I found a co-worker's flash drive at work, and had to open it to find out who it was, and it turned out to be an engineering prof's. Who, as it turns out, is only MOONLIGHTING as a tenure-track prof....(?!!); his secret identity is that of a Wild Screenprinting Artist in The City. Oh my! It is not so fun when one realizes that the work world one has been taking (much too) seriously seems to another as not much more than an amusing set of metaphors. I went back and replaced my cute little cat photo on my Facebook profile with an ironic cartoon.
I'm still up, picking at my cuticles over this.
Actually, I just can't sleep. I see the endocrinologist tomorrow. She must think I'm crazy because I always have a complaint. Today I emailed her because I've had this crazy chest pain for the past week or so, like my ribs are bruised. I think it's just a remnant from the cold I've been trying to shake off, but you know how it is when you've had cancer (maybe not) in a nearby region. She told me to come straight in for a chest x-ray, which I did. Tomorrow I will find out if I am truly fucked (do NOT Google "sternum removal"--ok, I'll save you the trouble. They replace it with a synthetic...cage) or not. I don't think I am, but will relay the news either way.
On other fronts. This week has been nutsilishus. Jeff almost got fired for insubordination. Then he almost transferred to another office. Then he realized that that would totally wreck our life, logistically speaking. He reneged. HR made him come in and do a "conflict resolution" with his boss, who brought in a wooden paddle inscribed with the words, "I yell because I care" or something like that. Apparently, Jeff needed some visual aid in understanding that it's ok for one licensed clinical social worker to verbally abuse another (?!!!). Needless to say, we have made a few exceptions in the "no drinking during the weekdays" rule, of late.
The girls are pretty great: good sports in almost everything. Who knew that an old, pee-stained mattress and a plastic slide could be so diverting? Sophie tops each gruesome wound with another that's bloodier and has more skin flaps hanging off. Puncture wound in the upper lip/mandoline-style shredding of the top of the big toe/etc. etc. etc. Lucy got new Bettie Page-style bangs (not exactly on purpose) which make her look extra cute.
Speaking of which, we have a new kitten, Hester (who could just as easily be named "Plasma"). Today, when I was getting my blood drawn, the guy's eyes lingered at my wrists. "I have a new kitten!" I blurted out. The guy looked bewildered.
I actually waited a few beats.
"The scabs," I said, in a falsetto. "I swear, I'm not a cutter!!!!!!!!"
I'm not sure if he laughed because he thought it was funny or if he just wanted me out of there.
I hope you don't mind this rambling. I'm trying not to channel Lorrie Moore, but it's not working. It's a tic I've had since third grade.
Good night, y'all!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
God, That Old Trickster
Some of you know what I'm about to type already, which makes me feel a little less creative at the moment. However, I will try. I just took an 800 mg Ibuprofen, in an attempt to curb a stinging pain behind my eyes (probably getting sick again) and help me with the cursed insomnia, so I have a little time before the medicine kicks in and I can go to bed. And now, without further ado, I will impart the latest news:
Somehow, I managed to get myself good and pregnant a few weeks ago.
Let us review: I'm 41.5. I'm just a year out of surviving a massive nuclear detonation in my body, which was done to combat a cancer in my neck...this in itself requiring two separate surgeries. I have not had a normal calcium level in over a year, and am permanently on about six different medications. On other fronts, my two lovely children are still two very needy things, though I am extremely grateful that after three years and 35k, I was finally able to conceive them (I'll return to this point in a minute). I have a full-time job which I love, but it too is needy. I have a husband of seven years, with whom I am now reacquainting myself after 36 months of hardcore twin-rearing (I'm serious: a week before the news, we were congratulating ourselves on having "made it through," and were looking forward to a lot less bottom wiping and sippy cup filling). We are in the final stages of fixing up this ridiculous house....
If this pregnancy were the first box in a decision-making flow chart, all of the arrows would lead to the same place. This didn't really help, as the decision to terminate or not to terminate became a messy, tangled bunch of emotions piled on top of already tweaking hormones. I was kind of a mess. Anyway, I guess I wasn't so messed up that I couldn't go to the doctor and get the pills, which I did in a kind of haze.
And so it went.
I don't ever want to go through that again. It was/is too sad. I will never go through it again, because Jeff is going to the doctor and will do that thing that mature guys do when they don't want to have any more children.
Still: I am staggered by the irony of all of this. This is not funny irony. I thought I knew something, and then I so fucking obviously did not. 41.5 years of zero, until they hold a medical gun to my ovaries, and only after three tries do I conceive. The miracles happen, but just once. Phew! That was close. Or, apparently, not as close as I thought.
Somehow, I managed to get myself good and pregnant a few weeks ago.
Let us review: I'm 41.5. I'm just a year out of surviving a massive nuclear detonation in my body, which was done to combat a cancer in my neck...this in itself requiring two separate surgeries. I have not had a normal calcium level in over a year, and am permanently on about six different medications. On other fronts, my two lovely children are still two very needy things, though I am extremely grateful that after three years and 35k, I was finally able to conceive them (I'll return to this point in a minute). I have a full-time job which I love, but it too is needy. I have a husband of seven years, with whom I am now reacquainting myself after 36 months of hardcore twin-rearing (I'm serious: a week before the news, we were congratulating ourselves on having "made it through," and were looking forward to a lot less bottom wiping and sippy cup filling). We are in the final stages of fixing up this ridiculous house....
If this pregnancy were the first box in a decision-making flow chart, all of the arrows would lead to the same place. This didn't really help, as the decision to terminate or not to terminate became a messy, tangled bunch of emotions piled on top of already tweaking hormones. I was kind of a mess. Anyway, I guess I wasn't so messed up that I couldn't go to the doctor and get the pills, which I did in a kind of haze.
And so it went.
I don't ever want to go through that again. It was/is too sad. I will never go through it again, because Jeff is going to the doctor and will do that thing that mature guys do when they don't want to have any more children.
Still: I am staggered by the irony of all of this. This is not funny irony. I thought I knew something, and then I so fucking obviously did not. 41.5 years of zero, until they hold a medical gun to my ovaries, and only after three tries do I conceive. The miracles happen, but just once. Phew! That was close. Or, apparently, not as close as I thought.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
A Whole New Blog
...not.
Well, at least I'm back, right? I've returned from grading hell, where I have completed 75% (a straight "C" of effort) of reviewing student work, and I have to say that for once, I am profoundly happy to be LEAVING SCHOOL BEHIND for 120 days. Bye bye! Come what may in the intellectual TV static of raising toddlers...bring on the no-holds-barred potty training and fear-of-the-swimmin pool madness. Who fucking cares that many sincere people are pushing their research/art efforts forward like individual bricks in a giant pyramid? I. don't. care. I laugh in their general direction!
So I'm having this party in July, right? Like taking one for the team and organizing a get-together of my old college buddies. But, like, it seems that no one, except people like YOU, dear reader, really cares. Like five people. Granted, you are five radical people; let us not underemphasize that. But still, when you put out an invitation to 30, and only five respond in a manner you aren't embarrassed to tell your spouse about...there is a problem.
Or maybe it's just the social media rhythm I don't understand.
You see, I am tempted to open up this party to folks from Other Locales (read: Houston), and let the coolness (as my students like to say) "intertwine" with that of thoroughly seasoned folks from late 80's Moraga.
This is kind of depressing me, actually.
I would like to have a big party where some old friends meet new friends, and not just rehash the past, but I would also like to honor said past....
Oh fuck it. I'm going to have another glass of crappy port.
On other matters, spring has done what it usually does for my anxiety level, which is to smother it. I could probably calculate the amount of money I would save on Paxil (over say, 40 years) if I just moved closer to the equator, and I bet it would be more than a plane ticket and a cheap piece of land. And many, many beans. This is something to ponder as I stoke the innumerable fires of the future in the Santa Cruz Mountains, freezing my culo off.
I have planted 28 "heirloom" tomato plants. I will update you as they produce.
Off to bed, because tomorrow begins at six and involves a round trip to UC Davis and back. Which, by the way, was a really crappy letdown after SMC in 1993. I Fled to Sacramento!
Well, at least I'm back, right? I've returned from grading hell, where I have completed 75% (a straight "C" of effort) of reviewing student work, and I have to say that for once, I am profoundly happy to be LEAVING SCHOOL BEHIND for 120 days. Bye bye! Come what may in the intellectual TV static of raising toddlers...bring on the no-holds-barred potty training and fear-of-the-swimmin pool madness. Who fucking cares that many sincere people are pushing their research/art efforts forward like individual bricks in a giant pyramid? I. don't. care. I laugh in their general direction!
So I'm having this party in July, right? Like taking one for the team and organizing a get-together of my old college buddies. But, like, it seems that no one, except people like YOU, dear reader, really cares. Like five people. Granted, you are five radical people; let us not underemphasize that. But still, when you put out an invitation to 30, and only five respond in a manner you aren't embarrassed to tell your spouse about...there is a problem.
Or maybe it's just the social media rhythm I don't understand.
You see, I am tempted to open up this party to folks from Other Locales (read: Houston), and let the coolness (as my students like to say) "intertwine" with that of thoroughly seasoned folks from late 80's Moraga.
This is kind of depressing me, actually.
I would like to have a big party where some old friends meet new friends, and not just rehash the past, but I would also like to honor said past....
Oh fuck it. I'm going to have another glass of crappy port.
On other matters, spring has done what it usually does for my anxiety level, which is to smother it. I could probably calculate the amount of money I would save on Paxil (over say, 40 years) if I just moved closer to the equator, and I bet it would be more than a plane ticket and a cheap piece of land. And many, many beans. This is something to ponder as I stoke the innumerable fires of the future in the Santa Cruz Mountains, freezing my culo off.
I have planted 28 "heirloom" tomato plants. I will update you as they produce.
Off to bed, because tomorrow begins at six and involves a round trip to UC Davis and back. Which, by the way, was a really crappy letdown after SMC in 1993. I Fled to Sacramento!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Ramble On!
Yesterday was hard. It's hard when you know things are bad, and that there are a few proven things that can help, but you can't get yourself to do them: take your meds, get off the couch, clean up, etc. I don't have too many days like that now that I'm on Paxil, but for some reason, yesterday hit me like a fist. The only good news is that I can recognize that it's a neurosis: there isn't really anything wrong. The bad news is that the good news doesn't help.
So let's not talk about this anymore. Let's talk about art.
Even though I'm still untenured, prospects look good for next year. Having said this, I do know the rules about counting chickens. Having said THAT, my soul is really jumping the gun to get back into writing poetry. But writing it in a more informed way. Reading more poetry. Thinking about craft. I've been gravitating toward formal verse for a while, as I've hit a dead end with my voice. Patterns and rhythms of speech need to be changed up, and the work needs to actively converse with that of others. I'm interested right now in longer iambic lines: teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM, for example. Robert Frost does these beautifully. I'll probably start there.
I feel like such an amateur, starting completely over with writing. I do think, however, that I needed to get graduate school out of my system. Like all my creative cells needed to die off and regenerate. I'd completely lost track of the whys behind my writing.
Jeff has a book-length manuscript that I'm going to help him edit over the summer. I know it will be published...maybe it will help get me back in shape.
So let's not talk about this anymore. Let's talk about art.
Even though I'm still untenured, prospects look good for next year. Having said this, I do know the rules about counting chickens. Having said THAT, my soul is really jumping the gun to get back into writing poetry. But writing it in a more informed way. Reading more poetry. Thinking about craft. I've been gravitating toward formal verse for a while, as I've hit a dead end with my voice. Patterns and rhythms of speech need to be changed up, and the work needs to actively converse with that of others. I'm interested right now in longer iambic lines: teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM, for example. Robert Frost does these beautifully. I'll probably start there.
I feel like such an amateur, starting completely over with writing. I do think, however, that I needed to get graduate school out of my system. Like all my creative cells needed to die off and regenerate. I'd completely lost track of the whys behind my writing.
Jeff has a book-length manuscript that I'm going to help him edit over the summer. I know it will be published...maybe it will help get me back in shape.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Materialistic Swooning
Home with the babes today. We are watching "Dumbo" (best line: "Have I got a trunk full of dirt for you!") and reading. I am drinking coffee.
While the girls were at grandma's this weekend, Jeff and I went to a Habitat for Humanity Re-Sale store and bought some doors for the front bedroom. One is an old swinging door that will separate the bedroom from the kitchen. We sanded, primed and painted them before the girls came back from Santa Cruz.
And the further good news is that Mary across the street is going to loan me her piano! It's electric, so you can practice with headphones on and no one will hear you. I figure that I can see how much I really commit to it before committing to buying one of my own.
Now I just need a hot tub and a boat and my Napa life will be complete.
Tell you what, SMC folk: I will have a hot tub here for you in July. This will be my goal.
While the girls were at grandma's this weekend, Jeff and I went to a Habitat for Humanity Re-Sale store and bought some doors for the front bedroom. One is an old swinging door that will separate the bedroom from the kitchen. We sanded, primed and painted them before the girls came back from Santa Cruz.
And the further good news is that Mary across the street is going to loan me her piano! It's electric, so you can practice with headphones on and no one will hear you. I figure that I can see how much I really commit to it before committing to buying one of my own.
Now I just need a hot tub and a boat and my Napa life will be complete.
Tell you what, SMC folk: I will have a hot tub here for you in July. This will be my goal.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Professor Booty
I went to an estate sale yesterday where an old pianist who went from luxury to squalor had died. Included in her estate were three (three!) gold Rolexes, two grand pianos, a pair of carved ivory tusks, African spears, and about two thousand books. The old Victorian where she died had saggy floors, none of the cabinets had knobs, and I could not for the life of me find a bathroom. There was a freestanding bathtub with no pipes connected to it...in a bedroom. ???
When I die, I hope I leave behind such mystery.
I'm going back this morning to see if I can pick up some tiny Tibetan bells. Anyway, I want to dedicate this blog column today to the wonders of public services. Yesterday, Jeff and I took the girls in the stroller down to the Napa library, where they made a mess of the extensive children's section (and where I discovered I had almost $40 in fines--woops! forgot the wallet), and an old grandpa sat like a king next to a sign saying "I will read to you." After the girls exhausted us, we took them to lunch, then to Fuller Park, where they exhausted themselves in the sand. Minus the food, the entire day cost us exactly $0. We got our exercise and vitamin D. Days like this remind me that I am a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat.
And then, Jessica came over with her dog, Pixie.
I'm on the hiring committee for our new library dean, and the candidate who interviewed the other day made an interesting comment. He said that if libraries had to completely start over today, they wouldn't be able to recreate their current paper collections...the money isn't there, and many of the books are out of print forever. The trend of moving collections online is a one-way street, it seems. When books are discarded, they won't be coming back.
Well, they will go straight to my house. I'm going to have the biggest used-book library in Northern California. Besides the obvious intellectual benefit, books are also great home insulation.
Speaking of useless endeavors, I'm going to be published in Writing on the Edge, a cool journal out of UC Davis. Picture me exhaling in relief, as I needed another pub for tenure.
And I'm going back to therapy. In spite of my assigned shrink canceling on my first appt., and then not having any openings when I tried to reschedule, I will persist/prevail/be prescribed. It is time.
Well, I'm off to Miss Havisham's. I'll let you know about the booty.
When I die, I hope I leave behind such mystery.
I'm going back this morning to see if I can pick up some tiny Tibetan bells. Anyway, I want to dedicate this blog column today to the wonders of public services. Yesterday, Jeff and I took the girls in the stroller down to the Napa library, where they made a mess of the extensive children's section (and where I discovered I had almost $40 in fines--woops! forgot the wallet), and an old grandpa sat like a king next to a sign saying "I will read to you." After the girls exhausted us, we took them to lunch, then to Fuller Park, where they exhausted themselves in the sand. Minus the food, the entire day cost us exactly $0. We got our exercise and vitamin D. Days like this remind me that I am a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat.
And then, Jessica came over with her dog, Pixie.
I'm on the hiring committee for our new library dean, and the candidate who interviewed the other day made an interesting comment. He said that if libraries had to completely start over today, they wouldn't be able to recreate their current paper collections...the money isn't there, and many of the books are out of print forever. The trend of moving collections online is a one-way street, it seems. When books are discarded, they won't be coming back.
Well, they will go straight to my house. I'm going to have the biggest used-book library in Northern California. Besides the obvious intellectual benefit, books are also great home insulation.
Speaking of useless endeavors, I'm going to be published in Writing on the Edge, a cool journal out of UC Davis. Picture me exhaling in relief, as I needed another pub for tenure.
And I'm going back to therapy. In spite of my assigned shrink canceling on my first appt., and then not having any openings when I tried to reschedule, I will persist/prevail/be prescribed. It is time.
Well, I'm off to Miss Havisham's. I'll let you know about the booty.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Back on Th' Horse
I'm reading Flannery O'Connor's letters at the moment; it's making me chuckle.
Here's a partial list of songs for my reunion: 20 songs for 20 years:
1991: The Stallion, or Pork Roll Egg & Cheese, Ween
1992: Professor Booty, or What'cha Want, Beastie Boys
1993: ???
1994: Big Dipper, Built to Spill
1995: Don't Look Back in Anger, Oasis
1996: Break Me, The Lemonheads
1997: Late in the Day, Supergrass
1998: King of Carrot Flowers, Neutral Milk Hotel
1999: ???
2000: ???
Here's a partial list of songs for my reunion: 20 songs for 20 years:
1991: The Stallion, or Pork Roll Egg & Cheese, Ween
1992: Professor Booty, or What'cha Want, Beastie Boys
1993: ???
1994: Big Dipper, Built to Spill
1995: Don't Look Back in Anger, Oasis
1996: Break Me, The Lemonheads
1997: Late in the Day, Supergrass
1998: King of Carrot Flowers, Neutral Milk Hotel
1999: ???
2000: ???
Sunday, January 16, 2011
New Year--Thank God
Hi you all. There has been a great lapse in my blog blasts because, largely, the last six months have sucked. Let me be clear: I am cancer-free, according to the dr. This is the good news. The bad news is that my body has lost its ability to absorb calcium, due to my parathyroid glands being nicked, or removed, during my last surgery. What does this mean? It means that I must take 2000 mg of calcium every day for the rest of my life. Hey, no problem, right? Most people don't get enough anyway. Well, ok. Each 500 mg pill is about 3/4 inch long. Ok, not a big deal. The big deal is that you can't take it with your thyroid supp. or with any dairy, because it cancels its effects out. And you can't take it on an empty stomach, or you'll puke (which I did, right outside a sushi restaurant last month). And you can't take it all at the same time, or you'll just poop the excess out. What this means is that for the next 40 years, I will be on a regimented pill schedule: morning, before any food/dairy consumption (meaning no cheerios) = synthroid, calcitriol (not quite calcium), Paxil. Lunch=1000 mg calcium. Dinner=1000 mg calcium. If I miss any pills, I will know it, because my hands and feet will start falling asleep if I cross them, or sit on them.... If I'm without calcium for a day or two, my lips and face will start going numb. If I get stuck on a desert island without any pills, after about a week, my body will being to seize, and odds are, I will die...long before my I miss having my thyroid hormone. Fuckin great!
Ok, I was just getting over this ("You have a chronic condition," said the dr.), when phase #2 kicked in. I started getting a pain in my jaw: not the bone, but the space in front of the hinge that opens your mouth. Like I'd been hit hard. It came and went, on both sides. Whatever. And then, my mouth went dry. Profoundly. I was gulping water when I woke up, and throughout the day. I couldn't eat toast, or anything dryish, without water. WTF? I finally looked it up, and learned, guess what, that the salivary glands located in front of my jaws have been irreversibly (?) damaged by the radioactive iodine treatment. Scar tissue is now blocking them. Great. So not only do I feel like I am dehydrated all of the time, but I've learned that when this happens, your teeth start to rot from the roots.
O fucking hell! It's like be plagued by a bunch of little mosquitoes.
So I've been depressed. I'd been doing really well at work, and really enjoying my work, but I would home and just want to hide. Motherhood was getting in the way of that, as you can imagine. Figuring out how to order all of my prescriptions on time has been difficult. I haven't been super good at taking care of myself ever. So it's been challenging.
Anyway, it's a new year now, and I'm feeling better enough to write this blog. I'm sorry if it's a downer, but I'm hoping it will be the last one. The girls are becoming really amazing, the house is shaping up, and I'm slowly losing weight. This summer is my 20th college reunion, and I'm looking forward to seeing old friends and speculating about the second half of our lives. Looks like in spite of it all, I may be there to witness it, pills and all.
Ok, I was just getting over this ("You have a chronic condition," said the dr.), when phase #2 kicked in. I started getting a pain in my jaw: not the bone, but the space in front of the hinge that opens your mouth. Like I'd been hit hard. It came and went, on both sides. Whatever. And then, my mouth went dry. Profoundly. I was gulping water when I woke up, and throughout the day. I couldn't eat toast, or anything dryish, without water. WTF? I finally looked it up, and learned, guess what, that the salivary glands located in front of my jaws have been irreversibly (?) damaged by the radioactive iodine treatment. Scar tissue is now blocking them. Great. So not only do I feel like I am dehydrated all of the time, but I've learned that when this happens, your teeth start to rot from the roots.
O fucking hell! It's like be plagued by a bunch of little mosquitoes.
So I've been depressed. I'd been doing really well at work, and really enjoying my work, but I would home and just want to hide. Motherhood was getting in the way of that, as you can imagine. Figuring out how to order all of my prescriptions on time has been difficult. I haven't been super good at taking care of myself ever. So it's been challenging.
Anyway, it's a new year now, and I'm feeling better enough to write this blog. I'm sorry if it's a downer, but I'm hoping it will be the last one. The girls are becoming really amazing, the house is shaping up, and I'm slowly losing weight. This summer is my 20th college reunion, and I'm looking forward to seeing old friends and speculating about the second half of our lives. Looks like in spite of it all, I may be there to witness it, pills and all.
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