My fingers feel like fingers again.
I can walk up and down stairs.
I know this is only the second dose, but I think the Methotrexate may be working.
My fingers feel like fingers again.
I can walk up and down stairs.
I know this is only the second dose, but I think the Methotrexate may be working.
After the fiasco at MCB I vowed privately (although I guess as of now it’s public) to never again close another thread or block another commenter on any blog I ran. I also vowed to only ever run my own blog.
If, like me, you have made a stupid vow to yourself along the same lines, I would encourage you to NOT post about Cl.. A.k.n or J.n & K.te plus * EVER, unless you want a lot of people who have never ever read your blog before to come and fill your comment sections with useless comments.
I say they are useless comments because they say those things that have no purpose that beginning Internet commenters say. Shall we make a list? Yes! Let’s! Lists which mock others can be fun. Ask VH1, who has made an entire business model out of it. (40 Greatest Internet Superstars? Without the Hamster Dance?)
1. If you don’t like it, turn off the TV or change the channel.
2. What about Hitler?
3. And you call yourself a Christian.
4. You obviously don’t know enough about this particular subject which obsesses me to make a judgement call about it so don’t even bother holding an opinion.
5. You have no right to an opinion if it differs from mine.
[Note: numbers 4 and 5 are a sort of amalgam of several different comments]
6. Yeah, you act so smart but you still misspelled that word up there so everything you say is suspect!
7. What about Hitler?
8. Who cares what you say on a stupid blog that nobody reads?
9 If you were half as good as the subject at hand you would be out feeding orphaned kittens and building houses in New Orleans instead of writing something about the subject at hand on a stupid blog.
10. What about Hitler?
Yes, I know he came out a week ago. It’s old news and it wasn’t even that interesting when it first happened. But I’ve been stewing on this and I think I need to get it off my chest.
I like Clay Aiken. He’s the only American Idol contestant I ever voted for. In fact, he was the only reason I watched AI in the first place, and his was the only season I paid attention to. He’s the only AI contestant who put out an album I wanted to buy. (It’s his Christmas CD and it’s really good.) Now that he’s come out of the closet I don’t think I am considering myself a fan of his any more.
No. It’s not because he’s gay. It’s because he’s lied about being gay for like five years now. I don’t care if you are closeted, and I don’t care if you want to stay closeted until the day you die. That’s your business. But what I do care about is when you LIE. When asked if you’re gay, there are half a dozen answers to the question that aren’t lies but allow a person to table the discussion of his or her sexuality. Things like “I don’t think that’s a necessary topic of conversation” or “I don’t wish to discuss it” are just fine. And they aren’t out and out LIES. I have no problem with gay men. I do have a problem with cowards and liars.
The Stock Market
I see that it dropped a whole lot of points yesterday. I refuse to worry, though. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of investing and watching the market it’s that the Market drops points the way most dieters lose weight. For every headlining loss, there is an equal gain with an increase for good measure. As sure as I weigh 40 pounds more than I did when I got married, the market will come back eventually.
The Conservative Hollywood Movie
I don’t know what it’s called but Ken from Blue Collar Muse is among those urging conservatives to support the film on the merits of it’s right-of-centerness.
For years I’ve listened to–and at times joined in–the long whinging about Liberalness In Pop Culture. Bashing that Al Gore movie is still a popular sport in right-of-center gatherings. We complain about the preachiness, about the divisiveness and the whole left-out feeling of the experience. I don’t see why turnabout is a great idea. Besides which, that movie doesn’t even look remotely entertaining to me.
For many decades, Christianity was culturally low on fun times. The stuff most middle and lower middle class people did for fun–movies, cards, bowling, chilling with a beer–were off limits. I think that’s why a lot of the faithful turned to Name That Sin as a sort of leisure activity. I was thinking of this because I read Aunt B.’s musings on judgements of hell earlier and it caused me to mull over a lot of things. Well, more accurately it added the dash of baking soda that my own vinegary thoughts needed to just come frothing over.
Lots of Christians like to label sin in others as a way to make themselves feel that they are daily walking close to He. I think. I mean, I can’t figure out why people are so eager to see other people go to hell. Jesus himself is not a big fan of people going to hell, as he tells us over and over again in parables about lost coins and lost sheep. I myself have given up on the whole Hell game. My thoughts on the End Of Days are still a work in progress, and if I ever get to sit around a table with good friends and good food and just bounce the theories off them I may do that. Until then I’m content to not have the answer.
Someone who once was certain he had the answer told me I was not having children because God was pinching my ovaries in a curse against me for something I had done wrong. That’s always been in the back of my mind, even when I know better and even when I dismiss it. A year or so ago someone who reads (or read–not sure if he’s still around) this blog told me that my illness was in my own mind and could be easily overcome with Positive Thinking or some such hokum. People like me–those who are struggling with grave difficulties–always have these people in our lives. It’s part of the equation of suffering.
I’m generally finding myself in the role of defending Jehovah, as Elihu did. I’m as long-winded as that dude and as generally perturbed with small-mindedness. But right now I just don’t know that I have it in me to defend this situation. I’m not angry with God. I’m not writing God off. I’m not even in a bad place spiritually. I just think I’m tired of putting up with all the outside voices.
It’s Tuesday. In a few hours I’ll take my weekly dose of Methotrexate. It’s the newest medicine I’ve been given in the Quest For Wellness. It is not my favourite, as it seems to give me two days of flu-like symptoms when I take it. I guess the long view is that the severity of symptoms lessens over time and, hey, five okay days and two craptastic days are better than seven blurgh days. Or something like that.
I think mostly I miss interacting with other people. I miss hearing their stories and ideas and thoughts and having that infusion of life. I am now mostly about myself and about making it from point a to point a plus one. It bores me greatly and I’m ready for something else.
This is an Andy Rooney post. My apologies. I swore to never write an Andy Rooney “kids these days” post, but you know, oh well. I am weak-minded and weak-willed and it’s Monday, my friends.
Bath & Body Works hand soap is expensive. I did the math one time and it works out to something like four and a half cents per squirt if you buy it on the 3 for $10 “sale” they seem to have perpetually. Sure it’s cheaper than the hospital bill for e Coli, but honestly, it’s still a bit spendy. Which is why it irks the snot out of me when I press down on the pump and soapfoam ejaculates across the bathroom into my chest. While antibacterial Bukkake may be thrilling for some folks, for me it’s about a dime’s worth of soap pretty much wasted.
Speaking of waste, it also bugs me that there is no curbside recycling in Hermitage.
Speaking of recycling…how come no matter how many times they change it, Gray’s Anatomy still sucks out loud? I just honestly am bugged at how a fresh and exciting show could turn so blasted awful in just a few short months. It makes me sad. It makes me sadder that Kevin Kidd has to resort to being Insert McNickname Doctor Here #82 now that Journeyman is off the air. Yes, I will whine about the cancellation of Journeyman forever. Of course I should be happy. As unique, fun and different as it was, it could have gone the Gray’s Anatomy route and been PrimeTime Pukefest by now.
Pam asks if I’ve seen this yet, and I really didn’t want to answer.
Because I want very much to like Fringe more than I do. It has an intriguing premise. It has a sterling pedigree. It has the Steward of Gondor. It has Lieutenant Daniels.
We rushed to watch the pilot, after which I was very “meh”. Apparently the world was very “meh”, because J.J. Abrams was all over the place saying “subsequent episodes are better.” We watched the next episode and it was better. But not better enough to make Fringe appointment TV, which is why the latest episode is still languishing on our TiVo. It IS green-dotted, at least, which in my world means that it is much more important than Get It Sold, Flip That House and other paint-dry stuff.
I didn’t get the instant hook with this show that I got with Lost, but I AM willing to give it much more time and many more episodes. The premise is fun and the standalone episodes have more than a bit of the X-Files’ shivery DNA. What could improve it? Well….I’ll tell you.
*Dark doesn’t have to be drab. You can have a “dark” show without relying on a relentlessly washed-out colour palette. In fact, much of Lost is dark, what with bodies in pits, ghosts in moving cabins, haunted pirate ships, estranged fathers stealing organs and exploding people. But it still uses a sun-drenched tropical palette. In fact I’ll go so far as to point out that the episodes people openly hated (with Sawyer and Kate in cages and That Damn Jack in the whale jail) had a more drab colour palette. People don’t mention it because it doesn’t often occur to them, but I think this does matter when talking about TV. The style currently employed by Fringe isn’t visually appealing and that does matter when asking people to spend 47 minutes in your world. (I humbly point also to the bright sunniness of Baltimore which The Wire exploited in its best moments.)
*What brightness is leeched out of the set design and cinematography is perhaps unwisely slammed into Joshua Jackson and John Noble’s characters. They’re supposedly geniuses. That’s a problem because they seem like charicatures of “genius”. John Noble’s character is best when he’s being eccentric but not a dullard. More scenes of him “remembering his where his car is” and fewer of him being unable to use a toilet. And please know that some of Joshua Jackson’s smartassery is over-the-top and not fun.
*The lead character doesn’t seem like someone who was able to find the FBI’s Indianapolis branch office, let alone become a special agent in the FBI. She needs to be made tougher and less naive.
*Take a cue from those who know. Harry Potter, The Wire, Babylon 5, Battlestar Galactica and Lost all have a predetermined ending which allowed for a strong story structure. I find that I require that in shows where there is a Vast Conspiracy or an Overarching Unknown or a Grand Plan. Otherwise they meander, stringing their once-loyal audiences along and ultimately losing credibility.
This show has good bones and I want it to be around for a few years. I’d like it much better if they’d take some of my advice.
I just saw a commercial for Curves–the place where you can work out in thirty minutes or less or it’s free. Or something like that.
Apparently if we join now they will give us a free (!) breast self-exam kit.
Now maybe I’ve been doing it wrong the last twenty seven years or so, but last time I looked all you need is your dominant hand, the fifth day of your menstrual cycle and your naked breasts. I can’t begin to imagine what the “kit” would entail.
It’d be cool if it had a foam rubber boob. I’d like a foam rubber boob. Even moreso, I’d like a boob made from that grey green stuff that florists use. It’s the most fun stuff to poke–infinitely more fun than your own breast.
At long last, ‘regular’ TV is back. I and my TiVo can both breathe long sighs of much relief.
This is the hardest day for the ol’ TiVos, as 7:00 is the dangerous three way of CBS comedies, NBC’s Chuck and FOX’s Sarah Connor Chronicles. Since I’ve only got 2 TiVos, we’ll be downloading Sarah Connor on Amazon’s VideoOnDemand. (They’ve changed the name from “unbox”, which makes sense, although the new name has less of the freudian funnies about it.)
The Big Bang Theory
This show returned quite nicely, with the Penny and Leonard relationship serving as a spicy sidedish and the geeky relationship of the four guys as the entree. That’s how this show works best and I hope they keep that construct. Every week a favourite activity in our household is seeing how many “Sheldon” things remind us of me. Except for the physics genius thing, I think that I am that guy–or he is me.
How I Met Your Mother
I want to have this thought on the record. I’ve been saying it since last spring, but I need to put it here in writing so that when I am proven correct I can link back to it and say “see!!!” If I’m wrong, and I’m betting I’m not, then I’ll probably have to creatively live this entry down but I don’t care. I’m betting I’m right.
Sarah Chalke is not the mother. She’s going to be a long red herring.
Last night’s two hours are still unwatched on my Tivo. I’ve got to get up the nerve to dive back in. All last season was like sitting by the TV and waiting for the show you loved to call, only to be repeatedly disappointed by longwinded conversations with your great aunt. I’ve heard and read that this season “the show is back” but I don’t yet believe the begging quality of those reports.
All this and I still miss Journeyman. NBC dropped that excellent show and appears, so far, to have not replaced it with anything worthwhile.
I know I have an attic, because they mentioned one when we built the house. I have no idea how to get in there, though.
That worries me.
The last couple of days I’ve looked really good. Like, seriously attractive. Now, I’m not a bad looking person to begin with, I guess, but this is not normal. Chiefly because I think I look good. My husband has remarked on it several times as well. (“You’re looking especially pretty lately”)
I really need to get into my attic because I’m starting to think there may be a picture up there where I look increasingly hideous.
Next Saturday is my twentieth High School reunion. Because it’s in Indiana and I am in Tennessee and the gas to get there and back again would cost about as much as a new iPhone, I will not be going. But that’s just my surface excuse.
It kind of breaks my heart in a little bit of a way. I didn’t really have the Breakfast Club type of High School experience. Sure, there were jocks and hot chicks and braniacs and nerds, but since there were only 26 people in my Senior class, there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to exclude people that often. My class was less like a school to me and more like a family. I went to Elementary school with most of them, left for a two-year stint in public school and returned for 8th grade on. I spent every day and many weekends with my classmates.
In those years before blogging, my high school class was a lot like a blogging group–which is probably why I took so instantly to the friendly bickering that was the Nashville Blogosphere three years ago. We (that high school class) argued politics and religion on a weekly basis. Bible classes were about deep theology and the practice of Christianity in the modern world. We didn’t agree, but we loved to disagree.
On the last day of my Senior year we had graduation practice and then went to Cheddar’s for a farewell lunch. One of the memories that still makes me cry to this day was looking down the long table at all my comrades in arms and realising that we would never again be together in that same close way. We might all see one another from time to time, talk on the phone and send cards. But that group of people in that setting was done. It hit me in the gut like a death. Sometimes when I’m awake at 3:30 in the morning and it’s just me and the moroseness of the night I’ll touch on that memory and have a good cry.
One of my classmates added me to her friend list on Facebook last week, and as I was looking through the rest of her social inventory I saw an 11th grade girl. The daughter of one of our classmates is now roughly the same age I was that day in the Cheddar’s when I said good-bye to a large part of my family.
I want to see my classmates. I want to hear what they’ve been up to. But I don’t think I can go back to do it in person. Just as I can’t open the box of Casey’s ashes in my closet, I can’t open that other box to spend that time with the dead. It hurts too much.