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Archive for July, 2006

Poor Mel

It appears that the Jews have driven Mel Gibson to drink.

I know that I’m not the first person, or the 93rd person, to point this out…but don’t you think that during the filming of Passion Of The Christ, Mel would have hit upon the fact that Jesus was a Jew. For that matter, so was Peter. Since Mel is so very completely Catholic if Jesus doesn’t hold enough weight, you’d think if we threw in Peter that’d help.

I guess not.

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I’m not Ernest Hemingway. I don’t like to drink, couldn’t really care less about hunting and have no good way to write eloquently about all the piles of pebbles that turn life into a quarry of concern. Kidney stones, obviously. And then dogs with torn toenails, leaky faucets, microwave short-outs and another dog whose blowing his coat all add up to….ordinary. Not the troubles of giants. So this paragraph is all I’m writing about any of that. I haven’t anything nice to say. So consider this my version of saying nothing at all.

I do have nice and positive things to say about this last week, though. What good are trials if you can’t come away with a nice memory or two? I had several people offer to drive far out of their way to bring me things. I couldn’t take any of them up on it, but the fact that the offers were made just really made me feel loved in a way that meant a lot during all of this.

The other “positive” thing is that I seem to have lost my taste for soda. That may not seem like a big deal to most people, but I crave soda the way Hemingway craved his whiskey. (Or rum. Or whatever he drank.) I haven’t had a soda for a full week now. And at the risk of sounding like I’m whistling past the graveyard, I don’t miss it. The worst of the caffeine headaches were also when I was getting the anesthesia out of my system, so I killed two birds with one stone. I’m trying very hard to not be one of those zealous converts, and I’m not here to say all manner of bad things about Demon Coke. Because I enjoyed drinking it for many years and I don’t think it should be illegal or heavily-taxed or whathaveyou. I’m just really glad to have eliminated it from my diet. Ironically, it’s doubtful that I had the type of stones caused by soda, so cutting it out of my diet may have little effect on whether or not the whole thing happens again. Regardless, I have better skin, my eyes are clearer and my hair seems less brittle. Although there is a part of me that thinks I’m imagining all of these goodies as a way to talk myself out of getting back on the red-and-white wagon. Heh. We’ll see, I suppose.

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I had planned to write a long post in honour of the Tour De France on Sunday when the race wrapped up. Instead I was in and out and in the Summit E.R.

I was crazy mad with pain in a way that only a person who has been there can understand. At one point I was on my hands and knees screaming in someone’s office, because the E.R. had no more beds. (People without regular doctors use the E.R. as their primary care physician and were all being treated for sore throats at roughly the same time I was trying to give birth to a 3mm piece of rock.)

I thought of two things during the times that they waited to make sure I wasn’t “drug-seeking” (heck, I WAS drug-seeking, insofar as the drugs lessen your desire to have your throat slit by a rusty green penny) and poking me with needles to find a vein. The first thing was that verse in Revelation, which I am probably misquoting:

…there shall be no more death. Neither sorrow nor crying, and no more pain. The former things are all passed away. He that sat upon the throne said “behold! I make all things new”

The second thing was Floyd Landis. He had an amazing comeback earlier in the week, pushing himself beyond all conceivable limits to acheive the once-impossible and win the race. I was inspired by Floyd, even during the moments when I begged my husband to let me die. (I know this sounds dramatic, but I promise you if you’ve ever been there you’d understand how utterly mundane it is to want to give up when faced with this.)

Now they say that Floyd may have cheated. I am both sad and relieved. I’m sad to think that he could desire glory so much as to sacrifice his honour. But I’m more relieved. Because when I see other people do the impossible it makes me feel as though I’m chained to mediocrity in a very petty way. Cheating acknowledges that it is called “the impossible” for a reason, and makes me feel less ashamed to be mired in the possible.

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“My throat hurts. Can I have some morpine?”

*brahms lullaby over the intercom*

“I’m really tired of potato salad. My mom makes it all the time.”

“Yeah, my dad ran over a cat this weekend. Runned the truck right OVER its head. So of course I hadta go pick that thing up by its tail and just flung it into the woods sose they ain’t gotta look at it no more. Damn shame too. That-un ‘as a good cat. He had him some personality.”

*brahms lullaby over the intercom*

“Do you have diabetes?” (said about 90 times)

“Are you Missus Kobble?” (Also said about 90 times)

*brahms lullaby over the intercom*

“What side is it on?”

*brahms lullaby over the intercom*

Apparently every time a baby is born at Summit, they play “brahms’ lullaby” over the intercom. Between early Sunday morning and late Monday afternoon, I believe that 864,000 babies were born at Summitt Medical Center. I was there, having another kidney stone extracted (in what I like to call, privately, a “snatch-and-grab” ha!). Judging by conversations heard in the ER, I was one of at least 3 stone passers on Sunday.

I think they should play “We Will Rock You” over the intercom for every stone that is passed. It’s only fair.

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Or…here’s how I see it.

Anti-Israel

The State of Israel is not a legitimate nation-state worthy of recognition.

and/or

The State of Israel’s battles are its own problem, stemming from their insistence on occupying sought-after lands.

and/or

The State of Israel is committing war-crimes

Anti-Semite

Jews are inherently evil.

Jews committ atrocities–anything from making matzah with the blood of Muslim & Christian Babies to helping plot 9/11–to advance their own world agenda.

Jews are exploiting the holocaust to inflame world opinion.

Isolationist

You think that battles not directly affecting the U.S. are not our business.

—-

I can understand being Anti-Israel, and I can understand Isolationism. I think both are tolerable positions. But I have a real problem with anti-Semitism. And I don’t like it when people are incorrectly labelled as Anti-Semites because it kills all legitimate conversation about the U.S. role in Israeli conflicts.

I do wish, however, that those who take Anti-Israel and Isolationist positions would kindly leave the Anti-Semitic rhetoric at the door. Because you and I can never have a productive conversation while I listen to irrational libel of the Jewish people. Thank you.

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The Dumbness

I’ve been frantically trying to plan various things so they don’t coincide with my downtime, which begins on August 10th. I’ve felt a bit behind the eight-ball for several days, worried about the tenth drawing ever closer and my ambition to accomplish various tasks dwindling. Yesterday morning I woke up thinking that I had been worked up for nothing. After all, I had thirty days–more than enough time to cover all my bases. I went about my business slighly relaxed about having a WHOLE 30 days.

Then, around 4:00 it occured to me that I, great idiot that I am, was adding 20 (as in July 20th) to 10 (as in August 10th) and coming up with 30. Did I ever mention that I once got a D in Algebra?

The Gullability

Pizza Hut’s Dippin’ Strips pizza looks both decadent and delicious in the commercials, right? Right? Well, I thought so anyway. So I ordered some up on Monday night. Tim was out of town all week, and I thought I’d treat myself to some bachelor food. I don’t know how to tell you this, but it would seem that Pizza Hut employs a grade-A food stylist for their commercial shoots. Because what came to my door was NOTHING like the ad. (Surprise!) Although I must admit that dipping pizza in ranch dressing has a slightly pornographic feel to it.

The Ego

Our master bedroom has room for a king-sized bed, which sits between two windows. And of course, since our dogs aren’t blood-crazed pitbulls bent on our eventual destruction we allow them to sleep in the bedroom with us. For more than a year, Casey has slept under the window on Tim’s side of the bed, and Quinn has slept under the window next to me.

About a month ago , Casey and Quinn (the dogs) began arguing over who slept on my side of the bed. To wit, whenever Casey ventured past the stacked up books and cast-off clothes to lie on the floor by my head, Quinn would growl and refuse to let him through. This has become a nightly ritual, with repeat performances from dusk to dawn. Part of me was irritated, but more of me was really flattered. The dogs apparently loved me so very much that it was an honour just to sleep nearer to The Mama Dog. “Touch the hem of my garment, puppies!”

And then last night I realised. The A/C vent by me is open all the way. The one by Tim is not. This whole time they’ve been fighting over the coolest spot in the room, and I’ve been blowing a lot of hot air.

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Thanks to Nathan Moore I’m pleased beyond belief.

Happiness!

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–Finished watching The Wire Season 1 last night. Now I need to get my hands on Seasons 2 & 3 as soon as possible. I crave it bad. Poor McNulty put adrift like a post-menopausal Inuit woman.

–Did you ever read something that you just knew was dictated by another person? Like a letter that was supposedly from your sister, but had your mom’s turns of phrase all over it? I’ve had that experience a lot lately with different blogs that I read here and there. It’s like the blogger is posting stuff to his or her site, but you know they’re just doing so at the urging of someone else behind the scenes. It makes me uncomfortable. I feel like I know a lot of these voices, and I can’t quite figure out the reasoning behind the ventriloquism. Why write something at someone else’s urging? Blogs have established a pretty good conversation nationwide (I don’t read that many international blogs), so just start your own if you have something to say. I don’t like it when people sneakily force other people to do their dirty-writing for them.

–In all the conversation yesterday at Feline Little Britches about The Very Evil That Threatens To Destroy The Fabric Of Our Society, it came up that dogs are red-green colourblind. Man, Christmas must suck for them. I do know that one of the colours that dogs CAN see is blue. Because I’ve got two blue blankets, a blue pillow and a blue couch that my dogs have adopted as their own. I think blue must shine for them like diamonds.

–Wouldn’t it be funny if Bob Corker accepted campaign donations from Pit Bulls? Cause then I’d know for sure who I’m supposed to hate.

–I’ve been struggling with my Welsh book of late. Trying to tie up plot lines, etc. So imagine my glee when my daily cartoon fix tackled the same issue. It’s awful when a cartoonist is inhabiting your head.

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Allow me to take a few moments to tell you about Kate. She was an elfinly-pretty woman, both smart and talented. She married very young, and to a much older man. Not long after their cool plunge into hasty marriage they had a son they called Duncan. Her husband, Bob, loved her for making him feel young again in spite of his advanced years. He and Duncan spent many hours playing chess together, looking at the stars and swimming in the backyard. Kate busied herself in med school. She was whipsmart and in spite of her love for Bob, she was well-aware that he wouldn’t be around to support her forever.

As she climbed the career ladder, Bob declined into his elder years. Kate would often rush home from a night shift at the hospital to help her ailing, aging husband. Not long after she was promoted to chief resident, Bob died. Both Kate and Duncan were grief-stricken, yet there was nothing they could do besides carry on. More fortunate than many families who lose a husband and father, Kate and Duncan had the house and a nice chunk of insurance money to blunt life’s rougher edges. They carried on that way for awhile, until Kate met Simon at work.

Simon was a graduate of the prestigious medical school at the University of Edinburgh. He had a one-year fellowship in the surgical department of the hospital where Kate practiced. One look at her large grey eyes and he knew he would finagle to stay in her orbit forever. He passed the Duncan test with flying colours and six months later they were married.

Many people fail to have luck with one hasty marriage. The fact that Kate had fallen happily into two equally perfect unions was not lost on her. But there was a dark cloud in her wedded bliss the second time around. Simon was a Scotsman from a large family who wanted an equally large brood. A year into the marriage, Marah was born. Her name was Kate’s little joke–it means “bitter” in Hebrew–and Kate was definitely bitter about that pregnancy. But she found having a daughter to be such a joy that she didn’t complain at the birth of Galadriel a year later. (People remarked on that name often. It was due to Simon’s fanciful Scottish poet’s streak). Three years later, Simon finally got his boy, who he promptly named Wallace. Is there another, more fitting name for the son of a Scot?

The family grew, and grew happily. Shortly before she turned 45, Kate had what is politely known as a “change of life” baby. Some people also call them surprises or accidents. Ceddryn was neither, although her redhead and her temper made her true handful for two people trying to slow down a bit.

The problem is this. Now all the kids are grown and have kids of their own. Some of those kids have kids. And yet I can’t bear to kill off Kate and Simon. I’m attached to them. It was hard enough to let Bob die, but I knew he had to go quickly. The point was for Kate to be widowed as soon as possible, to see how she coped with Duncan on her own. But now I just want to move Kate & Simon out of their house and back into the “Families” bin where they can quietly sit in their grey-haired happiness forever and ever.

I hate Sims 2 sometimes.

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