I'll be reading Growing Up with Tamales for story time at Blue Willow Bookshop, in Houston, on Thursday morning, May 15. Tell everyone you know with kids in the Houston area. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.
On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.
On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
eBay SaleYou guys, I'm selling some crafty products on eBay, meaning products I crafted myself, as well as a few other things. Feel free to look at them or to ignore them, as you please. Either way, it won't hurt my feelings. I just have to sell things periodically so I can continue to write off my craft supply purchases on my taxes. It's a sickness, I know.
For sale:
bracelet with dangling pastel beads
carnelian and red agate necklace #1
carnelian and red agate necklace #2
rhodonite and rose quartz necklace
bronze and pink freshwater pearl necklace
pink and gray dangly pearl necklace
pale jade necklace
green wood bead necklace
amber earrings
silver ring
amber ring
garnet ring
silver cuff bracelet
vintage cross pendant
that painting I did a while back, of the woman
There you go. Happy browsing.
Get Rich Quick Scheme
The other day I saw a People magazine, and its cover gave me an idea. So I turned to my son who has Asperger's, and I said, "Hey, Dallas, how would you like it if Mommy wrote a book all about your Asperger's and how tragic it is and how dramatic it's made Mommy's life? And then Mommy could go on book tour and make a lot of money?"
My son said, "More money than you make writing fiction?"
I said, "Way, way more."
He said, "Would you tell heart-rending personal stories about your strength, your struggle, and your survival that would embarrass me, later, when I'm old enough to understand them fully?"
I said, "Maybe. Then again, maybe not, since you do have Asperger's. Maybe you'll never fully understand, or else it simply won't hurt your feelings. We can always hope, but either way, we'll make money. Don't forget the money."
He said, "Will you use the money to buy me a PS3, an XBox 360, and a bigger TV?"
I said, "Of course I will, honey."
He said, "Then sell our story, Mommy. Sell it away!"
Just kidding. That conversation never took place.
[Edited to clarify: Hey, everybody. This segment of the entry is referring to Jenny McCarthy, as featured on the latest cover of People magazine, promoting her book about her personal struggles with her kid's autism, and the power of Jim Carrey's penis helping her through it.
This segment of the entry is not about my long-time fellow blogger and author Rob Rummel-Hudson. For the record, although I've been catty in my time, I'm not catty/lame/rondo enough to hate on Rob on my blog, while linking to him and Facebook-friending him at the same time. If I thought Rob was selling out his kid for money, I wouldn't link him or Facebook friend him. C'mon, people. Y'all should know better than that.]
Inspirational
On the way to work, I pass a company that performs a very specialized service for other companies. It's not a service that I'll ever need, but I always stare at the company and remember its name, because it has an inspirational marquee. Know what I mean? They have one of those LED signs on which the owner has chosen to put a different motivational saying each day.
Weirdly, although I normally ignore crap like that, this marquee frequently inspires me. Like, one day, a while back, it said something like "If you knew you wouldn't fail, what would you attempt?" Something like that -- poorly worded, but it got the point across. What would I try to do if I knew for certain that I wouldn't fail? I thought about it until the end of my commute.
Usually, I end up thinking about the owner of this company and what his motivation is for providing these thoughts. He could use the marquee for advertisements, but instead, he tries to inspire us all. Why? What kind of person does something like that?
It's something to think about on a long, long drive.
Dazed and Confused and Swollen
If none of this makes sense, it's because I'm on drugs, because I recently had surgery, because my teeth are sad and lame, and yet strong and stubborn and constantly having to be messed with by surgical means. I had this jacked-up tooth remnant, under an old crown, and it turned bad, so my dentist (who is the best dentist in the world, fyi) tried to remove it with pliers and such, but it wouldn't come out because the rotten tooth was holding on with all its might to my jawbone, as all my teeth like to do, apparently...
... and so my dentist was forced to give up, sweatily and reluctantly, and he sent me to his friend, the best oral surgeon in the world, and she removed my tooth (and I told y'all before how she looks sort of like Mimi Rogers, but I never told y'all that she studied dance at the same school, at the same time, as Madonna!), and it went as well as possible, but now I'm kind of achy and drugged up. Bleh.
Oh, well, that's life, though. My super power is fast healing. My kryptonite is cavity-prone teeth. If teeth being fused to jawbones were a super power of any use, I'd be bragging that I had that, too. But it hasn't done anything for me yet. We'll see what happens, though. Maybe one day my stubborn teeth will save the world. 10:14 PM # (25) comments
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
I spoke too soon.Moms do get sick. I guess I have the flu now. Or its nephew, 24-Hour Flu-Like Virus. I didn't stop feeling beat up this morning, in fact, it only got worse, so I drove home at lunch time and have been in bed since then. Now I'm awake, eating soup. I hope to God I don't start puking my guts up. But I don't think I will, because I feel voraciously hungry instead. I think my body knows what to do. Eat the virus out.* Ache it out. Sleep it off.
Random Stuff
I admire people who make things.
I keep wanting to take extra pics for my own Flickr page, but I haven't done so yet. Haven't remembered to take my camera around. I could use the cell phone, but actually, no, I had to stop that because I get charged, like, 5 cents a photo, and last time it added $20 to my bill.
I'm waiting for a university to pay me. I'm waiting, waiting for good news. Waiting for a star to fall... Can't remember who sings that song. Also, there is a song about waiting by John Bon Jovi that I couldn't stop thinking about in the workplace cafeteria today. Sometimes I think about lyrics that mean what's going on in my life.
How do you say hot dog in Spanish? I tried to say it today but the words wouldn't come to me. My boyfriend thought it might have literally been perros calientes, but I don't think so. Try it and see:
Me: Tienen perros calientes hoy?
Hamburger lady: No, pero [points to Vietnamese food station next door.]
My boyfriend: No, they only have cat today.
Speaking of racist stereotype humor... I'm gonna try to tell y'all a funny conversation we had the other day. Background: My boyfriend was born in Vietnam, so it's okay for him to say stuff about Vietnamese people. I am Latina and White, so it's okay for me to say stuff about my own peoples, too. Also, when we are together, it's okay for us to make observations about each other's people... as long as they're funny. Okay.
So we were in Houston's VietnamTown area, eating at this place we always eat at. And, next to that place is a place called Cyborg Tax. And, as it often does, the mere existence of Cyborg Tax got on my boyfriend's nerves.
Tad: That's so stupid. Who the hell would name their tax place that shit?
Me: I think that's a bad-ass name for a tax place. Anyway, it was probably an old Asian couple, and they didn't speak English too great, so they asked one of their kids to pick a name. They were like, [poorly mimicking Vietnamese accent] "Jimmy, what good name for our store?" And Jimmy was like [miming kid playing on Playstation], "I don't know. How about cyborg?" And they were like, "What's that?" and he was like, "It's something really cool."
Tad, shaking head in disgust: No. That's not how it happened. Here's how it happened. [Re-does my skit with brilliant, spot-on Vietnamese accent and Americanized teen voice:]
"Jimmy, you help with store. What we name it?"
"Uh... How about Cyborg Tax?"
"Cybog? What that?"
"You know... Like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator."
"Oh, I like that! He a Republican!"
See how my boyfriend's funnier than me? But, actually, I bet I'm funnier than him when it comes to making fun of my own people. Someday we'll have to have a big, racist Joke Off* and see.
* Ha, ha, that sounds dirty. 6:19 PM # (7) comments
Saturday, November 18, 2006
We found out what's wrong.And it's not anything I thought it was, or anything any of you thought. Not PCOS, not fibroids, not cancer, not pregnancy, not thyroid.
Here is what's wrong with me:
1. My pituitary gland produces too much prolactin.
2. I also have too much of the other male hormone. (DHEA? Forgot the name already.)
3. My insulin resistance is borderline.
4. I need more Vitamin D.
Those last two aren't what's causing the double periods. But he told me about them, anyway, just so I'd know.
Besides that, I'm completely healthy. Even my cholestorol is good.
He gave me little tiny pills to slow down the prolactin. He said that'll most likely bring the DHEA down, too. If not, though, they'll give me something extra for that.
I am ovulating, after all. Twice a month, I guess.
No wonder I'm always tired and bitchy, then. But still. I'm glad we went through all the tests. Hopefully the tiny pills will work. I should find out in the next four weeks if they do.
In the meantime, I'm going to buy a sun lamp.
Labels: health
4:57 PM # (8) commentsFriday, November 17, 2006
HmmIs it just my imagination, or does everyone Gen X and younger have panic attacks on a regular basis? I blame high fructose corn syrup.
Is it also just my imagination, or does everyone younger than Gen X (What are y'all - Gen Y?) have experience with cutting themselves? What's up with that? Nutrasweet, maybe?
What will the next generation's issue be? Besides being born with adult diabetes, I mean?
What will Splenda bring?
Seriously
I know this is going to sound weird and maybe a little bit disgusting, but I pretty much love 90% of my coworkers very much. I like to see them in the elevators and trade pleasant small talk with them on the way home. I empathize with them and wish them well.
Or maybe it's just PMS.
Seriously as Hell - Why I Hated The Unconsoled
It wasn't that it was told as a dream. It wasn't that I'm too dumb to follow it. It wasn't that everyone in it talked like the butler from Remains of the Day.
No.
It was that the narrator being an asshole was supposed to cover Ishiguro being self-deprecating, which in turn was supposed to cover the narrator(/author) feeling sorry for himself for lame-ass, petty reasons.
When your parents don't support your art, you're not supposed to write a big book about a bunch of people's parents not supporting their art. You're supposed to write a small book (or a series of them) eviscerating people just like your parents, and presenting fictionalized theories on how they came to be so fucked up. That is what cures you. (Because nothing you can write will make them change. You can only change yourself.)
When you want to complain about and simultaneously apologize to a lover or ex-lover, you don't write a big book containing three or four versions of her. No. You write several books containing those versions, and you make one of them a man so as to disguise your whininess better.
Don't be a baby, Kazuo! Exploit your personal slights the time-honored way.
Labels: health, pop culture
2:41 PM # (4) commentsThursday, November 02, 2006
Coffee ShakeEarlier yesterday I was thinking about low-glycemic-index stuff you could eat without crying from frustration, and I invented something new, in my mind.
Coffee shake! A sugar free, real coffee, coffee shake!
Here's what I thought my invention might contain:
real coffee
ice
heavy cream
whey powder
sugar-free flavored syrup
cinnamon (which may or may not bring down insulin resistance)
Then I went on the Google and searched for "coffee shake." I discovered that, not only did I not invent coffee shakes, but that other people had been way more inventive about it than me. Here are things I may or may not put in my coffee shakes, thanks to all the Internet Coffee Shake Pioneers:
unsweetened soy milk
avocado
coconut milk
fiber powder
Coconut milk! That's kind of exciting. They haven't even done that at Starbuck's yet, have they? Avocado I've seen, at the bubble tea places - but I never would have thought to put it in coffee. Wah! (That's the sound effect of magic revelation occurring.)
In other news: Does anybody out there know where Mike's food blog is? I could go look for the link, but man I'm so tired...
Labels: health
8:04 PM # (8) commentsWednesday, November 01, 2006
I know the answer now.I think I do, I mean. I did some research on teh internets, and I've realized that my gynecologist was right, even though she said things in such a dismissive, blow-off-y way.
I'm gonna try to lose 70 pounds. Then, in theory, my ovaries should return to normal.
If anyone speaks to me in an inappropriate way when this is happening, I will simply say, "Would you say that to a man?" Or else I'll elbow them in the nose and make their nose bleed, distracting them long enough for me to get away.
If I accidentally get kidney stones while losing weight (again), and my doctor says, "Maybe you should quit [doing whatever I end up doing to lose weight]," then I will say "Shut up - as if you wouldn't tell me to lose weight in the first place." And then I'll drink something vinegar-y, because that's how I got rid of the stone last time.
If, like Dr. Atkins, I slide on a ramp and hit my head and die (and then people say I had a heart attack because of my unorthodox diet), then I will be dead and who cares what people say? If I'm dead and I hear them saying it, then I'll haunt them or change the channel.
Okay. Ready, break!
Well, first I have to weigh myself, I guess. Then, I'll know what weight to go to. (Seventy was the number I came up with, last time I gave this matter thought. Seventy pounds sounds like a good amount. Not too fat anymore, but also not too thin. Plus, it starts with an odd number, which I like. Actually, I like the word itself: se-ven-ty. Mmm. Sounds good.)
Okay... Seriously, now...
Labels: health
4:33 PM # (12) commentsScene-Setting
Today I accidentally dressed like Alice in Wonderland. I put on a pleated skirt to minimize ironing time, then added tights to keep from having to shave my legs, then the flat Mary Janes that that hurt my corn the least this week, and oops. Cakes saying "Eat me" have appeared all round my head.
In the nearby halls, someone has posted childen's variations on a local company's logo. A bevy of coloring-contest entries, I mean. There are three that are very clearly better than all the rest. On closer inspection, you see that those three were done by three children, all of whom belong to the same person. You go, unisexly-named person I've never met! Raise those artists!
People, People, People
So, like every single other time, I got thwarted in my lunch-time mission to be alone.
I no longer believe that my fellow citizens are doing this to me on purpose (mostly I don't), but something's going on. Long-time readers remember that I can no longer read and eat Jack in the Box tacos in my car, in a nearby normally-deserted parking lot, without party-poopers feeling the need to park right next to me.
So, instead of whining about that more than once, I began parking in a different spot, in such a way that makes it impossible for the lonely space invaders to park alongside.
Well, no. No, no, no. It's not going to work out that way (me being alone, with privacy) because the strangers will just drive in circles near me, peering through their windows. ("What in the heck is that girl doing? Is she eating Jack in the Box tacos and reading a book? Weird!") Or, like today, they will just park illegally, blocking the parking-lot entrance adjacent to my car. Why? I don't know. I hope the person who did that today got immense satisfaction out of it, though.
So then, in the parking garage, I unintentionally inhaled the cologne/deoderant combo of the gentleman twenty steps ahead and wondered if I'm becoming a misanthrope. And, if so, if it's caused by hormones.
The fragrant gentleman and his friend began a disjointed conversation that caused them to slow down. ("So what are you..." "What [turns face into cell phone]?") They slowed down exactly long enough for me to reach them, then sped up to exactly the pace I was walking, so that we were all three walking abreast, as if we knew each other, and it became clear that some kind of rearranging would become imminent at the parking garage door.
So I walked very fast and got away. And I tried not to be a misanthrope about it. And I almost ran into another guy near the elevators. And we both paused at the same time to be polite and let the other go ahead. And he gestured for me to go. And I looked at his face and it looked like a nice face. And the spell was broken and I was glad.
In a huge, airy hall, me and several men walked along behind two women, one of whom had on a belt too tight for her tight low-rise pants. The two women talked loudly. Me and the men fell into silence behind them, awed by the belt and pants, I think. Something fell from the side of the belt-pants women. It hit the floor with a "blap!" She didn't notice, but all the rest of us looked down at it. I felt us all wonder if we should pick it up for her, or at least maybe say, "Excuse me."
The thing she dropped was a condiment packet. Psychically, I felt us all decide not to bring it to anyone's attention.
As I stepped over the condiment packet, I could not resist noticing that it said "Sweet Relish."
For some reason, this embarrassed me so much that I started to giggle. I couldn't stop. Then, twenty steps later, I saw that Pants/Belt had lunch items in her hands. I felt bad, then, imagining her at her desk, wondering what the hell happened to the sweet relish she'd planned to employ.
Cakes Saying "Eat Me"
I'm not even going to talk about what the endocrinologist said yesterday, for fear that it will upset me to dwell on the fact that his diagnosis will most likely parallel that of my gynecologist last year. (In short, I've paid hundreds of dollars for him to very carefully reach the same conclusion, and explain it more fully, but offer no more underlying reason than she did, and treat it with pills that have all the same ingredients as the Pill she gave me, but without any contraceptive effect.) (Maybe. Won't know for sure until after Friday's test.)
But... I'm taking a special, multi-needle test on Friday morning. In the meantime, my endocrinologist explicitly instructs me to eat more carbs. "CARB LOADING," he writes across the paper that tells me what to do.
And so I've thought of a new diet plan, which is "Have your doctor tell you to eat stuff that makes you fat." Because, now that he's told me to do that, I don't want to. I don't feel like eating any carbs at all, now.
And yet, dutifully, I eat a Halloween mini candy bar once or twice per hour. And I think doing that is putting me in a bad mood. Unless I'm already in a bad mood because I'm about to start my period - my third period of the month. No, wait, it's November. First one of the new month, then. But anyway. Maybe that's why I hate people, too. But, then again, conversely, what if that is why people like me? What if my smell - a heady combination of candy, testosterone, and impending blood - is what's making people park, walk, and drop condiments next to me?
I don't know. What do you think? Do you think I should maybe start a new book and become an endocrinologist? See about getting a radio show? Get a hysterectomy? Stop reading so much Kazuo Ishiguro?
I don't know now, I don't know. Everybody, stand back please. Just take twenty steps in the other direction and let me love you again.
Labels: health, psychobabble, stories, vanity
1:14 PM # (8) commentsFriday, October 27, 2006
The Pattern of Crappy FeelingsSo my endocrinologist is making me take my temperature every day this month, and I'm learning ever so much. One, my temperature never goes up enough to indicate that eggs are in my uterus. Two, I feel especially sickly on days when my temperature dips low.
Like today. Today I was at 96.9 degrees (Is that normal? Am I dead?) and, once again, I have the between-bimonthly-periods feeling of nausea, dizziness, exhaustion. I even managed to fit in a panic attack between breakfast and lunch.
What does it mean? I try to visualize my own insides. It means... My uterus reaches out lovingly to grasp the egg it knows should be there. (Cramp.) There's no egg. My uterus feels a chill sweep through its bones. (Low temp.) Where is the egg? My uterus is sick at the thought of having no egg to nurture. (Sick.) My uterus sheds bitter tears. (Another period.)
That's what I think of. Sorry to be so gross. Really, though, there's nothing gross about it. If you can watch those plastic surgery shows on TLC (which I can't watch), then you can read about my uterus' bloody bimonthly episodes. (Or you can skip reading them, too, like I skip the shows on TLC.)
My endocrinologist says that hormones control everything. On the one hand, I believe that he believes that because it makes for his good livelihood. (Cynicism.) On the other hand, I find myself measuring everything in my life along with my temperature. Am I nicer to my boyfriend when I reach 98 degrees? Do I wear more makeup at 79.3? It'll take another month of record-keeping to know for sure, I think. (Mild sarcasm.) And what hormone dosage will make me perfect? We'll wait and see what the doctor tells me. If he knows anything at all. (Carefully controlled optimism, disguised as pessimism.)
Depressing books depress me (and yet, I read).
So I'm reading The Unconsoled, by Kazuo Ishiguro. And I'd like to say that I don't know why people spend money on drugs, when it's just as easy to borrow weird books from the library when you're in the mood to alter your consciousness.
I'm also like to say, "Darn you, Kazuo Ishiguro, for making me rush to figure out what the hell's going on in your book." Although I know a lot of people who are always like, "Oh, I figured out The Sixth Sense in the first five minutes of the movie," and "Oh, I figured out The Village five minutes before the movie started," and "Oh, I figured out all of Agatha Christie's mysteries five years before she was born"... I am not one of those people. All you have to do is hold up a sign that says, "This is a mystery," and I will willfully suspend my disbelief and powers of deduction for weeks on end, until the mystery unfolds.
So don't tell me what happens at the end of The Unconsoled unless you want me to hate you. But know that I'm reading it so very, very quickly, it's making my head spin. It's turning me crazy. I predict several daylight hours in bed, with book in hand, and a wet washcloth across my forehead. Oh my word, what is going to happen? No way to know until I read, read, read.
And then I turn the book over, to examine the blurb for clues, and two times it tells me the story is witty. What? No, it's very dark and gloomy, you guys. It's making me sad, but I have to read through.
More Measurements: Marking Time
I realized today that I mark my time with weekends, and that's not a pleasant way to live when you work five days a week. I live weekend-to-weekend, and I wish it didn't have to be that way.
A good way to live, I think, is project-to-project. I imagine Mick Jagger and Keith Richards live that way. (Although maybe, for them, it's overlayed by high-to-high or drink-to-drink?) My weekend marking is overlaid by project marking, fortunately, so I really can't complain.
Some rich people, I think, live purchase-to-purchase.
So many unrich people live paycheck-to-paycheck, or assistance-to-assistance, or abuse-to-abuse, or high-to-high, overlaid with crime-to-crime-in-order-to-pay-for-the-highs.
How do you live? And do you feel lucky? 1:28 PM # (9) comments
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
My nerves are shot.Normally I'm a person who thrives on deadlines and slight amount of pressure. But...
Over the past few weeks, I've spent a lot of time explaining to people that I have this big writing deadline, and therefore I can't hang out as much. Even though I really, really love the people I'm explaining it to, and I do very much wish that I could hang out with them. And I don't know if anyone believes me, because the writing thing is so ephemeral. Does anyone ever see me write? No - no one except my kids, and they could easily be trained to lie about it. And yet, I have several books written, don't I? Therefore, writing books must be something that takes care of itself, or that I can easily put off until next weekend, or until Monday, or Tuesday at midnight, surely. Sometimes even I believe that.
Meanwhile, I have this jacked-up period thing going on. (Warning: talking about my period.) As y'all know, blah blah jacked-up periods blah, and this last one lasted twelve days, and (update) it doesn't look like I'm ovulating, after all, if my temperature-taking skills are any kind of trusty barometer, and so I guess when I go back to the endocrinologist on Halloween Day, he'll tell me that, yes, it is early menopause. And I don't even know what the treatment is for that, because the techniques are constantly being improved (I think, hope) and I haven't wanted to research it yet without knowing for sure. And, yet, maybe I should go ahead and do that, if only to keep the word hysterectomy from randomly floating through my mind.
Another thing I don't yet want to think about is the fact that, if it's menopause, then, logically, I can no longer produce children.
Because, what a cliched thing to think about, right? And, as several people have pointed out to me recently, I already have three kids. And I say, "Well, it's not that I wanted another one. It's more about the abstract loss of choice, you know."
But, you know what? I'll confide in you, now, and say that, hey, maybe I did want another kid. Whether everyone else in the world thought I needed one, or not. Maybe I had some half-formed idea to make a certain amount of money, and get to a certain point in my career, and then hurry up and cough up one last kid before I got too old. You know? Maybe I wanted to have a million kids, dammit. And, as long as no one else's tax money is supporting them, I figure that's my freaking business.
(I wasn't even going to say any of that on this blog, but now I've gained the courage to say it because of Laura Bennett. Thank you, Laura, for getting pregnant with your sixth kid and being unapologetic about it, and for showing on national TV that you like having kids.)
(Yes, I know I could always adopt. But now that Madonna's copied Angelina Jolie, I'm sorry but it's just not cool anymore.)
But, you know, like I said, there's no use freaking out about any of that yet, because I don't yet know for sure what's up with my eggs. So pretend I didn't say any of that.
So, anyway... then, speaking of having too many kids, I temporarily lost my youngest one last night. He and two neighbor kids were supposed to be launching mini careers in landscaping, offering their pinecone-gathering service for money door-to-door. I'd been worried enough about that, but decided to go ahead and let him do that, lest I be branded the meanest mommy on the block. But when I drove around to find the little brats, it turned out that they'd walked their earnings to the local burger place. Which is on a busy street. And by the time I got there, they'd walked back home. When I finally caught up with him, I lectured the hell out of my child, telling him I didn't want him going to the burger place without adults, much less without telling anyone where he'd gone. His eyes said, "Whatever, meanest mommy on the block."
So then we ran to the grocery store and the gas station. And, upsettingly, when we got home, I saw that my lawn had failed to magically edge itself, despite all my fervent wishing. (My oldest son can mow the lawn, but he can't yet edge it.) As we carried the groceries into the house, I saw my neighbors pointing through drawn blinds. "Messy-edged-lawn-having bitch," they said.
But I couldn't worry about that. I had work to do. I put a chicken carcass on the counter and commanded the children to pick it clean. I sat down at my computer and worked until bed time. "Can we watch South Park: The Passion of the Jew?" one of the children begged. "No," I said on autopilot. "Mommy has to work. Go read classic British children's literature before I spank you with a stick."
This morning I got an early start and fantasized about treating myself to a lovely breakfast before work. Then I bent down to put on my shoes and realized my top was showing too much cleavage again. So I pulled another camisole out of my closet and saw something so shockingly disgusting...
It was a tiny albino lizard running on my camisole!
No, wait... It was tiny, bleached troglobite!
No, wait... GROSS. It was huge freaking silverfish!!!
After screaming and killing it and gingerly putting on the camisole and the rest of my clothes and getting in my car and starting my 1.25 hour commute, I noticed that I had completely lost my appetite.
In the past, the old Gwen, with her external locus of of control, would have freaked out and seen the silverfish as some kind of bad omen indicating futility in all endeavors. Instead, in the present, I made a mental note to call the exterminator.
So then, finally, as if all that crap wasn't enough, I got to work and went to ladies' room and looked in the full-length mirror, and realized that, in my hurry to escape the silverfish, I had accidentally dressed myself like Molly Ringwald in the '80s.
Embarrassing!
I'm going to write a book called The Silverfish Diet Plan. (It'll be about using silverfish as appetite suppressants, not about eating them.) I'll get started on that as soon as I finish what I'm currently working on. Which will be... one week and one announcement of discontinued fertility from now.
Okay. Back to work. 8:51 AM # (10) comments
Monday, October 02, 2006
The Ren TestWe went to the Renaissance Festival on Saturday, like dummies, in the hot sun. I thought, at one point, that I might die of low blood sugar and dehydration. And yet we all had fun, I think. As our friend Richard explained it, "All these women are hot. And they're medieval."
Sunday Laundry List
Then, on Sunday, my loud, dirty cousins came over. Tad made fried rice. We all played DDR and drank wine. Then we ate birthday cake to celebrate the twelth-birthday-en-ing of my middle child. Also, we looked at my sexy, sexy bead collection and made plans to attend Houston's October bead show with wholesale license in hand. Woo hoo - domestic bliss.
Female Trouble News Update
I forgot to say that the week before I saw the endocrinologist, I got off the effing Pill.
I'm the kind of person, my friend Rose observes, who lives in the moment when it comes to relationships. I'm a creature of experience. If I'm with a person and they do something weird, I just roll with it. I like to go with the flow. Sometimes someone will annoy me, and I'll say, "Don't do that. That's annoying." But it's never a big drama. I don't like confrontation or ultimatums to ruin a good time.
Then, a year or so later, I'll be sitting at home alone, and it will suddenly occur to me that I don't like a certain person anymore. Suddenly, every annoying thing they've done will parade through my mind, and I'll decide that that person is no longer my friend.
"Just like that?" asks Rose.
Yes. Just like that. Because, by then, I've already lived through several instances of telling a certain person, "Please don't do that. That's annoying. Please don't be mean to my kids," or "Please don't tell me how to conduct my romantic life," or "Please don't spy on me while I'm in the shower."
And the person keeps doing it. They know I don't like it, but they don't stop.
At that point, in my mind, there's no reason to continue hanging out with that person. At the same time, there's definitely no reason to have a big dramatic conversation with the person, in which I issue ultimatums. "I want you to apologize for poking me in the eye with your chopstick three times, and promise you'll never do it again, or I'm not going to be your friend anymore."
What's the point? I don't have time to teach people how to behave decently. That's not my job - I can only do that for my kids. So I quit calling the person. And it's over.
So, two weeks ago, I did the same thing with the Pill.
They put me on the Pill a year ago to make the double periods stop. They did stop, but, at the same time, I felt tired. And, as I explained to Rose, they affected my mind. Instead of fantasizing about pretty men with black hair, I found myself fantasizing about lemon-filled donuts. All the time. Nothing meant anything to me. I felt like a fat rabbit in a warm hutch, lying down waiting for my next meal all the time.
And then, the double periods came back. And then, I went back to the gynecologist, and she told me, paraphrased, "A year ago I put you on the Pill to stop the double periods, and now your double periods have returned. And, since then, you've gained 15 pounds. I know... Maybe losing weight will stop the double periods. Try losing 15 pounds."
It took me a while to figure it out, and to connect all the annoyances in my mind, but then I did and I decided to get the hell off the Pill.
Go to hell, Pill. I'm not calling you anymore. You were never my friend, and I'm not going to bother asking you to change.
I feel better already. As PJ Harvey would say, I'm happy and bleeding. (And nauseated.) But that's better than bleeding and lethargic, isn't it?
Book Corner
Recently I read Oryx and Crake (by Margaret Atwood), and less recently I read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, finally. I enjoyed them both very much. If you haven't read those yet, you should check them out. Unless you don't like science fictiony or magicky things, I mean.
Now I'm reading (maybe rereading?) The Beggar Maid, by Alice Munro. She reminds me of Atwood, even though I probably shouldn't lump them together just because they're both Canadian and write about children bullying each other near bridges.
Also, as far as not-books are concerned, I've been reading Project Rungay. Go there now, because that shit is super hilarious. 8:46 AM # (11) comments
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Today was See an Endocrinologist Day.(This entry is also titled WARNING: TOO MUCH INFORMATION. Squeamish people, flee.)
Last time I was in the mood to yammer about my health and lady parts, I hinted to you guys that I have two periods per month, every month. (Twice the PMS = twice the fun!) And y'all gave me good advice, suggestions, doctors' names, and possible diagnoses.
Well, today I finally went to see the endocrinologist I'd been waiting to see. He said, right off the bat, that double periods are caused by four things: Menopause, too much prolactin (breastmilk-making hormone), jacked-up thyroid, or some other thing that I can't remember. Back when I last talked about this, I was thinking it was PolyCystic Ovary Syndrome. Then, I was thinking hypothyroid.
Right off the bat, while interviewing and examining me, he ruled out hypothyroid. He ruled out prolactin overage, too. Then, he said twice during the exam, "That's a sign of early menopause." So it's probably that or the other thing. They took blood, of course. I have to go home tonight and chart my temperature and bloodflow for a month, then go back and see what's up. The temperature charting will tell us if I have estrogen running all month, or estrogen plus progesterone. I can't remember which will mean what.
He asked if anyone in my family had early menopause. I explained, "Well, everybody in my family was too poor for regular check-ups, and there aren't many women in my family, and I'm the only one with a uterus, seeing as how the charity hospitals like to do hysterectomies, so I have no idea." He said he understood.
I'm still not convinced, though, because I never have hot flashes. I'm always freezing to death, instead.
Funny but gross:
When they told me to take off my clothes for the exam, I took off everything but my socks. When they examined me, the doctor had to pull off my sock and look at my foot. I asked why. He said, "I'm checking for hair on your toes." (Symptom of too much testosterone.) (No jokes about me being a man, please.)
I said, "Well, I'm glad I asked, then, because I do grow hair on my toes, but I shave them, so you can't see it."
He said, "I saw the stubble. That's a big part of my job - checking for stubble."
Ha.
I'm just glad I don't have hair on my knuckles. (Yet?) He checked for that, too, but I don't shave my knuckles.
Well, anyhow. There it is. We'll see what happens. Normally I don't get into talking about my health here, but for stuff like this, I think it's good for people on teh Internets to share as much helpful information as possible. Especially since, if it does turn out to be early menopause, that's something women my age usually don't suspect. However, my doctor told me today that one of his menopausal patients is sixteen years old. Aw.
Otherwise, I guess it'll be the other thing, the name of which I forgot.
I'm excited about doing my little temperature chart. My friend Julio facetiously suggested that I scan it and post it on the blog. He was kidding, but I might just do that. I sure as hell just might.
Labels: health
3:19 PM # (13) commentsMonday, September 11, 2006
Nothing GlamorousWent home sick at noon today. Sick again, sick again. I think it has something to do with the fact that I won't stop freaking bleeding.
Sorry. I usually try to think up a non-cliched euphemism for the bleeding, so as not to gross out the mens in the audience, but screw it. I'm too drained and anemic to come up with one today. And dizzy and nauseated. Y'all know women bleed, right? Y'all can handle that, I'm sure.
It's a good thing I made an appointment with a specialist two months ago. My appointment is two weeks from now. I can't wait for the doctor to tell me what's wrong and give me pills to fix it. (Honestly, I'm not really that optimistic. But I'm pretending to be, in case optimism makes it happen. Like voodoo.)
I've been missing a lot of work lately, but there's nothing I can do about it. All I can do is go home and rest. And eat little bits of iron-rich food.
Meta
Meanwhile, you may notice two changes over there to the right. One, the 2005 entries are missing. That's because I'm archiving them - neatening the best and chucking the rest - and it's taking forEVer.
Also, my next book is no longer coming out in Spring 07. It is now slated for Fall 07. I consider it evidence of my growth as a writer that I'm not freaking out about that fact. I'm totally okay with it. (Because I already got paid.)
Mommy, wow. I'm a big kid now.
Today I talked to a coworker about rigging electric hedge clippers to reach far away hedges.
Dude.
What's next? Tax shelters?
Oh, wait. Too late. I already think about those 24/7. 6:55 PM # (5) comments
Thursday, August 10, 2006
DiscoveriesI found a real good way to motivate yourself to diet. Buy a bathroom with mirrors on every wall. That way, you can see yourself from every single angle. I promise, if you're fat, then doing that will inspire you to stop eating forever. Or, at least, you'll come home after a night of frolicking, see yourself in all the mirrors, then ask your boyfriend one of the questions that boyfriends around the world love most. "Why didn't you tell me I looked this fat?" (The answer? "Because then you would have broken up with me." No, here's the real answer. "Because, to me, you looked beautiful." No - the real, real answer is "Jesus Christ, quit hating on yourself." Right?)
I also discovered a good way to make your morning commute stress-free. It's called: Allergy medicine! Take 24-hour, non-drowsy allergy medicine, turn on a good CD, and you won't give a damn how long it takes you to get to work, how much gasoline you're using, or how badly your new, newly installed speakers are buzzing in the rear dash of your car. Hooray for allergy medicine - the guilt-free mind-altering substance!
Back to the Weight Thing
My gynecologist made me mad the other day when I went to visit her and she said, paraphrased, in summary:
"I don't know why you're having two periods a month or why your birth control pills are no longer fixing that, but have you tried losing weight? I know you're busy, but I'm busy, too, and I manage never to eat out. I eat grilled chicken breast with parmesan every day. You could also try skipping lunch. Have you tried skipping lunch yet?"
All fat people in America with any kind of health insurance already know everything I'm going to say, but I'll say it anyway.
1. Yes, I know I'm overweight. Hello - I live in America. I shop at the mall. I have a bathroom with mirrors all over the walls. You think I need you to tell me I'm overweight?
2. I'll try to lose weight if you try to find out why the hell I'm having two periods a month, okay? I'm pretty sure the solution to that isn't "eat grilled chicken breast with parmesan every night of your life."
3. If you're naturally skinny, please don't give me your diet advice. I mean, yes, I'm a realist and I know that if I ate a single chicken breast for dinner, a cup of plain yogurt with walnuts for breakfast, and nothing for lunch, every single day - then, yes, sure, I would lose weight. I know that. I mean, I'd probably also have a low-blood-sugar-induced panic attack by 11 AM, and end up either jumping out the window or slipping into a diabetic coma, but that would be okay, I guess, as long as I lost weight. But, my point is that, in general, I don't want to hear what naturally skinny people suggest. Because they're usually telling me stuff like, "Be like me - I only put a little butter on my toast instead of gobs and gobs of it. And I only eat one donut instead of a whole dozen. And I only eat cake twice a week." And I'm like, "Bitch, I wish I could eat a piece of toast without gaining weight, much less toast with butter, and I haven't eaten a donut or a piece of cake in two years. Shut the fuck up." Because it's the assumption that gets me, you know. Like, if a naturally skinny person can eat cake twice a week, it naturally follows that fat people must be eating cake 24/7, right? No. Not right. That's not the case. I fucking wish it was. You know why I've gained twenty pounds net over the past year? Because I was tired of not eating bread.
In all candor, I know that I wouldn't have this problem if I hadn't eaten so much cake and donuts years ago. Back when I was 19 or 20, and first gained 150 pounds over my high-school weight. Then, six years ago, I lost 95 of that. Ever since then, I've been struggling like a bastard to keep that down. Right at this moment, I'm losing the struggle. Time for the yoyo to go back the other way. But my point is, naturally skinny people are in a whole other world from people like me. I'm at the point where I have to diet in order to maintain my weight. There's no mountain of cake here. Just a mountain of fat that doesn't want to go away.
And, anyway, I already know what's going to happen, because it happened six months ago. I'm going to diet because being this fat makes me sad. I'm going to lose twenty pounds. I'm going to wear nice clothes. I'm going to go to work, where creepy men will tell me I look nice. I'll go to clubs and strangers will accidentally-on-purpose touch my breasts and ass. I'll be creeped out. I'll wonder why I'm starving myself in order for creepy men to find me attractive. I'll say "Fuck this" and eat a piece of bread. I'll gain twenty pounds. Repeat until dead.
Not that I'm saying that creepy perverted men are a good excuse not to starve oneself. I'm just saying.
Whenever we watch Project Runway, I see previews for that show about the personal trainer. The main chick, Jackie (?) interests me because she seems very ambitious and committed to what she does. And I admire that. Sometimes I wish I had a day job that involved copious exercise, so that it would be my job to stay thin. But then again, thank God I don't. Sometimes I just want to be happy, instead.
The starvation diet commenced three days ago. I will starve until I can look at all the bathroom mirrors without feeling sad. In the meantime, if any pervert says, "Hi, Gwen. You look nice today," I'm just going to tell him, "Fuck you." 8:38 AM # (14) comments
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Time to Whine!I'm slightly stressed because tonight is the last night I have to finish up my novel revisions. Deadline is tomorrow at 1 PM, which is also the time I need to be on the road, on the way to Austin to spend the weekend with my kids. Oh, and I haven't packed for that trip, yet.
When I come back, I need to hurry the hell up and pack everything in my apartment, then arrange times for all my post-closing house repairs and renovations. Then, on Friday, I close.
I have until August 1 (that means one and a half weekends) to get out of my apartment and get as much unpacked and set up as possible. Because, on August 1, I have to drive to Austin to pick up my kids and bring them home from their summer baby-daddy visitation.
Then, three days after that, they go to Austin for a normal baby-daddy-visitation weekend. Meaning that I get to drive to Austin again that Sunday to pick them up. Then, after that, we have one weekend to get all their school clothes before school starts on August 16.
Did I mention that my work commute will increase from 2 minutes to 45 minutes to an hour? Oh, and I still don't yet know where I'll be putting my kids after school.
But first, before I worry about any of that... I need to finish my novel revisions. Tonight.
I think I can do it. It should be easy. Ain't I a woman? Ain't I, to be precise, a single mom and novelist with a full-time job? Am I not Devo?
Okay, that didn't make sense, I know. Probably a symptom of very slight stress. (Or PCOS. That reminds me - I also have to go to the doctor next week and let her know that my PCOS treatment has stopped working. If you don't know what PCOS means, don't worry. I can sum it up for you very simply: I'm eggless, I probably have diabetes, and I must carry emergency feminine hygiene products in my purse at all times. And I'm fat, but no one knows if the fat is the symptom or the underlying cause.)
I have nightmares every night, but they no longer bother me. This week's have included lost babies, mean bosses, car crashes, and cannabalistic puppies. The puppies were due to the fact that the kids' dad just informed them that he's getting rid of all their puppies. Unless, of course, their mother would like to take the beloved puppies to her new house on August 1.
Really, now that I've typed all this out, it doesn't sound like much. I'm pretty sure I can handle it.
I'm looking forward to our housewarming party, actually. 3:31 PM # (13) comments
Thursday, July 06, 2006
All My Vitamin D Comes from CoffeeBack 13 or 14 years ago, when I lactated for the first time, I decided to stop drinking milk. It seemed illogical to me, suddenly, that a grown mammal who is not a cow would drink breastmilk meant for baby cows. Why not sell gallons of human breastmilk in the grocery stores, I wondered. That would be no less ridiculous.
I still eat cheese and yogurt, but that's different. Meaning, that's hypocrisy. I admit it. I provide no explanation.
Lately, however, I've been drinking lots and lots of lattes. Or else I'll drink coffee with enough half & half to turn it a very pale beige. And I'm wondering if maybe this is my body's way of crying out for milk. "We'll get her to think she needs caffeine," my organs say. "Then, we'll get whole milk and/or half & half! Then, all our base will be belong to us!!!"
I would just take calcium supplements, but those cause kidney stones, you know.
Labels: health
2:32 PM # (9) commentsFriday, May 26, 2006
I like to write a lot on Fridays before holidays, when I'm the only one stupid enough to have used up all her vacation days.I almost had a panic attack an hour ago, in my car, while driving to Jack in the Box. On the one hand, I've had some minor-to-not-so-minor stresses going on lately. On the other hand, I was very hungry, and I'm on my way to fulfilling the promise of my heritage by becoming diabetic any freaking second now, so I knew in the rational corner of my mind that this panic attack was only the result of a blood sugar fluctuation and not (as the rest of my mind wanted me to believe) a sign of doom from God.
One Ultimate Cheeseburger later, everything is okay. Except for the fact that I still have to renew the (April) registration sticker on my car. And, you know, that there's a big fucking rat walking around our apartment whenever the fuck it feels like, and our rat traps haven't yet caught him.
This is the second rodent this month, in case anybody wants to start a tally.
On the bright side of the silver lining of the cup of lemonade that I'm making from these lemons: This should make it easier for me to break my lease and move into our new house this summer.
I feel a level-up coming on. You know what I mean? When you're playing a role-playing game, as a warrior or a sorceror or whatever, and you do enough work to go to the next level? And you do, and a blue light surrounds your body, shooting up into the air, as the number next to your name increases by one?
That's gonna be me in a second - as soon as I kill three more monsters. But, for some reason, the moment right before the level-up always makes me a little nervous. The moment right after it, too. But that's okay. I'll buy some new armor and get over it.
The Mexican in Me
makes me superstitious. Makes me respect my elders for fear that, otherwise, my grandmother will fly down from heaven to slap my face. Makes me talk really loud when I'm excited or mad. Makes me get mad whenever I feel like it, like it's a perfectly healthy thing. Makes my butt big. Makes my lips big. Makes my eyes big. Makes me pale green in certain lights. Makes me want to wear shiny, pretty things. Makes me love babies and animals. Keeps me from getting my ass kicked. Makes me mean, but only because I love you. Puts moles on my skin.
(Makes me diabetic, some day soon, maybe. That's what put my grandma in heaven, along with other things.)
It makes you say I'm using the Race Card to get by.
It makes me a little bit magic.
The White in Me
makes me love elves and dwarves. Makes me want to hang cross-stitched samplers in my house, with letters and symbols that mean things. Makes me money-hungry. Makes it okay for me to wear nothing shiny, sometimes. Lets me think I'm so smart so school, even while I might be stupid at home. Makes the cops listen to my side of the story. Makes you trust me at garage sales. Gives me stretch marks and makes me burn in the sun. Makes me sweet to strangers, even when I want to hate them.
It makes you say I'm using White Privilege to get by.
It makes me a little bit magic.
Did that offend anyone?
Too bad, too bad. That's my right as a mixed-up person - to love and hate everything. 1:21 PM # (10) comments
Thursday, April 13, 2006
IdeaOn the way to school and work, my oldest son and I were listening to a particularly heart-quickening CD. I told Josh that it would be fun if, when I got into the office today and bypassed greetings of "Smile! It's almost Friday!" I would take that CD out of my purse, put it into my computer, and turn the volume all the way up. Then, I would go stand by the light switch so I could flick it on and off, on and off, real quick, while dancing and screaming, "Ow!"
That would be awesome.
Secrets
1. The sandals I'm wearing have cracks all over the insteps.
2. I like to be mean to handsome men.
3. Sometimes I wish I could call in sick just so I could have a few hours alone. And catch up with our laundry.
The Number of Crazy People Who Have Confided Their Craziness to Me So Far in the Part Week:
is two. (Not counting my mom, who called and very quickly threw out a few crazy sentences from her halfway house's laundry room's pay phone before her calling card ran out of time and we had to bellow "I love you" and hang up.) This week's crazy confessions were below average as far as interesting-ness goes. I usually average one crazy confession per week, though, so maybe if I get two in a week, they're supposed to be less interesting.
I keep wanting to tell y'all about how I'm a magnet for crazy people, or for normal people's crazy confessions. If I'm in a room with twenty other people plus one crazy person, that crazy person will usually zero in on me and immediately whisper a confession in my face. If a hitherto normal person I haven't seen in a while calls my phone, it's usually to confess something absolutely crazy. I think it's something about my face. It apparently says, "Hi. My mother is mentally ill, therefore I have a high tolerance for craziness. Please deposit your confessions here." I need to add, in fine print, "I reserve the right to remember your crazy confessions and reproduce them in fiction, non-fiction, and PowerPoint presentations."
Hypoglycemia
Every time I kick the sugar habit, I say, "I feel so energized and my mind is so much clearer, ever since I stopped eating sugar. You know what? I'm never gonna eat sugar again!!! Then I will write a million books and bead a million necklaces and sew a million fifties-style pastel tweed suits and my life will be awesome! AWESOME. Awe... some!!!!!"
Then, a few months after that, I'll eat a piece of white, refined, high-fructose-corn-syrup-y bread because there's literally nothing else around, and then the yeast and sugar demons will inhabit my intestines' soul and start crying for more, more, always more. And the downward spiral will do its thing, and I'll gain 25 pounds, and be sad for a year or two until I decide to quit sugar again.
Was that twelve steps? I lost count...
Whining Averted
So anyhow. I was gonna tell y'all that I had writer's block real bad, but now I seem to be over it, so I'm really happy and you've been spared the whining.
... for now, that is. Ha, ha, ha.
HA, HA, HA, HA!
Ahem. Okay. Goodbye.
Labels: fantasies, health, psychobabble
8:15 AM # (8) commentsMonday, March 27, 2006
I Suspected the People Downstairs Were Drug DealersBut now I suspect it for sure.
My only evidence, before, was that they partied all night and slept all day, and fill their hedges with cigarette butts and Jack Daniels bottles. All this, and no evidence of jobs.
Today, however, I went home for lunch and witnessed a semi-harrowing scene. A burly gentleman banged on the Downstairs Neighbor's patio door, yelling, "Open up, motherfucker. I know you're in there. Wake the fuck up!" Meanwhile, a small sidekick gentleman with an Oakley knit cap sat in one of the patio chairs, giggling helplessly to himself.
Downstairs Neighbor came out, looking sad. Inaudible words were exchanged. Then the burly gentleman said, "Yeah, you better. You're a waste of my fucking space, you asshole. A WASTE OF MY FUCKING SPACE."
And then he and his sidekick peeled out, throwing menacing glances over their shoulders. I had the feeling that, if they hadn't caught a glimpse of me catching a glimpse of them, they, as mid-level drug dealers, might have given Downstairs Neighbor (aka Low-Level Drug Dealer) a quick, well deserved roughing up. In the parking garage, my suspicions that these gentlemen were mid-level drug dealers were confirmed by the fact that they drove a tasteful white Mercedes.
Now, I'm not saying that my experience is extensive. And, as a writer, I think we all know that I like to exaggerate and embellish upon any experience that I do have. So, with that understood, I'll now present to you...
Gwen's Guide for Discerning Drug Dealers and Their Levels
Low-Level Drug Dealers:
- Party all night and sleep all day
- Have a lot of "friends" who don't seem to share their social/cultural strata
- Either spend their earnings on gold chains, basketball jerseys, and Escalades with gold-toned chrome, or else drive beat-up Civics and wear rags because they spend their earnings on drugs
Mid-Level Drug Dealers:
- Are aggressive people who've probably made names for themselves by bullying Low-Level Drug Dealers
- Seem to have jobs, because they drive around all day
- Wear Oakley and Armani Exchange
- Drive less flashy, but still flashy cars, like Mercedes, because they consider themselves classier than Low-Level Drug Dealers
And, finally, the Top-Level Drug Dealers of each metropolitan region:
- Keep to themselves, with quiet parties among small groups of friends
- Have no discernable jobs, but make you think at first that it's because they're students or their parents are rich
- Wear J.Crew and GAP clothing
- Drive Land Rovers or Jeeps
- Often decorate their apartments with Christmas lights
Okay. That's all I have. That, and the fact that I don't mind drug dealers as long as they keep to themselves and let me keep to myself, you know? And don't talk to my kids. Although, so far they never have. I guess my kids don't look like they're crafty enough to steal or rich enough to have an allowance.
I kind of wished the Mercedes Crew had roughed up Downstairs Neighbor while I watched, because Downstairs Neighbor and his cohorts keep us all up at night. I bet if Mercedes Man had started beating the crap out of Downstairs Neighbor right there on the patio, all the other neighbors would have come out to cheer him on.
Meanwhile, Here Is a Gall-Bladder(-less) Update
Several alert readers warned me furtively, in e-private, of changes I could expect in my digestion after the removal of my gall bladder. Now, as a public service, I will impart those changes to you.
Before the gall bladder surgery, I could go to the "handicap stall" of the "Ladies'" here at work and read Loving Cal by Miss Rebecca Walker, in its entirety, within three unsuccessful visits.
Now, I no longer have time to read Loving Cal.
I don't even have time to flip through the water-marked Soap Opera Digest, should I ever become desperate enough to do that, so that I could mentally remark on the fact that the cast members of The Young and the Restless still look the same age as they did when I first saw them twenty-two years ago.
That sounds like a bad thing, but it's not. It stops just short of being a bad thing.
On the other hand... I worry about Rebecca Walker, because Loving Cal's cover price is only $1.98. Assuming she gets 10% royalties, that's only 19.8 cents per book. How can she live on that much?
Maybe she has a day job in the insurance industry. If so, she must be ecstatically happy. Therefore, I will quit worrying about her and get back to work. 1:13 PM # (8) comments
Monday, March 20, 2006
Say Goodbye to My Gallbladder NowBecause I'm going into surgery at 7:30 tomorrow morning. I went to meet with the surgeon today at 3, and he said, basically, in a nutshell, paraphrased, "Jesus Christ, we need to take that shit out of you as soon as humanly possible."
Luckily, one of his patients had flaked on her 7:30 AM surgery tomorrow, so I ran down to Preadmissions and, in a 4-hour jiffy, was set up to take her spot.
Whew.
I love my boyfriend, my cousin Helen, and my friends Letty and Brie for offering to help me out with the hauling of my kids to and from school. Y'all rock. (Wait by your phones, okay?)
The doctor said some people actually get over the surgery in as little as one day. I'm going to see if I can do that. I'm ambitious about it. But he also said he's going to have to do the three-hole laparascopic on me, and that the third hole will be bigger than usual, since my gall stone is bigger than usual.
Oh, shoot... I forgot to ask them if they'll save it in a jar for me to look at it when we're done. I need to ask them tomorrow.
My Poor Coworkers Need Surgery, Too
Yesterday, on my routine drive home from Austin (had to pick up kids from their babydaddy visitation), I made the mistake of eating tater tots from Sonic. At around 6 PM, my gallbladder started hurting. It hurt all the way home, through two Tylenols and one Aleve. After putting the kids to bed, I took a hydrocodone/acetaminophen and an anti-spasm pill, and it continued to hurt. Very badly. I cried. I writhed. I rolled on the floor. My boyfriend came over to hug me and feel sorry for me. I took another anti-spasm pill and finally fell asleep at midnight. At one, I woke up and the gallbladder was cranking up again, so I took another hydrocodone and conked out til my alarm went off at 5:30. I woke up feeling serene. Very, very serene.
While I showered and dressed and nagged my kids to do the same, my serenity slowly morphed into too-much-medication loopiness and nausea. I couldn't decide whether or not to go to work. Finally, guilt won out and I did.
At 8:40, I walked over to my coworkers' desks and told them that I didn't think I could make it. I needed to go home and back to sleep.
My coworkers quizzed me about my symptoms. Then, they proceeded to tell me, as they have before, how they have the same symptoms, but worse. And that they've been having them for years. Since before I was born, probably. I sympathized with them and expressed the wish that they could be the ones having their gallbladders removed. Alas, unfortunately, they can't; I guess because their doctors are too incompetent to properly diagnose them.
I feel so bad for them. They suffer so much, and hardly complain. If their stomachs hurt worse than mine, then they really are brave, to go to work on the days that I call in sick. Hopefully something can be done to ease their suffering soon.
Oh, and one of my other coworkers told me he hoped I'd feel better soon. Obviously, he has never known the pain of coming to work with gallstones, undiagnosed or not.
Meanwhile
I have to pick out suitable underwear for tomorrow. Just in case. I'm thinking either leopard-print thong, or Hello Kitty gingham thong. I would ask y'all to vote, but I probably won't be able to read your comments until tomorrow afternoon. So don't even bother to write and wish me well. Just think good thoughts, and get your own regular check-ups. And tell your doctor if you ever have pain and pressure under your ribs, on your right side. And check back soon, in case they let me keep my gallstone and I post a picture of it on the site. 7:53 PM # (24) comments
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Gall Bladder Removal Is ImminentMonday I had an ultrasound done of my gall bladder. Just like the ultrasound I had done last year, this one indicated that my gall bladder needs to be removed, as soon as possible, by force if necessary. (The difference is that this year, I can afford to have it done.)
The gall bladder processes the fat that you eat. Mine has a big-ass stone in it, so, whenever I ate something too fatty, it caused blockage around the gall stone at night, and that blockage hurt like hell. So, a year and a half ago, I stopped eating really fatty foods. However, recently, the stone has gotten big enough to hurt like hell in the daytime, when I eat foods that I used to be able to handle.
I'm meeting with the surgeon on the 20th to schedule what day I will bid that organ goodbye.
How sad is it that I'm sort of looking forward to the 3 to 7 recovery days that will follow? Because, really, when else in my life would I have the opportunity to lie in bed playing World of Warcraft, without being wracked with guilt?
I'm gonna level up like a mofo.
Also, I will eat a chopped beef sandwich, two chili dogs, some cheese fries, a wheel of brie, and a cow-head taco... all pain free. W00t!
(Concentrating on these thoughts will keep me from being scared, I hope. I've never had real surgery before. I hope the surgeon is nice. I hope they don't leave scissors inside me, or cut off my legs by mistake.)
Labels: health
1:43 PM # (15) commentsThursday, March 02, 2006
Me and SantinoLast night I dreamed that Santino and Daniel V. (these are Project Runway contestants) had a secret romance going on. I saw them making out on the floor of the basement of their workroom. I don't know if this happened on the show, in my dream, or if I saw it because I was in New York.
Either way, then I dreamed that Santino and I opened an art gallery together. We were working to fill it with our own work. I was very excited, partially because I had some really good, big pieces in progress, and partially because some guy (Nick, maybe?) showed up offering to be my assistant, reminding me of past awesome visual sculptures and stuff I'd done. (I've never done any in real life, though.) Then, some lady showed up with a bunch of Mexican pastries and candy that Santino and I tasted because we were considering stocking it in our gallery snackbar.
This dream was about the fact that I've been missing doing art and eating sweets. I was enjoying myself until my assistant and I had to visit a class for poor, disadvantaged children. I told myself, "Don't get too involved with these brats, because they'll just take you away from your art." But then I did get involved, because they desperately needed discipline and education. They were smoking and watching TV in class.
That seems like it might be about my kids taking me away from my art, but I don't think so, because my kids aren't such a pain in the ass. It's more about the stupid responsibilities I have to spend time on every single day. I feel good about myself when I get stuff taken care of, but it takes time away from the stuff I wish I could *really* do.
Regarding last night's episode of Project Runway: Even though I've been saying all along that Daniel's collection wasn't all that, I felt sorry to see Tim impart that to him, and call his purses crafty and woodshoppy. It's not even that Daniel's stuff is bad - it's just very subtle for the times. People are all depressed about inflation right now. They want to wear something flashier to cheer themselves up and avoid reality.
Also, I've been wanting to tell y'all that someone on Television Without Pity's PR forum said that Daniel's stuff looks like Spiegel. I wanted to add that Santino's stuff, therefore, looks like Arden B. (But I never comment on their forum because I forgot my password, and I'm too embarrassed to bring it up, seeing as how I used to write for them and all.)
One last thing: I know a lot of people hate Santino, and for a few moments at the beginning, I hated his rudeness, too. But I have to admit that, way back during the Lingerie Challenge, when he told the makeup artist, "I want them to look like deer," I irrevocably loved him as an artist. And whenever I see his Bavarian deer models in the rerun of that ep, it reinforces that love. Because he did not give a DAMN, y'all.
The Not-So-Bad Things About Getting Older
1. A lot of people don't remember or appreciate the music of your childhood, but it's okay because that makes it more of a secret pleasure for you, then, and we all know that pleasures are more pleasureable when they're secret.
2. You drive more safely without caring what dumb kids in Camaros think of you. And that's better, because it keeps you from dying as much.
3. In general, whether driving or not, you care less about what dumb kids think of you. Screw them if they don't like it. You are old and you make more money, and you remember electric guitars and they don't.
One Very Bad Thing That Starts in Your Thirties, That No One Will Tell You Directly (Except Me)
Your digestive system starts falling apart. Bit by bit, part by part. And you find that you can't eat the foods that you used to think nothing of eating.
For instance, I ate a chopped baker yesterday, and realized last night that, instead of going to Mexico this summer, I should have my gall bladder removed, instead.
Labels: dreams, health, pop culture
8:05 AM # (8) commentsMonday, February 13, 2006
Road-RelatedA good game to play when you're caught in traffic or just driving somewhere you always drive: First think of a number, like fifteen. Then find fifteen (or whatever number) things that you would like to photograph, if you had nothing better to do than go around town taking pictures. Today, on the way to pick up my kids from school, I mentally photographed palm trees, a fabulously old trailer than had been painted yellow then blue then red, the swanky font on an old liquor store sign, and a red reflector light embedded in a tree. It's a fun game because it reminds you that there's pretty and interesting stuff all around you.
A bad game to play when you're on the freeway at night and have been driving for seven hours straight is: throwing the finger at whoever just cut you off in his SUV. The bad thing about that game is that sometimes state troopers drive SUVS, and, at night, you can't tell it's a state trooper until after you've thrown the finger at him, and he turns on his flashers and pulls you over. Even if he only gives you a speeding ticket and informs you in a forlorn good-old-boy accent that he could have you incarcerated for disorderly conduct, as opposed to actually arresting you, it's not a fun game. It adds twenty minutes to your seven hour drive. So don't play this game. Or, if you must, start practicing your sincerest, good-old-girl, eye-batting apologies in advance.
I don't mind telling you...
...that I've been feeling mildly depressed for the past week, and I haven't yet figured out why. Maybe there is no reason. But I like things to happen for a reason, so I thought up a few possibilities:
1. I'm not working on a book right now, but I should be working on a book, even if I'm scared to start one because it seems like such an overwhelming thing.
2. Eating carbs and then suddenly, for the millionth time, not eating any carbs, jacks up my blood sugar and makes me feel bad.
3. I've come across several rude or just plain assholish people lately, and the more that happens, the more it makes me wonder if the world is getting ruder and more assholish every year, and the thought of that depresses the living heck out of me (until I come across three kind people in a row or something).
4. Something, or several somethings, recently reminded me of the crappier moments in my history, and I haven't yet processed those thoughts and dismissed them.
5. I've been reading too much young adult fiction in which Good battles Evil, and it makes me feel that my own life has no meaning.
6. I'm just crazy.
Or maybe it's all of those things. Or maybe I'm just tired. Today (shh - don't tell anybody), I drove my kids to school, then drove myself to work, just like every single week day. I made it all the way to the parking garage, turned off my CD player and my engine, and opened the door. Then, after a few seconds imagining myself getting out of my car and going to work all day, I closed my door and drove home, instead. I told myself that when I got home, I'd write. Or do dishes or something, so that my sick day would be worth it. Instead, I slept most of the day.
That hardly ever happens, but it's happened before. When I figure out why, I'll make it stop. Either that, or other people will say in the comments that it happens to them, too, sometimes, and then I'll quit worrying about it and move on. I'm going to work tomorrow, though. Seriously. I promise.
Voices From the Past
A few weeks ago some guy called me and, after telling me a million stories about myself in the ninth grade, managed to convince/remind me that we'd attended high school together and had briefly been friends. (I taught him to play chess. I used to carry this funky little velour bag I'd found at Salvation Army, and we learned about carpetbaggers that semester in History, so he called me Carpetbagger. He asked me to a dance and I said I couldn't go. Like all teenage girls, I dated some jerk, and this guy never thought the jerk was good enough for me.)
So we were shooting the bull for a while (Don't ask me why I talked to him. I'll talk to anybody, at least for a while.), and then he says something about how he used to have a picture of me and him. And he kept it until his ex-wife made him throw it away.
So, finally, I wondered what you would've wondered right from the beginning: Why the hell is this guy calling me? And then I knew the answer, so I said: "I don't look like I did in high school anymore. I'm fat and I have three kids. And a boyfriend."
No, no, that's not why he was calling, he said. He had a girlfriend. And, really, I'd gotten fat? We talked for a while longer and I made him tell me his innermost secrets, as payment for my time, and now I'm sure he'll never call again. So... fine.
***
On the other hand, there's this other person. There's this woman who's married to a peripheral character of my teen years - let's call this woman Vicky. Let me tell you that I've only met Vicky about five times in my life. I heard about Vicky's marital troubles from my friend, Raquel, a few months ago. Through every ounce of (unsolicited) gossip, I tried to remain objective and empathetic to Vicky's plight. Hadn't people thought the worst of me when I left my husband? Maybe Vicky was just like me. From afar, I gave her my compassion and the constant benefit of the doubt.
Recently, my friend Racquel shared several second-hand conversations with me. It turns out that, over the past few years, Vicky's had quite a bit to say about me.
One: she thinks I have designs on her husband. (I don't.)
Two: she suspects I had sex or "hanky panky" with her husband when he and I were twelve years old and I attended his sister's sleepovers. (We didn't.) And she regularly accuses him of this in times of marital discord.
Three: She thinks my writing sucks (because I don't "even use complete sentences") and that I only got published through nefarious and/or prostitutional means, and that if I were "pure white," I never would have been published at all. And she regularly says this to her husband, then screams, "Why are you defending her?!?" if he says anything in reply.
If you know me in real life, you know that it doesn't take much to make me talk loudly and pepper my conversation with cursewords. Like, for instance, if you had a purse that I really liked, I might, right in the middle of a cafe, start bellowing, "Oh my fucking god, that purse is SO FUCKING AWESOME! Jesus!" So, when Raquel told me the extent to which Vicky had been saying all this stuff about me, since meeting me six or seven years ago, I of course said something like, "Oh my god, what a fucking psycho. I'm so fucking sure. What a psycho, insecure FREAK. Oh, and I'm so sure I care what her took-eight-years-to-get-an-Associates'-in-English ass has to say about my writing - as fucking IF. Fuck that bitch. Jesus. I can't believe I was trying to stand up for that bitch. Well, screw her."
I mean, who wouldn't say that, right? I said it, and then felt better and moved on.
So, later, my friend Raquel calls me back to apologize, saying she should have remembered how "sensitive" I could be.
And that, I have to say, kind of annoyed me. I had to ask her how she would feel if I called her up and told her someone she barely knew had been saying all that crap about her. She had to admit that she might be a little annoyed, too.
Lesson: If you don't want to hear me yell a bunch of cursewords, don't tell me what psycho, insecure freaks who barely know me have been saying about me behind my back for years, okay? Because it creeps me the hell out.
Why We're Not Celebrating Valentine's Day
Tad has to work tomorrow night. Every sushi chef has to work on Valentine's Day. And that's okay. You know why? Because he seriously, truly commits acts of love against me on a regular basis. I'm just telling you in case you've been asking about it and thinking that he's cheap, or that our relationship must be on the rocks, or that we're finally showing evidence that we are each others' beards.
Tad and I are the kind of people who hate fake crap and hate doing things just because people expect us to, and that is part of why we're in love.
Tad and I are both crass and blunt, and that may be part of why you think we couldn't possibly be in love. But, if you've ever seen us drunk, (and who in Houston hasn't?) then you know that, deep down inside, Tad and I are also horribly, disgustingly mushy and romantic. To the giggling-and-handholding level. To the icky-sweet nickname-calling level. To the level that we often secretly have romantic dinners for the lamest of reasons.
We've had a very nice secret romantic dinner already this month, and Tad even brought me a very nice surprise lunch during his break today, because he knew I was home doing nothing. So I don't care if we never celebrate Valentine's Day. You know? I mean, I hope everyone out there has a very sweet Valentine's Day with someone they love or at least want to boink. But don't worry about our lack of celebration anymore, all right? There's no need.
All that being said, I couldn't resist picking out a sickly sweet/cute card last week and mailing it to Tad at his house. I messed up the timing, so he got it way before tomorrow, so it still doesn't count as Valentine's Day. But, like I said, that's okay. I'm probably going to buy my kids some cupcakes and rent us a movie to watch while they sort their messy little school valentines on the coffee table. Because that's really what the day's about, as far as I'm concerned. Sugar, and pink and red construction paper drama.
Labels: health, my sex life, psychobabble, venting, writing
6:29 PM # (10) commentsWednesday, March 12, 2003
My teddy bear and I share a very special love.
Hey. What are you doing. Did you have a good day? Hmm?
Yeah, mine was okay. You know. Work. The whole working thing. I missed you.
Mm hmm. Scoot over a little, honey. What's that? Yeah, I know. I know you were probably bored today without me.
What do you mean? I was working. Like every freaking day. What are you trying to say?
Look... we talked about this. I told you -- they're my kids. I already told you...
What? That? What?? I have to check my email, don't I? I have to update my blog. Don't you want me to be a writer? Don't you want me to have a life?
Oh, yeah... sure...
Oh, yeah... right...
You know... sure, like... yeah, whatever. Like I'm out having a good time. Like I'm out painting the freaking town red or something... You know what? I'm tired of this. I'm tired of you bitching at me about the same old stuff. What do you want me to do? Just lie in bed all day, like you? Yeah, I bet you'd like that -- if I just gave up my job, dissed my family, threw away everything I've ever worked for, and lied around all day with you. Oh, sure. Yeah, I'd love it if somebody did that for me, too.
Oh, sure. Yeah, right. Like what? What do you do? What the hell have you done for me lately, huh? All you do is sit around on your ass, waiting for me to get in bed. What -- you think I don't get bored and lonely, too? You think I don't need to feel appreciated? What keeps YOU from calling ME? What keeps you from emailing? When's the last time you even told me I looked nice?
Oh, leave me alone. I don't want to hear it anymore. I'm sick of this. Why the hell am I putting myself through all this crap? I don't need this kind of shit.
Leave me alone. I'm going to update my blog.
American Idol thoughts
Although Vanessa Olivarez does make way, way too many goofy faces, I think Charles Grigsby should have been the one to get thrown off. Also, did y'all see Julia Demato's phony sad face? You know she was so glad Vanessa lost instead of her. Also, is it just me or is Clay in lust with Kimberly and hoping that, if he wins, she'll give up her ruthless dreams of stardom to be his proud, pious, special-ed-volunteering girlfriend? Also, is it just me or did the fat chicks get the least votes, while everyone loves the fat bad boy? Just saying.
idle hands not filled with carbs
I felt lonely and bored and I figured it was that time of the month. (No, not that time. The other time. The time when my body says, "But, Gwen, why CAN'T we have another baby? C'mon! C'mon! I have an egg right here! Oh, I know why we can't have a baby. Because you can't even manage to have any sex. I forgot about that. You suck! I hate you!" And then I say, "Shut up. Play with the babies you already have.")
In the past, stuffing myself with cookies or maraschino cherries or cinnamon raisin bread has been enough to keep me from running outside and screaming. But this evening, instead, I flooded my inner turmoil with a healthy, low-carb protein shake. Ha, ha, ha! I defeated temptation. Never mind that I'll be burping up chocolate-flavored succralose all night. I am losing weight, goddammit.
Lord of the Rings o rama
Me and the kids have been reading The Fellowship of the Ring at bedtimes. They play The Two Towers on their Playstation 2 on the weekends. We spend our car trips talking about what we think Return of the King might have in store. But it's not an obsession yet. Oh, no. I know obsession, and we're not there just yet.
Oh, okay. Jeez.
Hey... hey, baby. Listen... I'm sorry.
No... c'mon. I'm sorry. Really. Listen -- I know. I'm sorry. I know you don't have any hands and you can't walk and you would do more for me if you could. I know you love me and you just can't show it like I want you to sometimes. I just... I just forget, I guess. I don't know. I'm just tired. I'm under a lot of stress. I guess sometimes I forget to show my appreciation, too. C'mon. Give me a smile. C'mon, baby. Don't be mad anymore.
There you go. That's it, baby. See... we love each other. I know you'd send big bouquets of carnations or ginger lilies to my work if you could. It's just that it's so hard... Life is so hard on us, isn't it? I love you, baby. Even when I seem like I hate your freaking guts. Even when I keep asking you if you've been possessed by the devil. You know I love you. Now let's go to sleep.
Labels: health, pop culture
9:03 PM # (0) commentsFriday, February 14, 2003
interview with myself
Q: What are you doing right now, Gwen?
A: One of my kids is sick, so I'm home with him. Right now I'm typing this post and waiting for these sausages I just cooked to cool down. Then I'm gonna have the sausage, some cheese, and some mustard for breakfast. Then I'm gonna edit these interactive forms I made for work.
Q: Sausage, cheese, and mustard? What kind of breakfast is that?
A: I'm on this diet... the Atkins diet. I'm only eating protein and fat, mostly.
Q: Jesus, Gwen. Are you trying to fuck yourself up?
A: No. I lost...
Q: I mean, that's just nasty. How can you eat that?
A: I lost 70 pounds on this diet two years ago, right around when I left my husband.
Q: Oh, yeah? And how much of that have you gained back since then?
A: About ten or fifteen pounds. But I've lost that in the past month. In January.
Q: Why'd you quit, then, if you were losing so much? Why didn't you actually get skinny?
A: I don't know. Stress. Fear of sexual/romantic entanglements. Inability to afford more new clothes. Food poisoning from a hamburger. I just thought it was a good place to stop and rest for a while.
Q: Huh. Is the sausage all greasy?
A: Yeah, but I just blot it with a napkin. Plus, the mustard helps.
Q: So... what? Now you're ready to be thin again? After all this time? To try to regain the glory of your youth?
A: Yeah. Sure.
Q: What... are you ready for love? Heh.
A: No.
Q: Whatever! You're just trying to lose weight so more guys will hit on you!
A: Yes, that's true.
Q: I knew it! You're finally lonely enough to make a change! Congratulations! Now men will be able to see what they've been missing! So, I guess you're gonna be dating your ass off this summer while your kids are with their dad, huh?
A: No. I'm not going to be dating at all.
Q: Sure you will! You've already lost one size. Just keep going! You'll get there! Stay positive! You'll get skinny and then guys will ask you out. It'll happen!
A: I know it will. I'll get skinny, they'll ask me out, and I'll say no.
Q: What? What the hell are you talking about? Oh, no. Let me guess... you hate men, right? You're gonna teach them a lesson? You want revenge.
A: No, I don't hate anybody. I'm just saying... I'm gonna get skinny, and all these guys are gonna start hitting on me. And I'm not gonna be rude about it. I'm just gonna say, "If you couldn't see my value when I was fat, then you're not gonna see it when I'm thin, so I don't want to mess with you."
Q: But how can you say that? What if it's a guy that never knew you when you were fat?
A: [Shrugs.] It doesn't matter. I can pretty much bet you he wouldn't have asked me out if he had. Will he be asking out other fat chicks when I'm thin? No. He'll be asking me. Because he's shallow. And I'll tell him no.
Q: Yeah, but what if a really nice guy asks you out? And you miss out on something good?
A: Then the really nice guy will be in the same boat I was when I was a really nice person and no one wanted me. He'll get over it like I did.
Q: What... That... That's just... Whatever. That's just really fucked up, Gwen. I didn't realize you were that messed up.
A: [Shrugs.]
Q: You're gonna lose weight out of spite. With an attitude like that, why would anybody want to be with you?
A: [Examines nails. Looks at wall.]
Q: Why even bother, then? Why not just stay fat?
A: I'm doing it for myself. Spite and bitterness are good motivators, yes, but I'm the one doing it. For me. I want the same privileges skinny women have. If I can't control my own body, what will I ever be able to control?
Q: [Snorts derisively.]
A: Besides... I can get way more clothes on way better sale if I'm thin. I don't even want to be what people call thin. I just want to get down to size 12 so I can buy whatever I want. I'm tall -- I'll look bad ass in a size 12. I want to buy a really beautiful, tailored suit... I haven't figured out what color, yet. I'll have to wait and see what's on sale at Foley's...
Q: Hey, just tell me one thing. Is this going to be one of those blogs about weight loss?
A: No. No, it's not. But I can't deny that trying to lose weight is a big part of my life right now. I mean, it's not like I can use this blog to talk about my work.
Q: All right. Whatever. I'll talk to you later.
"feel the Atkins Change"
really funny best of Craigslist list in which people look for love
stole the link above from Six Different Ways
Labels: health, my sex life
9:05 AM # (0) comments
