Bullet points

All I can manage today is a list.
Agents responding to the most recent round of submission: three
Days since most recent round: one
Agents requesting a full: one
Agents requesting a partial: two
Agents saying “no thanks” last month: ten
This month: none

Average number of times PER DAY I’ve lost the contents of my stomach, last week: six
This week: three
Yay! Improvement! At this rate, I will actually process recently overwhelming and nauseating news and maybe think good thoughts by about Halloween…maybe.

And on that note:
Hours needed to finish rewrite and actually polish this book: 20+
Hours I can offer each day: 0.0000000002
Eleven orders of magnitude between what I need and what I have. Maybe this, too, will be done by Halloween. Just hope nobody requests a full…Oh crap. They just did.

IJ quote of the day 33

“None but the most street-hardened Ennet residents would ever hazard an open crack about the food, which appears nightly at the long dinner table still in the broad steaming pans it was cooked in, with Gately’s big face hovering lunarly above it, flushed and beaded under the floppy chef’s hat Annie Parrot had given him as a dark joke he hadn’t got, his eyes full of anxiety and hopes for everyone’s full enjoyment, basically looking like a nervous bride serving her first conjugal dish, except this bride’s hands are the same size as the House’s dinner plates and have jailhouse tatts on them, and this bride seems to need no over-mitts as he sets down massive pans on the towels that have to be laid down to keep the plastic tabletop from searing” (469).

Everybody loves a bad-cook joke. Especially a bad-cook-with-jailhouse-tatts joke.

Can anyone tell I’m just posting Wallace quotes because I can’t think any clear thoughts of my own lately? No? Good. Just checking.

IJ quote of the day 32

“Hal Incandenza has an almost obsessive dislike for deLint, whom he tells Mario he sometimes cannot quite believe is even real, and tries to get to the side of, to see whether deLint has a true z coordinate or is just a cutout or projection” (460).

If it’s not prescriptive linguistics with this guy it’s math. He’s so dreamy.

IJ quote of the day 31

“Sober, she called him Bimmy or Bim because that’s what she heard his little friends call him. She didn’t know the neighborhood cognomen came from an acronym for ‘Big Indestructible Moron.’ His head had been huge, as a child. Out of all proportion, though with nothing especially Estonian about it. He’d been very sensitive about it, the head, but never told her not to call him Bim” (448).

How can anyone not love Don Gately?
Infinite Summer hits its mid-point this week. Join thousands of readers in enjoying/dismissing/loathing/patiently wading through David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest.

IJ quote of the day 30

Hey, looky. We’re at post 30, and page 450ish. We’re just trucking along, aren’t we? And by we, I mean me, because I don’t think there’s a single Infinite Summer reader out there checking my whiny-ass blog for quotes.

Nevertheless, here you go, of legions of followers who aren’t reading David Foster Wallace’s book and don’t care:

Page 445 Bob Death, the South Shore biker, wields the joke about the old fish: “this wise old whiskery fish swims up to three young fish and goes, ‘Morning boys, how’s the water?’ and swims away; and the three young fish watch him swim away and look at each other and go, ‘what the fuck is water?'”

This, of course, is the zen proverb (though the profanity might not be standard proverb text; not sure) Wallace uses in his Kenyon speech, the one reproduced now as a book, This is Water. This quote made me cry, again, about this sweet, thoughtful man and his intense pain. He seemed so aware, I find in each page of Infinite Jest, of intense human suffering. I hope to heavens it wasn’t his water.

Thanks for the shout out…

Counting Crows* played an ode to my all-day-morning sickness in “Sullivan Street” today in my kitchen…

“If she remembers, she hides it whenever we meet
Either way now, I don’t really care
Cuz I’m gone from there

I’m almost drowning in her seas
She’s nearly crawling on her knees
She’s down on her knees
Down on her knees”

*if the entity is Counting Crows, then we say Counting Crows’s. If each band member is a counting crow, then we say Counting Crows’. But since the band’s name comes from the expression “counting crows” and since it’s not The Counting Crows, I’m gonna go with the band is singular but ends with an “s”. Hence Counting Crows’s song. Which is why I had to rewrite the sentence without any possessive. ‘Cuz that just looks wrong. Any band member is hereby welcome to post that I’m wrong on this one. Including the possibility that Sullivan Street is not about me. Which I doubt.

Stop cell phone gouging

The “Take Back the Beep” campaign is pretty simple: tell cell phone companies to stop billing us for the 15 seconds it takes to give instructions on how to leave a message. Read the NYT blog post that has info on how to tell your cell phone company (and all the others) to stop wasting our time and minutes. We don’t need a recording to tell us how to leave a message. It’s costing us a fortune and all my remaining patience with multinational corporations.

Food Inc.

LOVE having grandma live nearby. Saw Food Inc. last night, our fourth movie in three years, and cannot get over it.

What has become of our nation’s food supply? Why is it all made from a couple of crops, paid for by tax dollars, even though it’s not the healthiest food?

I mean, I taught Fast Food Nation for three years to my freshman English students. And I’m pretty well versed in everything Pollan says on NPR when they get in one of their all-food-all-the-time blocks. But I’m still shocked by a lot of what Food Inc. had to say.

Sure, it had the predictable propaganda moments. Music swell over repeated shots of the boy who died from E coli poisoning because beef recalls are still voluntary and the FDA and USDA have no real regulatory power anymore. Dastardly sinister music while we watch what technology has done to assembly-line food production. But pretty simple parsing of the purpose of the film would predict that. Of course it’s propaganda. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t have important information. Critical thinking skills (which, unfortunately, are not always taught in colleges anymore), deduce that most of the fundamentals of the film are sound.

Mostly, I’m shocked that when the government complains we’re out of money, that we can’t get Americans healthy because we can’t afford it, they’re ignoring a glaringly simple way to rescue two birds with one pocketed stone: stop paying anyone not following organic practices. Stop it. It should not cost tax payers for huge farming corporations (all four of them who control virtually all of what this country produces) to make food seem cheap. What tax dollars buy is the ability for chemical-laden corn syrup and soy Frankenbeans to be cheaper than more healthful foods (healthful for our bodies and the planet).

If we stop paying huge multinational corporations to produce tons and tons and tons of food that we then overprocess and feed to animals who should be eating something else, maybe food will cost what it should. Maybe a head of broccoli will be cheaper than brown, carbonated sugar water trucked all across the country using scarce petroleum. Maybe organic proteins will be cheaper than a chemical-laden, ammonia bathed, bacteria-opportunistic burger or chlorine washed chicken breast at a fast food restaurant. Or maybe people will cut back from their average of 200 pounds of meat a year because the real cost finally makes it a food they enjoy but limit.

And maybe if we take the tax savings and pay for health care, people who buy the now cheaper whole foods will be healthier and not need as much medical treatment. Maybe obesity and diabetes will decline from epidemic proportions and we will all be eating what our local farmers produce instead of the chemical sludge, shipped from thousands of miles away, that we’re all pretending is food.

So cut all subsidies to food producing companies. Don’t lie about how important corn syrup is for our national health. If we have that much corn, so much that it can be processed into any number of pretend foods, then we have too much corn. Stop paying agribusiness to genetically modify and pesticide and herbicide and chemically fertilize and gas-harvest and chemically wash and process and alter and reprocess and package and truck and sell.

Now that we have all that money back, take the savings and give us health care instead of massive profit private health insurance. Or subsidize organic farms and teach small farmers to become organic farmers. It would do the nation’s food supply a lot more good than huge quantities of sprayed and processed and modified foods.

And while the gov. is taking care of that, please vote with your dollars. Buy food grown safely by people you trust.

After the movie, we ate here and I still eyed the potatoes, a produuct normally so pesticide and herbicide treated that it has to sit for several weeks after harvest to outgas all the chemicals before it’s deemed suitable for human consumption. Mmmmm.

IJ quote of the day 29

“The state employees who supervise the shelter at night are dead-eyed and watch soft-core tapes behind the desk and are all around Gately’s size and build, and he’s been approached to maybe work there himself, nights, supervising, more than once, and has said Thanks Anyway, and always screws right out of there at 0801h. and rides the Greenie back up the hill with his Gratitude-battery totally recharged” (435).

Um, yeah he does. I longed for my own Green line ride out of the head space the shelter put me in. Infinite Jest often jolts me out of complacency with the Hitting Bottom stories and the in-need-of-medical-intervention episodes and the dysfunctional-family-goes-off-the-deep-end sadness. But the Shattuck Shelter for Homeless Males is a bit more affecting that I can handle right now.

Join the conversation at Infinite Summer.

THAT

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

“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

“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

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

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.

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.