Archive for the ‘friends’ Category

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In which I am calmer

May 4, 2012

That fruit tart that arrived yesterday was easily the most delicious thing I’ve had in weeks! Wow. I didn’t eat the crust, because anything crackery tastes like bark, but damn, the rest of it was ridiculous.

Anyway, I attribute it with healing powers. I also had some big surprises in the form of my awesome cousins who showed up from Massachusetts and North Carolina to, well, surprise me! I love them so much, and there was much intense laughter and, once my brother arrived, more intense laughter. He just adds spice to the proceedings. I should call him “Mrs Dash.” (yeah, I’m a little worn out at the moment)

Anyway. I will just mention that these moments represent the upside of cancer. The part where friends and family rally around you. I maybe sound spoiled sometimes, but I am genuinely grateful for so much. And that includes every one of you sending love. I am unfairly blessed.

Cancer does suck, but it also reveals every aspect of the human condition.

I’m grateful today that my mother, whom I sometimes think is overly concerned with appearances, encouraged me to get dressed and put on some of the 3,000 pounds of cosmetics I have on my dresser. Superficial, but I felt a lot better with a little mascara.

And, Maven, I have to let you know that a giant pool of laughter erupted when I explained your wardrobe concept of “Denim Circus.” you are ingenious.

So, that’s all for tonight. Let’s all sing “I feel love” by Donna Summer as we drift off to sleep, counting our blessings. Count! Sing! I demand it!!

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here’s a picture of my cat napping with me.

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In which things shake out

May 4, 2012

So, after some really intense fighting yesterday, I think things have shaken out a bit.

For which I am grateful.

I have never embraced the pink bracelet culture of cancer fighters. It just didn’t really jibe with my vision, or whatever. But my friend Mickey came down to visit, giving me a pink rubber bracelet like the one she was wearing. It reads, Cancer Sucks, and I was like, Yeah. Pretty much. So I’m now wearing the bracelet in her honor.

And this arrived:

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So that’s a big plus. Things are looking up.

Today is better than yesterday. Let’s hope that’s a continuing trend.

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In which I count my blessings

May 2, 2012

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Isn’t this a horrible picture of me, plotting my escape? It really is, and I post it here as a gesture of bravery and suggestion that, in real life, I am eight times more beautiful than Celine. Dion. And I’m not bragging on myself — I have a certificate of authenticity issued by the … Eh, I got nothin’.

But all this by way of saying that I feel better today. Two days ago, I could not type the word intersection without 32 extra letters, and today, I’m bagging on super-hot celebrity Celine Dion. Progress? I agree.

My mom has been amenable to all my great plans. The key, which I believe all 3 of my beautiful readers suggested, is to keep her busy. Who knew?

Anyway, I used to kind of hate people who said they were “so blessed,” or whatever, because it seemed braggy to me in a “Jesus loves me more than you…” kind of way. But then tonight, I sat down and gave some thought to what I actually have. I won’t run down this list, but it seems that I am in fact blessed in my own right and do not need to plot my escape.

Small example: my favorite restaurant agreed to make my favorite soup tomorrow just on the strength of my aunt asking them. “Oh, soup — big whoop,” you say, snapping your gum, hand on one hip, like you’re some kind of Celine Dion, and you would be right, except that you have not tasted this soup and so you do not know!!!

Anyway, I am still really sick. I’m on a lot of drugs. But I can type again! And despite that, I will continue to blog. You are welcome. And if you take issue with my reasoning, just remember: Drugs.

Here’s a picture of me and my oval-shaped head, to erase the memories of the previous picture I so recklessly posted.

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It’s so ovally! Hee hee hee hee!

(See: Drugs.)

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In which there’s a break in communication

April 25, 2012

I awoke with this joke in my head:

Q: What do you call half a Soviet news agency?

A: Demitasse.

It is not the kind of joke you can tell nowadays. Not because it’s inappropriate, but because it’s irrelevant. And it wasn’t that funny to begin with.

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In which there is sugar shock

April 3, 2012

My zebrella arrived today and is more glorious than my dreams. I wish it would rain oh how I wish that it would raaaaaaaain…

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Looks exactly like this.

It’s huge.

My cat is on his blanket, making “happy bread,” which is opposed to the fiercer, more determined kneading he does to show dominion, which I call “angry bread.” Today is a happy bread day.

I hope you’re having a happy bread day, too.

I tried to send several things from etsy and online shops. I usually fuck this up, but today was worse, owing to drugs, so I apologize in advance.

Thank you,

Violet Veronica White

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In which I’m procrastinating

February 25, 2012

Today’s the day of my friend Steven’s funeral. Memorial, I guess is what it is. I missed the scattering of ashes this morning owing to illness (dull) so I am trying to rally. I cannot rid myself of the persistent misconception that I am actually going to see Steven. I have to stop and remember every once in a while that no, this is his memorial. “And you betta fuckin be there, bitch, or I’ll call the IRS on you and tell em you’re laundering money for the Black Panthers ladies’ auxiliary!

I wish we as humans didn’t have to think about mortality quite so much, but we do. Maybe if we thought about it more, we’d be less horrified by it, more like Vonnegut’s Tralfamadoreans, I think that’s who it was, who perceive all time at once, and can see a person in the state of their death or look back a little and see them in better shape.

Ok, that tangent was useless.

Anyway, I’m back home, now.

Everything went fine, except that the one person I really wanted to see was the person we were there to honor in memoriam.

I’m tired. I think I’ll sleep.

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In which it is a bitch

February 15, 2012

Have I told you about my friend Steven? If you’ve been with me since the early days of my old journal, Spark and Foam, you might be familiar with him, but no matter: I will catch you up.

Steven was my neighbor in the marina when I lived on a boat. His boat never went anywhere. You could tell it by the patio umbrella and hanging plants on the back deck, and by Steven himself, seated on an iron garden chair, smoking a cigarette and yelling across the water to passers-by. “I see the fleet must be in!” he frequently yelled to me in his gravelly Boston accent, followed by a litany of profane insults about how I was trying to steal all his business, or how I still owed him 25 cents and a roll of Scotch tape. His favorite epithet was “bitch,” and if you used it against him, he’d pull himself up coyly, eyelashes batting, and thank you very kindly. Flamboyant? Sure. Covered in diamonds and gold necklaces, some of the dock guys called him Liberace, but even those uncomfortable with homosexuality were won over by his outrageous sense of humor, his kindness, and his admirable refusal to pretend to be anything but himself. He did not suffer fools gladly, but he held his friends close to his heart.

His boat was filled to the brim with silk settees, crystal chandeliers, a brass grandfather clock, and bouquets of silk flowers with the price left on them. I pointed that out to him once, and he drew himself up in dramatic indignance, and said, “Of course I left the fucking price on them. How else will people know how much I paid?”

The Captain and I gave him a lovely vase one year for Christmas — something the Captain had found and thought would be appropriate to Steven’s decor. Steven, anticipating a gag gift, was visibly moved by the gesture, but of course had to preserve his image. The next day, he delivered a box containing a beautiful cut-crystal decanter, and a card addressed thusly:

To the Captain and Violet (a common, flashy weed that lasts a few minutes in water and then dries up and crumbles with age)

I adored him. I would sit with him on his back deck, drinking cheap wine and trying on his sizable collection of jewelry, which he made an elaborate point of counting before I left. “You wouldn’t know anything about this,” he’d say, between puffs on a cigarette, “but truly beautiful people never buy their own jewelry.”

He had emphysema, and routinely lied about his smoking. “I allow myself one cigarette a day,” he would lie right to my face, and I would commend him, and the fiction would continue.

I talked to him on the phone about two weeks ago. We liked to gossip and insult each other, and laugh a whole lot. He revealed to me that things weren’t going too well, that the trips to the hospital were getting more frequent and that living was getting difficult. I commiserated, without totally knowing what to say. I offered my services as a ride, told him to call me if he needed help. I’d been saying that for years — he never did. We ended our conversation fondly, with a promise from me that I would visit.

Steven was on my mind today, for some reason. I decided to call him when I got home from my errands, but before I could, I got an email, telling me that Steven had died last week. You can lose someone so easily in the world; turn away for a few seconds, and you’re out of touch. And now, he is gone.

I have his cards, a few photographs, and the indelible memory of his distinctive voice. I just loved him, and I’m sure he knew this, for whatever that’s worth. I know he loved me. I really hope that if there is an afterlife, Steven and I will meet again, and revive the litany of insults that were the vocabulary he used to show his affection.

I could tell stories about Steven for days, and I’m sure he’ll make other appearances in these pages. This is an inadequate elegy, written off the top of my head, unedited or planned. Here is what I mean to say: My friend Steven has died. He was a good man, much beloved. I hope I see him again.

Here he is, at one of his ladies-only tea parties:

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I miss you, my friend. (Steven’s probable response: Yah, you better fuckin’ cry, bitch. It’s the only proper response to losing someone so young. Don’t think this means you get to take over my corner when the fleet’s in.)