I'm Always Write

I was doing my rounds of blogs today and checking in on this guy I know, his name's Mike (but, really, Michael) and the new writer's blog he's put up with another UofO MFA writer:

notacafeinparis.edublogs.org

So I went there and I read their entries and it made me think a lot about writing and how I'm not really doing it anymore apart from the odd paper for school and the crazy journalism bit, and I thought about how much writing I used to do and I want to believe that my gig is fiction, but I'm beginning to think that I'm not really good at it compared to the academic writing -- and that's all Copperman's fault, by the way, for encouraging my non-fiction in Writing 121. Because of him I can work through an argument, and maybe that's got to be good enough from now on. I don't think the fiction I write is bad, but it not as good as I'd want it to be ... I don't know ... There's a lot of crap out there. A lot of crap. So why can't I throw my crap into the ring as well?

Probably because I'd be ashamed to do so. It was that library sale that did it -- Mom and I in Lake Arrowhead standing in the heat and watching women paw through those multi-colored Danielle Steele paperbacks trying to remember which ones they'd read and which ones they hadn't. That's the fear, friends. That's what gives me chills. "Is this the one about blah blah blah?" "No, I think that's the yellow one. That one's about blah." "No, no -- blah is in the green one."

All this said here in the private blog because I'm too embarrassed to post it on the writer's blog among people.

In the meantime, feckin' A, that new David Sedaris book is fantastic. I don't care how many times he talks about owning a fake nylon bottom, it gets me every time.

The Poorer but Wiser Girl

Vacation is over, time to start vacation.

Yesterday I only worked 8 hours. I kind of liked it. I was able to spend the rest of the day catching up on everything. I've finally mailed the graduation card to my god-daughter (okay, yes, it's been sitting on my desk for the last 2 months, staring at me, daring me to put in a gift card and mail it off, and I just never scraped it together in between the action films, oceanography and blood thing, okay? OKAY? Yeah, I've been on my own back about it, sure) -- and I'm mailing out bills today with the few pennies I still have in my checking account.

Dude, if it wasn't for President Bush giving me the gambling incentive check I don't know what I would have done in Vegas -- although we did have two really, really wonderful days poolside. Usually we turn bright pink on the first day and can't go out again, but this year we were able to double our pool time and that was sweet. The kids want me to come down at Christmas and go with them to Pala. And I'd like to, sure. I like hanging out with the girls, but something tells me the funds will be missing and I'll be one of those sad sacks putting the retirement fund into the Lucky Lemmings machine, crying every time it comes up with "consolation 2" on the bonus spins.

On the plus side, I finished a book (!) while traveling -- Sarah Waters' The Night Watch -- and started Barbara Ehrenreich's Bait and Switch -- a nice little story about getting into the corporate world and how a degree and experience won't keep you employed in the corporations. I thought it would be a good balance to starting my last year of college.

But first ... I'm going to watch the Criterion High and Low. Sheryl, you are way too good to me. It tingled in my hands when I opened it.

Oh. See?

Every time I come down to California I think it'll be with just that five minutes of stranger-ness and then the 37 years of living here will come back and everything will be comfortable again. And then five minutes turns into ten ... twenty ... three days ...

I feel like such a hick. I have to close my eyes while my parents drive because it scares the bejesus out of me. I can't even watch my mom maneuver a cart through Walmart because I'm afraid she's going to hit someone. And that's the funny part -- she doesn't hit anyone. She can go in and out of car and cart traffic without even looking and no one gets hurt, except for me, who gets worked up and worried every time she skirts around someone's backside.

My turn comes today when we get on the freeway (mom won't drive on the freeway). I usually only have to drive the second leg into Vegas, which is flat desert two lanes and only a little shifting when we get into town. This time we're meeting my aunts in Manhattan Beach and I said I'd get us there. I don't know why I said it, although I suspect it was while I still thought it would only be five minutes before I got used to things ... that was two days ago.

Side: Mom and I watched The Seven Samurai last night ("Is Kikidoodoo going to die? He is, isn't he?" "It's Kikuchiyo and I'm not going to tell you.") and she liked it. So, I convinced her to Netflix Om Shanti Om ... yeah, I may have overstepped it... But it's a musical. I figure if she can sit through Seven Brides for Seven Brothers more than once then she can handle Bollywood. Cahh ... she loves Carousel, for heaven's sake.

Up to 171 platelets from 39 -- WHOO HOO.

gimme drugs gimme drugs gimme drugs -- but now I can take them in smaller doses.

Now I really am going to work on that paper. Honest.

These are not the 'roids you're looking for

So I haven't bulked up really. Well, no more than usual with the ol' PMS and heat and all. Belly went up. Belly went down. My thighs are kind of huge, but that's because I'm back on the La Tour again -- although, dude! Some cotton-top in a Cadillac nearly crashed me down yesterday as she tried to run me into the car that was making a right turn behind me. She was turning left against us both and even honked her horn like what right did we have to cross the street in front of her car! Like the green light was just for her or something. It was surreal. All I could think was, if she hits me I'll die. If she hits me I'll die. I'll bleed to death and die. Which is yet another reason to hate doctors. I get that hypochondria, just like my dad, and I start imagining that my hair color is causing me cancer and junk.

If she hit me I wouldn't die, but I'd be mighty feckin' pissed.

Anyway, tomorrow I go in and they poke another needle in my arm so they can tell me if I need to keep poppin' pills. Honestly though, I don't have heartburn and the euphoria only lasted about a day, so I'm not sure these things are real anyway. Where's the Hulk body and the need to clean and bake? I just don't have it.

Next week is Vegas. If I don't get this John Woo paper finished by Saturday, I'll have to save blogging until I'm back. I'm sure you'll manage.

Buggin and Bullets

I think I'm going to have to rethink this whole karma cleansing thing. The steroids kicked in yesterday and I started cleaning my room only to find that some spider gave birth somewhere and those little white bastards are into everything.

One just crawled across this monitor. Just now. They're mocking me even.

It's also summer finally in Oregon, which means that it's stopped snowing and I'm glad for the heat, sure, because we had 8 months of winter this year, but wee moths keep squeaking in through the blades of the window fan. Is the greater good served by letting them live or by protecting my woolens?

So far I've been pretty lenient. Just now I brushed the spider from the monitor, but did not intentionally squish or kill it ... although it may not have survived the brushing, but my aim was true. I think I should be given a little something for the effort. That's all I'm sayin'.

This is the last week of the action film class and I'm really going to miss it. Sure, there was a lot of reading and paper writing, trying to bring philosophy to The Transporter and junk like that (my final paper is on how Hard Target reflects the global economy.), but last week we watched Hot Fuzz under the guise of studying genre and that was really great. "Pack it in, Frank, you silly bastard!" Today we're watching Lady Terminator. It looks kind of naughty on YouTube. I can't even post the trailer. You'd never catch them showing this in a community college class. Viva academia.

Cancer Ward

Friends, there's a reason I don't go to doctors --- By the way, how tired am I of the question "Who's your primary physician?" I'm plenty tired, let me tell you. What is this obsession with having a primary doctor? -- I don't like getting weighed and measured. I don't like reading Sunset magazine in the waiting room or trying to start work on a paper and get called and have to scrape my reference crap together because some nurse is impatient to get me into the room where she will weigh and measure me. I think my fear of needles has been well-documented.

Mostly I don't like illness. I know -- I know -- people get sick. It happens. But it worries me to see it and have no helpful thing to say. ("Gee, that oxygen tank sure looks heavy...") It makes me uncomfortable. The people at this cancer place all had cancer (yes way) and had faces in various shades of gray and pale with bits of pink. They all seem so dependent on the doctors and the medications and that kind of stuff just makes me edgy and fearful.

So I don't go to the doctors. I didn't want to go to this one, but when the guy in the emergency room says it's important what can you do?

Upshot is, there's no idea why I have this ITP thing. I don't have any cancer symptoms, everything was poked and listened to, so it's been put down as an auto-immune issue. I guess that's supposed to be better, but it means I have to take steroids. Prednisone.

"You'll bulk up," the doctor tells me. "You may have heartburn," he says. "But you'll have euphoria." Oh well, that's something to look forward to. "And then you may come down from that pretty hard." Oh. Great.

Not quite Barry Bonds, but more like a momentarily happy whale, I guess. As long as I don't grow a mustache or have hair coming out of my ears, I guess it's okay.

Oh! And I have a toilet again. Things are looking up!

Call it fate ... call it ... karma.

Yes sir, that's my bathroom. No sir, don't mean maybe. Contractor: "We just need to pull out a few tiles in the shower to see what's back there." Yeah, the shower is where the toilet is sitting. And they left the toilet brush hanging, but took out the toilet .... what the? The horror. THE HORROR.

When the ... I mean, honestly, is this year ever going to end? It's like Hurricane Hell around here. The cat dies, I have to take Economics, the house is getting sold, I have to sit in a waiting room with a toofless old woman picking fights with people, and now I ain't got none toilet. Friends, don't step on that spider. Don't kill those garden snails. Keep your karmas clean and fresh.

That is all.

one more time one more time

Doctor called this afternoon and freaked me out by saying I needed to come back in because my platelet count was low (what the?) and he wanted to do a CT scan of my head (!).

Oh, and can I do that today? As soon as I can get in. Yeah. That would be great.

Fecking a ... so I freak out the cousin/roommate and the big brother who's supposed to be here for a good time and we all speed over to spend another 5 hours at the hospital (the boys did get hustled off to Taylor's for fish n' chips, hush puppies and some harassment from the Bud Light girls).

The head scan was negative -- nothing in there, ha HA -- but the platelet count was still low. Dude, I know that sucker was high when I went to the university doc in February, but this virus has apparently knocked it back. What the hell kind of virus did I have? And when do you think I'll eat at the Bell again? How 'bout nev-fucking-ever. Anyway, now I've got ITP, which will be treated by a cancer doctor, even though it's not cancer and I'm not to think for a second that I have cancer, because it's not that bad, but the blood doctor is the cancer doctor on the side or during or whatever way they double-up on jobs there.

Fahhhhhh, not to talk like a grumpy old woman, but what the hell is all this gonna cost me? Vegas is looking like one cheap week, friends.

Oh, and no exciting stories from the ER this time, although I guess the waiting room was pretty interesting. Too bad the big brother shut down the blog.

When you get out ... of the hospital

Wednesday night we had Taco Bell for dinner -- I didn't feel like cooking and it was hot and I had to finish up my presentation on Jackie Chan, so we cheaped out and ran for the border. cousin/roommate had the encherito and fiesta nuggets, I had a double-decker and the steak taquitos. At 7:00 that night I started vomiting. This trend continued into Thursday. At 10am the cousin/roommate came home from work and took me to the emergency room where I was to spend the next 7 hours getting pumped full of saline (what? no D5W?) and aurally observing the underside of humanity.

The space next to me had an elderly cancer patient who was looking for a doctor's note to get him into a hospice. He lived on his own and couldn't take care of himself anymore. He was told by the doctor that going in to hospice care basically amounted to giving up trying to live: no more treatment for the cancer, no more physical therapy, nothin'. It would be time to make a will and sign over power of attorney. He wasn't sick enough for the rest home, but he was too sick to live on his own and he wasn't quite ready to give up, but couldn't decide how much he wanted to live. Dude ... that was a vision of the future that I just didn't need.

Two spaces down the ambulance brought in a woman who had fallen against her fireplace and cut a 5" gash into the side of her leg. She was drunk and based on what I heard, that was a constant state for her. She kept shouting that her leg "HURT LIKE HELL" but that she didn't want anymore needles. Mostly she just wanted a cigarette. "I just want a GODDAMN CIGAREEEEEETTTTE!" Her husband showed up later and told her she had nothing to worry about because he was making arrangements for her to stay overnight. When the doctors told him that they had no reason to keep her he raised a fuss. For better or worse, sickness and in health didn't seem to go 'round there no more. He went out arguing with the doctors and she eventually passed out.

This was all mixed with the shouts of "Just kill me!" from down the hall and the moaning guy who may have had the same thing I did, but was making a bigger fuss about it: "Ohhhhhh God, pleeeeease --- [retch] --- ohhhhh Goddddddd." He was irritated that he had to wait over an hour to get in. I had to wait 3 hours. Big baby.

3 litres of IV and 4 nausea pills later, I feel like I'm getting back to myself. The head still feels a little dizzy and food is unappealing, but I'm out of bed and I get to postpone the Jackie Chan show-and-tell until Monday. All ist claar, herr commisar. Tell you what tho', that morphine, never again. That was a funky, funky feeling.