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.
Bong! Bong! Bong! Did you hear that? It was pretty loud. It’s the sound of the MRI machine scanning my brains. It drowned out the pleasant music in my headphones, and was not altogether unpleasant. Loud, though. I wore my loudest plaid pajama pants, in tribute.
Now, I’m kind of melancholy. Probably unrelated to the MRI, unless the stuff they injected me with is some kind of depressant. Unlikely.
I started a great new exercise regimen that involves: walking a little way at a time. I made it up myself, still working on the companion DVD. Anyway, I’ve been walking a bit, and climbing the stairs a bit, and it is a testament, I believe, to my youthful… Eh, I got nothing. The truth is: I started walking a little, climbing stairs a little, and my ass, which has lost pretty much all its muscle tone, KILLS! Along with my thighs. I feel like I worked out for eleven hours. That is pathetic, o my friends and brothers.
So, anyway, I’m a little bit sad, partly because I thought about how much help I need, and how that is hard, both to ask for and to accept. And because I can’t help it, I wonder how much time I have left. Sometimes, I think, Hey — maybe this treatment will work and I will have been the boy who cried wolf! That comes with its own complications, and anyway, I see the ghostly image of my tumor-bedecked liver floating like a blancmange in its little CT scan universe. Wolf!
So, I have Xanax and Valium and Ativan, there’s morphine for bad pain and Percocet for aches, and Fiorinal for migraine, and Fentanyl for medium pain, and while any of those would put me to sleep, there’s Restoril to take at bedtime. In short, there’s no dearth of remedies for short-term ailments, and although they leave me feeling drugged and sluggish, they take the edge off when needed. Yesterday’s wave of crazy constituted “when needed,” to me, anyway, and I put myself to bed with an Ativan and called it good.
And I slept like a baby, which is to say I woke up every 90 minutes, but when the sun came in through the curtains, I felt prepared to take some action.
First, I called my friend The Kate, in Toronto, for her advice at dealing with recalcitrant doctors. She is very good at negotiating indifferent or incompetent office workers, and had some sage advice for me, which I followed. And, lo: the form I’d been waiting weeks for was finally completed! Yea, verily, it is a miracle.
Then, instead of counting up my dwindling sick time and worrying about the gap between the end of the sick time and the start of my disability payments, I texted my boss my concerns, and he called me right back. We talked for quite a while about my situation, and not only did he tell me he’d make sure I have all the sick leave I need, he promised not to hire anyone in my absence, so that I’d have a job when I’m ready to come back. We talked about some other things that made me realize how much he’s been advocating on my behalf since I’ve been gone. I tried for a sincere thank-you, but he kind of brushed it off and changed the subject. He reinforced the concept of loyalty to me, and the idea that no, I don’t have to do everything alone. (Which I actually know, but occasionally forget.) He is a good man, a stand-up guy, and considering how terrible I am as his assistant, very generous of spirit, as well.
So, is everything magically fixed? No. I still have all my annoying physical limitations, and many unanswered questions. I feel better, though, reinforcing the idea that one good remedy for anxiety is action. I know that’s not always possible, and for those days, we have Xanax.
A couple of days ago, I got a note from UPS on my front door, which is always exciting. In this case, I couldn’t tell what the intended message was. Make the “check, please!” motion with your hand, and that essentially replicates the squiggly line drawn on the form, this supposedly informational form.
I figured that UPS would turn up to clear up the matter at some point — a baseless and naive hope — but nothing happened until today, when I got a little post-it on my door, stating that the law office upstairs had my UPS package. Apparently, in UPS-speak, an indecipherable squiggle = “Your package is at the law office. Get it from them.”
No harm done. I went to the office and introduced myself, wearing my craziest cat lady hoodie for maximum credibility. There, the nice lady gave me a big box addressed to me, which I ripped open as soon as I got inside my apartment.
It was like my dreams came true times one million — the box was filled with CANDY, delicious candy! Mint juleps, all sorts, salt-water taffy and the rarest of all: Mexican Hats!
Oh, Mexican Hats, how I love you. That is what I said as I opened the bag. I can’t remember the last time I had one, but as soon as I bit into a Hat (green), the specific, slightly odd mix of flavors flooded back: spearmint, clove, cinnamon, licorice. That is, the green is spearmint, the red is cinnamon, etc., not that those flavors are mixed in each Hat.
Thank you, candy-sender! You have brightened my world. And my cat’s world (see illustration).
I just erased everything I wrote because it was drivel and instead will briefly tell you that, because I have been outside the apartment maybe once this week, today, my brain short-circuited and I had a few moments of “I’m a shut-in! I’m one of those cackling shut-ins I’ve always been warned about!”
Had I the energy, it was the perfect moment to run about, hair askew, shouting “Shut-in! I’m a shut-in!”
What.
Yeah, if I had that energy, I could just get dressed and, you know, go outside, negating the need for a freak-out and also garnering some sunshine and vitamin D.
Instead, I took a shower, brushed my hair, put on my pajamas and was ready when the postman knocked on the door, with this delivery:
A big bottle of Chanel No 5 from my friend Mary, and a handmade rainbow from some far-away friends. There is no problem these things cannot fix. (Possible hyperbole.)
I think I’ll take a vitamin D capsule, do some online window shopping, and hope that tomorrow brings the energy to step outdoors. It’s supposed to rain! You say. Then I get to carry my gold umbrella! I say. (It’s like a matte gold. We are not Jackie Stallone, here.)
Day two of the music meme asks us to name our favorite love song.
Although its a guaranteed crying jag on my part, I have to name mine as “Side of the Road,” by Lucinda Williams.
My phone won’t let me post the link, but look it up if you’re inclined.
If only for a minute or two,
I wanna know what it feels like to be without you.
It speaks of the kind of love that’s secure enough to step away from for a minute, revisit your individuality, and then come back home where it’s safe and warm. It speaks of trust.
With beautiful changes and mournful, aching vocals, this is my favorite love song.
If I stray away too far from you,
Don’t come trying to find me.
It doesn’t mean I don’t love you,
Doesn’t mean I won’t be back to stay beside you
Just for a minute, let me inhabit my own self. I’ll be back.
All I wanted last night was for a gentleman to take me out for a drink. One drink, then escort me home, where I could relax by myself, light some candles, and watch an old movie or two. It has been so long since a gentleman has invited me out for a drink, I can’t even remember the last time.
Suffice it to say that my phone stayed silent, and that the one gentleman to whom I extended a hesitant suggestion of a drink, responded with a lack of enthusiasm I found insulting, which I told him.
Instead, I stayed in, turned off my phone, opened a bottle of pink Champagne and drank it from one of the two Waterford goblets left from my wedding. I don’t own any Champagne flutes.
I’m unaccustomed to drinking anymore, so was asleep long before midnight, but before I conked out, I read my tarot cards. The good parts: poverty and isolation are passing out of my life, and this upcoming year represents a new journey for me to embark on. I really hope it’s a good journey.
My goal, last February, was to chronicle my year alone, as a way of coping with it. I didn’t really spend the year alone — the Cyclone was here a lot of the time, my ersatz boyfriend. It was good to have that transitional time, but I’m wondering if I just postponed the inevitable, and this year will be my year of being alone. We shall see.
It’s been one day, and it already feels lonely. It’s weird to have zero romantic prospects, but maybe that’s the journey I’m on this year. It’s certainly not going to kill me, it’s just a strange sensation for me, a Libra — the most romantic of all signs, if you read Cosmo. Which I don’t.
A tree came in the mail today, a beautiful potted cypress from my dear friend Chelle, who has been to my apartment and understands the scale on which I operate. There are wonderful, teeny wooden ornaments with which to decorate it, and then instructions on how to plant it after the season ends. It’s fragrant and looks lovely on my coffee table, and the box in which it came provided fascination for Kong. Yay, Christmas! Yay, Chelle!
I’m listening to Maurice Chevalier sing “Jolly Old St Nicholas” and lying down after a taxing (not taxing), merry lunch downtown with family, then a little thrift shopping for oddities with my brother.
Nothing is wrong, but on the walk back home, I felt a little wash of melancholy. I didn’t succumb, but I do wonder where these things come from. It’s as if my brain is not content to just be content. It must stay busy at all times, needling me with things I don’t need to think about, at least not at that instant. Thanks, brain!
I guess it’s my responsibility to stay “in the moment.” I can’t blame my brain for everything.
This isn’t really much of a post, is it? Let’s review: A) I was happy and in the Christmas spirit. B) For obscure reasons, I became melancholy. C) I wondered why.
Yes, it will be on the test, which counts as 50% of your final grade.
Here, here’s a picture of the cat looking chagrined after being told not to play with the tree:
Feel free to use it as your own Christmas or holiday-of-your-choice card.
PS to Chavis: I’m thinking today is your birthday. Am I right?
Let’s hear it for Exoticleopard Kingkong, better known to his friends as Kong!
The wonderful Santa Barbara artist Heather Mattoon has honored Kong with a portrait, and he now takes his place in the pantheon of Cats in Clothes. Check out her shop here!
And in Kong’s honor, we will recite a rap that the Cyclone made up. Ready?
Kong, Kong, Kingety Kongkongkong
Thinks he’s a machinist, but he’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
(The Cyclone made up the rap before I knew him, about someone I don’t know, who was named Kong, and apparently incorrectly perceived himself to be a machinist. I don’t know, either. You get inside that brain and figure it out.)
Artwork is the property of Heather Mattoon, (c) 2011.
“Spun up.” You might use that phrase to describe my current state, should you be required to. (You are not required to.) Spun up in a good way, though — I want to be clear about that. Maybe today’s post should be in the form of a list. That might be easier on all of us.
A) I spent the last couple of days in the company of my cousin S, who is so dynamic that I feel like my spirit was plugged into a battery charger. She is six feet tall, but her stature does not account for the enormous, wonderful bubble of energy that she inhabits and draws you into. She is thoughtful and asks tough questions with absolutely no judgment, and says things that I think about for years afterward. Somehow, with her, I found the energy to walk and to talk for hours (with her, not in monologue) and felt fantastic when we parted company. I can’t quite explain it, but it’s as if her personality hits you with a …I don’t know, something powerful but not dangerous …and you end up talking for ten hours, but somehow have more energy than when you began. I think some people are scared of her, because her presence has so much force, but she don’t scare me.
B) In the company of S, I went into a boutique in Ojai that sold fancy western-wear. Cowgirl up: rhinestones, sterling boot tips, and a lot of lace and velvet. I live in the west, but I do not dress in any style you might identify as “western,” per se, nor am I likely to. It would be as implausible as suddenly turning up in the Manic Pixie Dream Girl-wear of Anthropologie: it would be a costume, and not a particularly successful one. Nevertheless! I say, using exclamation points! Among all the hand-tooled leather cowboy boots with their sparkles and their skylarks and swirls was a lone pair of boots that screamed my name. Tall, ink-black and shiny as Valentino’s Brilliantined hair, they sat on the shelf like the dark shadow of all that leather and lace. Patent leather cowboy boots, totally unadorned, but with a gnarly lug sole. If you for some reason needed to boil down my personality into a concept of footwear, you would end up with a picture of these boots.
B1) I cannot have these boots: they cost $950, and if I did have a spare $950 lying around, say on the floor, I would do better to buy a set of new tires for my car, instead of my millionth pair of shoes. However! In talking with S, I realized that I have a very similar pair of boots already. They’re designer label, bought new on eBay for the grand price of $50, about five years ago. I used to wear them all the time with my band, and they make essentially the same statement as the $950 boots. Where are my old boots? I don’t know. They’re in my closet. I need to find them, wear them, and inhabit the personality I seem to have misplaced in the past year or so, incorporated with the lessons I’ve learned.
C) I have learned lessons! I have learned lessons. I didn’t mean to yell it out. Everybody learns lessons. I don’t need to go over these lessons with you (tiresome) but, trust me: I have learned.
D) I have lots of odd facts in my head, which I guess just means I’m human, and they pop up at weird times. For example, today, I remembered that several of the musical numbers in “Man of La Mancha” are written in the compound time signature of 3/4 6/8. Nerdy!
5) Beau, the drummer of my former band, sent me an email that reminded me of how much I love Gang of Four. (That is, he sent me a video of Gang of Four, and I remembered, oh! I love this band!) I have spent most of the last year not listening to music for fear of being blindsided by a nostalgic song that would collapse me into an annoying, slippery puddle of tears. There is not that fear with Gang of Four, however, for their angry political disco fervor would make one cry only out of awed zealotry. See for yourself:
Sometimes I’m thinking that I love you, Jon King, singer of Gang of Four, but I know it’s only lust. I’m a little scared of you, but may I have this dance?
VI) I am starting a regular feature on this little blog, entitled Tonight, I Celebrate My Love For… to celebrate my love of certain people. Maybe it will be YOU!
7) Thinking about Man of La Mancha made me think of its song, “I’m Only Thinking Of Him,” in which several self-involved people protest too much that their concern for Don Quixote is not self-serving on their parts. I won’t post a link, because the ones I found are all super-grating, but it’s a great song. And kind of a grating song. And not composed in 3/4 6/8.
H) I’ve been listening to the ’70s channel on my car’s satellite radio, and damn, do I know a lot of the words from songs I haven’t heard in 1,000 years. Why would I know all the words to the following song?
I don’t know, but I do. Know all the words, I mean. (I’m secretly BJ Thomas’ biggest fan! Don’t tell anyone!)
9) I feel so much better today than I have in probably a year. I felt like, “Let’s get the band back together!” good. I don’t know how long this feeling will last, although I wish it would be forever. When I told the Cyclone this today, and kind of laughingly said that I wanted him to know I loved him, in case I got hit by an ice-cream truck, he asked completely without sarcasm, “Why does it have to be an ice-cream truck?”
X) Last night, I dreamt of the following things: talking tigers, Manhattan, Boston’s Combat Zone, a little boy whose name was unknown to me but for whom I had responsibility, and my boyfriend Jack White. (His wife was throwing me a little side-eye, but I was like, I know you guys are getting divorced. My turn, now. This makes me laugh for several reasons that I will keep to myself.)
11) I really want to go out dancing in my imaginary patent-leather cowboy boots with the lug soul. Ha! Freudian slip. Lug sole. Hm… Lug Soul. That would be my stage name, were I in a punk band. Which I might be. You don’t know everything about me. YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE! Where’s the vodka? [sounds of smashing glass]
And, because I want you to share my mania, my suddenly remembered yet wholehearted mania:
still life with idiots 