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.


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


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


The State of Israel is committing war-crimes


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.


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.


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