I'm burning my college journals

And the first one I'm getting rid of is the one with all the poetry. Most of it is crap, but there are a few I like. I publish them here for posterity. I apologize ahead of time for the pretentious line breaks.

In the Cab
Where to? Downtown?
Say, you were lucky -
Everyone wants cabs on
rainy days like today.
I came as fast as I could.

Say, know what?
My girlfriend
--I call her my girlfriend--
She says to me today,
"I love you,"
Just like that!
First time.

I tell ya,
she's great.
She looks like Linda Evans
She does wonders.

That your boyfriend
you kissed goodbye?
It's hard bein' alone in this town.
Say, you're lucky.


Nibbles
My tongue is
extra-sensitive today, and my teeth feel
sharper
than usual.
Come here,
dumpling,
And let me bite you.

The Moon
He sat in front of me and I was
trying
to ignore him,
But he dropped his pen
and wasn't wearing
any underwear.

Mid-stream
The voice in the next stall,
frail, old and thin:

"Are you a horse woman?"

I stop.
(Is she talking to me?)

"No."
"You don't ride horses?"
"No."
"Oh, I thought maybe.
Because of your boots."

No no no no no no no no no no!!!

OK, I guess I'm back after a very long hiatus to rant here, in my wordy medical cabinet full of balls, because they're trying to kill me. An FDA recommendation to outlaw vicodin?!? I heard that and my immediate reaction was "Jesus Christ, it's a good thing I've already taken my meds for tonight so I don't fucking freak out and throw myself off a cliff."

Fucking FDA. If they want to take away my vicodin, they better supply the fucking heroin.

Who is backing this? I bet it's the Aleve motherfuckers. Gah!
Where do I picket?! Where are the petitions?!?! Where are the addresses of the people on this FDA panel???!??!

Maybe I shouldn't have said that last one. But still, who are these people? They haven't walked a mile in my fucked up hip moccasins. I dream of stuffing a stone in their collective kidney. Let us drill holes in their teeth too close to the nerves, then give them ice cream and no root canal. I want to put pure glucose in their IV and watch them scream.

I honestly don't know what I would do without my vicodin. It scares me. A lot.

If they do take away the only thing that helps me walk like normal person, the thing that allows me to sleep on my horribly fucked up hip bursae, the drug that keeps me from stabbing my legs repeatedly in an effort to somehow relieve the horrible aching of petrified muscles, the thing that keeps me from screaming and punching walls, I will explode. And write terrible run on sentences. If I thought becoming a survivalist and barricading myself in a one room cabin with hordes of prescriptions and paintball guns would work, I would do it.

But I realize that eventually I would run out of pills and paintballs.

MOTH.ER.FUCK.ER.TWO.POINT.TOO

[Edited to add: it was an error with the nurse who called it in to the pharmacy. They are remedying the situation now. Still, my righteous anger applies to other incidents in the past and, no doubt, in the future. This doctor is still not in the clear yet.]

Just once I would like to have one month without medical drama. No new family illness, no mysterious blood sugar episodes, no bizarre side effects, no prescription refill fuck ups.

Especially no prescription refill fuck ups.

You may not remember, but christ I sure fucking do, why I broke up with my former doctor. When I interviewed for my new doctor, I discussed the whole pain medication history: how I had been on the same doseages for 5 years, how well it has worked for me, how I just needed someone downtown to be my primary care doc so I could continue what was obviously a solid, time-tested pain management regimen. She agreed that I seemed stable and was clearly not a drug addict looking for a patsy to feed her habit. We agreed that I would come in once it came time for my prescription to be filled.

I saw her on Monday and brought in the bottle of my last refill. She made a note in my file and asked if I wanted the refill in hand or just faxed to the pharmacy.

(For future reference: ALWAYS GET THE SCRIP IN HAND.)

I got a call yesterday, saying the refill was ready. I took the bus that went by my pharmacy and picked it up. I didn't bother to check anything. Then I got home and noticed the much smaller bottle than usual.

She shorted me 10 days' worth of pills. And made the pharmacist note specially that I was to "make this last the full 30 days."

OK, maybe it was just a mistake. Still? FUCKING BITCH. I can't help but think this was deliberate, that somehow she thinks that maybe I'm exaggerating just a bit and I really only need six a day, rather than the eight I've been on for 5 motherfucking years. Even if it is a mistake, there'll be 50 million hoops to jump through to get the rest and I'll have to pay full price because the insurance won't pay for it.

Once again, I can't sleep because I've gotten myself all hepped up. It's just so frustrating. I feel like I am constantly having to prove to every doctor I see that I really am in pain and that I really do need this medication. For as much as I joke about how great Vicodin is and how I'm such an addict, this is a real medication for me, like Wellbutrin or Levoxyl or Insulin, and I need it to live my life.

This doctor has known me for all of 1.5 hours. I've known this pain for 20 years. If she gives me shit, I swear I will tell her that I'm not seeing her for her medical expertise. I have other, better doctors for that. She is my means to an end. She is the cheapest way to get the medicine I need.

This pain isn't something that's all in my head. And I've been through enough that I shouldn't have to wait for hours on hold, to beg and plead and justify to some judgmental nurse with no knowledge of my background just so I can talk to the doctor and squeeze out of her a prescription for something that is legitimate and necessary. It's demeaning and embarrassing.

You know, my therapist says that a large part of my depression is fed by my insomnia. I would literally feel better if only I didn't have to deal with all this shit. I swear these doctors will be the death of me.

Ever have one of those immune systems?

It lives on my nose, on the tip and back to the left. It has settled also in the bag underneath my eye, which dries out my eye enough for it to hang out there as well.

No, I'm not talking about an adorable tiny wombat named Benson (He moved to Newman's right ear. They get along pretty well, except for the fights about the phone bills). I'm talking about another MRSA blossom that, like all lumps worth their salt, hurts like a mothefucker and makes everything that happens throughout the day more irritating, more painful and more "I'm going to rip the head off the next person who makes eye contact with me".

I'm sure you've had days like that.

So I'm on honkin' antibiotics and taking 16 vicodin a day (what am I - an amateur?), and I have to stick a Q-tip covered with goop up my nose three times a day. As you might imagine, I am a joy to be around.

Oh, and I passed a kidney stone this morning.

So, I've been out of the office for the past two days, writhing in pain and cursing the day I was born, and I show up at work this morning and the boss expects me to prepare for the complicated training I'll be giving tomorrow, and get the handouts rewritten, and rewrite the curriculum. And answer the phones. And respond to emails. And babysit the douchbag coworker who I used to think might be useful until it became apparent that (a) he thinks he's smarter than everyone else [this is an IT guy, you're thinking, how shocking! Yeah, I know] and 2. he hates being told what to do by women.

Anyway, I think my boss is punishing me for being out sick 4 days out the past four weeks. We're all a little passive-aggressive in our loverly little group, but pulling this "get stuff that takes three days done in roughly 5 hours, so you can stand in front of a class of high-maintenence bone-headed computer users who want to learn more about downloading jebus quote screensavers and couldn't give a hooter's tip how Outlook works" thing is fucked up, even for her.

And? On top of that? She sends me an email and says "Oh, don't forget to wander around with a candy basket harrassing people into coming up with questions for you to answer." Sweet.

So today's been a pretty "everything is sucky" day for me. I hope you enjoyed my whining. Be sure to tune in next time for a one-woman play about missing the bus and the new shoes that don't fit.

The ache of blue anger

Ok, before I start, you need to watch this. I just saw it on TV and it made me laugh heartily:

I want my ringtone to be "THIS IS LIFE ALERT. YOU HAVE BEEN DETECTED. PLEASE GET OUT NOW!"

And now...

The Least Satisfying Break-up Ever

I was prepared. I had typed up a timeline, I had my arguments in bullet points. Sure, I was sitting there in my hospital gown with a paper blanket covering my naked legs, but I had righteousness on my side. I was ready to kick her perky Beaverton ass.

So of course she walks in and the first words out of her mouth are "You know, I really think you should try to find a doctor nearer to where you live."

She fucking broke up with me first! Argh!

I did make my point that partially filling my prescription for 5 days and then taking a fucking week vacation wasn't cool. And when she said she did that so I would make an appointment, I said I would have come in if she'd just left the message with the pharmacist. I'm not 13 (I added in my head). Then I asked her if she would have done that if I needed an insulin refill. And of course she answered "No". I frowned. When I told her the whole story I got an apology, but that left me almost as frustrated as I was last week. well, with slightly less murderous rage, but still. She psychically cock blocked me. All I could do was demand copies of my medical records and she just said "pick up the form at reception." Then came the speculum.

The paperwork said that I would only be getting a Cliff Notes version of the past two years of visits and x-rays and labs. Since the whole reason my doctor blackmailed me into making an appointment was because I hadn't been to see her in 2 years, this was clearly not going to work. Luckily, my attorney had supplied me with a letter that outlined what I was legally entitled to per HIPAA (basically, anything I wanted). I went downstairs to records and was all ready to fight, but when I told them I wanted everything, all the chick behind the counter said was "OK, but you know we'll be charging you for it, right?"

Yeah, I knew that.
An hour later I was at my rheumatologist's office (I took the whole day off so I could see two doctors and a vet) and told him my story. He listened to me with a ponderous look on his face and then moved on without comment. At least he took a copy of my incident time line, which was a little satisfying, but I don't think he knew what it was, exactly. His assistant, who was also his daughter, asked me a bunch of questions and then he came in and poked at my joints and moved my arms around and generally posed me (most respectfully) like a Barbie doll. Then he sat me down and updated me on my physical phailures:

++ Chronic myofascial pain due to poorly controlled blood glucose levels and vitamin D deficency.
++ Vitamin D deficiency.
++ Possible pinched nerve or nerve damage in my left neck and shoulder.
++ Possible anemia.
++ Chronic fatigue (not necessarily the syndrome kind, for all you attorneys who represent The Man in worker's comp cases. Yeah, I'm lookin' at you, Paul).
++ Fibromyalgia, or a close relative, that is contributing to all of the above.

That'll put the balls in your Medicine Balls.

At least I got a new prescription for Vicodin. I could fill it now and be practically swimming in pills, but I'll be a good patient and at least wait until I finish my first bottle. Maybe. It depends on how the next couple of weeks at work go.

On the eve of a certain age

This past Saturday while talking to my 7-year old niece , she referred to herself (for whatever reason) as "young monk". I don't know why; she's just an enigma smothered in silly sauce. Anyway, later on she referred to me as "old monk".

Nothing like a 7-year old to put everything in that really awesome "no really, you're ancient" perspective.

I turn 39 tomorrow, though luckily I'm not one of those women who feel the need to add "for the first time". I hope to never be so fearful of irrelevance that I start doing that.

I've been told that I look much younger than I should ('much' being relative, of course), but this just makes me embarrassed and a little suspicious. That still hasn't stopped me from buying all those schmancy creams and oils to fight wrinkles I don't have yet and bags under my eyes that I've had since grade school.

I don't remember ever trying to imagine what I would be like at thirty-nine. That seemed so far away, so impossibly remote that I must have assumed I would end up like all my teachers who were, of course, polyester-slacksters with a confounding lack of pop culture knowledge.

Well, my pants are pajamas and I'm nothing but pop culture references. So tomorrow is my birthday and I will answer truthfully when anyone asks my age, although I'm sure we will both leave the conversation disappointed.

Keystone Kommute

An all-zone ticket for the Tri-met busses and Max lines costs $2.30. When I have certain doctors appointments, I have to leave work early and take a half-hour, multiple zone ride to Beaverton, then walk nearly a mile to the office. Since the husband occasionally has to take Max to his office in Beaverton, we maintain a cache of all-zone tickets.

Since I had an appointment after work today, I was pleased that I managed to remember to grab two tickets before I headed off to work.

"Look at me," I thought as I tucked them in my back pocket, "with the thinking ahead, etc."

I was nearly at the bus stop where I catch the bus every morning, ready to board as I usually do with my Zones 1 and 2 bus pass, when I reached into the pocket of my brand new awesome hoodie and did not find the wallet that I had tucked into it four blocks ago.

Well, poo.

A neighbor I had greeted as I left the house this morning found my wallet whilst walking her adorable pointy dog, and she met up with me as I was retracing my steps. Wallet back in hand (and NOT in pocket), I headed to another bus stop, this one for a different line that is usually busier than I like. I prefer not to stand or sit next to anyone when I am commuting, as I try to avoid interacting with anyone, at any time.

Well, the bus was full of snotty young whippersnappers storing their weirdly irony-free Strawberry Shortcake backpacks on the empty seats next to them, and so I stood with all the other worker bees who really didn't want to start a ruckus with the rude and mopey teens and I didn't really want to sit by the guy who smelled like dog shit, anyway.

Skip forward to lunch. I'm off to the place down the street for an egg salad. Nervous that I'd lose my wallet again, I check my various pockets for my accoutrements: phone, iPod, wallet, bus ticket.

Ticket? I stop and discover that there is only one all-zone ticket in my back pocket.

Crap. How does something fall out of a back pocket? It's not like I spend my days hanging upside down from a jungle gym.

Well, having experienced missing a train because the stupid machine wouldn't print the ticket fast enough, I thought I'd buy my replacement ticket in advance from the machine at the stop before I picked up my egg salad. I carefully tucked my purchase into one of my front pockets and headed off to the sandwich place. I spent the rest of the day suddenly wigging out and checking all my pockets in a panic. Everything seemed to be in order.

Work continued and finally let me go. As the train approached the stop at its appointed time, I reached into my front pocket and pulled out my ticket. And it was then I noticed the note at the bottom that read "EXPIRES AT 2:14 PM".

Shit. I'd forgotten that tickets bought in the machines, rather than at the Tri-met office, expired after two hours.

Well, I still had the one that survived the trip this morning, but not wanting to have to buy another ticket for the return trip, I risked getting caught by a traffic cop and boarded the train without buying another ticket. I managed to get to my stop without incident. Huzzah!

So, I walked to my appointment, whined to my therapist, scored some sleeping pills and started my trip home. As I walked past the bus stop half way to the station, I checked the arrival table and saw that there was one due in two minutes. Well, wasn't that handy? I watched the silhouette of the bus lumber toward me, I reached into my back pocket. My empty back pocket.

Fuckity fuckerson! What? Why? Argh!

I dug into my bag trying to find my wallet, which of course had settled underneath every single thing I had in it, simultaneously reliving my sandwich purchase, trying to remember how and how much I had paid for it. Did I pay cash? How much did I pay? Did I have any enough left to buy another goddamn ticket?

Well, turns out I bought the egg salad with my ATM card and I had exactly 3 dollars-- three soft and crumpled dollars that are difficult to stuff into the bus fareboxes. The machine finally took my fare, but its initial resistance allowed the driver to lecture me for wearing a black coat while waiting at a bus stop at night while she handed me my transfer.

I sat at the transit center waiting for the train that would finally get me home, clutching my transfer with both hands, and I wondered where my lost tickets ended up. I decided that if they weren't found by an indigent person desperate to get to Gresham, I imagined they were riding the wind in poetic circles like a plastic bag in nineties a movie.

Memories of a poisoning

I meant to post this entry on the twenty-fourth, but I think I took one nap too many that day. Consider this a belated xmas fable.

Picture, if you dare, a smallish dining room that opens out into a living room. Both rooms are cluttered with doily-draped furniture and bookshelves with books. Many, many creches are set up pell-mell on every available flat surface. Finally, the room is lined with an impossible number of ticking clocks, all set to slightly different times so that each clock can ring solo on every fifteen, thirty, forty-five or sixty minutes. As soon as one welcomed inside, any visitor will feel like they're late for something. Conversations will seem to clock in twice as fast as any normal verbal exchange. Everyone is just a little bit jumpy.

There are ten people crowding around a square dining table. On the table, there are dinner and salad plates, salad forks and dinner forks and two types of spoon. There are water glasses and wine glasses and tiny butter pat dishes. The table is so crowded, there is no room for any food.

It is christmas dinner at my mother's house. The wine flows freely as Mom and, more annoyingly, That Woman race back and forth between the dining room and kitchen with plates of food. The whole time, Mom is talking to us and That Woman is talking to herself. We all sit down at the table as That Woman walks us through every single plate and accoutrement at each place setting. She makes a big big deal over the one and a half inch logs of ugly-ass crystal sitting just below the water glass. These are the new knife rests she purchased at the last Questers meeting. There is a story that goes with them, but like everything else she says, her lecture goes in one ear and out the other, inflicting only minor damage to our ear bones. We hope.

As we eat, That Woman continues to jump up every two minutes to get more plates of food. When she does this, she calls back to specific people to offer them even more food.

"K - can I get you more Jell-O? A - how are we on green beans? Young C - can I get you anything? Anything at all? You can have whatever you want, you know."

(She has an unhealthy fixation on my 13 year old nephew, young C. She once announced at lunch one day how much she "love(s) to watch a young man eat". Ew.)

Her food related hollering mostly focusses on my sisters, occasionally calling to me and my mother. One person she never surveys is The Husband (let's call him "Ernesto").

After coming and going at least 5 times, she finally sits and starts to eat. We sisters and husbands talk amongst ourselves whilst buttering bread, pouring gravy and drinking wine. Suddenly, all heads snap to the head of the table as out of nowhere That Woman clangs her knife against her water glass and hisses,

"Ernesto!!!!! Knife rest!!!!!"

It was one of two sentences she said to him that night (the other instance was a snippy accusation about stealing his own chocolate Santa). Not that he minds that she ignores him. I should be so lucky.

Whenever the husband tells this story, he points out that neither K nor A were using their precious knife rests either, but they probably got a pass due to their role in creating young C.

Shortly after leaving my Mom's, The Husband started feeling a little iffy, which soon turned into a horrible case of what could only be food poisoning.

Coincidence???!? You decide!

When the wars came

We are witness to many battles in America right now. Not just Democrat v. Republican, Bush administration v. reality, McCain v. relevance, Congress v. Foresight and Palin v. direct inquiries. Sure, those are important and I'm keeping at least one eye on each of them. But here are the conflicts that have been keeping me too busy to write (no, really!):

The Battle at Alvioli

I have had pneumonia for the past month, but you'd never know it from my work schedule. No, that's not true, I was out about a week (two and a half days one week and four another), but mostly I've been up and out and about, spreading my pathogens, coughing in fits and generally existing in a phlegmy phog. I was given 10 days' worth of antibiotics 10 days ago, and went in for my recheck this afternoon. The lungs sounded clear, my cute brown-eyed doctor told me as he thumped my back with one hand and listened with the stethescope with both ears, though my coughing may stick around a little longer. He thought maybe my asthma was adding some hassle, so I got some free Advair and a prescription for sudafed (which, if I get me chemistry right could score me a meth rock of about .02 mcg. Hot dog). Expected outcome: I think the Alvioli will come out on top, but they may never be completely rid of the terrorism of post-nasal drip.

The Wars of the Stereotypes

I work with a woman who runs our state's SCA, and you can tell. She dresses like a goth at a temp job: dark but without the boots and black leggings (though I should talk-- I don't dress much better). She is loud and opinionated and, like me, not well-versed in the art of constructive criticism. I get along with her well enough, but she is both annoying and easily annoyed. She is pretty competent at her job, although some of her methods I choose not to emulate.

We recently hired a guy for the open help desk position, and he has the familiar attitude of an IT guy at a new job, meaning he insists on relating everything you are training him to how things used to be at his old job. He is still uncomfortable in his position both as the lowest guy on the totem pole and the only guy in our tiny room. He is easily affronted, but won't take on the affronter directly, so he spends a lot of his time sitting at his desk frowning.

These two don't really get along, and today the sparring started over an incident in training. We are all sitting in on this training this week so we can train on it later, and the trainer is our SCA Baroness. Her hackles were raised at one point when IT guy quietly left the room and didn't come back for 10 minutes. While he was gone I had a coughing fit and left the room to spit up goop and get a cough drop.

At the break, the Baroness summoned us to her shire near the InFocus machine and scolded us for leaving the classroom. I protested that I was coughing uncontrollably and she forgave me. She then turned to IT guy and scolded him even more for not having an obvious reason to leave. He went back to his seat and began to stew. When she went to smoke, he turned to me in a minor fury and proceeded to tell me that he left because something he ate at lunch hadn't agreed with him but, he added, there was no way he was going to tell her that.

So, color me Swiss. I get to hear way too much opinion from both sides. As neither side looks like it will back down, I think I may be in for the passive-aggressive long haul. Yay. Expected outcome: Outlook not so good.

The Attack on Meninges

I just have a headache. Probably related to The War of Stereotypes. Oh, and whatever the doctor's office had floating at the time. Ooh, is it Flu? Sinus infection? Pink eye? Rabies?

Probably all of them. Expected outcome: once the Vicodin division arrives to help the dry eyes squadrons and cyclobenzaprine patrol things should be OK.

"Also" is Sarah Palin's "Such As"

Chuck Norris turned into Ned Flanders also a while ago, and also Sarah Palin is now Maude. Such as. Giggity.

ETA: I think Sarah Palin's answer about her achilles heel was demonstrating that her real achilles heel is cogent thought.

I continue to fail in new and ingenious ways

Seriously, it shouldn't be this difficult.

The alternatives include taking him on the bus to a vet appointment every other day, or hiring a tech to come over administer the fluids. Or putting him down, which my mother a bit too enthusiastically recommended.

But I can't get the fucking fluids into the dying cat. What. The Fuck. Is. My. Problem.

This is what can happen when I don't have my iPod

I've had "Camptown Races" stuck in my head since about 3 yesterday afternoon.

The Eugene Levy version.

ETA: On the ride home from the bus today, it was "Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel: variations on a theme". You can get a pretty groovin' bass line if you try. Pret-ty, pret-ty groovin'.

Cat's doing better, I'm doing worse

Was finally able to deliver the phluids to the phlyd, so I'm not crying every ten minutes, and he seems to be eating all right. So, yay on that front.

But, our house got burgled this afternoon (while we were in it) and the gaddamn crap-ass ugly melon-ranching dipshit thieving motherfuckers took both iPods, the husband's phone and his wallet.

I guess we should be happy they didn't take the bigger score things, like our Wii and our Bose, but it's sometimes hard to see the silver lining on a shitty thing like this. We spent the evening cancelling credit cards and cell phone accounts and being really really frustrated. The assless fucktards managed to use the debit card to either buy a cell phone or pay a bill (in which case: good move, shitheads) and then they went all out and bought Tri-Met tickets.

So, master burgling artists these people are not, I'm thinking.

Still, though: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY-FUCK FUCK FUCK.

No witty title today

Almost 18 years ago, I was on my way into the health food store where I worked. I was going into my junior year at UCSB and had just moved into a bungalow in downtown Santa Barbara with my boyfriend and a coworker who later became "my crazy ex-roommate". As I headed up to the office to start keeping the books as usual, my future crazy ex-roommate stopped me.

"I can't believe you're not coming in here with the kitten."

Kitten? I saw no kitten. "What kitten," I asked predictibly.

The one in the box at the front doors, the one the guy was trying to give away. She hadn't finished her sentence and I was already back outside. I'm not sure she realized that by mentioning the kitten was a tacit approval to bring it home.

He was a little black scrap of a cat-- probably a few days too young to be away from his mother, but he was mine before I even picked him up. He was the last in the box, so I got to keep the box as well. I raced up the stairs to the office, enlisting a coworker on his break to keep an eye on my new buddy while I ran to Trader Joes next door for some basic kitten supplies.

He sat unnamed on my lap all day, purring the whole time. When it was time to leave I hid him in my backpack and smuggled him onto the bus. He was a perfect little gentleman and didn't make a peep. I honestly don't remember the boyfriend's reaction, but this kitten was so adorable he couldn't have put up much of a fight. I remember us laying on the bed, throwing out names with this little purring ball in front of us:

"Jeremy! "
"Hillary! "
"Boob! "
"Phd! "

That was it: Phd (pronouced "fdd"). It was perfect.

We already had 3 other cats, but it didn't take the others too long to stop hissing at him and start letting him snuggle up (even Tisha, who was a year older and even that young wasn't really into other cats). He purred constantly. Seriously, he was always purring. I'd never met such a sociable cat. He adored our other black cat, Neighbor, and was heartbroken when she was killed by a car. He grew up quickly and his enthusiasm for food soon turned him into a really thick, really long dude (that's what she said?).

I have had him for nearly 18 years, minus the year he was living with the now ex-boyfriend. Everyone who meets his immediately loves him. It is impossible not to love Dr. Phlyd, of the Rangoon* clinic for the terminally pantless.

All our cats are seniors now (Tisha's a year older than Phlyd-- she will outlive us all). But Phlyd (whose name gained an L and a vowel, courtesy of a roommate, a New Orleans Saints fan with a penchant for yelling out the cats' names like a European sports announcer celebrating a goal unit at the local sports arena).

Like me, he's always had some health problems. When he was 10 he got an overactive thyroid that had to be zapped by radiation, and he's always been a bit of a puker. About 2 years ago he developed a distressing cough, caused by an enlarged heart, which we have been treating with twice daily pills and liquid medicine. He is always a trooper, letting me clip his nails and swallowing his pills without a peep.

He has become a favorite at the vets-- every time I bring him in the receptionists, techs and vets alike yell out his name, much like the roommate who christened him. The doctors have a hard time listening to his heart, as he purrs too loudly for them to use their stethiscopes. He is beloved by all who meet him, as well he should be.

And now he is not doing so well. His weight has dropped from 10.1 to 8.8 in a month and a half. He spends most of his time underneath the table in the upstairs game room. He is still enthusiastic about food, but he doesn't eat much of it. He is a shadow of his former self, but he still purrs everytime he sees someone.

My heart is breaking. The vet is hopeful, but you can tell when she calls that she's putting a more positive spin on his condition. But his bloodwork shows his kidneys are failing. I can't tell if he's in pain (if he is, he's hiding it well), but he's so skinny I can't look at him without getting depressed. I can't even think about him without tearing up.

What am I going to do when he gets worse? Every time I drive him to the vet, I worry that I won't be bringing him back, even though the vets have not given any indication that he is near terminal. Whenever they take him to the back room to draw blood or just take him on the rounds to all the employees, I have to fight hard not to cry.

But right now I'm alone in this hotel room down at the end of the hallway, so I don't have to find a place to hide before I start sobbing.

*He is part Burmese and does, in fact, not wear pants.

How do you spell that shuddering groan the Simpsons do?

I am now about to share the number-one all time most embarrassing thing that's happened to me in my 38 years and 7 months. The one thing that even now reduces me to whimpers and rending of garments. This is the story that, when I tell it, elicits not raucous laughter but groans of sympathy.

It's not some mispronounced word or inappropriate phrase yelled at a stranger. It's not poorly-timed sickness in front of coworkers. It didn't happen in public, and it's not a funny vignette from my life. No one even witnessed this, it was just us two.

Even still, I don't feel an uncomfortable embarrassment, I feel shame. Shame because of who was involved; a deep shame of a personal nature that should never, ever have involved that other person. It is lasting and it is so sad that I still wince (to this day, even, were inclined to use that phrase, and I am not) when it pops into my head for no reason, like a champagne cork to the head from the table next to you at that expensive tapas place that puts too much mint in their drinks.

It is this:

I was once invited to a birthday swim party in high school. I was on my period, and I had never used a tampon before. The only woman around to assist me in understanding the mechanics of tampons was that woman.

Let that sink in. Roll it around your head like you're tasting it at a fancy wine bar: let the tastebuds of your mind pop as that bitter slab of my dignity withers and dies. Just try to pry the kernels of popcorn sticking painfully between your tooth and gum when you realize you know how that must have made her feel: pride that I "trusted" her to ask such an intimate question, the rush I'm sure she felt when she realized that she knew something that I did not.

Ok, that's maybe too much metaphor. Sorry. I'm trying to heal with words and sometimes tortured prose is the only way to make it work. I turn real emotions into imagined things that I can crush and stomp and hit and hopefully try to get out of my head.

But then I remember the story she once told of one of her husband's stays in the hospital. I have a lot of history with that lady that is painful to think about, but at least I wasn't married to her and I didn't nearly die having been kicked in the balls by a homeless guy.

Hot flashes, check it and see

Art shamelessly stolen from Paper and Threads.

For the past several nights I have woken up bathed in sweat. Since that is a symptom of Insulin Emily at Night*, I have been dutifully getting up and checking my blood sugar. But it's been normal (well, high - but that's normal for me). So, what gives? Is it the great ceasening? The big halt? The bloody conk-out?

I don't know. What say you, Wikipedia?

"Rarely the ovaries stop working at a very early age, anywhere from the age of puberty to age 40, and this is known as premature ovarian failure (POF), also commonly referred to as "premature menopause" or "early menopause." 1% of women experience POF, and this is not considered to be due to the normal effects of aging. Some known causes of premature menopause include autoimmune disorders, thyroid disease, diabetes mellitus, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy, however, in the majority of spontaneous cases, the cause is unknown. "

[Family members: stop reading here] A six foot tall douchebag once told me that I "wasn't sporadic enough", by which he meant I wasn't spontaneous enough for him because I refused him a hummer whilst he was driving across the Bay fucking Bridge in a two-seater convertible. So, clearly, spontaneous occasions like this are not for me. Oddly enough, though, my issue does qualify as sporadic... spooky.

[Family members may resume reading now]

So anyway, I'm two for five. Is it enough to push me prematurely into cotton ponylessness? Kick Aunt Flo to the curb? Finally stop this litany of painful euphemisms?

Of course not. And yes.

*She's not as fun as the daytime IE since everyone is asleep. The dreams that precede her appearances aren't even any weirder than normal. Nighttime IE is just a pain in the ass.

This is not a love-in

So Ben Stein is all the rage in the blog-o-sphere lately, thanks to his ridculous and insulting crapumentary Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed. Yeah, they're not kidding - I trust the reviewers who have seen the movie and can attest that there was no real intelligence in this movie that was sewn together with stolen material, doctored interviews and flat out lies.

No, I haven't seen the movie, but I don't need to eat toxic fish heads breaded in asbestos shavings and smothered in kim chi and failure to know I don't want to eat it. Besides, that's not really my point here.

I saw this the other day at pharyngula and one quote nearly put me in conniptions. It was at least a week ago and I'm still roiling with anger when I think about it. Follow the link and you'll see a video wherein Mr. Stein is talking to some televangelist about how families were ripped apart by the Nazis in concentration camps, and the parents are gassed and the children fed barbituates. He then blathers a bit about how God makes people peaceful and caring and that, in his opinion, science leads to killing people.

Nevermind the crusades, the Spanish Inquisition and Martin Luther; it's science that's to blame for all the killing!

He's either serious here-- and therefore crazy fucking stupid-- or he's opportunistic and disingenuous. Honestly, I think it's a little of column stupid and a little of column equivocator. And I think he doesn't really understand what he said. So, should he Google himself one day and somehow find this place, I have some questions I'd like to ask:

So, caught any smallpox recently?

How do your bosses at Bausch and Lomb feel about your thoughts on scientists? Are they mad that you're finally on to their evil plan to take control and kill all humans one red eye at a time?

How's that cell phone working out for you? Did you grow it yourself?

I totally know what you mean when you say science leads to murder. Remember when that one scientist commanded that that other scientist slit his kid's throat for no good reason? And he was this close to actually doing it before the first scientist went "j/k!"?

Oh wait, that was Abraham.

And then there was that other scientist who told those guys to kill the eldest kid of every person in the HR department?

Oh wait, that was god. The one who supposedly leads you to "a very glorious place" through compassion and empathy. Right. I see what you mean.

Honestly, Ben Stein is a toad. But that's just my opinion.

Toad.

ETA: I take that back-- it's mean to toads. How about cretin? Douchebag? Asshole? I'm taking suggestions...

I drink to stay warm, and to kill selected memories...

"And yet I can recall in great detail all of the really
embarrassing things that happened to me in the same time period. Not just the things, but the awful feelings that caused or were caused by those embarrassing things." -me, last night

I realized just now that this is a very good description of depression, at least the kind that I have. I haven't talked much here about why I am depressed, only that I am.

My secondary depression-- that is, the one that is relatively new-- is because of the medical issues my siblings have been suffering through in the past several months. In addition to me not being able to cope with my grief (which I seem unable to handle. I have unresolved grief issues from 1982), I also feel helpless. Helpless and useless. Both siblings have been diagnosed recently with serious conditions. Life-threatening conditions. And here I am with my nebulous sadness and intermittent back pain, and I feel like everything I think or write or feel is either petty or inappropriately self-centered.

You know, like that last paragraph.

My overlying depression, the one I think I've had since forever, is the one where I can't stop thinking about stupid things in my past. Any stupid thing-- it's not limited to stupid things I've done or stupid things I've said. Just stupid things. All of them. I think of stupid questions I've asked help desk people. I remember all the stupid things I've thought about people. I focus on stupid things I've written and stupid things I've sung. Stupid places I've gone and the stupid things I've done there. There are so many that I don't have room in my head for good things. I have to be prompted to think about times where I've done things right or I've done things I liked.

Is this a poem?

A haiku (or an haiku?)

Or just some complaints?

OK, that's enough of that. I'm getting depressed talking about depressed I am.

I'm all mixed up, I got nothing to say

I have started and stopped about 6 entries today, because I really want to write, but I don't really have anything to say. But I just finished re-reading some old journals and now I feel like I need to write something, if only to prove to myself I can write something that isn't whiny, embarrassing and forgettable.

I think the only positive thing I can say about my past writing was at least I was prolific. I could write pages and pages about nothing, and not in a Seinfeld kind of way. And I dropped so many names! In 3 days of entries (about 7 pages of writing, mind you. Oh, to have that time and energy now!) I counted 12 names-- and I don't remember anything about them. "Alex" threw a party, "Colin" was in a band. I mentioned 3 different Steves, but I can only remember one of them.

It's really distressing to read about things, written in my own handwriting, that I have no recollection of. I know my memory has been bad for a long time, and I know I've been hemorrhaging the details of my life-- one insulin reaction and vicodin tab and handful of anti-depressants at a time-- but I didn't think there would be such huge chunks of stuff that, even now that I read about them, seem new to me.

And yet I can recall in great detail all of the really embarrassing things that happened to me in the same time period. Not just the things, but the awful feelings that caused or were caused by those embarrassing things.

And on that note, I'm going to go to bed to focus on all my past embarrassments and not sleep.

Lord, beer me strength

This past Saturday the husband and I worked the Spring Brew and Wine Fest here in micro-brew friendly Portland, Oregon. This was my fourth year working it (so to speak), and apparently that's the only qualification to be tapped for a supervisory position, so I gots me introduced in the orientation, a different colored shirt and an inflated sense of self-importance.

Working at the brewfest is mostly just pouring a couple ounces of beer into a plastic mug and small talk. Supervising at the brewfest is basically spent covering for people who need a break or running around trying to find one of the two guys whose job it was to replace empty kegs (2 guys for 50 breweries in a 60,000 sq foot convention hall? Not. So. Easy.). The floor had been sectioned into 5 zones, each with a cluster of booths.

I have to say it was fun. The part I most enjoy is the pouring, talking to people about beer and whatnot. The good thing about supervising is that you can pour in more than one booth so, you know, there's variety. But you don't get to pour the whole time, and when you're not looking for the keg guys, there really isn't too much to do. It was interesting to see the way different people handled the supervisory "responsibilities".

There were four guys and me. I must have walked around my little island of booths 50 times. I got my people water and rags and ice. I made sure they got a lot of breaks. If I noticed any particular booth was busy, I'd jump in and help pour. Maybe it's the customer service rep in me - I wasn't just going to stand in a corner and wait for people to ask for help. Of the other four, three of the guys would pop by on occasion, bringing ice or towels unasked. They were good guys.

But then there was this one guy.

This guy showed up alone, which should have been warning sign number one. Then, as we were standing up in front of the group having been introduced as supervisors, he mimed what the person in charge was talking about (The leader: "Samples are one token and you should pour up to this line". This is what he does: He holds up 1 finger, then mimes pouring something into a glass. Then he draws a line in the air and points to the mug the leader is holding. Yeah, I know.)

I don't remember his name, but we all remember he was wearing a hat. At least ten times that night, I'd go up to someone in my group and they'd be all

"That guy in the hat just told me there wasn't any more beer.*"

"That guy in the hat said I was pouring too much."

"That guy in the hat is creeping me out."

OK, I said that last one, but it still counts. I don't what the hell he was supposed to be doing. I'm sure he had his own place he needed to be supervising, but he chose to skulk around MY quadrant.

About every 20 minutes he'd sidle up to tell me what I should be doing. That guy needs help. This booth needs ice.

What I should have been doing was kicking him in his presumptuous balls.

* No more beer?!? There were two people who had access to the room with the kegs, and guy with the hat was not one of them. They have a word for people who make shit up like that. It's called fucktard.