I do not have the acumen for the macabre that Poe possessed, and so this isn’t going to be quite as stirring a tale as that one of his. But it does strike me as funny that, a few short days after the largest kidney stone I’ve passed in years (and that’s quite a lot of company), my household plumbing is now stopped up.
I only wish that our electric bill would go down during the times I have no appetite. Now that would be something!
I’ve gotten little writing done this week. As I said on Facebook, this is a mercy to my characters who would have otherwise found themselves mangled by buses, in love with the wrong sort of people or being sent away for a crime they didn’t commit. The poor folk already have their hands full, what with the king trying to commandeer their lands and special knowledge.
I have, on the other hand, gotten a fair amount of reading done. At one point in the hospital (after the pain shot and the IV rehydration was underway) the nurse walked in to see me reading on my Kindle. “You must really love to read.” No, I told her. I LIVE to read. At that moment it was more poetic and less smarmy than it sounds right now. But I do still wonder if maybe my reading isn’t out of control.
I’m annoyingly navelgazey whenever one of my friends dies. Of course at 41 one shouldn’t really be too familiar with the pattern of life in the shadow of friends’ deaths. But I seem to befriend the frail and unlucky, and am left with knowing the sadness of watching someone you shared a bit of life with jump the queue and sneak into heaven early. Ken, the guy who took the Wall Street Journal on our date. Jackie, who became Rainn and was the best friend I had before I had my husband. And now Melissa. Whom everyone calls Missy. But I never did. I don’t know why. We were pretty close and did a lot of stuff together. But I don’t like the “eeee” names. That’s why I’m not Kathy anymore and I suspect that’s why to me she isn’t Missy. Not that it matters now, seeing as she’s been transformed.
One of my classmate-quasi-sibling-friends said “who would have thought we’d be preparing for services now?” I had to bite my tongue, because my instinctive response was “Anyone who has ever watched the Big Chill.”
Being from Indiana we aren’t as whiney a bunch as that lot, generally speaking. Midwesterners don’t whine. We cry a little and get on with it. Maybe whine on the inside, but nothing more grandiose. A Midwesterner’s version of The Big Chill would last fifteen minutes. And have cooler music. Nothing against Three Dog Night, but really. We are children of the 80s. We’d have Whitesnake and Men At Work and Men Without Hats. Probably some joker would put on Til Tuesday, but we’d switch right on over to Meat Loaf.
So anyway, Melissa’s funeral is now and I’m not there. I’m here dealing with the mundanity of continuing on earth. Plumbing that doesn’t work and dogs that play in a plastic pool on the patio.