Monthly Archives: July 2009

THAT

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Well, turns out it doesn’t much matter if you don’t want it to be THAT. Sometimes it just is. I mean, it’s not the THAT that I feared. It’s some sort of parasitic frog that has taken up residence in my rumbly and queasy parts. This THAT, however, means business, as it is busy pumping blood through its froginess at like 2 million beats per minute. Little f—er seems pretty sure, even if we’re not.

I have no idea on this earth how I will make it once that frog is big enough to get out. I’m hoping it find a way to fit in because I am so over the child-centric attachment gentle thoughtful nonsense. AND, I have today only lost the contents of my stomach three times, which is an improvement. I’ve switched the “before I get horizontal” snack from pretzels or lollies, neither of which worked, to Clif shot bloks which work much better, if only because they’re easier coming back up. And I’m now officially on an all-sports-beverage hydration plan wherein I popsicle and chilled electrolyte concoction sip (only from a straw—the doc, who turned out to be an obstetrician rather than a oncologist (ooops I guess that was wishful thinking) said somehow stuff stays down better if sipped from a straw not guzzled from a wide mouth glass…who knew). Feel queasy but MUCH better now hydrated and electrolyted. Yummy expensive kind of natural and organic beverages that I gave up after my triathlon days. Happy to be earning them again, for they are way tasty.

Seven weeks. That is both a marker or current status and a hope for when these sensations will end. For it would be nice to be excited or even pleased, but I don’t foresee that until I can go for a walk without decorating the neighbors’ lawns with bile. And there are probably about 40-50 days of massive puking in my future. Then all hell breaks loose next March.

I want that voiceover guy who does summer blockbuster movies to prepare us. “Coming soon to a blog near you. Watch if you dare…”

IJ quote of the day 28

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“Steeply’s movement of smoothing the wig and twisting fingers thrrough the snarls of hair became perhaps more abrupt and frustrasted. Steeply said, ‘Well whose soup is it legally? Who actually bought the soup?’
Marathe shrugged. ‘Not relevant for my question. Suppose a third party, now unfortunately deceased. He appears at our flat with a can of soupe aux pois to eat while watching recorded U.S.A. sporting and suddenly is clutching his heard and falls to the carpeting deceased, holding the soup we are no both so wishing'” (426).

I really want pea soup right now.

I am so enamored of Marathe’s twisted Quebecois English. And Steeply’s discomfort in his female operative second-but-not-fitting skin. And i laugh every time the subhead reads, “Outcropping of Northwest Tucson, AZ, U.S.A. predawn, still.” Because seriously, are they going to be on that outcropping when we hit page 1000?

Ah, Infinite Summer, what have you done to me?

IJ quote of the day 27

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“Lyle, who sometimes would start to get tipsy himself as Himself’s pores began to excrete the bourbon, often brought some Blake out, as in William Blake, during these all-night sessions, and read Incandenza Blake, but in the voices of various cartoon characters, which Himself eventually started regarding as deep” (379).

Clearly Book of Job. Very theatrical text, with drawn curtains and dramatic optical angles Incandenza would groove on.

Well, the jinx is comin’ to roost

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Peanut is being tremendously sweet lately. And willingly playing by himself. And helping around the house and being polite. And sleeping.

Which is probably why I’ve been unbearably nauseated for three weeks. If I’m awake, I want to puke. I give in more and more frequently, but even after succumbing, the need is still there, every waking second of every day. If I wake at night, it takes three seconds before I register, “Oh, crap, again?”

So, clearly I have a stomach ulcer or an inner ear cyst. Maybe it’s a tumor. I’m only four weeks late, so it couldn’t be THAT. It can’t be THAT. I have to be really honest, I don’t want it to be THAT. See that paragraph above, where P is being reasonable and semi-self-sufficient? So it can’t be THAT. I can’t have made it this to far to have it be THAT. I finished and submitted a novel. I’m getting client work. I can’t be in the black hole for another three years.

So I’m opening up a plea for nausea advice. The regular stuff doesn’t work. Empty stomach, full stomach, doesn’t matter. Please don’t say “just don’t let yourself get too hungry” or I’ll throw up. The “little bites of cracker all day” wind up tossed on my neighbors lawn when we go for a walk. Fresh air is clearly not the answer, for I haven’t been on a walk or run without making an impromptu pitstop.

For a couple of weeks, nothing but the sugar from my Glee gum stayed down before 11am, and anything before 1pm was dicey. Now it’s the reverse. Fruit and cereal might stay down in the morning, but after nap all bets are off. Back to the Glee. At no time does the desire to self-remove my stomach with a rusty grapefruit spoon go away.

Ginger (fresh or candied or tea or Ginger People candy) makes me puke. Sour juices make me puke. Tea makes me puke. Water makes me puke. Miso soup only stays down for a little while. Salt and vinegar chips help a bit but only at dinner. Lemon lollipops help a bit. Motion sickness bands may or may not help, but I wear them for at least 12 hours every day. just in case. A voodoo doll of Spouse is not helping anything. Bargaining with all manner of deity seems to have no effect. Further proof that other peoples’ gods care more about football than about my being able to take care of my kid.

So what to do? Help out a lady who has some sort of gall bladder disorder or inner ear tumor. Because clearly it’s not THAT. Back three years ago when it was THAT I subsisted on almonds and oranges and only wanted to puke all day and night. I didn’t actually void several times a day. Plus, back then I was tired. Now I’m not tired. Except for the whole haven’t slept much in three years thing.

I’m seeing a doctor tomorrow because clearly it’s some sort of intestinal cancer. I think I’m seeing an oncologist. Or something that sounds like oncologist. I don’t remember. I made the appointment a couple of weeks ago and they said I could wait two weeks because I have, like, nine seven months to live.

I’m not nice

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It will come as no surprise to those of you who know me that I’m not nice. I’m not even an acquired taste. I’m a saucy, negative little smartass, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that the planet needs me this way.

But this week I take the cake. And refuse to share it.

Peanut wanted stories. I told him in a minute. I really meant a minute. I needed a few more spoonsful of soup. From the kitchen I heard him whining and frustrated that something wasn’t working. Probably having trouble climbing up on the bed. Or pulling book out of the overstuffed shelf. Whatever. I said in a minute. After a day of doing everything you want when you want it, you can wait while I finish the last few bites of my soup.

Crash. Cry. [Evaluate. Frustrated cry? Or hurt cry? The former gets a few beats before I respond. The latter gets a sprint and guilt at my absence during the injury.] Definitely hurt cry. I run into the bedroom. P has pulled a lamp off a high shelf and onto his head.

My response? Once I saw there was no blood I was glad it hit his head on the way down because pull cord=pain is better than pull cord=loud noise=crash=broken glass=delayed pain. Cuz I’m all about clear consequences. And intact lamps.

Hence the title. I really am not nice. Oh, really, a few of you say? Not too bad? Well how about the lecture he got about waiting patiently and about how the world does no revolve around him and that we do everything on his time table but I needed my lunch and he can wait next time? Hmmm? Is that nice? Telling him that sometimes Mommy comes first while he cries that his head hurts? Nope. By no account is that nice. Nor is the fact that, after I got him onto the bed and had his book ready I gave him another lecture.

M:Why did you pull that cord?
P: Because I needed help onto the bed so I needed to pull the cord.
M: And did pulling the cord help you get up? Hmmm? Did that work out for you?
P: [laughing] No.
M: So did you need to pull the cord?
P: No.
M: Did you like having a lamp bounce off your head and crash on the floor and make a big noise and make everything go blaaaaah?
P: [laughing again] No.
M: Hmmm. Maybe next time you could call for help. Or pull the comforter. Or try Daddy’s side of the bed, since it always has more of the covers than Mommy’s.
P: Yeah. Daddy is a cover grabber.
M: He is. But at least he doesn’t grab lamp cords.

Flyin’ fruit.

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I don’t usually do bath, so many of its minutiae are mysteries to me.

I used to be bath lady. Then I did the math on my daily childcare hours and decided that 15 hours a day is enough. So Spouse does bath most nights. All I know is it involves shrieking, cajoling, and statements like, “It’s okay not to like shampoo, but we don’t bite.”

So tonight’s bath was my deal-io and I attended with much amusement. There were classics that I remember well: “The bubbles are all going away. Make more.” And “Mommy, why does mold mean yucky?” And my all time favorite (only not) “Ow, ow I hurt my penis. Kiss it.” Um, no. How about well wishes instead.

What I didn’t expect was the newest addition to the bath: flying fruit.
P: Mommy. Close your eyes then wait for something special.
M: No. That sounds like dangerous.
P: Yes. It’s not. It’s flying fruit.
M: Excuse me?
P: Yeah. Flying fruit. Close your eyes.
M: No way. Flying fruit is a Daddy game. I don’t want it.
P: Yes you do. Try it.
M: Um, Okay.
P: Close your eyes and then flying fruit. [I don’t close my eyes. I can count the reasons on two hands, the first of which is I expect to be hit with flying fruit. Given the title and all. He scoots back. And two seconds later a plastic lemon and plastic orange fly across the tub to the opposite wall, thunk there, heavily full of water, and sink to the bottom. I laugh.]
P: Do you like flying fruit?
M: I have to say I do. Try it again.
P: Okay, here we go!

I really should do bath more often.

IJ quote of the day 26

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“The most hated Incandenza film, a variable-length one called The Joke, had only a very brief theatrical release, and then only at the widely scattered last remains of the pre-InterLace public art-film theaters in art places like Cambridge MA and Berkeley CA” (397).

Having lived in both, I can tell you that audiences in each city would still “shell out for little paper theater tickets” even after they’d heard from friends what the film was.

Sweater vest or no, go read Infinite Jest with us at Infinite Summer.

IJ quote of the day 25

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A third political party finally achieved viability “the two established mainstream parties split open along tired philosophical lines in a dark time when all landfills got full and all grapes were raisins and sometimes in some places the falling rain clunked instead of splatted, and also, recall, a post-Soviet and -Jihad era when—somehow even worse—there was no real Foreign Menace of any real unified potency to hate and fear, and the U.S. sort of turned on itself and its own philosophical fatigue and hideous redolent wastes with a spasm of panicked rage that in retrospect seems possible only in a time of geopolitical supremacy and consequent silence, the loss of any external Menace to hate and fear” (382).

Oh, well, we need not fear that future for a while, eh fear-based politics?

*sigh*. Go read Infinite Jest. With us at infinite summer.

My new philosophy

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In order to connect with my inner child and to empathize with my son, I will behave like a three year old for the next month or so.

From now on, when frustrated, I’m going to scream at the top of my lungs and throw things. The volume and number of items thrown will be inversely proportional to the adult-perceived importance of the incident. If my shoes won’t work I’ll shriek and fling them. If my toys won’t work I’ll scream and throw everything within my grasp, hoping to break something. If the car won’t work when I’m late for something important, I’ll whine a bit but get over it quickly.

This month, if I see something really disgusting in the gutter, I’ll pick it up. And if it seems particularly dirty, I’ll try to put it in my mouth.

From here on out, if someone looks at me sideways, I will hit them.

Food will be used primarily for wiping on my shirt and on my parents.

For as long as I can, I will whine for other people to do everything for me. If someone won’t blow my nose within 0.2 seconds of my asking, I will scream until the snot comes out through my ears.

As much as possible, I will wait until something important is happening, either in a conversation, at a gathering, or at home, and will shriek “Listen to me!!” even if people already are.

I will choose 6am as the time for ringing my scooter bell incessantly.

If someone suggests I bathe, wash my hands, or brush my teeth, I will throw myself, writhing, to the floor. If they try to help me, I will scream until their eardrums rupture. If they don’t help me when I can’t do it, I will scream until their eardrums rupture. If they suggest that basic hygiene is necessary for inclusion in American society, I will kick them.

If anyone threatens my desire to have brownies for every meal, I will kick them, too.

Whenever someone else looks away, I will make a beeline for the last thing they forbade me to do, and I will touch it. A lot. And probably lick it. Because I can.

For the length of this social experiment, if anyone states that I may not wear my jammies every day until the end of time, I will writhe and flail about impotently as I whine that I don’t want to wear clothes. Ever.

If anyone dares use the telephone or computer while I am awake, I will break either their technology, their favorite knickknack, or their eardrums.

I will wear a jacket and rain boots when it is 90 degrees. If things cool off to, say, 50 degrees, I will don shorts and flip flops.

All of these behaviors are subject to change if anyone, and I mean anyone, figures them out. At that point, I reserve the right to do whatever obstructionist, violent, vocal, or illogical behavior necessary to get people out of my way. Unless I need them. Then I will use whatever technique necessary to get them to do my bidding.

Ladies Night Out

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Saturday started out slowly…went to the wrong birthday party and wound up missing a friend’s son’s big day. Rescheduled a date with a sweet boy who was terrorized by a grouchy Peanut on our last outing. Ate dinner way too late and faced a major meltdown.

Then went out for a night of adult conversation after bedtime with a couple of new friends, and it was glorious. A pan of still-warm brownies, a game of cut-throat cards, and just general talking about topics big and small.

Then I got home, really late on a cold night, to a couple of soft lights, my flannel jammies laid out on the bed, a glass of water at the bedside, and a pre-warmed side of the bed. (Spouse slept on my side until he heard me come home, then he rolled over and let me bake in his 3,000 degrees.)

Lovely night, and even better than I don’t have to choose between friends and Spouse. Three cheers for a great Saturday!

Monologues about Gates and Obama

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A smart piece by Joan Walsh of Salon about Obama with his foot in his mouth.
And a very interesting piece by an Ivy League professor about Gates getting his perspective morphed by the Ivy League lens.

I don’t know about urging care and thoughtfulness when it comes to racial outrage. I’m not sure we should censure the open discourse about disparities and racial profiling and ignorance in our society. But I do know it’s feeding into the gaping, frothing Right Wing maw right now, and those who have no concept of the reality of life in our country, either racially or economically, have their own pseudo-journalism to hype this any way they want to. It may not be fair, but maybe thinking twice before we speak is a reasonable request in this era of “nobody’s listening except to their own polarized view”.

IJ quote of the day 23

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Fifteen pages after children running around catching snowflakes as they pretend to annihilate the planet:

“…finally it’s impossible to get high enough to freeze what you feel like, being this way; and now you hate the Substance, hate it, but you still find yourself unable to stop doing it, the Substance, you find you finally want to stop more than anything on earth and it’s no fun doing it anymore and you can’t believe you ever liked doing it and but you still can’t stop, it’s like you’re totally fucking bats, it’s like there’s two yous; and when you’d sell your own dear Mum to stop and still, you find, can’t stop, then the last layer of jolly friendly mask comes off your old friend the Substance, it’s midnight now and all masks come off, and you all of a sudden see the Substance as it really is, for the first time you see the Disease as it really is, really has been all this time, you look in the mirror at midnight and see what owns you, what’s become what you are—” (346-7).

Score!

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My kid just yelled at the TV, despite his 104 degree fever, because the song informed him that “You and me; solve a mystery…”

He bellowed, “No! ‘You and I’!”

That’s my boy! You tell ’em, Peanut. In fact, let’s grab some Magic Markers and go to town on your books. There’s a lot of passive voice in “Pete’s a Pizza.”

Mortgage/real estate fiasco

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Seriously, people, can we stop putting off foreclosures? I don’t mean banks renegotiating. Keep people in their homes if you can, but don’t just leave them languishing for nine months and then foreclose. Governments mandating that banks wait to foreclose are just dragging this thing out. Most of the inventory out there is troubled, and if you just keep feeding it in trickles, this fiasco is going to last for a decade. Come on. Let the crash happen and then let’s move on.
Another interesting sh*tstorm a-brewing…