Rough Draft

Shrinkage

2008-03-21T19:45:00.002-04:00

Is anyone else obsessively watching HBO's "In Treatment"?

I just finished watching tonight's episode and they should just throw an Emmy right now at Dianne Wiest. The whole lot of them, actually -- writing/directing/acting. Brilliant.

Tangled Up In Blue

2008-03-09T18:00:00.003-04:00

My ... time flies ... like lead ... when one is mired in black ... and blue.

I didn't want to write until something ... anything ... good happened or changed ... but you can see how that's working out.

Metaphorically I am wearing sweatpants ... I've given up.

How are you?

Like Being Shelled to Death by an Elephant

2008-01-31T20:26:00.000-05:00

My father died in October.

For reasons both understood and not … I find myself thinking about him a lot more lately than before … although I suspect it will take the rest of my life to fully *process* his life and who he was.

He was with Judi for over twenty years and even though when he died, he’d (re)found love again [a lovely story of adulterers who reconnect in their twilight years … a story for another time] and had been living with C. for four years … Judi cast a pretty formidable shadow.

She was indeed larger than life … she loved food and cooking … animals (there were pictures of the spoiled little brat/bichon frise, Louis, in every single room of the house – even a 3-D oil painting – but none of us children) … my father (I can still hear her saying “You asshole!”) … and always had a needy friend as a special project – she liked to think she could save people. She had tons and tons of the gaudiest costume jewelry you’ve ever seen in your life, and LOVED to gamble (slots) in Vegas and had special sequined couture just for the occasions. My Dad was a gambler, so it was fitting they married there, although not, as far as I know, by an Elvis impersonator. She was loyal. She was generous – to a fault. As loud and brash as she was, she was always impeccably put together – right down to her blond bouffant hairstyle that she committed to in her teens. She was a lady … a loud, brash lady, but a lady (or, broad, as my Dad would say). She was what you’d call a character.

She died ten years ago today of lung cancer (cigarettes).
Diagnosed right after Thanksgiving and dead by the end of January … but the actual end happened very quickly – she went from being able to manage navigating cellar stairs to go to radiation treatments on a Tuesday to dying on a Saturday … the sharp decline shocked her doctor, hospice, and of course, us. It was my unfortunate role to answer the phone and break the news to her friends and small extended family.

I’d taken a leave of absence from my soul-deadening NYC job to help out, and it’s remarkable to think I was only there a few weeks … they were the longest years of my life. I honestly do not know how caregivers do it…

Through a bizarre sub-plot that I swear made sense at the time, Judi didn’t know she was dying … so it was like a fucked-up sitcom device ... we all knew and talked about her dying, just, you know, not with and to her. I promise, it made sense at the time, but I wish we had that decision back … the jig was up the Thursday night before she died when one of her oldest friends, conveniently an ex-hospice nurse and probably the Nicest Person That Ever Lived spent time with Judi in the large paisley wall-papered living room where Judi lay dying (I’d gotten her a featherbed for the couch and she had her large TV and was within reach of the coffee table where she laid out and controlled all her meds). Donna came into the kitchen after a couple of hours, eyes red from crying and announced “She knows. She wants you to get a pad and pen because she has instructions for her funeral.” Judi dictated her wishes: Purple casket (check); “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and “Blue Suede Shoes” played at her funeral. Hmmm. Catholic mass … we got them to agree to a chorus singing the former (dedicated to my father) but they wouldn’t budge on the latter. Donna got around that by getting a pair of blue suede shoes from Marshall’s (totally Judi) and placing them on a pedestal by her casket. Oh, the joy it gave us to watch people approach, kneel, cross themselves and do that double take…

Being present for someone’s death … it’s an amazing thing, isn’t it? I guess the only thing more profound and intimate/universal would be witnessing a birth … by the very end I’d literally not slept in days and I’d done things I never thought possible and the emotion was overwhelming … but I wouldn’t trade a minute of it … it was a gift. On the last night she was home she was lucid for a stretch (before she became overwhelmed by what we later realized was dehydration) and we had this amazing, if not brief talk. She said she’d always wished I was her daughter … I never knew that … never would have guessed it … a gift.

When it was time to finally call the ambulance to take her to the hospital (I didn’t know if that was what she wanted, but felt it was the best decision for her safety and comfort, but I still felt so bloody guilty and like I’d failed her) … it was sleeting a bit and they suggested we get something to cover her, so I ran back and got a guest towel from the bathroom. It looked ridiculous.

My father and Judi’s pet names for each other was “Bum” … as the ambulance guys started taking her away, for the last time, from the house she loved so much … and had spent so so so so much money on (and hadn’t finished redecorating and renovating) my Dad said “Don’t worry, your Bum is right behind you.” The looks on the ambulance guys faces was priceless.

She rallied when they took her out and snapped out of her dehydrated unconsciousness enough to say “Make sure he’s got his damn keys!”

At the hospital my Dad paid a roving priest a C-note to give her Last Rites … my sister and I were silently weeping … “I’ll be following you soon,” my Dad assured her. “They won’t let you in,” she replied.

She was definitely having test runs to the Other Side and when she came back from one of them, her face beatific … her eyes and mouth smiling … it was so obvious she’d witnessed IT … she’d had a glimpse … a taste of IT … “What did you see?!” I asked, desperate to know this meaning of life! “I’m not going to tell you,” she said, smiling.

And I suppose I should confess that yes, I laughed at her deathbed … but in my defense:

Hospice – angels on earth, sayeth this atheist – had handed out a lot of literature about what to expect and it was so helpful and spot on. It mentioned how the dying person might be hesitant about leaving a person/s behind … be worried about them. That it’s a good idea to tell your dying loved one that it’s okay to go and that everything will be alright. I gently talked about this with my Dad at some point between that Tuesday and Saturday, because I knew she was worried about him … “He can’t even do the goddamned laundry!”

So. Saturday.
Donna had spent the night with her and called us early Saturday morning … “She was lucid this morning, she even got up a bit and we joked around – but now she’s deteriorating. She’s mottling. You need to get here as soon as possible.” I was unfamiliar with the word “mottling” and it was a weird image to think of Judi laughing one minute and then doing some sort of macabre voguing (I thought she was modeling) that was serious enough to warrant ringing of the bells.

So. My sister and I were there with her during the day while my Dad, who couldn’t handle it, went to the funeral home to make arrangements. Later in the afternoon, when she started dying, we were all there at her bedside … she’d not been awake all day … but in those last moments … her eyes were open … and fixed on my father … she mustered strength and breath she no longer had to mouth the words I Love You to him … indeed it was with literally her final breaths. Extraordinary. A gift.

Before that, though, we were all screaming our goodbyes – I noticed this in October with my Dad – instinct seems to be to YELL at the dying person how MUCH YOU LOVE THEM! – and my Dad, remembering what we’d talked about, said “You can go now,” “It’s okay, everything’s been taken care of.” … Well. Remember, I’d not slept and stuff. It was, I don’t know, the 114th time he said “You can go now,” that I could feel the laughter starting to bubble up, in a horrible Chuckles the Clown kinda way. Dear god, no, I thought … but Jesus, he kept on … until his tone warped into this “You can GO, already!” in my tiny, overwhelmed head. I did what I could, but was helpless to the spasm of laughter that erupted. I collapsed my head into my chest and only my sister knew I wasn’t crying. In my further defense, the next second I was weeping, okay? Okay???

My favorite memory of Judi isn’t even one I witnessed.
They lived off a busy road in Amherst, NH and one day there was a mama duck and her babies starting to cross the road. Judi pulled over and stopped both lanes of traffic until they all safely crossed.

You are missed, Judi … and although I don’t have the comfort of belief in an afterlife, I do believe that love never dies. Therefore, you certainly live on.

SpongeDianne AnnoyingPants

2008-01-30T13:52:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately I have this ... way about me where I sometimes absorb another person's affect ... their mannerisms, accents, etc. -- not in a useful, productive way like Meryl Streep, but in a useless and apparently unentertaining way -- so much so that my seven-year-old friend reflexively will say "Don't do it!" if we hear someone with an accent or regionalism (although he always wants Valley Girl to do his hair). It's particularly bad after listening to "Fresh Air," and today I found myself channeling Terry Gross? as I, you know? talked to a utility company?, ha, do you know what I mean?

The days can be so tiring...

Violets are Blue, And So I, Too

2008-01-28T16:19:00.001-05:00

It is not simple and easy to make $13,575 a week working part-time answering e-mail from the comfort of one's own home and pajamas -- regardless of what the endless CraigsList ads say.

To quell the din of creditors calling and knocking ... and in an attempt to entertain and involve you, dear reader, I would like to introduce a new feature called Bad Poetry.

Confession: I am not a poetry reader nor writer. Until this year I had no interest in even thinking about it, really. Don't misunderstand me -- I feel bad about this, not proud. I think it's a personal lack of ambition and character on my part to not try harder to get poetry.

So, like the slumping snorting slacker in the back of class, offering nothing to the advancement of discussion and learning, I naturally deeply enjoy writing and reading purposely and aggressively Bad Poetry. I welcome your comments and, especially, contributions.

I shall now compose my first Bad Poem, right now, extemporaneously. If you wish, you may present me with a topic, and I'll attempt a Bad Poem about it.

All is Grey

Peering through smudged window

Clouds

And tears from Heaven

Doppler threatens temperature drop

How fitting, think I

For this outdoor gloom matches

Like an unbirthed twin

The greyness of my mind

and anatomy.

Will Work for Money

2008-01-27T13:34:00.000-05:00

Well, the e-mail from a couple of days ago proved fruitless -- just like the e-mail from the Nigerian prince who, out of nowhere, wrote to ask me for $1.2 million dollars so that he could, in turn, make me wealthy. I'd been feeling all sorry for myself, but boy, that poor little prince! His syntax made the narrative a bit difficult to follow, but through a complex series of events involving several bank accounts, possible terrorists, an innocent newborn, and Keifer Sutherland -- he'd temporarily misplaced his fortune. I didn't know him and felt deeply touched that he would entrust such an important, delicate mission to me -- an unemployed, middle-aged, reclusive stranger in corn country. Anyway, that didn't pan out, either.

Yesterday I looked into selling my eggs ($10K!), but sadly, the few elderly, lost, remaining ones shuffling slothlike through my system cannot be given away on Freecycle.

On I search...

To-Do List / Today

2008-01-26T21:23:00.000-05:00

New Year's Resolutions -- 2006

1. Stop procrastinating.

2.

Things are Looking Up, Baby!

2008-01-25T22:43:00.000-05:00

As stated in the Bible and The Secret -- ask and/or envision and ye/you shall receive ... or that's my casual understanding -- I've not read or seen the movie of either.

Not to brag, but I just received this e-mail, and it makes me and my creditors very happy:

Dear Friend,
How are you today and business in your country?

I am Barr. Johnson Harry, of the Johnson Harry legal chambers,Newcastle, United kingdom

I have a business proposal that will be of immense benefit to the bothof us. If you are interested, you can contact me through My private Email: jharrylegalfirm002@hotmail.com

In replying kindly state the following:
Your full names:
Age:
Location:

Sincerely,
Barr. Johnson Harry. Esq.

Oh, World...

2008-01-25T15:19:00.000-05:00

Isn't life funny sometimes? And by *funny* I don't in any way mean humorous...

Half of the reason for all the darkness in my world right now I cannot talk about ... I'm not trying to be coy or cute, believe me. But the other half I can certainly bore you with!

Slight Backstory: In October I started training/working as an ABA Therapist for young children on the autism spectrum. I sort of fell into it while job searching and deciding to follow at least one of my joys -- playing with the Pre-K set. This led to this and that led to that, and although extremely challenging and exhausting, ABA Therapy was the most fascinating and rewarding thing I've done for money (exotic dancing notwithstanding).

I was down to only one child, a two-year-old boy that I'd grown quite attached to, and my new schedule with him began the first workday in January. He was being introduced to a secondary therapist (usual procedure) and my hours with him were now 16/week. I was definitely going to have to look for more sources of income (again, exotic dancing notwithstanding ... the knees ... not what they used to be, people) but it was a new year! I was optimistic and dare I say, hopeful against all reason on several levels. And that of course is what's so *funny*...

On the first workday of 2008, I was told, by the consultant, not the mother, that "they were going in a different direction" and would no longer be needing me. First, middle and last question that I asked the consultant was what did I do wrong and what could I have done differently? She assured and reassured me that it wasn't me or anything I'd done or could have done -- the parents, as we'd learned ... were "different" which is code for "assholes." Of course they have every single right to hire and fire whomever they please, but I'd been teaching and caring for their child for the past three months, not a houseplant. And that the mother didn't have the decency (or rather, the courage) to tell me to my face is what I found most stunning and hurtful. There were no other children on deck for this consultant and I tearfully bade the boy and my only source of income goodbye.

Yesterday the universe gave me a tiny, good-as-chocolate treat when I came face-to-face with the boy's mother, Lori* at SuperTarget. Oh, it was lovely -- she was facing me getting a shopping cart as I went to grab for one. Her beady little eyes flitted around furiously but when she realized speaking to me was inevitable she got this delightful deer-in-the-headlights look. I also experienced a nanosecond of Oh, god, is it too late to pretend this isn't happening? but realized that all deserved embarrassment and awkwardness were hers and hers alone. So. I smiled.

Lori: Dianne! ... How are you?
Me: How am I? How am I, Lori? Well, since you dismissed me -- excuse me, since you had someone else dismiss me because you didn't possess the decency or courage to talk to me yourself -- my life has spiraled downward into a steady and unending morass of pain, poverty and misery. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to pick up a box of wine and some Little Debbies. Good day, madam!

Of course, I said nothing like that ... just asked about her son and delighted in her squirming. She finally muttered "This is really awkward," and scurried away. The high road has never been so enjoyable...

That delight proved ephemeral because now I'm back to marinating in my own filth and desperately crafting cover letters and sending resumes that never get answered or responded to ... is it really so bloody difficult to get back to people? Just now I answered an ad that was already suspicious in its vagueness, but it promised a good hourly rate (stated) and benefits. A reverse lookup on the phone number yielded nothing. Sure enough, it was an employment agency ... fine ... but they wanted $150 of my dollars for the honor of getting me a job. When I queried why the prospective employee rather than employer is paying them, the operator (who talked so fast and incoherently that I had to frequently ask her to repeat herself -- and I lived in NYC for 15 years) she haughtily, and clearly following script, spit out "Well, you've been looking for a job since January and haven't found one yet, have you? And if not for the companies, you wouldn't have a place to apply to!" I couldn't argue with her logic because I couldn't understand it.

The conversation ended in a way that I don't think we'll be exchanging Christmas cards.
I may have told her that I would rather whore myself behind the local Cheese & Donut Shoppe than give her a bloody nickel. Time to find the pasties...

*her real name

Today's Job Search

2008-01-21T20:21:00.000-05:00

Cintas is currently looking for a Soil Sling Operator. The selected individual will work on the service support Loading/Unloading team and will be responsible for accurately organizing and weighing garments, floor mat, dust mops, shop towels and other ancillary products before they are sent to the washroom. Once a laundry bag is determined to have reached its maximum weight capacity, the Soil Sling Operator will send it to the washroom for cleaning and drying. The position is very physical and requires the selected individual to do repeated standing, bending, stretching, twisting and lifting over the course of an entire shift. Daily accuracy of work is necessary for inventory control and accountability. Additional responsibilities include housekeeping and adherence to health and safety standards.

Today's Job Search OR Magical PJs

2008-01-15T17:55:00.000-05:00

Insurance Agents produce in your PJs
Reply to: job-xxxxxxxxxxx@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-01-15, 5:36PM EST

Sell life insurance from the comfort of your office or home.

Are you a licensed life agent or do you aspire to be? Email me your resume, and be making money in your pajamas by next week.

Things I've Learned Today

2008-01-14T19:45:00.000-05:00

When you are watching a very lame, horrible movie with a young child and a scary, evil dragon is introduced, it is right to want to diffuse the child's trepidation and fear ... it may be imprudent, however, to launch into a schtick that perhaps possibly may have included a Yo Mama joke ... for you, the adult, will be pointed to in an unflattering light when said child ... later ... apparently tells another child "Your mother is so ugly that when you were born, the doctor slapped her."

Everyone involved will feel terrible ... but not as terrible as you.

Actual Letter that I Actually Sent ... Today, Actually

2008-01-08T18:36:00.000-05:00

Dear American Airlines,

I traveled from Indianapolis to Minneapolis for the Christmas holiday.
My return date was Friday, December 28, 2007. I was confirmed on #354 to Chicago and then #4135 to Indianapolis. Here's a diary summary of the morning and early afternoon:

7:03 am: Startled awake from the screams of my mother's cat, Apple; the dream that I was drowning (the air mattress had lost 42% of its air, rendering it basically a hammock); the 82 degrees of stultifying and suffocating air circulating in mother's condo.
7:12 am: Started coffee. Looked outside window and saw snow falling. Slight unease begins.
7:23 am: Give up on my mother's Internet connection that is allegedly “high-speed” but a gaggle of turtles powering the machine would have been quicker. Turned on television to Weather Channel. Chicago has something like 18” of snow on the ground. Images of weeping, stranded passengers at O'Hare appear on screen. Sweat trickles down my back (and it's not simply the tropical temperature).
7:32 am: Packing my suitcase – Apple staring at me and sneering.
7:45 am: Proud of myself for having the foresight to bring a duffel bag to ensure my large suitcase doesn't tip the 50 lb. weight limit.
7:51 am: Duffel zipper breaks. Beyond repair and/or beyond my skill set of repairing. Involuntary and impressive cursing pours out of my mouth. Mother clears her throat from her living-room recliner. Apple grinning.
7:52 – 12:15 pm: Condo windows provide evidence to unrelenting and heavy snowfall. Television declaring Chicago a Bermuda Triangle for poor bastards unfortunate enough to find themselves at O'Hare. Blue Van driver (scheduled to pick me up at 12:30 for a 3:15 flight) calls for directions. My mother, who has put 300 miles on the car she's had for three years, is unable to provide answers. Stunningly, BV Driver does NOT have GPS. I am quietly crying and, by now, shaking involuntarily. Apple openly guffawing.
12:28 pm: BV Driver shows up, but doesn't come to door. I wheel my coffin-sized suitcase and carry on and purse/tote to the van. Driveway treacherous. BV Driver weighs approximately 400+ pounds. Reluctantly heaves the suitcase into back of van.
12:29-12:58 pm: BV Driver explains he was standing outside van for five minutes before getting in because he was adjusting his leg braces. Which were the result of a hit-and-run from an elderly woman in March. She hit him, backed up, hit him again – puncturing his kidneys – waved and drove off. He called 911 himself as he lie there, passengers in van. After 45 minutes of non-ambulance response, he drove his passengers to the airport; then himself to the ER. The pending settlement is $1 million. He has six children and is engaged to his second Cambodian wife. She is 21 and wealthy – her father will be giving him a fleet limousine and $1 million when they wed. He is the favored embassy security of Cambodian dignitaries. ... His obvious delusion and erratic driving provide only a brief distraction.
1:03 pm: BV Driver “not legally allowed” to drop me off curbside (where all the other drop-off cars, vans, buses, rickshaws were clearly visible) so I schlep from van to parking garage to elevator to overhead walkway to down escalator to American Airlines check-in area.
1:11 pm: American Airlines agent (god, I wish I'd taken down her name – I promised her annual Christmas cards) smiled cheerfully and asked how I was? I replied by showing her my itinerary. “Oh,” she declared. I had only just begun blubbering and begging when she decisively and with a smile said she was going to put me on a NWA non-stop flight to Indianapolis. It's a blur, but I think I may have offered to marry her.

In short (yes, too late) your American Airlines representative turned my entire day around and the exceptional customer service I was shown is not one I will ever forget. You've gained a customer for life, and also I will relate this story and sing your praises to everyone I meet.
Thank you.

Regards,
Dianne

Winter

2007-12-17T16:15:00.000-05:00

I know it's not officially winter, but the first Oops, I forgot to open the chimney flue! has ceremoniously heralded in the season for me ... gosh, what a lingering awful smell.

Note to My Future Self

2007-12-14T08:36:00.001-05:00

Breathe.
It's going to be okay ... you will find the Microsoft Office disk and then you'll put it in the disk thing on your computer and everything will be juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.

Sure, it's not in the bin with all the other hundreds of software disks ... but remember you must have had to give it to the nice man last June or July so he could fix your corrupted computer (you moved and the plastic bin was not with you, remember?, so you'd been borrowing your Dad's laptop for a couple of months) ... so, yeah, okay, your loft office area may appear a smidgen, oh, disorganized? at the moment, but that's because you're a perfectionist, really, and you've been willing to live in chaos for a month or so (what's that? ... oh, right ... 18 months) until you can get your impeccable system in place. It's got to be here, right? Somewhere?

Find it yet?

[consider this post a place holder and I'll tell you later why I'm in this situation. It's so darn funny! O, how I will laugh once this is over ... why, I'm laughing now! Why, I cannot stop laughing! I'm having trouble breathing really, I am laughing so hard! So hard! My eyes are starting to hurt being open this wide while I'm laughing so hard and having trouble breathing...]

Sample Portfolio from My Brief Hallmark Career

2007-12-13T09:16:00.001-05:00

I wouldn’t think it possible
That my love for you could grow
But it does
Much like the mold on my shower curtain
In daily, frightening gobs.

Happy Anniversary!

You must be bummed
At the death of your Mum
But, as you’re aware
You’re her only heir.

Condolences and Congratulations!

Who would have guessed
You’d ever get this old
Hope your remaining time
Is chockablock with fun!

Happy Birthday!

Ripped from the Headlines

2007-12-12T18:12:00.000-05:00

Okay, friend/s, is it just me, or:

* Doesn't the word *waterboarding* sound like a fun, warm-weather sport? [Upon reading beyond headlines, it decidedly is not.]

* Every time I hear about Blackwater the opening of "Black Water" by the Doobie Brothers starts playing in my head and continues until I scream ... lately I only get to "Well, I..."

***********************
In case you're wondering, I just finished a spinach salad with apple, shredded cheddar, and baby bella mushrooms with a balsamic vinaigrette.

Amazing! Grace?

2007-12-11T17:08:00.000-05:00

Sadly, I've neither had the proper insurance, finances, or follow-through to get the proper psychotherapy that I so obviously would benefit from ... and I'm not a licensed therapist (although I don't tell my patients that) (this joke will have to be pried from my cold, dead lips/fingers) so I've had to do my own tedious self-examined life stuff. I'm probably about a decade behind where I should be, if one is going by age chronology. Whatever!

Anyway, I had an epiphany a few years ago. I was having some hard times with a friend. My knee-jerk, reflexive, default emotional process goes something like this: X doesn't like me; X doesn't want me around. Then it's just reaction into hurt and withdrawal. But in some inspired moment I had the realization that my feelings for X remain the same -- I care for this person deeply. And I tried something new (for me) I acted out of love ... instead of reacting out of hurt. Holy fuck if it didn't work! X and I remain close to this day.

To get up in the morning means I'll be tested constantly ... I so obviously cannot always rise above ... I remain comically imperfect and will probably have to reincarnate a bucketload of times yet ... but this has remained constant -- every time I respond with love I feel better. Every time I allow anger and its twin, hurt, to grab the wheel of my response/s, I disappoint myself. It's a pity, too, because I cut my teeth on sarcasm and the biting remark.

I've experienced an awful lot of loss this year ... I want to transcend hurt and anger.
Right now it feels more like what's happening with finances (basically I am so fucked) so I spend out of a manic energy, kinda. All for others ... Christmas and stuff ... but if I'm clipping coupons for cans of Whiskas and I do not have a cat, I probably shouldn't have been doing what I've been doing. Whatever!
I cannot not buy for a child ... I just can't.

But to continually react and act out of love ... ah, most difficult. Most worth it?

Rinse. Spin. Supper!

2007-12-08T10:12:00.000-05:00

I just defrosted a hunk of salmon; not my favorite of the fish, but it was there in the freezer.

Looking for inspiration on how to prepare it other than throwing it in the broiler, I asked the know-it-all Google. This is one of the billion ideas Google provided me:

Cooking Salmon in a Dishwasher

Needs:
salmon fillets
aluminum foil
a lemon
a few butter pats
electric dishwasher

the straw that broke the back of the camel in your mind (editor's addenda)

Place the fish on two large sheets of aluminum foil. Squeeze on some lemon juice and place the pats of butter on the salmon fillets. Seal the fillets well in the foil, and place the foil packet in the top wire basket of your electric dishwasher. DO NOT ADD SOAP OR DETERGENT. Close the dishwasher door, set the dishwasher on the hottest wash cycle, complete with drying cycle, and let it run through a full cycle. When the cycle is complete the fish will be cooked just right.

**************************

Wow ... has everyone else been doing this except me?

What other clever food preparation shortcuts have not been mine for lack of imagination?

Instead of roasting a chicken in the oven (!) tomorrow with some red potatoes and carrots, why not throw it all in the dryer? What if I left the gas fireplace burning all night with a brisket on the hearth?

I Will Survive ... Hey ... Hey

2007-12-06T15:23:00.000-05:00

Thanks for all the calls, prayer circles, candygrams, flowers, and the llama. I survived the evening and then the morning and afternoon. I can breathe betterer, but now I can feel that horrid kind of scraping thing in my sinuses ... like an itch that cannot be scratched ... only it hurts.
I'm drinking my wine now, for I don't want to be irresponsible and mix it with nighttime cold medicine.

Ticked off today's quotidian To-Do List was calling my mobile phone company and throwing myself on their mercy ... my father suddenly became sick and died mid-October ... and there was a week when I was away in NH and honestly, the last thing on my mind was my phone plan (I normally make or receive one call a year). So, my bill was triple what it normally is and my pockets are not only empty, they've holes. I bring to you, in one act, my conversation with, let's call them S-Mobile:

Extremeley Effete S-Mobile Representative: Good afternoon! Welcome to S-Mobile -- what may I help you with today?
Me: Hi, yes, I was hoping you could help me with my latest bill.
EES-MR: Okay, I'm pulling up your account. First, what is your name, please?
Me: Dianne
EES-MR: Do you have a blog called "Rough Draft"??
Me: Okay that didn't really happen.
EES-MR: No, it didn't. Please tell me your password.
Me: Could I have a hint, please?
EES-MR: I'm sorry, I cannot give you a "hint."
Me: What? Seriously? Is it my mother's maiden name, my father's middle name, my childhood pet, age of first menses, location of my birth, favorite mole location?
EES-MR: I'm sorry! I cannot tell you!
Me: But, but, but... There are a squillion passwords and they tell us to never use the same! You have to give me a hint -- is it a name, location, number?
EES-MR: Ma'am, I cannot divulge that.
Me: This is a bit insane, don't you think? Is it xxxx (my pin number for my debit card).

Bingo.

Damage done, though.
He didn't fully refund or forgive the overcharges, although he did take $30+ off. I resignedly thanked him and told him I appreciated all his help.

Moral: Plan family emergencies better and demand a prompt for passwords.

As I Sit Dying

2007-12-05T17:57:00.000-05:00

I am dying.

Sure, we're all dying from the moment we draw our first breath, blah blah and blah. And I don't wish to alarm all my dear reader, but I fear I suffer from The Cold of Death.

It's tremendously unfair and rude, too, because this is my second cold in a month-ish. I blame the little people, of course. Those wretched little people with their immature immunization systems and their germy, sticky ways. They touch everything, they think nothing of sneezing in your face or coughing in your ears, they insist on breathing ... o, little people! It's a fucking wonder Keebler can keep their shift workers churning out product.

Why I am convinced this cold shall kill me: I cannot breathe.
I took nighttime remedy last night and it not only failed to decongest me, well, that was the most important demand I think, and it failed. I couldn't breathe from my nose (preferred 24-hour method) and then the mouth-breathing was difficult. Left with no other orifice from which to draw life-sustaining air (that I could think of or get to work properly) I fell asleep awkwardly (sitting up, kinda) and imagining my death and how sad it would be when my corpse would finally be found. Plus, the Person Designated With Removing Potentially Tragically-Embarrassing Items Upon My Death lives far away ... too far to help in such a situation. So.

Here it is, early evening, and already I've got the labored breathing mouth thing happening.

I just wanted to warn you.

Take care and I love you. Your Christmas present was about to be ordered, sorry. If you wish, you may choose a gift from my nightstand.

Have Never Drank Gatorade ... And Now, Never Will

2007-11-28T07:54:00.001-05:00

Jesus, NPR ...

So, the doctor who invented Gatorade died yesterday. Apparently this is HUGE news, and I was only just half-listening to the seemingly endless loop of his obit on NPR when this new tidbit filtered through to my shocked and disgusted ears ... When told that his first batch or two tasted like urine, Dr. Gatorade drank some (his?) urine to compare and Golly! It did! before perfecting his brew. He died yesterday of kidney disease.

Republicans are Dumb

2007-11-28T07:12:00.000-05:00

Instead of Mitt Romney or/and Fred Thompson ... Bill Paxton.
So obvious.

Eternal Question of Atheistic Doubt

2007-11-27T20:53:00.000-05:00

What if when we die ... there's an afterlife?

I Thought We'd Be Living "The Twilight Zone" By Now

2007-11-27T19:22:00.000-05:00

Wait a minute ... I have to post? O, deep dramatic sigh.
I buy fruit, but that's not good enough, I'm supposed to eat it, too.
I joined a gym, but oh no, that's not good enough, either. I'm supposed to go to the dreadful place. Is it really too much to ask for a device already to have been invented that can read my mind and tap out my posts for me? I'm not tech savvy, or even ... what's the word ... smart ... but shouldn't we have the means and capability for this already? I'm tired by the end of the day ... hell, I'm tired at the beginning of the day ... it's almost 2008; enough with the typing!

Now I'm going to take my generic otc sleep aid, wash it down with a glass of red, and crawl into my bed. It's 7:30. I'm 138.

Date Rape, Toys, Christmas, Alcohol, Sundays

2007-11-25T18:34:00.001-05:00

I must have been insane to step into a store this weekend, or anytime before Christmas, but I, you know, needed food and stuff. The Super Target part was a mistake, yes. Since there's a local child I need to buy for, I fought my way to the already-decimated toy aisles. A wee blonde girl was weeping, not because of the lack of toys but because her older, toddler sister had swung her purse (?) that had $10 worth of coins in it and I guess crying is part of early concussion. I was hoping to score some good deals on the China toys, but all the recalled ones were gone. Speaking of which -- date rape drug on a toy? How fucked up is that? Why? How? (They were out of those, too.) And speaking of stupidity -- how the bloody hell did I end up in a place that doesn't sell alcohol on Sundays? I didn't even want to buy alcohol today, but dammit, what if I did? Is this not America? Am I not an adult? Why, pray tell, can adults not buy whatever legal thing they wish on Sunday? I would like an answer.

How are you -- both of you -- handling Christmas shopping this year? All Internet? All Goodwill? All stores? Combination?

Confession

2007-11-25T17:07:00.000-05:00

Hi, my name is Dianne and I'm a linen-a-holic. [Hi, Dianne!]

After being in recovery since February?, I relapsed just now and bought a set of red flannel sheets at Target. I've enough sets of sheets, of embarrassing good quality too, to last not only this lifetime even if I live to be 100 (I won't) but into my next two lifetimes -- and that's without knowing if I've collected enough karma of the Good variety to warrant a lifestyle that will require sheets.

My defense/excuse: They were on sale for less than $13. That's three bottles of pinot noir, people. And I'm not in real AA, so ...

I also spent money I do not have on a movie at Landmark ... "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead" ... excellent cast and and excellent writing. I give it three thumbs up. [You're not going to be coming here for movie reviews, I'll tell you that right now.]

I guess if I had to leave the house ... after being a shut-in for three full, glorious days (at least it was cloudy and then rainy so the brightness of the sun did not burn my retinas) this wasn't so bad. Although a nice lady just arriving at Target offered to take my freshly emptied shopping cart and I was literally and embarrassingly speechless. She was clever and made a few jokes, I was a shocked mute struggling for words. I need to get out more, and tomorrow I'll be forced to, again.

So...

2007-11-24T08:57:00.000-05:00

...if one has a secret but doesn't tell anyone [that they have a secret; not the secret itself] is it still considered a secret?

If the Pope is alone in the woods and defecates, does anyone hear him?

Eternal mysteries, all.

No one knows of this ... this ... this ... thing yet and before my readership swells to another person, I want to get used to it all a bit more.

So...
...for now this is just my little secret and I shall become comfortable with it before its unveiling to the lone, lost Internets wanderer.

A journey ... begins ... a step

2007-11-23T18:29:00.000-05:00

Hello.

Starting a blog has been on my To-Do list since circa 1985 ... the first 812 names for this blog were unavailable. Inexplicably "A Tittle of Truth" was available.

Walk with me, won't you?