad shape, so my parents had some builders scheduled for last week to come and build a new one. But with his wife in ICU, he obviously canceled the work and stayed at the hospital, right? No. He kept the work scheduled and left my mom to go supervise the fence.

On the morning Mom took a turn for the worse and had to be intubated, he dawdled for 2 hours by browsing through all the different gate and security door styles he could choose from. On the way to the hospital, his boss called andDad answered the phone as if he were in the hospital room! "She's doing better, but the name of the game is keeping her oxygen saturation up..." And then we get to the hospital - or I get to the hospital, since he dropped me off and left - and she was the worst she's ever been.

My mom, on the other hand, asked Amy if she take my dog, Mia, while the fence guys were there because she might get upset by the noise and people in the yard. My mom, miserable with double pneumonia, three or four iv's stuck in her, can barely talk or breathe - still remembers to look out for her granddog. Dad, meanwhile, can't be bothered to change a construction schedule because of a deathly ill spouse.

ICU Chronicles

2011-07-12T01:13:00.000-07:00

What is today? Woops, it just turned Tuesday; happy Tuesday, everyone. It's onlya minute old.

Okay, let's see, Tuesday means that Mom's been in the hospital a week and the ICU for, um, let's see, 5 days. And I'm very happy to report that she's doing better!!! Yay! Yesterday she was extubated, which sounds dirty, but is really a complicated word for saying the intubation tube out of her mouth. So Mom is breathing on her own and her oxygen stats are up. It's wonderful! Today she was able to get up out of bed and sit in a big recliner for a couple hours. Yesterday and today she's been awake and talking with us, although we don't let her talk much, because the intubation just tore the hell out of her throat and vocal cords. It's so good to have her back. She's still sick and has a long way to go, but she has improved incredibly.

I didn't see her Monday because I've been exhausted. On Sunday I fell asleep in her room for four hours and slept through everything: beeping monitors, nurses working, my family talking. Nothing. Flat out. At home I fell asleep while trying to find something in a drawer. Sitting up, in front of an open drawer, completely asleep. Monday night I slept 13 hours. My sister Amy got either food poisoning or the stomach flu from the hospital, so to ward off another such little nastie, I thought it best to catch up on sleep.

But I'll be back today. The person most oft with mums, Karen, has to be home tomorrow, and Dad's working and I'm not letting her be by herself at the hospital. How lonely and awful. If I weren't falling asleep every other word I would go into the difference between Mom and Dad. But there isn't any space and I'm literally falling asleepeverh othe =r wordl atijef.

Mom's sick again. Really, terribly sick. And, god, I wish I were joking.

2011-07-09T01:42:00.000-07:00

Last weekend my mom stopped making sense. She couldn't answer questions or follow conversations. Then on Sunday she developed a cough and Monday it got worse. Tuesday we took her to the ER.

It's double pneumonia, which means both lungs and the last x-ray, taken this morning, shows the right side is worse. Yesterday, after most of the day spent on the bipap machine - essentially air blowing down a tube to a mask, effective but not comfortable - she was able to get off and just be on regular air. But today, I get there and Mom is back to a mask clamped around her face, eating her words and rubbing her nose raw. She sleeps a fitful sleep, her face contorted in agony, the agony of breathing when you have no breath to take.

The doctor comes in and says, we need to intubate. Stick a tube down her throat to breathe for her while she's put to sleep - real sleep, not 'put the dog to sleep', sleep. She needs the rest; she needs the break from all the pain she's been in. I call my sisters and they are true to form; Amy takes it in stride, "Good, well that probably needed to happen." Karen explodes, "What!! Why is this happening??!! Why did it reach this point? Put me on with the nurse! Where's the doctor - let me talk to the godd**n doctor!"

I hold Mom's hand before the procedure and sing songs she sang to me when I was little, "Mareseatoats" and "Jesus Loves Me" and try to think of ways to keep her mind off of what's coming. But finally I just lean down and say, "Just focus on one thing. A song, a Bible verse, a memory - and when something hurts, just think back to your one thing, just focus in on it.' She looks at me and says, halting between labored breaths, "Coulda used this three days ago."

But it's time to intubate and suck some of the infection from her lungs, so I go to the waiting room to call my family. I run into Karen, or rather she runs into me and accuses me, in a roundabout way, of being at fault for this. Saying Mom got this way because she didn't have a strong enough advocate; when I'd been there already. Really, she is upset and is looking for someone to blame, even herself. She keeps repeating, "If only I were here this morning; I knew something would happen if I didn't show up this morning." I ask her if she could have held off the infection, breathed for Mom, or made her better. Karen reluctantly replies, "No...but I could have asked about her antibiotics and got her on a stronger one and staved off the infection, or worked with Mom...(etc.)".

The first view of Mom after the intubation was...ragged. Wires everywhere and from her throat, a gaggle of tubes. One, the ventilator; one, a small, clear tube full of blood that was being suctioned from where her throat had been banged up during the intubation; the third, a clear tube of a yellowish brown ick, which the nurse informed us was stomach bile.

Eventually my dad and sister Amy arrive, but we are shooed out so a picc line (a central line) can be installed. Mom is diagnosed with Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome. It is a very serious condition. The doctor said it's about a 70% recovery rate; Karen, who works with people at a rehab facility who catch this thing, says it's more like a 40%. So. We'll see. Your prayers are deeply coveted.

I'll try to keep you updated, but I won't have time or energy for email. I love you, darlings.

Podiatry and Drama

2011-07-03T02:36:00.000-07:00

My mother's feet have a long, sordid history. She had surgery for bunions on her right foot several years ago, but the surgeon blundered it and her poor footsie came out worse than before. So then she had corrective surgery. That didn't work. It's very painful and it swells like a sponge in a Georgia swamp.

So on Thursday she had a 3rd surgery to correct the mistakes of the previous two surgeons. And my dad is an evil bastard about it! He seems to view the state of mom's foot as a moral failing, one entirely preventable by her, and only there because she wasn't of strong enough mettle. Which, in Dad's mind, means she shouldn't have any pain medication now. Because, you see, if she doesn't get pain medication for the foot which was ripped apart and then sewn back together, then she will be forced to confront it with moral character and the foot will magically heal itself. Or something. I can't actually begin to imagine what goes on in his head. I just know that he keeps trying to persuade me to not give her her pain meds; my favorite bullshit from him thus far: mom is "allergic" to pain medication.

Friday morning Dad took me aside and told me, "Now that you're a caretaker, taking care of your mom, you need to know some things. You have a right to demand that she do some things. I know that you care for her and have compassion, but you have to put that away and just command her. Just short, brief commands. Because she can't think or make decisions for herself, so we have to."

Okay, I'm supposed to 'put away' compassion and caring? She can't think for herself? I have to command her? She's not a ship! Try to imagine, for yourself, what he is like. He doesn't believe you can think (so he doesn't care about anything you say), he has no compassion, and he's demanding you do things. It's like living with an SS commander. I'm not leaving my mom alone with him. He believes it's within his rights to exercise his will over mom while she's in this incredibly vulnerable state - stuck in a recliner, can't walk, in immense pain. He's already reversing decisions on things they had made before the surgery, but what can she do? She can't get up or do anything to fight it. Ain't no way in hell I'm leaving her alone with that man.

But, sweet heavens, I'm tired. The last couple nights she and I haven't managed to get to bed 'til the wee hours of the morning because of the veritable logistics of it all. And then I slept 6 hours this evening and woke up awake and rested at midnight. Hopefully I can stay awake tomorrow.

I think I might be back.

2011-07-03T01:52:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I posted. It's been a long time since I've done much of anything online - like checking e-mail. I've been shuffling between home and my sisters' places the past month, so my schedule has been off and everything's felt weird. Hope to be back on a semi-permi-regular basis soon.

Hi! Update on Migraines - and a cute niece story!

2011-05-31T01:43:00.000-07:00

It has been a long time since I posted. I wish I knew why. For some reason all creativity has drained out of me. The muse has gone on sabbatical without warning. Part of the problem was that the Botox wore off after its initial 3 months (it's only supposed to work 3 - 6 months; realistically, 2-3 for the first few uses), but the next time I got it, it didn't work. No magical lifting of pain. No transition from solitude to the outside world.

But it the last week or two, I think we may have found part of the secret to controlling my migraines: Injections! Nerve blocking shots on my occipital nerve (very back of your head, at the base) and then trigger point injections along my neck, upper shoulders, and (oddly enough) jaw muscle. The stuff in the injections isn't that bad, although I couldn't tell you exactly what it is. I just know I show up feeling shitty, I get jabbed, and I week later I'm going out with friends and playing with my niece and nephew. Okay, so I sort of know what's in one set of the injections; the occipital nerve/neck/shoulder ones are 'organic' and developed from - I swear this is what the doc told me - a carnivorous plant. So, my health is held in balance between botulism and fly-eaters.

Right now I'm house sitting for Amy while she and her family are at Disneyland. The house doesn't need sitting; nothing needs watering, there isn't anything to look after, Amy just knows how much I want to get out of the house. :) They left today but I came over last night so I could entertain the kids while Amy and Phil packed. Kate, who is 18 months and loooooves dogs, especially mine, toddled everywhere after Mia, her arms stretched open for a hug. Sadly, the pup was a little spooked from the car ride over and refused to sit long enough for my niece. But it was awfully cute to watch her determination.

I helped get Kate up this morning and when she saw me, she broke out into a grin. And then Mia came in! And her grin got bigger and she just plopped forward back onto bed. You could very clearly read her face, "Auntie Susie! Mia! Oh, oh! This is just TOO, too much!"

Migraines suck, but when it comes to my niece and nephew, I am a very blessed woman. :)

A productive life

2011-05-09T19:25:00.001-07:00

It hurts to walk. It hurts to stand up. I hurts to sit down. It hurts to pick things up. It hurts to bend over. It pretty much hurts to do anything because every damn joint in my hand, arm, leg, foot, and every other place in my body feels like I've been beaten to within an inch of my life with a tire iron.

This is not natural.

So today I saw my doc's physician assistant. Apparently, one of the med's that I took for 5 years (for migraines) but stopped a month ago (cuz it eats kidneys) could have masked an underlying problem which is now coming out, i.e. knees and tire irons. And then there was a lot of talk about blood tests and arthritis and my dad's history of rheumatoid arthritis and how that was a possibility for me. But, Mom, said, don't worry!

"They didn't use to treat arthritis until your hands got all gnarled and twisted and you couldn't really use them, but now there are things you can use right away. Now, you have to really look at Dad's hands to see how deformed they are."

"Mom, this isn't really help- "

"And there's a woman in my Sunday School on Sunday and it must have been right after they were married - wait, no, it was right before they were married; no, that wouldn't make sense, it'd have to be right after. Anyway, so it must have been right after they got married she got rheumatoid arthritis and her hands just became and gnarled and deformed and she couldn't - "

"Mom, enough with the pep talk. How is this supposed to make me feel good?"

"Well," a cheery note in her voice, "she led a productive life!"

At which point she was banned from cheering me up. Besides, I reminded her, we don't even know if I have arthritis, for goodness sakes. We have to wait for the blood work. The long, long, long wait for the blood work.

Royal Wedding!!!

2011-04-28T23:08:00.050-07:00

It's almost 11 (MST) and Royal Wedding Watch is on full, er, watch here. My pearls are on and crystal chandelier earrings in. I have both English chocolate and English tea to keep me awake. I'm so bloody excited!! Whee!

Now, since I have the luxury of staying awake all night, y'all don't, I will be keeping a close eye on everything and blogging all the important details. For now, busy yourself with some exhaustive coverage from the BBC.

Download the programme from the wedding. Schedule for the wedding day. How to comment on a Royal wedding. How to follow the wedding on the BBC.

1:00am/8:00 It's almost here! All of the non-royal, non-government people are filing in. It's all very important. Look, the Beckhams! I'm nervous. I'm not getting married, I don't have to get any of this right, but I'm nervous. There are butterflies stirring awake in my stomach. Ohmigod, sooo glad I'm not Kate, soon to be Duchess of Cambridge. I would probably trip and fall 5 feet down the aisle and then accidentally say, 'holy batshit' in front of the Queen.

Another link: Famous (and not) wedding guests

3:00/11:00 THE DRESS!! Holy Moses, that dress! Princess Katherine, Duchess of Cambridge, can do no sartorial wrong in my view now that I've see the dress. Plain white, fitted bodice flowing into a full, flowing skirt and ten foot train. With the sweetheart neckline and lace sleeves, there are only two words to describe her: Grace. Kelly. It's elegant, beautiful, and timeless. Okay, so maybe there were three more words.

3:03am/11:03 So Kate's walking up the aisle, graceful and with a touch of mystique, hidden behind waist length blusher which cascades down from a tiara lent to her from the Queen herself. She is the picture of a royal bride, but Prince William can't see her. Because of the way the ceremony's set up, he won't see her until she's right next to him. Wha'?! Lame. Did you hear me, Church of England? Lame!

3:10/11:10 Yay! All the vows done in 10 minutes, ceremony done!

3:20/11:20 Holy crap! 10 minutes later and they're still singing the hymn. Holy crap! There are six more pages to the ceremony!

4:05am/12:05 The Learning Channel is covering the wedding and it's obvious they've never done something like this before. While CNN and FOX plod on, at ease with hosting live events, the TLC broadcast has a sweet note of panic; everything is on the edge of bursting out of control and running amok like a drunk royal guard. They laugh freely and nervously and co-host with people like Ivana Trump and Rupert Everett. I think they're my favorite. TLC, will you narrate my life?

1:01pm/9:01 Must keep wedding fervor alive! Must keep lovely everybody-loves-the-British spirit alive! Am actually watching a Lifetime movie! The 'Kate and Will' story. Oh god, he's singing karaoke to Kate; cheesy even for Lifetime.

1:10pm Okay, so in this Lifetime-movied rendition of the Royal Courtship there's a really uppity girl of royal lineage who says to Kate, "You the girl Will hangs out with, not the one he takes home to the Queen. Deal with it. Your mom is what, an airline stewardess? Those don't marry royal." So I'm watching and thinking, "Oh, yeah! You'll be eating your drawers, won't you, sweetie!? Haa-haaa!" And then I realized, think of all those people in the UK who actually opposed Kate based on her class; well up yours, buddy!"

1:11 It's really a very American success story. Parents are self-made millionaires and the daughter raises to the highest position in the land through marriage. It's like a1930s movie.

3:24
Love tea. Love, love, love, love, love tea. Loooooooooooove tea. Had a couple cups now. Can't sleep. I neveeeeeer have caffeine. Whoop!

Watching coverage on Lifetime. It's redundant but I can't get enough; wanna bloody mainline the stuff. Big fat needle of Royal Wedding Detritus straight to the heart. Mmm, and some TEA! T! TEE! Time for another cup. Susan's been up past her bedtime. Giggle.

Royal Wedding! OMG! Somebody want to watch it with me?

2011-04-25T21:18:00.000-07:00

This weekend, the most exciting wedding of the century (sparing my beautiful Ladies' nuptials, whenever those might be). Prince William - my husband in my mind, hmmm, Prince William mmm-snap out of it Susan! C'mon on girl, get on with it! Good lord, where was I going?

Cut; Delete; Rewrite

This weekend the most exciting wedding of the century (excepting those of my beautiful Girls'). Prince William is marrying Kat Middleton, who is an absolute doll! Seriously. She just seems great, doesn't she? Just normal and girl-next-door. Love her! (And, god, her clothes!)

So it's 10:00 am London time, which is 2am US. I will be getting up to watch it. All of it. If it's Dan Rather (is he still on the air?) reporting, "And we're hearing now that Kate is putting on her mascara now, that, it, is, indeed, black mascara and that the blush is coming next." C'mon, who cares about that shit? Me. I do. I absolutely care about the shit. I drink it in like it's from a chocolate fondue fountain. I got up at 2 or 3 in the morning to watch Diana's funeral. I even got up at 4 to watch the handover of Hong Kong from Britain to China. I loves me my England.

So what I'm saying here is, viewing party? Is anyone else getting up at (staying up)? Are any of you having viewing parties in Tucson? That I might crash?

So come this Friday night/Saturday morning you'll know where I am. If you'll holding a viewing parting

Don't worry, I'm not freaking out

2011-04-12T22:06:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about my last post and how dreary I was. I thought that 30 was some sort of magical age. That I'd have a job or career, that I'd be married (maybe a kid), that I'd be straightened out, know who I was, what I was doing, and who I was. But I've arrived as this magical mystery number and I'm more confused than ever.

I'm stuck in limbo. I can't make any plans for school or work or volunteering when I feel like this. I can't write, I can't think of anything vaguely entertaining or funny to post. I'm just in a slump. C'mon, just imagine that you're me. Just close your eyes and imagine that you had to cancel every plan - major or minor - of your late 20s. I try to be patient and tell myself that I'll get better and not to judge myself by others. It's a daily struggle; but sometimes both the flesh and the spirit are weak.

When you turn 30, life turns to the crapper

2011-04-08T15:34:00.001-07:00

Last night was my nephew's first soccer game and it was adorable. Will and the rest of his team is four so before the game the coach got them all together and said, "Tonight, we're going to work on staying within the lines (of the field), and kicking the ball, and making a goal, okay? We're going to try kicking the ball and getting it into that net. All right, let's go!"

At which point the Silver Team rushed onto the 'field', really a 15 ft length of field marked off by little cones, and chaos commenced. Will was a Silver and they were playing the Orange Team, but the Oranges just kind of stayed in a line while the Silvers ran randomly around the field. There was some kicking, especially by an orange kid named Collin who, anytime he got the ball, just kicked and kicked and kicked, right into another game. And the next time, he got a good 30 feet before anyone realized that the ball had gone anywhere and Colllin was about to kick himself and the ball into a parked car. The whole thing was adorable. A. Door. Uh. Bull.

But it was also slightly eery. The parents were all people I knew, though they had no idea who I was. Almost all of them had been in the high school group at my church when I was in middle school. There was a father that I distinctly remember having a crush on when I was in the 7th grade. (He's now 50 lb.s overweight and unshaven. 7th grade crush retroactively crushed.) But there were all these other kids (now adults) that I had looked up to that were now grown up, with at least one kid. God, how it made me feel old.

Of course, the fact that I turned 30 recently doesn't help matters. I'm not an adult. I don't feel like an adult. When I look at my friends, I don't feel like we're adults. We don't have that 50lbs-over weight-unshaven tarnish that seems to descend on someone once they become An Adult. But I'm 30 for fuck's sake! I'm three decades old; a third of a century! But I've nothing to show for it! No a-door-uh-bull kick ball machine, no graduate degree, no....uh....no....uh....I have a lot of earrings! Oh screw it. Doesn't help matters that it was the worst birthday I've ever had. I stayed at home in pajamas watching Top Gear until, finally, Mom and Dad wished me Happy Birthday and gave me flowers.

Look, I'm just sort of freaking out and wallowing in the occasional spouts of self-pity I allow myself. Because, good God, if you don't yourself one for your 30th birthday, then what the hell is good for?

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck holy shit balls!

(I'm not having a good time.)

At least we don't have Bush saying 'Nukhular'.

2011-03-16T19:15:00.000-07:00

I don't know if this makes me a voyeur or not, but I can't stop watching news shows about the nuclear crisis in Japan. Om my frikkin' fission. Worse than 3 Mile Island, but not quite as bad as Chernobyl. This is historic. This is also dramatic - not in the silly overwrought meaning of the term, like teenagers and gender relations - but in the sense of the natural drama of life and death; this is the drama of Shakespeare. I'm not explaining this well, but I'm not explaining well at the moment. Consider those 50 workers who are putting their lives, not 'putting', giving their lives to work inside those 4 reactors that are melting. Amazing. They are heroes.

I'm also watching because my uncle works at a nuclear power plant for a couple months every year, so you could say I'm a little interested in them. And their safety. Just a little.

Anyway, here are some links in case you're interested: (First two taken from the BBC.)

This slide show summarizes what's happened so far at the plant.

What's wrong now:
"If you are in any doubt as to what this means, it is that in the company's view, it is possible that enough fissile uranium is present in the cooling pond in enough density to form a critical mass - meaning that a nuclear fission chain reaction could start."

Allthingsnuclear.org is a bit more technical than BBC, but don't get discouraged; push through the (rather long) posts. They're good at explaining all the terms that the news people are just throwing around. The one on reactor core cooling, for example.

Bad news, Good news. Bad news, Good news.

2011-03-14T17:58:00.000-07:00

Three years ago my mom had a TIA, a mini-stroke; and last Sunday it looked like she had another one. She was paralyzed and couldn't talk. My dad called 911 and my mom was taken to the hospital, where she stayed until Thursday. After days of tests, the docs found nothing wrong. All the tests came back negative or positive or neutral or however the good way the results are.

So, what the hell happened? My mom had what felt like a stroke! Well, as is common for my family, it was a migraine. A COMPLEX migraine. This is an actual type of migraine. A type that feels exactly like a stroke. Yippee. And the way to tell the difference between them? Um...Well...There's really not a way...

So the bad news: My mom had a stroke. Good news: It was a migraine.

Now, the other thing is very quick. My migraines have gotten worse lately. But, I got Botox recently!
Bad news: My migraines are back. Good news: I'm all Botoxed up.

42

2011-02-20T02:20:00.000-07:00

In the almost-month since I've written I've developed a bad habit: Earrings. Blame it on migraines and the 24-hr news cycle.

On January 8 (the day Gabrielle Giffords was shot) I had a bit of a migraine. (Important tidbit: When I get a migraine I can get a little bit of an OCD focus on things.) And a need to water down the the traumatizing information streaming in. So I turned to etsy! I found the shop The Modest Jeweler, with 20 cent earrings. 20 cents! $.20! Twin-tee sints!! I couldn't resist. I bought 8 pairs.

And then I started looking. For more. It was like a treasure hunt for cheap, beautiful earrings and I kept at it all week. I didn't buy that many, just one or two from each shop (I thought), but then they started arriving in the mail. First the 8. Then 6 from Abby's Homemade Jewelery.(not cheesy like it sounds). Then 2 from here and 4 from there and 6 from over yonder. At the end of the week the hunt was over and my booty was coming in the mail. But since I'd bought them during a migraine, I forgot which places I shopped and, truth be told, I forgot which earrings I'd bought. So each package was a little surprise! But my last batch has finally come in and. . .

I have 42 earrings!

I'm keeping them in a little plastic chest of drawers because I have no other room/place to put them. Now, I'm not a dangly earring person at all. The one pair of chandelier earrings I have, I gave a to a friend. So, what did I buy? Danglies! All of 'em. Well, except for 9; I just counted. And all I can say is, lordy! Why'd I never wear dangly earrings before? They're fantastic fun! Feminine and Delightful!

Now, you might suspect that I chose ugly earrings. You would be wrong. Seeing as how no one would want me to post pictures of every pair of those 42 earrings, I'll post links to the other shops, hoping to prove that since I picked beautiful shops I picked beautiful earrings. And because I'd like to support those business owners.

Jeweled Fibers
I love this shop! They're all beautiful wire filigree and chandelier earrings; surprisingly, some are clip-on. I love them so much I might get one or two more myself.

Peppa and Piccalo
These are my favorite of the lot: a pair of little yellow flowers; white porcelain with little blue flowers; a sassy, patterned red ball that reminds me of India

PinkFlowerCube
Do you want a small, plastic cupcake or unicorn for an earring? You found your place. Other hits: Lego cuff links.

Bazaar Latino
Very feminine jewelry with lots of flowers; vintage bracelets and broaches; Freida Kahlo earrings! :)

Unicorn Kids Studio
The store sells '80s tv memorabilia and a style of earrings which are stunning in person but awkward on screen.

New kind of normal

2011-01-27T16:32:00.000-07:00

When tragedies happened in other places, like Oklahoma City or Columbine, I'd wondered what went on after the national news crews left. How did the city continue?It's been nearly 3 weeks since the shooting and life is starting to get back to normal here in Tucson. Gabrielle Giffords', or 'Gabby' as everyone in Tucson feels like we've earned the right to call her, health updates are no longer front page news. Instead today the newspaper quickly updates her move from the ICU to rehabilitation on the front page, full story on A3. When the first victim was buried, 9 yr old Christina Taylor Green, the story monopolized the front page. Two lines of 30 pt font, a picture that took up the whole page. Dot Morris, the last victim, was buried yesterday; her story shared the page with medical marijuana, budget cuts at the U of A, and a bill on abortion at the state senate.

Things are getting back to normal, a new normal, a different normal. An altered state. One where page A2 is unofficially dedicated to updates on our Representative - not on her progress politically, but just if she can stand up. And right next to those are reports from the trial of the man who tried to kill her.

But in this bleakness, there's been beauty. The compassion and kindness in Tucson is overwhelming. Volunteers brought free meals for the medical staff at UMC; hundreds of people turned up at the funerals as a show of support from the community; and spontaneous memorials have popped up all over the city. The lawn in front of UMC has been taken over by cards, candles, flowers, pictures, and wishes from all over the nation for the victims and their families. Mementos left range from a child's colored in picture from a coloring book (you can almost hear him/her say, 'Here! I made it for you!') to a beautifully framed picture of Giffords on a horse, captioned, 'Cowgirl up, Gabby'. Saints candles outline and illuminate the path through the collective outpouring, a reminder of the Catholic, Hispanic culture of Tucson and the Catholic faith of Judge Roll and little Christina. There's another memorial like this one down at Giffords' office. Flowers, candles, teddy bears, cards. And down at the Safeway. It's hard to describe what it's like at the store. There are just flowers; row upon row of flowers. So many that the air smells wonderful. It's a busy store and despite the cars coming and going and people walking by, it's a very still place. Just to the left of the entrance the flowers and the people who come to pay their respects seem to calm time so that what was done in madness may someday be redeemed by kindness.

Death and Wild Oats

2011-01-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

I need to write about the shooting, but I can't. I mean I literally can't. This is my 5th or 6th attempt and I inevitably get dragged down into cliches or wander off into nonsensical wonderings or end up staring out the window, chin in hand. But I have to write about it, have to get some sense of it across.

I've never been this close to a tragedy. In 2002 a disgruntled former student shot up the Nursing College at the University of Arizona, killing 3 people. That was sad, but I didn't feel personally touched by it. The school was off campus and I didn't know anyone there. But Jared Loughner went to my middle school and high school, albeit several years after me. This is less than 8 Degrees of Kevin Bacon: we probably have at least one teacher in common. My family shops at the Walmart that sold him ammunition. I drive by that Safeway several times a week.

It's not just close, it's bloody unexpected. Violent things have happened at the U of A before. The city of Tucson itself has seen violence. But the shooting was on the Northwest side of town, in the beigest of suburbia, where people start to mingle with desert. Across the street from that Safeway is a Wild Oats, for god's sake! People don't die across from a Wild Oats!

Sigh.

That's all for now.

One of the wounded

2011-01-10T21:18:00.000-07:00

When my dad got to work today he found out a co-worker is one of the wounded still in the hospital. He was talking to Giffords when Loughner began shooting.

I'm okay!

2011-01-10T00:35:00.000-07:00

I'm okay! I'm okay! No one in my family was hurt or killed, and as far as I know, I don't know anyone who was.

The Gabrielle Giffords was shot about 5 miles from my house. That Safeway isn't the one I go to, but I pass by it several times a week. This is all a little too close to home. The shooter went to my middle school and high school. (Several years after me, I don't know him.)

I'll have more on this later, along with some pictures from two vigils I attended. For now I just wanted to say that my family and I are ok. Heartbroken but ok.

I hate warm weather.

2010-12-06T14:34:00.000-07:00

It's the 6th of December. Christmas is 19 days away. And the temperature outside my door in *#&$ sunny Tucson, AZ is 80 flippin' degrees! 80!!!! Augh! It just isn't right. The song is "White Christmas" not "Iced Tea Christmas". There are precious few days of the year in Southern Arizona when I can wear sweaters as it is, but does the heat wave really have to come during Christmas? When cold is part of the holiday spirit? When sweaters are a right, not just a way to look good in family pictures for posterity? Argh. I hope Southern Arizona gets a lump of coal in its stocking.

Christmas shopping: Done!

2010-12-05T16:39:00.000-07:00

It's true, I'm all done with my Christmas shopping; thank you, Vistaprint and etsy.com. Yes, these are shameless plugs. Etsy is my favorite new thing; it's absolutely brilliant. It's a collection of individuals and small independent shops who sell handmade things, ranging from a typewriter converted to work as a desktop keyboard, to this shop of hats inspired by the '20s, to a really sweet little set of wooden blocks shaped like houses. I am completely in love with etsy. If I had a couple thousand dollars I would decorate my apartment just using etsy - if I had an apartment. Or money. Oh, details. Silly, silly details.

Things I particularly love: A shop that makes necklaces based on English literature, particularly Mr. Darcy. I kid not; I do not joke about Mr. Darcy. (Browse the rest of the shop; you will not be disappointed.) Then there's wall decals; so whimsical and beautiful! But then there's also a shop, in Tucson no less!, that prints pictures on pages from old books. And amazingly someone who knitted a dissected human head. (Not as gross as it sounds.) Discover the world of etsy for yourself; it's freakin' brilliant.

Botox and Prince William

2010-11-24T12:32:00.001-07:00

It's been a full week since Botox and it's been a mixed success. It started off perfectly: no migraine. But within the last couple days it's crept back. It's tamed - not quite as painful, easier to handle, and I can think through it - but it's there. So perhaps that's what the Botox will be for me; not complete migraine erasure, but just reduced severity. Well, I'll take that. That's still damn bloody marvelous. :)

In other news, Prince William is getting married! OMG As Seth Meyers on Weekend Update said, "'There goes my chance,' said a woman in Ohio to her cat." Although. personally, I wouldn't ever want to marry a royal. Too many paparazzi, too many duties, too many ceremonies, and too much time in the public eye. Good lord, every time you gain 5 pounds it'd be, "Princess Porky!" "Is that a baby bump?" "Cut back on the donuts, princess!" ('Course that's better than being a royal several hundred years ago, when you might have been deposed and got your head lopped off.) But that doesn't mean I'm not thrilled to have a royal wedding to ogle about. Dailybeast has a whole section devoted to the Royal Engagement. Indulge.

Botox Day 2

2010-11-17T21:42:00.000-07:00

Today has been brilliant.

I actually got bored. This doesn't happen. I usually don't have enough of a brain to get bored; I have enough just enough brain to lay curled in a ball and watch Netflix. But today I actually got bored! It was wonderful!

And in the afternoon I went in the backyard and played catch with Mia. The last time I felt well enough to do this was...um....December or January. Whee! I'm feeling pretty optimistic, 'specially in light of this study which says that Botox works best in 'implosive' headaches, which are what I get.

Now for FAQ

So you're lookin' all nice and wrinkle free, eh?
Nope. The injections for migraines are in different places than they are for cosmetic procedures.

Does your face feel numb?
If it does, something has gone horribly awry. The Botox weakens the muscles, not numbs them.

How does it work?
Neurologists would like to know, too. This is how I understand it.

There's a thing called the trigeminal nerve that sits right on top of your jaw; one part branches out to your temple, another to your cheekbone, and another down to your jaw. Researchers are discovering that this nerve pathway is important in (possibly) tripping the initial chemical reactions that trigger migraines. Somehow. (The Mayo Clinic.is a little vague on the topic.) So the Botox is injected into the muscles over the jaw, jawline, temple, and brow. Weaken the muscle and you weaken the pain response, is the strategy I guess. There's a very large skeletal-muscular component of my migraines (my neck hates me), so there were injections there as well.

The internet's a little hazy on this topic, so if you have questions email me or leave a comment. Meanwhile, here's a pretty good overall review of the topic.

Today, I Botoxed!

2010-11-16T13:07:00.001-07:00

While getting ready to leave this morning, there was a good omen: a bit of randomness from the conservative morning talk show guys.

"When I'm at a stoplight I love sitting and watching all the people texting and dancing in their cars to Steely Dan and Pink Floyd."

Yes, that's right. They're all dancing to Steely Dan, especially those nice Hispanic gentlemen with brass knuckles in the low rider.

By 8 I was at the doc's office and by a quarter after I was in the chair. The procedure was quick, obviously; just a couple needle pricks, and since he used a very small needle I didn't really feel it. I heard it, though. On a couple there was a faint whisper and then a tiny pop, like a popped balloon, when he withdrew the syringe. In a strange way those sounds created an image more felt than seen of a microscopically tiny jet of air being streamed in to my forehead at a terrifically high speed, building a large bubble, until the syringe was empty and the bubble burst with that 'pop'.

Don't feel any different yet. Should take 3-5 days before any effects start showing up. So with any luck I'll be celebrating with a box of chocolates next Saturday. :) Although these injections don't necessarily mean I'll stop my other migraine treatments. This Botox - if it works - is like a pause button. I get a respite from the pain so I can do all the things I can't now: exercise, cook, physical therapy, and get out of the house. There are about 3 billion things contributing to my migraines and those still need to be addressed if I want to be healthy and in control of these nasties. Having Botox injections every 6 months for the rest of my life isn't a solution - but it's an awfully damn nice stop gap.

(I should correct myself and say that it was more than just "a couple" injections. There were 3 in my forehead, a couple over each jaw and then a couple more over the actual jaw joint. Then several along the back of my shoulders and neck.)

Tomorrow - Botox!

2010-11-15T11:57:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'm getting Botox! For the migraine, not cosmetic purposes. Um, too migrainey at the moment to go into the holy rigamarole, but it's recently been approved by the FDA for treatment of severe migraines and my wonderful health insurance approved it for me. Will let all know how it goes.

Cranky

2010-11-12T06:50:00.001-07:00

6bloody48 in the am and I've been awake for the past five hours. Migraines that wake you up with the sheer enormity of their pain suck ass. Actually, they suck ass and then run your eye through with a red hot pincer. grumblegrumblegrumble

P.S. But in good news, I'm getting Botox! Which has recently been FDA approved for the treatment of severe migraine. Supposed to be really good, like relieving pain for 3-6 months good. Brilliant.

P.P.S. Why it's 'P.S.' instead of 'S.P.'" It stands for Post Script, 'post' meaning 'after', 'script' meaning 'writing'. "PS" is just the abbreviation for adding something "after (the) writing". (Basically. English gets it from Latin.)

Red, like the F on your term paper

2010-11-08T11:56:00.001-07:00

I was browsing Etsy.com yesterday and was brightly surprised to come across a poem on a page selling a unique little necklace . Hoorah for poetry in unexpected places! This had to be shared with everyone.

R e d
by Laura Carey

Red like the first thing we see
Our mothers body from the inside out
Born in a cloak of deep blood perfection
Only to be scoured of this holy shower
Wiped and refined
Red like the inside of eyelids and anger
Fury that only this color can connote or contain
Like the potent power of menses
The immense grace and power of reproduction
Captured only in the piercing authority
Of deep blood red
Red like the juice of pomegranates
Eating rubies that dribble and squirt
Holy water like the Great Mother
About to spring a leak
Too full of possibilities

Three cheers for spreading poetry in uncommon places, but oh, god, this poem is an atrocity. The only redeeming factor is that it doesn't rhyme. "Like the first thing we see/Our mother's body from the inside out"? Rule #46 of poetry: Do not make allusions to the reader's mother's hooha. Talk about your own vajayjay, talk about your mom's vajayjay, but for some reason people get touchy when you start pointing fingers at Mom's vagina. Especially when you do it badly. For no poetic reason. Next two lines! "Born in a cloak...scoured of this holy shower" Make up your mind. Is it a cloak or a shower? While cloaks are often helpful in a downpour, they're usually not called for in the shower. And people usually get scoured IN the shower, not because of it. Was it a Golden Shower? Because that might make sense.

"Red like the inside of eyelids and anger" I had no idea eyelids and anger were the same color! I was always thought anger was the color of something more intestinal, like the spleen. "Fury that only this color can connote or contain" Seriously? Red can contain fury, kinda like a superhero? I had no idea that colors could do that. I bet Blue can stop flooding and Green can control forest fires; I wonder what Fuschia does.

"Like the potent power of menses." Yes, the potent power to make me blow up like a balloon, crave chocolate, and eat everything in sight. "The immense grace and power of reproduction." ::sigh:: Here there was almost a chance of a nice line, "immense grace and power"; okay, so it's a little cliched, but look at what we're working with. But then we get to "reproduction". Oh. How...charming. And stark. Besides, how do we get from 'menses' to 'reproduction'. Are you including menses in the "grace" of reproduction, 'cause that's insane. A woman's period is about as graceful as squeezing rhino into a girdle.

""Captured only in the piercing authority/of deep blood red" Besides the religious symbolism of blood and its ability to make people faint I fail to see how blood has authority. Especially 'piercing' authority, a bad word, by the word, to use in conjunction with blood as it immediately brings to mind stab wounds. Personally, I was reminded of a Law and Order episode which featured an ice pick.

And now we reach the point where everything becomes a disgusting, confused mess. "Red like the juice of pomegranates/Eating rubies that dribble and squirt" Must we use "dribble and squirt" when we've talking about menstruating and the rather clinical term of 'reproduction'? For the love of all that will not make me hurl up Cheerios on my screen, please do not talk about women's periods dribbling. Or enjoin us to eat it. And let's just quickly move on.

"Holy water like the Great Mother/About to spring a leak/Too full of possibilities" Thank heavens, the end of the poem and not soon enough. Now we know what's being 'dribbled, etc': holy water, though how or why, I've no idea. This "Great Mother/About to spring a leak" baffles the hell out of me. Does she one day awake to find a small puncture in her side with a stream jetting out of her? At first I thought the author meant the Holy Mother Mary, because of the holy water reference. But how would she spring a leak? And what would she leak? Holy water? Jesus candy? But all-knowing Wikipedia says that the term 'Great Mother' refers to the general idea of a mother goddess. Okay, so what's she gonna leak? Given the rest of the poem, I'm thinkin' blood. Menstrual blood. A huge, flooding leak taking out Tokyo before she moves on to China and even Siberia. The world hasn't been eating right or going to bed on time and the Great Mother's about to spring a leak of whup-ass. As long as you eat pomegranates, you'll be fine.

Sleep, handsome men, metaphors

2010-11-05T18:46:00.000-07:00

I SLEPT! Insanely weird hours, but I SLEPT! 9:30pm to 7:45am. How does anyone have a social life with that: Why, hello, insanely handsome and well read British man, yes, I would like to jetset to the Globe for a performance by the Royal English Shakespeare Company and dinner at some fabulous restaurant. But could you have me back by nine?

And then, weirdly, I've slept all day. And not like, ::headnodheadnodheadnodasleep:: it's ::watchinghulu-outcold::
It's extremely disconcerting to close your eyes during the daytime and open them in the dark. Hmm, that should be a metaphor for something but I'm too muddled to come up with something.

It's 6:45, 3 hours 'til bedtime! Sweet dreams, everyone.

Sleep don't fail me now!

2010-11-04T19:53:00.001-07:00

It's 7:45 pm and I'm all ready for bed. Face washed, teeth brushed and flossed, and the rest of me in comfy pajamas. With any luck I'll be asleep within the next hour or two. The last time I went to bed this early I was 8. You Biblical scholars will recognize this as a sign of the coming of Rufus, the first horseman of the Apocalypse. (The other three are Buddy, Gareth, and Horatio.)

Top Hats and Botox

2010-11-04T12:05:00.000-07:00

It's 11:50 and I've been awake for 8 hours. That's just ungodly and immoral. Sherlock Holmes did not help me get back to sleep, but it did advance my vague amusement at just how freaking formal the Victorians were. Watson and Holmes went hiking the Swiss Alps in spats and top hats! Top hats! Who the hell hikes in a top hat? Apparently they feared offending a goat with their uncovered heads. In a different episode they go cat burglarizing in full suits and greatcoats with Holmes once again in a top hat. Thank God I didn't live then. I'd probably end up being the resident crazy lady living on the moor.

In other news, I'm getting Botox! Don't know when just yet, but it's been approved by my health insurance. Botox has been found effective in severe migraine and has been recommended to me by several doctors. But it's rather expensive,$300 per dose. But now it's been approved! Yay! Now it's just a matter of finding a dermatologist or neurologist who will do the actual injections. The doctor who wrote the prescription is ...well, come to think of it I don't exactly know what his specialty is, but I see him for my TMJ issues - but I get other injections from him and even though he's lovely and I trust him, when it comes to Botox and all that can go wrong with it, I'd rather have the more trained and practiced hand of a dermatologist or neurologist.

Sleep eludes me.

2010-11-04T04:16:00.000-07:00

It's 4:08 in the ante meridian and I'm bloody awake. What's worse is that I woke up 20 minutes ago. And in the nasty twist that is migraines, the migraine I get from waking up so early is so bad it prevents me from going to sleep. Oy. I need a head transplant - just so long as I can keep my hair. Bloody love my hair. That wasn't a command. That was a statement. Just clarifying, as I think I had a dream about grammar. Migraines are strange, strange things.

Going to watch SHerlock Holmes in hope of being lulled back to sleep. Love the show, but if I'm sleepy nothing else will put me to sleep like those. All those nice, even British accents and scenes of people just talking. No gun shots or car chases or shouting. If someone gets excited it's all very controlled and very rarely raises above a, "I say, dear chap, that goes too far!" Oh god, my head. ANyone wanna trade?

I love Sherlock Holmes. As good as the books.

2010-11-03T10:30:00.000-07:00

I've been watching a lot of Sherlock Holmes lately. Not the new one with what's his name, Robert Downey, Jr., but with Jeremy Brett, who is the best ever. He brings such warmth and character to a character who can be so cold and imposing.

I have learned important things about Victorian England, though. First, if you're in Londn in 1860, don't be around a crime. Don't look like someone who could commit a crime. Or look like someone who could know a criminal. Or know someone who could know someone who could know a criminal. If they had a tv crime show it would be Circumstantial Evidence.

Holmes, on the other hand, is like London: CSI. He seems like the forefather of modern forensics. While Holmes is preserving crime scenes and looking for fingerprints and bullet trajectories, the Inspector Lestrade is standing around saying, "See, 'e's prob'ly done in by a brick, right? 'Cause there's blood, see? And there's a brick righ' over there. An' you - oy! Oy! You! You worked with bricks once, right? Yeah, so 'e prob'ly did it. Go 'rest 'im."

Also, I can't sleep. I get to sleep just fine, but then I wake up at like 4 or 5 in the bloody morning. And that's not good when you go to bed at midnight and need 10 hours sleep. Yipes. So damn annoying. I wake up and then can't get back to sleep. I CAN'T SLEEP! Yargh! No one should be up at 4. Birds aren't even up at 4. Insects aren't up at 4. My dog isn't up at 4. No one is up at 4. And yet I am. Bloody hell, man. Bloody hell.

2 Profound Thoughts

2010-10-27T16:57:00.000-07:00

1. Pineapple is a gift from the gods.

2. Sherlock Holmes looks like a bat. An insanely intelligent bat.

Thank you, have a nice day.

I'm out in society! Whee!

2010-10-24T13:05:00.000-07:00

Hellooo, people! Very excited, as last night hung out with real people, as opposed to family members or medical personnel. Which is not to downplay my family, whom I adore, especially my little, 4 yr. old nephew, Will, who told his mom, my sister (well, yeah, that's sorta obvious), "It's okay, Susie can come here. I will make it safe. Her head will not hurt." Oh my dear ever-lovin' god. So adorable it's painful.

But I was talking about something else. Oh, yeah, hanging out with real people. Yay! I finally felt well enough that I last night I went to a church thing and saw all my friends - the last which I saw them was in ....May? A hella long time ago. Also, met a kindred spirit. She loves all the small, unknown British tv shows that I do! Scarlet Pimpernel, The IT Crowd, Doctor Who (someone who understands the David Tennant aesthetic!), Coupling...okay, so the last two aren't really 'small' shows. We had a dandy time talking about all of them.

Today, though, slight overhang. No, hangover. Right, that's it. Anyway, hangover in the form of a massive migraine. Damn you, hershey kisses. This is what happens, though. I get stuck in thinking that the way I'm feeling at that moment is the way I'll feel forever. So I have a couple of good days - I mean really good days - like very little headache, could handle Target's horrid flickering lights and then my wonderful, noisy nephew - and I think, 'Hurrah! I'm better! I can have a little chocolate! And some ice cream!" And that's always a stupid move. So, here I am with an overhang. No. Hangover. In the form of a massive migraine.

This, though, comes on the heels of a disastrous Monday, where despite seeing the lovely and wonderful Kathleen, I lived my social nightmare. I was on a horrible med and I couldn't stand up without falling over, walk a straight line, stand up after falling off a bench, and basically looked like a drunken mess. Maybe there'll be a post about it. Not sure yet. The general consensus is that my neurologist hates me. That'll make more sense in a larger context.

So bit of a swing week. Begins with Kathleen (yay!) and public drunkenness, and ends with clarity of thought and seeing people I haven't seen in months. Let's pray this trend continues. (No, not the drunkenness.)

Fashion!

2010-10-23T13:13:00.000-07:00

Let's talk hats, people. Let's talk 1940s. I love, love, love the clothes of the '40s and '50s - including the hats. And they're coming back! Just look at this sassy, red number from Target:

How cute is that? It looks like it stepped off of Ginger Roger's head and into your local mercantile. And, may I just add, I've been here for years. I've been wearing hats like the one below for years. It's the only trend I've ever been ahead of, and it's only because, ironically, I prefer vintage styles. All things old are new again!

Happiness is the knowledge you're sure to get one of those for Christmas!

Clean up time is fun time.

2010-10-20T19:34:00.000-07:00

My sister has a 4 yr old boy and teething toddler; so the song heard most around the house is, "Clean up, clean up! Do your part! Do your share!" The kiddies get a chance to sing and the put their toy donuts and monster trucks away.

Imagine my reaction then, when 'Clean Up' was listed in the fried chicken mcnuggets list of ingredients that not parades as the modern film credits. Most irrelevant credit ever. Just slightly below accountant. Or accountant's assistant. Saw that once. Okay, that might be the stupidest credit ever.

Got worse ones? Submit below.

There are reasons my sister doesn't let me babysit her kids.

2010-10-15T20:16:00.000-07:00

I've been watching the reality show Teach, starring Tony Danza going back to Philly to teach 10th grade English in Philadelphia. I'm snacking on some delicious, delicious fresh pineapple and am quite content when oh dear gods in heaven foul beast is attacking mouth??! It's the demon pineapple juice, on a rogue mission to destroy my tongue, dropping land mines and firebombing the whole damn lot of it. OW! SWEET CHEESY JESUS OW!

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I finished the pineapple - it was really good pineapple - and then sat. Waiting for feeling that my lips would stop feeling like citric acid was slowly eroding them. The waiting did not so much work.

So I thought, "I know! I need something bland! Something that will absorb the pineapple juice. I dashed to the kitchen, yanked open the cupboard door and saw the blandest thing of all: saltine crackers. And thusly came my mortal error. Because the important word in "saltine crackers" is SALT. Which is fun to put into wounds. So the crackers also did not work. Who saw that one coming? Apparently not me.

But then I saw an ice pack on the kitchen counter and thought, "If only that could fit in mouth and I could numb the darn thing." That revelation led me to the idea of ice cream, which has worked quite well.

Also, Lee Adama is a hottie.

2010-10-12T17:50:00.001-07:00

Dear Battlestar Galactica,

First of all, good job being culturally relevant and exploring our collective Id. And using the occasional British slang word!

Second of all, could you maybe back off on the whole edge-of-your-seat-suspenseful action type thingies? Because, while being very well done, they are not so good for the ol' blood pressure.

Many thanks,

Susan

Random Scottish Thoughts

2010-10-10T01:21:00.000-07:00

Kathleen and I agreed today that regardless of the season during which you visit Scotland, bring a coat. I visited during July and it felt like a Tucson winter. A cold, blustery, rainy winter day. It was somewhere in the low 60s but it felt colder because of the a fore mentioned cold-blustery-rainyness. Kathleen visited in December, so I can only marvel at the fact that she did not lose several toes and part of her nose to frostbite.

In other news, I'm trying to convince our neighbors that a Scotsman/woman lives at our house. My dad, for some reason, is dead sure that all of our neighbors hear everything we say in our backyard, so he's forever shushing us when we're talking out there. Our 'inside voices' are our 'outside voices'. Working off this theory, whenever I call Mia inside I do it in a rich, badly-done, Scottish brogue. Like, "Come on, ya wee, daft dog! Get inta the hoos!" I don't do it every time; I try to pepper it throughout the day. There hasn't been feedback yet, but I like to think that I've perplexed people. That's reward enough.

Nostril flaring

2010-10-06T18:49:00.000-07:00

A question for you, Dear Reader. One of great import and significance:

Can you flare your nostrils on purpose?

I ask because I was just watching a movie where a character says, "I had a boyfriend who flared his nostrils when he lied, too." Which made me realized that the other guy in the scene had to flare his nostrils on purpose - so I tried it. It didn't work. So is there anyone who can actually do this? Is this something you learn in high school drama or from prestigious acting coaches? Like, find your character's motivation and don't forget to practice flaring your nostrils?

There are so many unanswered questions in the world...

I'm an arrogant bastard

2010-10-06T17:21:00.001-07:00

Just watched To Kill a King about the English civil war, Oliver Cromwell, and the execution of Charles I. It was very good. But while that's a fascinating period of history, I can't get as excited about it as I do about the Renaissance and Queen Elizabeth I and Shakespeare. It's just not sexy. It's a bunch of Puritans deposing kings and talking about the Magna Carta and the purview of kings and yada yada. But the Renaissance? It's sexy. First off, there's the original dirty old bastard, Shakespeare, followed closely by Elizabeth, who was one sassy broad, if ever there was one.

But I sort of hate that I favor the Renaissance, 'cause it feels like I'm taking the easy intellectual route out. It's history's pop culture. If I were actually smart, I'd like some small, esoteric, unknown period, like the reign of Canute in 985.

This is sort of like an, "Everyone's wearing blue, so I'm going to wear red" thing. If everyone likes the Renaissance then I should like Canute. Or Cromwell. But I don't. I like Shakespeare. And a little part of me hates the fact that I like what everyone else does, too. If they started making movies about Aethelred the Unready would I all of a sudden be like, "Ooo-ooh, Aethelred! I totally love him! Let's go see Justin Timberlake would be like, such, the perfect Aethelred." (Okay, so I actually do like him.) (Aethelred, not Timberlake.) I guess what I'm saying is, I think I'm a fly-by-night history geek. I'm succumbing to historical peer pressure.

It's not that bad

2010-10-05T17:01:00.000-07:00

Organic shredded wheat is my go-to food for whenever I want to describe horrible health-nut food, but actually it's not that bad. I mention it because I've been seeing a glut of frosted mini-wheat commercials and it reminds me of when I had actual, brand name, 'real' shredded wheat. It was some of the worst, foul tasting cereal I've ever had. Salty, over processed, and positively soaked in MSG. Blech. Cinnamon shredded wheat from Kashi, though? Light, crisp, and filling. Not bad at all.

Why the hell can't I sleep???

2010-10-05T02:07:00.004-07:00

It's 2 of the clock in the bloody a.m. and I can't sleep. I slept 3 hours last night, from 3 to 6:30. This is not good. This is migraine food. This is what migraines feast and flourish on. No sleep and thunderstorms. I'm going to start running mad soon.

3:00 At least it gives me time to catch up on my favorite intellectual and educational sites, like awfulplasticsurgery.com

3:45 Mia the Wonder Dog sleeping soundly. But on bright note Netflix has all four seasons of Battlestar Galactica streaming online. Score one for me.

4:00 Damn you, sleep! You elusive nymph of the night!

4:48 Woops, Dad getting up soon. I can hear him stirring upstairs.

4:51 Man, what I wouldn't give for a nice, big juicy hamburger and fries. Sorry - that was random and completely unrelated to sleeping. Except I seem to have replaced sleep with food. Constantly hungry, which is problematic when you can't eat anything. A nice, big arugula salad and organic shredded wheat just doesn't quite hit the spot.

11:41 Finally fell asleep around 5:30. Got a whopping five hours of sleep - which may be enough for some people ::coughmikecough::: but I need around 10. And it's windy; sing with me, "barometric pressure chang-gess! Yeah!"

11:42 Have finally lost mind. If found, please contact local authorities.

No more aps! (one 'p' or two?)

2010-10-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

There's a car commercial that keeps playing on hulu.com. The voice-over says something to the effect of, "Wouldn't it be cool if you could open the car door with one of these?" And then it shows a smart phone of the iPhone/Droid variety.

Let me answer that question. No. No, it will not be cool. Because I really do not look forward to the day when losing my phone means losing my car keys, too. Nor will it be cool when I can't get into my car because my phone's finally kicked the bucket upon my dropping it for the millionth time. I'm quite content with my remote access button and actual, physical keys. And don't get me started on cars with 'Start' buttons. They give me the willies...

Diary of a Provincial Lady

2010-10-04T07:28:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to sleep lately. It eludes me like words during a migraine. I toss and turn, wake up at unseemly hours and can't go back to sleep. As you can imagine, it's doing wonders for my headaches.

So, while I'm up at 6:30, having managed to only fallen asleep 3 bloody hours ago, let me tell you about this fantastic book I'm reading, which I can only describe as The Diary of Bridget Jones' Grandmother. It's actual title is Diary of a Provincial Lady and was published in 1931, but the tone, humour, and style are all much like good ol' Jones. (One of my favorite books, btw.)

Excerpts:

"Lady B. waves her hand...and declares...if they could have got husbands they wouldn't be Feminists. I instantly assert that all have had husbands, and some two or three. This may or may not be true, but have seldom known a stronger homicidal impulse."

"Cook merely repeats that It Is All Over the Village, and that Miss Barbara will quite as like not be married by special licence, and old Mrs. B. is in such a way as never was. Am disconcerted to find that Cook and I have been talking our heads off for the better part of forty minutes before I remember that gossip is both undignified and undesirable."

(Funnier in context.)

Evidence of life's injustice

2010-10-02T05:51:00.000-07:00

Arrested Development: 3 seasons
Firefly:12 episodes

And yet. . .

Chuck marches proudly on into season 4. Why, God? Why?

Evidence of Justice in the World

2010-10-02T05:49:00.000-07:00

My very good and best, darling friend Kathleen is engaged! Yay! To Chris, an absolute doll of a guy who is, I'm very happy to say, absolutely deserving. They met in England, where they were both studying for their Masters (um, yeah, she's kinda smart) and he proposed last Saturday while they were on a trip to Copenhagen.

I couldn't be happier for them - and for me: now I have an excuse to browse all those bridal websites!

Congratulations, darling! :-)

Plays nicely wiith others

2010-09-28T14:11:00.000-07:00

It's 6 days later, but here's the second amazing thing I learned about the English from watching their futbal game:

So there they are, a bunch of handsome blokes chasing after a little ball when, woops! It gets kicked up into the stands! And then the most astounding thing happened: the fans threw the ball back. Repeat: the fans threw the ball back. That's just bloody unbelievable. English soccer fans are supposed to violent, mindless hooligans, but when the chance comes to have a game ball they fall over themselves to politely hand the ball back over, "Oh, excuse me, sir, but it does seems as if you've misplaced this rather interesting looking, um, ball thing here. Here you go. Chip, chip!"

In the States people get regularly mauled for that sort of thing. You don't just throw back the game base-, foot-, or basket-ball. You keep that sucker! But there were the Brits - happily and helpfully tossing it back.Never seen anything like it.

Wherein sportscasters argue about colors

2010-09-22T00:20:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I watched an English League ~~soccer~~ ~~football~~ futbal game. (Excuse the spelling, I can't get the umlauts right, but you get so much more ethnic European flavor that way.) Mind you, I was doing this to redeem myself for having just wasted an hour of my life watching My Big Redneck Wedding. (The theme: duck hunting. The cake: alternating tiers of Twinkies and jello shots. The vows: "I'll do to you what my mother told me would get me called a bad girl.")

So I came across Chelsea vs. Blackpool and gave it my undivided attention; I learned many things, among them, the following:

British sportscasters - and therefore all/most British men? - know their colors. Blackpool's jerseys were this lovely orangish-yellowish color and as I was thinking about what a nice, non-primary color it was the sports-announcer said, "...and Blackpool in tangerine..." Oh! Tangerine! Sportscasters. In England know the color tangerine!

Yes, this is a weird thing to get excited about, but 1. Could you ever imagine an American sports team, pro or amateur, wear non-primary or secondary color, even like seafoam green? 2. Could you imagine the stereotypical sport-crazy dude knowing its name? Imagine with me, if you will, Sunday Night Football in the not too distant future:

"Well, welcome to the game tonight; it's shaping up to be a doozy. Recent changes in the defensive line-ups of both teams leave it an open field; it's really up to the offense to really push that ball and score some goals."

"That's right, Bob. The team who wins tonight is going to be the one that puts the most points up on that score-board." Frank looked back up at the camera, "Looks like it's getting close to game time; let's go down to the field as the action starts."

On the field, the Cardinals and the Seahawks were leaning down on the grass, their powerful haunches ready to launch each other at the opposing team. Grown men growled like savage animals, making promises to rip their f-ing f-s from their f-ing f-ers. Testosterone mixed with sweat and musk and pheromones, causing any women within 50 feet to ovulate.

Up in the booth, Bob commented, "You know, those Seahawks jerseys are looking a little different. It's the color - not really blue, not really green."

"Yeah, I know what you mean, what exactly is that color? It's sort of an aquamarine."

"But a bit brighter, just a hint of turquoise. Steve, what can you tell us about this new color?"

Steve, on the Seahawks sidelines, was perplexed, since they had just missed a spectacular interception followed by a 70 yard dash to the goal. "I beg your pardon?"

"That color! That fabulous color, Steve! What is it called?" Frank was getting impatient.

."How the hell should I know!" Steve was already testy.

"Well go ask someone!"

"And say what, "Excuse me, your quarterback died in a fiery plane crash yesterday but you still managed a goal, what's that lovely color?'"

"And ask if they have swatches."

Grumbling something about unions Steve went to do his duty and found a bored fullback who, it turned out, had a sister on the design team of the new color. She was a "color designer". It's name was "lake detritus" and was meant to signify the teams connection to the city, the land, and its native peoples. (The land's native peoples, not the team's. Who would be a team's native peoples? Cheerleaders?) 'Lake Detritus' was very similar to seafoam green, but with a hint more blue than blue-green. It's also very close to Algae, Calm Cottage, Celestial Seas, and Deep Thoughts. And, it turned out, the bored fullback's sister did indeed have swatches.

Steve reported back, "Well, Bob, Frank, looks like the Seahawks are playing in Lake Detritus, closely related to Riverwater and Hypothermia."

Bob commented, "Thanks, Steve. That is good to know. Folks, if you're just joining us now, don't adjust your set, the Seahawks are wearing their jerseys in a color called, Lake Detritus...."

* * * *

Never going to happen. But in England, they get their colors right. And this post will obviously have to be spilt in two. So, wait for the second half, where the English are amazing because they don't steal things.

Yentl on acid?

2010-09-19T21:39:00.000-07:00

Migraines come along with a strange and unexpected gift: you can watch the same movie multiple times, but because of the memory problems each time I see it it's like watching it for the first time. But then there are days like today, where I can't stay awake for longer than 15 minutes and I have no idea what the hell is going on. I'm watching something on Netflix called "Son of Rambow" and who I thought was the lead character might not be anymore and everything seemed happy but then there were children beating each other up and I think there was a fire and now they're eating dinner and I'm just very confused about the whole point of the thing. Um, now a kid's getting home from the hospital, but first he's stopping at a movie theater to watch Yentl first. What the hell?!?

Maybe this would make more sense if I were more awake. I won't ever know, because I'm going to bed now. :-)

DNA isn't destiny, right? I can break the cycle, I can break the cycle!

2010-09-15T11:07:00.002-07:00

10:55am
My parents are leaving today to attend a funeral service in California for a good friend of theirs; they'll stay out their several days more to visit with some old friends. Now, my parents do not approach a trip lightly. Some people can spend a few days away from home with scant more than a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Not my folks; anything less than two full coolers of food, several large pieces of luggage, multiple garment bags, backpacks, and a Panzer is considered irresponsible.

But it's now 11of-the-clock and there is nary a suitcase to be found. The full extent of the packing seems to be two coolers each with two bags of either frozen peas or corn. (I don't understand it any more than you do.) Dad said he wanted the whole drive to be in daylight, but at their pace the drive will be done in Saturday's daylight. Keep tuned here for all your up to the minute packing updates! Ooooh, excitement!

2:00
There has been progress! I just went into the living room and there are 4 - four! - bags! A garment bag, a duffel bag, a bag for the ride, and duffel of meds and mags. And in the kitchen there's a full cooler and a freezer bag with a loaf of bread and a bag of Nilla wafers. There are even rumours that my mom has packed. (The rumours are mainly from her and are therefore of doubtful veracity.) My parents may actually leave before sunset and with less than their legendary Grand Canyon outing when they took 7 bags for 2 days.

Might there actually be hope for change?

3:40
No, there might not. My parents just shoved off, their CRV full too the brim with 9 bags, four bags of which is just food - though this time, thank god, they've substituted the huge-ass cooler for a freezer bag - including English muffins, a loaf of bread, organic Oreos, bananas, Fritos, ham sandwiches, frozen bottles of Pepsi, and mixed nuts.

But now they're gone and the house is mine until next Tuesday! It's glorious!!! Simply, beautifully, insanely glorious! Excuse me while I wander about the house in my skivvies, laughing madly.

I'm trying to think of things to post. I'm trying!

2010-09-14T23:17:00.000-07:00

It's been almost two weeks since I posted last. yipes! Ever since submitting that essay I feel written out. The essay contest started in May and I'd been working on the essay since then. A couple different versions, a couple different drafts. The written word and I are on a little break.

I keep telling myself I'm not going to win the contest because, well, I'm most likely not going to, but also because I want to win so badly. The prize is amazing: $5000 and a meeting with a top literary agent. I've already got the $5000 spent: paying off my school loan and the left-over is for Wendy to come with me to New York to meet the literary agent. And then with what's left of my takings, I'll visit Kathleen in my heart's homeland, England.

If I win.

Which I won't.

(If I say that enough times maybe I'll win. But I won't. But it sure would be nice.)

The Curious of Case of For the Love of God Get on With It

2010-09-06T18:59:00.000-07:00

Guess what movie I'm watching? Yes, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, the movie twice as long as the title. For the love of all that is entertaining, get on with it! I'm an hour in and a good 30 minutes could have been cut. I'm sure it's a lovely movie, but no more. I can't do it. Time for something less atmospheric and, oh what's the word?, paced like a snail.

Glamour essay contest done!

2010-09-06T14:36:00.000-07:00

Ha-ha! I'm done! After 4 months of thinking and worrying about it, I just submitted my essay to the Glamour essay contest, top prize (only prize): publication in Glamour, $5000, and a meeting with a top literary agent. Quite a catch. Do I have a hope of winning? I don't know. My sister Karen is quite hopeful, she likes it more than the essay that won last year. The rest of my family loves it and they're all rather harsh writing critics. I'd post it but it's 8 pages long.

Realistically, I'm not gonna win. There are thousands of contestants most of them probably with writing degrees. I'm just happy I actually got an essay written; that's darn near miraculous in and of itself. I think the judging's done in February.

Whaling=Evil Dolphins=Good Old Yeller=Never Watching

2010-08-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

I just watched the season finale of Whale Wars, a show that defies description but I'll try anyway. Essentially, it's a bunch of extreme animal rights activists that try to interrupt Japanese whalers. From that sentence you might think that I disapprove - I don't! Even my "the Republican party is too liberal", NRA-loving, Tea Bagging parents think that whalers deserve their own corner of hell - preferably one where they're endlessly hunted and killed while their children look on. (Oh, stop. It'd be a holographic representation of the kids. Unless, of course, they were whalers, too.) It's just that the activists are a little nuts. But I'm off-track.

When this post started it was going to say this: During every commercial break they ran promos for a documentary about fisherman who herd dolphins into a cove and then kill them. Great. Now the only things I can think about are the wholesale slaughter of innocent, intelligent, loving animals. Now all I need to do is watch Old Yeller and my night is complete. Needless to say I'm going to be up for a while trying to purge my mind before going to sleep.

Look, it's a gift.

2010-08-22T21:17:00.000-07:00

The battery charger for my camera has been dying a long, slow death but finally kicked the bucket last Thursday, the night before I left for Oregon. The combined price for a new battery, which is old and possibly faulty, and new charger is $110. Youch. Bye-bye, camera.

On the flight Thursday I pulled out my iPod to chill to the lovely Regina Spektor. Hello, Regina? How are you? Lovely, I bet! But the iPod went all crazy. It went through all the songs without actually playing them; it froze and didn't respond. The battery went from fully to half charged in ten minutes.

In short, I have my Halloween costume. Behold, I am Shiva, Destroyer of Electronics! Toasters kneel in my presence and quake! Thermometers flee before me! I bring doom to cable boxes and car stereos! Run LED lights, run as fast as you can! Woe and sorrow to you, oh yee of the electrons! I bring the Amish in my wake!

The amazing pizza eating baby!

2010-08-22T20:49:00.000-07:00

I'm in Oregon visiting my grandfather, whom I adore, and my mom took the opportunity to say one of her classic, that-made-no-earthly-sense things.

He asked her if Amy's cooked since the birth of Kate, who'll be a year old in November - and has some food allergies. Mom said, "Oh no, Amy's been doing more take-out and pizza for Kate." The baby who doesn't eat real food yet. It made me twitch.

On further investigation, my mom apparently meant "Amy's been doing more take-out because [she's been too busy since] Kate [has been born]." It's amazing what choosing the wrong word and leaving out a couple phrases will do.

Who the hell smells like salted butter?

2010-08-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

Y'all, I need your help, because I am perplexed. I was talking on the phone with Glen today and he told me about how this lady in his class yesterday said, "You know how those people in the grocery store who smell like salted butter..." She didn't finish the thought because this was the millionth time she had used the phrase "those people" and so Glen called her on it. But I'm confused.

Salted butter? What exactly does salted butter smell like?
How would one go about making oneself smell like it? Would ya just rub it all over yourself in the shower, or kind of roll in it, like a dog?
Just who is supposed to smell like it? What ethnic group is supposed to smell like butter?

Or maybe it's not an ethnic group - maybe it's an age or socioeconomic group? Like, "you know those [elderly grandmother] people [who bake biscuits and] smell like salted butter..."? Or, "you know those people [of the income bracket of roughly $15-25,000] who smell like salted butter..."?

Are there people who smell like unsalted butter? What about other dairy products, like buttermilk, cream cheese, or yogurt? How about non-dairy creamer?

The mind boggles. It simply boggles.

At least they don't talk back to me...

2010-08-12T17:29:00.000-07:00

Help! I can't stop talking to myself and the computer. I keep trying but it just doesn't work. I just finished watching Top Chef on Hulu and I kept talking to the chefs and telling the judges what to do. Obviously this isn't terribly unusual for me, but there's no one else home. It's just me and my deranged noodle. "You can't eliminate him - oh crap, you eliminated him. What the hell's wrong with you?" I just caught myself telling the people on Design Star to shut up. Apparently I've reached the loopy stage of the migraine but since there's no one to talk to I'm talking to the little people in the pretty box of moving colors. Good god. It's only a matter of time before my parents pad my walls.

Geeking out, again

2010-08-11T12:26:00.000-07:00

For anyone planning to travel, I recommend reading first these excellent tips found in a Guide to Fieldwork (part 1 & 2) in the Speculative Grammarian, a satirical linguistic journal. (I'm in love.) Some of my favorites:

What to pack for U.S & Europe:

[an] umbrella is also useful against porcupines, which will attempt to gain a position above the traveler and then plummet

For North Africa and the Middle East:

Any text on zoology, specifically mammalian physiology. You want to know what’s on that plate, although if it’s looking back at you, it’s almost certainly sheep.

Central and South Africa:

Quintuple the usual amount of insect repellent, plus at least four gallons of insecticide. It won’t do any good, but you’ll feel like you got some revenge.
Large, sealable plastic bags (i.e. sandwich bags, but larger). An amazing number of things cannot get into shoes that are stored in these.

Central and South Asia:

Antacid tablets. Remember, “cold” food does not mean food that is not spicy, it means food that cools you off. Internal temperature drops when you are in shock, which partially explains lime pickle.

Why do people listen to country?

2010-08-08T22:18:00.000-07:00

As I listen to the gentle strains of rain pitter-pattering on the desert floor, I'm reminded of a song from my youth, "Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee, it gets hotter than a hootchie-cootchie!" "What," fair reader you may be asking, "is a 'hootchie-cootchie'?"

I've got no earthly idea. I've got a dirty idea, but no earthly one.

(I never said it was a good song.)

The Military Forces Love You! No, really. They do.

2010-08-03T14:06:00.002-07:00

In my in-box today was an email headed "IPOY", with the subtitle "In God We Trust". It was from my father. I groaned when I saw it. Dad is a nice man, but has a persecution complex several fathoms deep. Combine that with a devotion to Rush Limbaugh, an admiration of Glenn Beck, and an adherence to Christianity because it lets him be holier than thou, anything from him with 'God' and patriotic overtones is sure to saccharine, badly reasoned, and straight from Tea Bag headquarters.

It was all that - and more! There were two touching pictures, one of a flag draped coffin and another of a wife sleeping next to the coffin (not as creepy as it sounds) of her husband, so she could sleep next to him one last night. Then there was nonsense about 'red-blooded Americans should wear blue every Friday to support the troops, 'cause no one supports them, damn those hippy liberals!' Then, the piece-de-resistance: at the very bottom, in small, red letters:

Only two defining forces have ever offered to die for you:

1. Jesus Christ

2. the American G.I.

One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.

I'll wait for the laughter to die down.

Who knew basic training was actually divinity school? If Jesus had the cross, then does the American G.I. have the AK-47? I mean, should we wear that on a chain in remembrance of him? And who exactly is this "American G.I."? We know what Jesus looked like: beard, brown hair, robes, sandals, but what about this elusive G.I.? Is he tall, short, fat, thin, smoldering, simmering, boy next door, boy ten stories up, white, black, mocha? And people know that there's not One, True G.I.! There's tons of 'em out there, just running around, willy-nilly! Some of 'em are already dead - just look at Arlington National Cemetery. What do we do with them? Look, when you're making a religion, you've got to think things through. Ooh! Ooh! I know! There is One True G.I. and the other G.I.s, the lesser G.I.s? They're clones! Ha-ha! It's freakin' brilliant. Yes, see, the other G.I.s are clones - multi-cultural clones - and their mothers are. . .are. . .are, um, the chosen! Yeah, that's the ticket. So all the G.I.s out there are clones of The One True G.I. who died to bring us freedom. From what, I don't know. In the first Gulf War they died to bring us freedom from higher gas prices? And currently it's...freedom from low body counts? I can't tell. Don't bother me with details, I'm working!!

Yes, yes, who needs God when we can worship the most efficient killing machine that's ever existed? Screw Christ, I've got a Panzer! The clones are many, but the chosen are few. I can choose my own personal saint from among the fallen! The Catholics take too freakin' long; I'm just gonna pick from that latest list of the Holy Sacrificed. My nightly prayer, "Dear G.I., Please make me love freedom as much as a forced march. Amen"

I scoff, but quite honestly that's the most offensive, blasphemous bullshit I've ever seen.

The Sisterhood

2010-08-02T02:09:00.000-07:00

Remember in grade school when the boys and girls were divided into separate classrooms so as to be taught the delicate mysteries of their own gender's plumbing? Well, the boys may have learned about their dangly bits, but we girls were taught about the Feminine Wiles. Yes, we were all given spiral bound notebooks that contained the Mysteries of Our Sex. I failed most of them. "How to Smolder While Holding a Wine Glass" went horribly and I could never get a hang of "Winking Like a Woman: How to Say 'Hello, Hotstuff' With Your Eyelashes". I got thrown out of class during the controversial discussion, "To Skank or not to Skank, that is the question", for yelling, "May the wrath of Gloria Steinem be on your heads!!" and, "NASA's discovered a slight wobble in the earth's rotation: Susan B. Anthony spinning in her grave!" Ah, the heady days of youth.

Instead of the frilly nonsense, I was eagerly finding out about the first female astronaut (Sally Ride, I still adore you), the history of science, and the strong, independent women who have shaped history and culture. All of which is to say, if they make a live action version of the following, I have to be one of them. I don't care who, I just want to be a brontesaurus.

Also brilliant. Violence and Jane Austen, so strangely satisfying...and I used to be such a purist.

I'm still alive!

2010-07-29T20:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

I apologize for my absence of late. Since the start of the monsoon season, my headaches have quadrupled in intensity and frequency. It's annoying, 'cause most migraine triggers are controllable, but not the weather. (It's the changes in barometric pressure; I can almost feel my skull expand and contract with them.) Everything is on hold; I can't write or read and it'll take miracle straight from heaven to make it to my nephew's birthday party this weekend. I haven't seen my friends in months.

I'll post when I can. My head's just holding me hostage for a little bit; know where I can get a new one?

Oy,

Susan

Angelina Jolie is insane, but not like Taylor Swift

2010-07-20T21:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Angelina Jolie,

After watching several of your ex-husband's films I've decided that you're mad. How did you ever divorce him? Why, woman? Why?

Jonny Lee Miller is adorable. A. Door. Uh. Bull. And British! So much cuteness in such a little, British package! And you leave him? For, what's his name - Ol' Decrepit and Moldy? Good lord. You don't have the sense God gave fruit flies.

Just look at them. One of them clearly says, "mentally stable" and the other one clearly says, "desperately trying to hold on to an imagined past of sexual attractiveness; here's a vial of my blood, merry Christmas." And I think we both know who is who, don't we, sweetie?

It's just as well, though, since you've gone on to shop for babies like the UN was a United Colors of Benetton and Jonny's gone on to be, well, normal.

Anyway, do you know if he has brothers?

With warmest personal regards,

~Susan

Crazy Chainsaw Man

2010-07-17T00:34:00.000-07:00

Oyyyy. For the last week or something I've been digesting in the bowels of a Migraine. It's chewed me up, swallowed me, boiled me alive in stomach acid, and is now processing me through its intestines. I feel like shit. How long did I say it's been? A week? Um, yeah, that sounds about right. I was doing somewhat good last week; not great, but okay, the census was back, so yay for work! Yay for money! I worked Thursday afternoon, and got a little too hot so of course I got a migraine. (Because everything gives me a migraine. Puppies and rainbows probably give me a migraine, too. Why? Because happiness hates me. I am a happiness free zone.I will one day be protected by the UN as one of the only happiness-free zones in the world, in the rarefied company of the 7th grade [the whole 7th grade] and Merle's House of Reptile Wonders, now open for weddings.)

Oh god where was I? Was I at the ER yet? No? No. Oh, bugger all.

Right, so horrible migraine Thursday (8 July). Friday and Saturday I wake up to someone dissecting my brain with a chainsaw. Blood splatters everything, eyeballs get sliced and slung off into bookshelves, my dog ends up chewing on my amygdala as a post-dinner palate cleanser. When I wake up Sunday and hear the ol' saw start up again I say, 'no. no, no, no, no, no. no, no, no. No. No bloody way am I doing that again. We're going to the ER where they're going to give me lovely, lovely drugs to make the bad chainsaw man go away.' Well, I ended up at Urgent Care. They only had morphine. Morphine made the chainsaw man laugh and hack the top of my skull off. Things continued much the same on Monday, so I visited my local, helpful ER, where they gave me something 7 times stronger than morphine. And chainsaw man went away! Yes, the migraine floated off....for 24 hours.

The week since then has not been good. It should have taken one shot and the migraine was gone for good. But it took two and the damn thing's still here. I was excited to see my neurologist today, because I thought she would have suggestions on how to stop it. Instead, we had a very strange conversation that I didn't understand and don't remember, 'cause, hi!, I'm dopey and having a migraine, but basically amounted to: She (the neurologist) thinks that I'm not taking enough control/ownership of my own treatment, that I've been getting worse for the last couple of months (it takes an M.D. to make those kinda observations?), and that I should see a psychiatrist. This all may have made sense at the time that she said it, but I don't know due to the crazy chainsaw man gutting out my skull at the time of our tete-a-tete.Absent were any helpful tips as to how to stop said crazy chainsaw man. If you need me, I'll be bashing my head against the unmovable wall that is the medical "science" of migraine "treatment".

4G what? 4 grams? 4 gnats? 4 gnus?

2010-07-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Can someone please tell me what the hell is 4G? On Hulu all the time are commercials for it: "Now, the first phone with broadband capable 4G...", "...with wireless routing for four simultaneous 4G devices...", and "the next generation of 4G diapers". It's all well and good, but WHAT THE HELL IS IT? I suppose it's better than 3G, which would help if I knew what 3G is. I know what 4F is, but that's not so much helpful. Commercials always say "wireless 4G network", but everything's wireless and networked so that's not so much helpful either. Is it a type of network? Or a way to connect to the network? Am I showing signs of 20s senility that I don't understand it?

I need the Geek Squad on stand-by just to watch tv.

Tea Party Pharisees

2010-06-30T12:59:00.000-07:00

Just discovered a new, GENIUS site: Tea Party Jesus. It takes the words of leading Tea Party members and puts them into quotations in Sunday School pictures of Jesus. That's a bad description - just visit. It's brilliant.

The Glamour essay and my dementia medication

2010-06-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

The Glamour essay contest mentioned earlier this week is the Real Life essay, entry form available at that link back there. They're looking for stories "inspiring [stories] about a life changing event, an obstacle overcome, a relationship or passion that’s defined you". I figure four years of chronic migraines fits in there somewhere. Last year's winner wrote about being sexually abused by her grandfather and a winner before her died of complications from lung cancer three days before her essay was published, so if anything, migraines would be a cheery upswing!

In other migraine news, when I saw my neurologist this week she put me on another med; it's for dementia patients, but it has good results in migraineurs. So, to recap I'm on 6 (six) medications, none of which are actually made for migraines:

Topomax: anticonvulsant for epileptics until they realized it worked in migraines, too
Methylprednisolone: steroid for (kid you not) brain inflammation
Nortriptyline, prozac: early generation anti-depressant found to be useful in preventing and aborting migraine attacks
Kepra: "all day seizure control that's right for me"
Nemenda: for Alzheimers

Nobody knows what the hell a migraine really is or how it works, so they don't know how to medicate it - if they did, I'd be on only one or two, not 6 medications - so doctors find out by happy accident what works for migraine patients. "Oh, look, my dementia patient is crazy but her head feels better! Let's make a trial!" I'm on ywo anti-convulsants, two anti-depressants, a steroid, and a dementia med. Someone needs to fund some damn migraine research.

A really good book

2010-06-22T22:31:00.000-07:00

Normally when I talk about a book here, it's a deliciously awful one, but today (or night, rather) it's deliciously delightful: Simple Prayers, by Michael Golding. It's so good I'm having a hard time explaining how good it is.

It's an easy read, written almost like a fable with sprinklings of magical realism, and hard to put down. The story is about a small, medeival, Italian village where the Spring hasn't come; those on the island, especially the brothers Gianluca and Albertino, try to make the season appear.

The end, I'll warn you, is sad, but absolutely the right conclusion. It's satisfying and the only way it could end, because of all that is going on in the book. Ostensibly a fable, Simple Prayers is rich with religious imagery and undertones. But it's not a religious book by any means; the imagery illuminates and provides structure, but doesn't dominate. When I finished reading this novel the first time I just sat stunned for a quarter-of-an-hour, thinking about it all. Then I turned back to the first page and started reading it all over again. I can't loan anyone my copy because it's full of notes, underlines, circles, and exclamation marks. I'm nearing the end of my second reading and I'm considering reading it a third time. This would be a great book to teach.

Don't read it for the lit analysis, that's just a bonus for english dorks (Hi, Girls!), read Simple Prayers beacuse it's beautiful and unexpected.

The only way I’m like a gazelle

2010-06-22T13:28:00.001-07:00

It’s hard to have a chronic illness that can’t be seen. Here is where I whine about why I don’t have something easier, like cancer or MS, something with telethons and wigs and wheelchairs. Oh, I’m joking, pipe your hate mail down. Migraines are nothing compared to a telethon disease and I’m well aware of – and damn thankful for - it. What I mean is this: No one can see how the hot pincers of living death are slowly pulling my cerebellum through my nose. Which is a damn shame, because I hear that Hollywood pays big bucks for those kinds of special effects.

Since no one can see the evil knife-booted gnome party in my head, I can hear it in people’s voices when I cancel plans or excuse myself from activities. There’s a slightly exasperated tone of, “Oh, Susan’s ditching us again.” Or, “What excuse is it this time?” I’m simply not believed; instead I’m tagged as lazy, arrogant, distant, or that I just don’t care about people – when the truth is far, far different. The embarrassingly naked truth is this: I desperately, desperately miss my friends. I miss being around people. The worst thing about these last 4 years hasn’t been the pain, the inability to work, or the dropping out of graduate school, it’s been all the broken relationships. You see, when you’re sick, people don’t call and invite you to things because they assume you can’t come anyway. So you hear about all the parties, the barbeques, the concerts weeks after they happened, and you begin to feel like a footnote. Someone with their own Vh1 special, “Whatever Happened to….?”. Your friends’ lives surge on, but you stay home.

I’ve recently joined a new church and I absolutely love it. Everyone is great and there’s always booze, even on Sunday. (‘Course I’d love it more if I could drink.) But since I’ve been working for the last couple months the migraines have gotten worse and I just haven’t been able to make it to many Bible studies or Sundays. Whenever I talk to someone to cancel, I can hear the slight skepticism – or maybe my own guilt about not going – and I feel an urge to prove myself and the migraines. Like I could somehow do a Vulcan mind meld and let me them experience my head. (Hey, Star Trek is cool now; didn’t you see the new movie? But instead I’m left sitting home, nursing my very real wounds.

I suppose it doesn’t help that I’ve developed excellent coping mechanisms. In other words, adrenaline is an amazing thing. If I’m out in public with others and I start getting a migraine, i.e. either the pain or the weirdness starts, then I’m somehow able to stuff it away. Well, not entirely away, but it gets shoved to the back of my mind. I’m not having a very pleasant time, but unless you know my tells, you won’t notice there’s anything different with me. Because I have to take care of myself; my goal is getting home. With people I don’t know very well, like my new church (no offense), I’m the only one who knows what I have to do for myself. Like a wounded gazelle on the Serengeti, my adrenaline is pumping to get home. The adrenaline lets me act pretty normal. Once I get home, though, I collapse into a pool of Susan goo. It’s all over.

The only people who have seen what I’m really like in a migraine are my family, The Girls, and Glen. Once I let the adrenaline stop propping me up, it’s all over. No more talking, no more walking, no more decision making, nothing. It’s all over.

So I may be having a migraine and have to excuse myself home, but I look fine. I’ve tried letting myself have a migraine or at least letting some of the symptoms through, but it doesn’t work. The knife-boot gnome party doesn’t really fly its flag ‘til I get home. And so I hear the skepticism in peoples’ voices, which is partially my and my coping mechanism’s fault. She seems fine, she’s trying to get out of [insert event: here]. Or, She won’t come, so don’t invite her. Or, She’s cancelling again? (When, seriously, cancelling is the very last f**king thing in the world I want to do. I’m dying for company that isn’t over 60 and that was involved in my birth).

Look, just because I hide the invisible machete in my head doesn’t mean it’s not there. Have some grace, huh?

And a telethon?

Geeking Out

2010-06-21T15:51:00.000-07:00

There are tons of inaccuracies in the latest Star Trek movie (which is faboo and I love) - transporting, warp travel, Kirk and Sulu re-entering a planet's atmosphere in jumpsuits - and I'm perfectly willing to suspend disbelief 'cause it's a damn good movie. But then we get to the central conceit everything falls into a complete mess lacking even a semblance of reality.

Apparently an exploding star at the center of a galaxy is going supernova and threatening to consume Romulus but if they can just inject it with mysterious 'Red Matter', the star will turn into a black hole, the planet will be saved, everything will be fine, and hooray for the Federation. Right, so let's start with the supernova at the center of a galaxy. First of all, there's no supernova large enough to consume a galaxy.In order to get destroyed by one, you have to be close, really close - not half a galaxy away. The only way a supernova could destroy Romulus is if it was its own star. Besides, there couldn't be A supernova at the center of a galaxy; last time I checked astronomers think that there are massive black holes at the center of galaxies.

Now that we're on the topic of black holes, how stupid could you be to want to create one next to your planet? Black holes are not white-out. You do not simply patch a supernova over with a black hole and hey-ho let's have tea! If it's that close, the planet's going to get sucked in. And die. Besides, if the supernova has already taken Romulus' sun - or the supernova is their sun, which seems more likely - how will the planet survive? Look, this whole thing is just a bad idea.

Okay, I'm feeling much better now. This has been bottled up inside me now for some time and things needed to be said. Read more about Star Trek and bad science at this link on the Bad Astronomy blog.

Pretty dresses!

2010-06-20T12:26:00.000-07:00

Photos from Sweden's Princess Victoria's wedding. Absolutely gorgeous dress (it's towards the end). Classic, elegant, very Audrey Hepburn. She married her personal trainer; I can't imagine that went over very well. Sweet petunias, my parents wouldn't be terribly thrilled if I married a personal trainer and they only rule our house, not a Nordic kingdom.

This is what's wrong with America

2010-06-19T10:08:00.001-07:00

Several years ago a company advertised its car's resistance to dings and dents by showing it in a deserted grocery store parking lot at night. Under a circle of sodium light a lonely cart wheeled sadly through the lot until it ran into the dent-resistant car. Over it all they played Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night".

For the past two days I've had that blasted song stuck in my head and all I can think about is grocery carts in empty parking lots. Damn you, corporate America! Damn yooouuuu!

~~~~~~

And last night I had a dream that Dana Carvey was the drummer for Queen; he said it was nice being the drummer because if he made a mistake he could say he was syncopating.

Practicing for an essay 1

2010-06-18T14:30:00.002-07:00

I’m thinking of entering the Glamour “My Life” essay contest, but I really have no idea what I’m going to write. Well, I’m going to write about the migraines, obviously, but I still need a focus, a thesis, so to speak. (Can anyone tell I’m an English teacher?) So I’m going to write little bits on here from time to time to try it out. I have no chance of winning, but why not try?
I know this is really choppy and disconnected. It’ll get worked on eventually. I’m just trying to get ideas out to see if there’s even something to put together.
I hate Top Chef. No, I love Top Chef. I hate the contestants. '”Hi, I’m Elantra, I’m 22, and I own my own restaurant. I was declared one of Zagat’s Best New Chefs when I was 8. Next month I’m travelling to the Vatican to be the Pope’s chef and personal trainer.”
I, meanwhile, am nearly 30 and good at sitting. Really good at sitting. It’s damn near a miracle I can stand up at all. Migraines have a way of doing that to you – the sitting, not the cooking for revered spiritual leaders. Light turns into lances that chases you into the deepest, darkest space you can find; hopefully a space small enough to curl into a ball, stuff your ears with expensive ear plugs, and banish noise, light, and food for a 3 mile radius.
This comes from personal experience, since they’ve been the thorn in my flesh since I was 8. My family was at a hotel on our summer vacation to the 4 Corners; it July and bloody hot. The door of our room faced the rising sun and despite the air conditioner inside, it was warm to the touch. Inside my sisters and parents were getting ready for the day; my dad stood shaving at the sink. A pueblo pink sink. My mom handed me a vacation breakfast of milk and a donut – donuts are strictly verboten at home – and the hand that rose to take it wasn’t mine. It was where mine was supposed to be, where it had been – but it wasn’t, it couldn’t be my arm. It was too long, stretched like a putty doll, and it was cold to the touch, like a corpse. I looked to the right and my other arm was detached, too. It had been stolen and replaced with a ghost.
I looked at the tv and it was making sounds; familiar, comforting sounds that didn’t make sense, but didn’t. English was a ghost language, stretched and distorted past meaning.
The fear and panic of being trapped in a body not my own, with a language I couldn’t understand and couldn’t speak, in unbearable pain and nausea are no longer with me; that is one of Time’s few blessings. What I do remember is the heat of the Arizona sun as we drove and curling up on the back seat, tracing a line in the upholstery with my finger. If only my body could dissolve itself into that line, it wouldn’t hurt anymore. How happy it would be to be a brown line.
People sometimes ask me what a migraine is and the answer has to be experienced to be really understood. So get a couple friends together and the following: shard of broken glass, spear, several metal pots, and a bright flashlight. Got them? Good. Now we’ll start with the glass; stab it in your eye. Repeatedly. While shining the flashlight directly into the other eye. Next - this is where your friends come in handy - take the metal pots and start banging the hell out of ‘em while another friend jabs the spear straight through your head and twists. Oh and we can’t forget the nausea! Or, if you’re me, the dizziness and inability to speak.

Pain + Scotch = Good Books

2010-06-17T22:39:00.000-07:00

I've been watching HGTV's Next Design Star and it's had me wondering why there isn't "America's Great New Novelist". I'm guessing it's because you'd have to expose the contestants to extremely traumatic events and then throw them into locked rooms with just a bottle of scotch and a typewriter.

Damn, he's annoying

2010-06-17T10:36:00.000-07:00

I watched Angels and Demons last night and it made me glad that I haven't read the book. There is, of course, no amount of money that would compel me to read something by Dan Brown, but I thought one of his movies might be all right. And oh boy, was I wrong! It was by no means as bad as his books, but jeepers it certainly wasn't good.

Two-and-a-half hours, people. Two point five hours. (2.5) The saving grace was that it had Ewan McGregor - except he was only in .5 of those hours. And, oh god, he had to give this speech which was so badly written I was embarrassed for him. I imagined his reaction to getting the script, "Are you serious? I'm Obi-f**king-Wan Kenobi and you want me to say this? Shit. (pause) Well, it's a living."

At the beginning it was obvious who was the villain, but at the end it didn't make any sense why he did it the way he did it. And though I adore Tom Hanks I wish someone would shut him up about all the symbols and history; for the love of god, man, people are dying because you're giving a lecture on 16th century rose symbology! (Which is a made-up word.)

So, to conclude, I didn't even have to read his novel and Dan Brown managed to annoy the hell out of me just the same. If I have a nemesis, it must be him. Angels & Demons (Single-Disc Theatrical Edition)

2010-06-12T23:41:00.000-07:00

I went a little crazy with the posting today. I think this is the fourth? fifth? post of the day. Something like that. I'm just sayin': many posts coming up.

Also, I think I love Molly Lewis.

A pleading letter

2010-06-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Capri Pants,

Where have you gone, oh sweet little capri pants? I have looked everywhere for you, but you are nowhere to be found! I have looked under the bed and on my chairs; in my drawers and on the hangers. I have looked in my car and called my sister; checked the dryer and the dishes, but you aren't here. You have disappeared like a scantily clad woman at a magic show. Please come home capri pants, please please please.

I love you forever,

Susan

Question of the day:

2010-06-12T20:21:00.000-07:00

Soul mate or no? Do they exist?

Interesting quote from a short piece on the "myth" of soul mates:

Barbara Dafoe Whitehead, co-director of the National Marriage Project at Rutgers University, told Ken Myers in the documentary Wandering Towards the Altar, “The single most important shift in marriage has been the shift away from the common understanding of marriage as the formation of a family household, a new productive and procreative social unit, towards the understanding of marriage as a couple’s relationship oriented to fulfilling the emotional and spiritual needs of two adults.”

You're welcome to bugger the f**k off.

2010-06-12T14:52:00.000-07:00

Taking the census has taught me many things; many, many interesting things. Like, for example, you can have three children with different last names - none of them your own! The most surprising is this, houses with welcome mats are mean. If there's one out front, I get ready for cranky jerks and slammed doors. Add an American flag, garden gnomes, and little bunny statuettes and I'm 90% sure that whoever answers will be upset that I dare come to their door. You know, the one that I'm welcomed to. Then they get offended that I'm from the census, because, as we all know, the census is a socialist plot developed by the evil Barack Obama to become Czar, and not to determine Representatives or plan for schools.

Some of the nicest people, though, are those with grungy houses and junk strewn about the yard. Yesterday I talked to a woman who lived out in the boonies with a barbed wire, chained and padlocked gate, dogs, and a "Private Property No Trespassing" sign. I thought she was going to run us off but she was incredibly sweet and answered all the census questions. Guess you can't judge a book by its garden gnome.

There's Something About Mary. Namely, a shotgun.

2010-06-10T20:22:00.001-07:00

Another story about my coworker Mary. A week or so ago we were talking about an incident in Yuba City involving a census worker and a shooting. Here's the article, but basically what happened is that someone pulled a gun on a census taker and when the cops arrived, one of the women at the house pulled a shotgun on them. She got shot, not surprisingly, but died, unfortunately.

So Mary and I were talking about this event and and she said, "It's just so said about that lady; I feel horrible that that lady got shot."

I said, "Yeah, it's unfortunate, but that's what happens when you wave a gun at the cops."

"Well that's what I mean," she said. "I don't think it's right that you get shot if you point a gun at the police. You should be allowed to point your gun at whoever you want!" Like kindergartners? "I mean, it was her property, she should be allowed to waver her shotgun at the police." Umm... "It used to be that you could point your gun at law enforcement and they'd be fine. You'd meet the sheriff with your shotgun and say, 'I'm taking care of it; don't come on my land.' And he'd say, 'fine', and leave. But now you can get shot for it! That's outrageous."

Handling a racist

2010-06-09T17:21:00.001-07:00

When I was in Arizona City I worked with a sweet, interesting woman named Mary (all names have been changed to protect racists and innocents alike). She was easy to talk to but the first sign of possible trouble was when she talked about the border, “I say we throw them all out and get ourselves sorted out first before we let any of them back in.” Okay, so, I can see what she means and though “them” could be misconstrued, it’s what a large part of America thinks.

A day or two later, we grabbed lunch at a truck stop – a brief side note about AZ City. Should you ever have the misfortune of being there around mealtime, you have two options: Avail yourself of neither. One has a side of chips and salsa for $3.50; the chips were store-bought & stale and the salsa was by Picante. The other place smelled of pee and bleach. Which was why a truck stop looked like culinary heaven.

So Mary came back to our table and says, “I just stuck my head into the “TV Room” and there was a guy sitting there with a turban on. And that made me mad!! I mean, what right does he have to sit there and watch tv! When there are Americans overseas, and he’s sitting there watching tv!”

At which I nearly choked and died, because you usually have fries, not racism, with your Big Mac. So I replied, “Just because he’s Muslim doesn’t mean he’s a terrorist; he’s American just like you and me.”

To which she said, “Well, yes, but they’re taught to hate America.” Uh-huh. So to make the point that the actions of a few do not represent the actions or beliefs of the whole, I asked her about Vietnam. At My Lai, American soldiers killed women and children, but that doesn’t mean all American soldiers do so. It was a bad analogy, but the first thing that jumped to mind; it seemed to make sense to her, either way.

Then this morning we were talking about a coworker who’s Chinese by way of Indonesia. Our colleague, ‘Wanda’, is a little wacky, but Mary thinks she’s a kiss-up, “That’s just, you know, how a lot of Orientals are. They’re ruthlesss; they don’t care who they have to step on to get something. Once they see a goal they go after it; they don’t care what they have to do to get it.”

Oh. Really. Orientals? Ruthless? Sigh.

I glossed over it and said, “Oh, I just think Wanda’s a little goofy.” Because, really, what do you say? No, I’m serious. What do you say? Or, rather, what do I say? We’ll probably work together again, which is fine because I like her and we get along well, but what’s the best way to react when she says something racist?

Stories from Nowhere

2010-06-01T13:51:00.000-07:00

I'm not thankfully done with Arizona City (Zeus be hailed!) so now it's time for a few stories from the Jock Strap of America.

First, an unseemly number of people still have their Christmas decorations up. Wreathes on doors, the odd animatronic deer, giant artificial tree half-deconstructed, strings of dangly lights hung up along the eaves (lit up at noon). Weird. At first the high number of snowbirds would seem to account for all this, except that the decorations were at the homes of full-time residents.

People don't move to AZ City because they like people or appreciate the finer things in life. As evidenced by the sign in one man's window: "Trespassers will be shot; survivors will be shot again." It was my privilege to talk to those residents; they didn't really think it was a privilege.

At one house I had to wait for a while after knocking, but it was finally answered by a timid Asian (this is relevant) woman, who looked a little confused when I explained I was from the census. She looked back into the house and said, "Honey, someone from the censoos". Back comes this angry growl, "Tell them to go away! I don't have time! Make them go away!" I asked, "Well, can I just have how many people live here?" The woman says, "Two", and the man yells, "NO!! GO AWAY I don't have time-I don't want to deal with this! Go AWAY!" At which point I hurried my little butt off their property.

Woe, woe, woe

2010-05-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

This week we finished up with our local area and so I've moved on to bigger and brighter things: Arizona City. Which, to be truthful, is neither bigger nor brighter, so it should say, "smaller and bleaker things". I had never even heard of AZ City 'til I got census work up there, so I can't say much about it except that it's near Eloy and Casa Grande and if you've never been to Arizona, that won't make any sense, so a more general description would be "halfway to nowhere".

No one lives in AZ City. Tumbleweeds and dirt fields live in AZ City. Lots and lots of desolate dirt fields and an ugly desert of scrub brush; it reminds me of a set of an indie film using the location as a metaphor for the bleakness of the human soul. I keep expecting to find a teenage boy filming a plastic bag in the wind.

Where people work and where they get groceries is a bit of a mystery. The main street, at least what appears to pass as a main street, has a library, the board of commerce, and a glorified 7-11. Don't know if we'll find anything more. I've decided that the city fathers were all high, because only someone on peyote would think this is a nice place to live.

Next stop. Broadway

2010-05-26T22:27:00.000-07:00

My Raskolnikov letter got published on the website! See here.

Last night I dreamt...

2010-05-26T17:49:00.000-07:00

...that I was hanging out at the pool with some of my friends when Dog the Bounty Hunter and his bounty hunting friends showed up. They started canvassing the apartment complex we were at and trying to find the ne'er-do-well; there was the camera crew and everything. After a while, they couldn't find out anything so they started giving people eye examinations; like, "Cover your left eye and read the third line from the top" eye examinations. Even in the dream this confused me. I kept trying to figure out why in the world they were doing this; I asked Beth, "So what's up with the eye charts?" And she said, "Well, before Big Daddy hunted bounties, he was working at an eye office, so now he likes to do this for free as a way to give back to the community."

And then they started fitting everyone for bikinis. "Everyone" of course meaning "girls". Because boys should not wear bikini bottoms, i.e. Speedos; that's just a blanket rule because the exceptions are few and far between. And then after the bikinis, Dog and Beth officiated an Asian inspired wedding where everyone wore kimonos.

Then I woke up.

Census and Cougars

2010-05-24T17:01:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago I had to fill a census questionnaire at a rather odd apartment. There were three teenagers hanging outside the door, all trying to desperately give punk music CPR. One girl had both sides of her head shaved, leaving long, neon pink hair stringing down the middle, like a mohawk in need of Viagra. Sitting next to her and smoking was a boy with an annoying hair cut; or at least I would have found it annoying to have. I started shaking my head subconciously to the extra hair out of my eyes and putting my hand to my head to brush the extravegantly long bangs from my vision. He was tatooed everywhere that I could see and coolly appraised me as I walked up to them.

"Well", I thought.. "I'm sure he's a very nice young man and she looks perfectly lovely, too. Remember, treat others how you would be treated!...Sure. Yes." I attempted communication, "Hi! My name is Susan and I'm from the census. Do you live at [redacted]?" The girl said, "Yeah." The boy said, "You should talk to our mom. [Redacted], get our mom." She stuck her head inside the door, yelled, "Mom! Census!" turned to me and said,"She'll be here in a minute." then continued on with her busy schedule of being angst ridden.

When I got to the front door I knew exactly what I was going to find. A skinny white woman - probably a chain smoker - cheaply (and badly) furnished apartment, and someone who wouldn't give a damn about me or the census. Imagine the surprise when the door was opened by a short, pleasantly plump, golden skinned woman with perfectly coiffed hair. "Oh, yah, yah, the census. I was expecting you; I was very bad and never sent it in. Please, come inside." As I walked into her beautifully decorated apartment, she said in a low voice, "Excuse my children; they are very rude."

I started asking her the census questions and she, we'll call her "Edna", was very soon telling me about her life.

I asked, "How many people live here?"

Edna replied, "3. Oh, wait, no; 4. It was only 3, you see, but now my ex-husband is living with us.I do not like him, my ex-husband. No, I do not like him living with us."

Oh. Unfortunately there's not a box on the form for that.

We kept talking and I felt comfortable to ask, "Why is your ex-husband living here if you don't like him?"

"Oh," she said. "You see, I have to go back to Germany to visit my family and I can't leave the children alone. So my ex-husband has moved in to be with the kids. So now I am living with him and I do not like him; no, no, not at all."

So then we get to the ages of her kids: 18 and 15. We get her age: 64. We get to the ex-husband's age and Edna says, "Well, let's see. . .he's 30 years younger than me. . .so that would make him. . ."

Now, I'm not too good with math, but even I know this isn't adding up right. I checked to make sure she actually meant 30 and yes, she meant 30. So you go wrap your minds around that one. The questionnaire was completed fairly soon after that. Cougars on the rise. Raawr, baby. Raawr.

I did something stupid

2010-05-23T23:42:00.001-07:00

On Friday I stopped in front of a house which was for sale, but in order to see the number of the real estate agent I had to get out of my car and walk up to the sign. So I get everything written down, get back to my car, pull open the handle and. . . nothing. Because I locked my keys inside the &$^$ car. While it's running.

And since it's 11am on a work day, no one's home at the cul-de-sac I'm censusing. At the one of the houses, however, is a workman's truck and luckily the guy had just walked out. "Hi!" I called out. "I'm with the Census and I just did a very stupid thing. Do you know how to get into a locked car?" After he heard my story he laughed and then tried to help me, but knew of no other way into my car except a rock. Through a window, that is. Thankfully, though, he let me use his cell phone and I called my mom, who had a spare key and lives only a mile or two away.

Usually I take precautions against this! I always carry a spare key with me. In my wallet, which was in my car.. Sitting next to my cell phone. Mom eventually showed up, key in hand and my car was happily recovered. I returned the phone to the Man Whose Name I Do Not Know and many thanks were proffered. With any luck I will not do anything this stupid again for a long, long time.

Letters to Characters

2010-05-20T00:39:00.001-07:00

My friend Katie tipped me off to a new literary project: Letters to Characters.Essentially, you write a letter to a character. Didn't see that one comin', did ya? It has to be from a real person to a character from fiction; read some of them here. I want to submit one, but first I'm going to write a few here at Meanderings and Musings.Feel free to post a letter in the comments.

First letter!
Raskolnikov/Crime and Punishment

Dear Raskonikov,

Kill her; don't kill her.

Confess; don't confess.

But for the love of god, STOP WHINING!

With sincerest regards,
Susan

Hello, pot. What a lovely shade of black!

2010-05-19T23:22:00.001-07:00

There was a house I needed to complete a census form for but hadn't been able to contact, so I decided it was time for a proxy, a person (usually a neighbor) who knows the people at the address and can give me a little information. So today I knocked on the door of a neighbor and, to my amazement, she knew her neighbors' names. No one knows their neighbors' names. No one. You ask someone about who lives next door and the response is, "Ooh, gosh, I don't know. I think a family lives there? Um, there's a young couple and maybe a couple of kids. I don't really know." If you think that, like in New York, you don't have to worry about dying alone and not being discovered for weeks because no one will smell your rotting corpse for weeks 'cause New York is full of hardened, cynical people, but you live in the west where people love and care for each other, you're wrong. Worry about it. If you leave it up to your neighbors, you won't be missed until your Home Owners' Association dues are past due, at which point you will have decomposed into an anatomy lesson..

Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah, the proxy.So this sweet, older woman opens the door and she knew her neighbors' name and that they're married and they have a kid who visits. Emboldened by this treasure trove of stranger knowledge, I ventured on to another question on the census form, "Do you know if they're of Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish heritage?" Yes, that was the first stupid thing I did today; I might tell you the second if you play your cards right.

"You know, that question is a stupid question. That's profiling, that's what that is. When people come here they're not Mexican-Americans, they're just Americans .That's just ridiculous. If people are going to come here, then they shouldn't say "Mexican", they should just leave it right off... ." Feeling the interview slipping through my hands like a delicious slushy, I asked, "So you said her name was Patty. . .?"

"Ooh, that just gets my goat. Hmm? Yes, Patty. Very nice woman; they have a son that visits on the weekend; he's at school at ASU. He's doing very well, apparently. You know, I'm Mexican. I mean, I could call myself Mexican-American; my parents are Mexican but I don't say Mexican-American, I just say American:because that's what I am. Why don't you come in, the door's letting the AC out. . ."

So she and her beautiful, precious census information walked into her living room and I followed after, wondering why I was walking after a woman just to hear her rant.

Her elocutionary stride unbroken, she continued, "But they come here and use all our welfare and try to have their babies here so they're American citizens. What a scam! And they expect us to support them. All those people on welfare. And they're lazy, they're just lazy. What do you think?"

"Um. . . uh. . . . And it's just Patty and her husband?"

I managed to escape eventually, but only after learning how those awful Mexican-Americans are bleeding this country dry and using up government services. When I left her, though, she, a Mexican-American herself, was putting together an application for Section 8 housing..

Census Downers

2010-05-17T14:40:00.001-07:00

I continue to be pleasantly surprised by how nice and genial people are, even as I ask them intrusive questions about their gender, race, and whether or not they own their house. The vast majority are willing to help, but the occasional jerk livens up the day.

Like, for example, the man I met on Friday. There are some houses that I'm hesitant about approaching - like the one on Friday with beer cans and the occasional pair of pliers strewn about the yard and the swarm of flies that rose to greet me as I neared the door - this door, though, looked friendly. It had some ornamental lawn frogs and a folksy heart painted like an American flag, reading "Welcome!" Aw. I was prepared for a sweet, little old lady or a young mother with a baby. Either way, this was going to be a good interview. I had to ring the doorbell twice, but no matter. She was no doubt taking cookies out of the oven! Or singing a sweet, American folk tune to the sleeping babe! Damn it, it's good to be an American, we're just such nice, good people-what the hell was that?

My revery had been interrupted by the sound of a man coughing up a badger. The front door was ripped open and behind the security screen stood a very tall, very annoyed-looking man leaning on a walker. He growled, "Well. Yeah. Whaddya want?" I explained very nicely who I was and what I was doing, which he did not find pleasing.

"God, you people." His hand tried to strangle the air. "Why should I have to do this all over again. I already sent it in."

So then I explained that the infrastructure to process mail-ins doesn't work anymore, that we've moved into this phase of the census. To which he replies, (some swear words have been glossed over), "[Holy Crisco], can't you people get your shit together?" I refrained from pointing out that we were working according to schedule and that he was the one who sent it in late. I also refrained from asking him if he was male, which is something we actually have to ask. Literally. Every person, "And you are female?" or "You are male?" I'm sure I'm going to get it wrong eventually. Anyway, didn't ask him as I didn't want to die.

Thankfully, people as cranky as him are rare. Should there be any more, I will of course tell you about them.

George Rekers, this is your life

2010-05-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

You may or may not heard of George Rekers and his extracurricular activities last week. He's a one of the leading anti-gay crusaders in the Religious Right. Rekers has testified against gay adoptions rights and is associated (he might have founded and/or run it) a homosexual rehab center to turn gays straight. He also co-founded the Family Research Council with James Dobson.

Well, it turns out that little Georgey took a trip to Europe. With a "traveling companion". A young, male, prostitute companion. Found at rentboy.com. George claims not to have known his "companion" was a prostitute, which is a fairly thin excuse, and then to have kept the boy vixen around to try to save his soul.

Two reactions. First, I'm very sad for George and his family. He has obviously had a life-long struggle for George and his family, and it's awful to think of all the shame, guilt, and self-loathing he's lived with his whole life. And a whooooole bunch of denial. This is really a tragedy.

But on the other hand...It makes me laugh. There is a word that perfectly encapsulates how I feel: schadenfreude. It's such a fun word to say. This isn't a particularly good or righteous feeling to have, but I can't help it. Yes, it's a tragedy for his family, but his career has been a tragedy for thousands of people who want to adopt, but can't because they're gay. It's a tragedy for people who attended his center thinking they could be made into heterosexuals, but couldn't, thus creating a lot of guilt, shame, self-loathing and mistrust of God and other Christians, even if they're not homophobes.. It's a tragedy for American Christianity itself, that people would hear him speak about homosexuals and think that's how Christ and all other Christians feel, too. It's a tragedy that by acting out his self-loathing by proxy, the cycle of isolation and distance for homosexuals within the Church continued.

It's sad for him that he was outed like this, but it's a good thing that his secret is out and he's been discredited.

My skin has no idea what to do.

2010-05-12T21:44:00.000-07:00

::ring, ring::

Woman: Hello, this is the Miracle Report Network; how may I direct your call?

Me: Hi! Yes, I need to report a miracle.

Woman: And what is the nature of that miracle?

Me: Um, 'nature'?

Woman: Yes: Facial Appearance in Unlikely Places, such as Our Lord and Savior in yogurt or foot fungus - that's very popular. There's also Apparitions, Deus Ex Machina, Healings...

Me: Ooh, I think that's me: Healings.

Woman: And how and from what were you healed?

Me: I can tan.
(pause)

Woman: Excuse me?

Me: I can tan now!

Woman: That's not a healing. That's a carcinogen.

Me: Not if you're me. I'm a British amalgamation, my genetics like mold and moss; the sun freaks them out. I don't tan: I turn into a painful lobster.

Woman: Uh-huh.

Me: But I'm out all day with the census and I'm getting a tan! A really pale one, but still - a tan!