Archive for November, 2006

Now that NaBloPoMo is drawing to a close, I thought it might be fun to look back at what I did this month:

I was nominated for a Perfect Post.  R came  to town.  Nicole’s book of essays came out. I tried desperately to change the time setting from UTC to EST.  I wrote an excuse note and regained some optimism courtesy of Keith Olberman.  I entered Blogging for Books.  I rambled about Macaca.  I got into a political crap-throwing contest with my grandfather and then had a mini-breakdown about my father’s death.  I made everyone look at my cats.  I wrote about writing in general.  I wrote about writing a short story.  I made a virtual mixtape of high school.  I wrote about writing again.  I got my first rejection and tried to answer everyone’s Ronaldinho questions again.  The Flylady cheese.  Neighbors and Paddy Kenny needs new friends.  The olde blame the reader rant.  Driving 101 and Step Off goodness.  Fluff, immigration fluff and NaBlo reviews from Crushing Krisis.  The BB fake tattoo rant.  Lucy’s santa wish list.  My writing teacher’s essay.  Poison freaks me out.  I’m exhausted.  And cranky.  But I put up the Xmas tree!  I do a meme and my grandfather ends up in the hospital but he just has ulcers.  Then I totally cop out of a real entry by reviewing the entries I already wrote.


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brief update

My grandfather has ulcers.  Nobody’s quite sure why the bleeding, but hopefully he’ll be home soon.  He gave me a freaking heartattack.  Talked to him this afternoon and he sounds pretty wiped.  They’re giving him blood and doing a colonoscopy tomorrow morning to make sure there’s nothing else funky.  He seems to think the docs think he’s still losing blood but he has a tendency to extrapolate.

I was up and down all night checking my cell phone for test results from my mom and am thoroughly exhausted albeit really relieved.

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Listen, guys, any of y’all what pray or whathaveyou…my grandfather is in an ambulance on the way to the hospital and I’m pretty well scared shitless.  He threw up and shat out very dark blood today, and what with all of the heart crap he’s gone through…thing is, nobody knows what it is and I’m bad with keeping a positive outlook and C is at class tonight and I’m here 200 miles away feeling pretty sorry for myself and for him and for my grandma and and and…

It’s rarely nothing with 83 year olds, but please let it be closer to nothing than really bad.    He has too many stories left to tell and I want to hear them all.

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3 Things Meme

I was tagged by Karen:

1.  3 Things that scare me:  Most social situations, death, fucking up

2.  3 People who make me laugh:  My husband, Lucy, Jon Stewart

3.  3 Things I love:  coffee, napping, great conversations

4.  3 Things I hate:   ignorance, tomatos, talking on the telephone
5.  3 Things I don’t understand:   the workings of the preschooler’s mind, neo-cons, people unwilling to listen

6.  3 Things on my desk:  Coffee, nosedrops, cards from Lucy

7.  3 Things I’m doing right now:   dreading litter scooping, waiting for Lucy to finish breakfast, sniffling

8.  3 Things I want to do before I die:  get published, go to an Arsenal match, finish college

9.  3 Things I can do:  punctuate like a motherfucker, ice skate, rant

10.  3 Things I can’t do:  ride a bike, take Lucy on the subway alone, cook

11.  3 Things I think you should listen to:  your gut, other people’s limits, Keith Olberman
12.   3 Things you should never listen to:  Boy bands post-New Kids, people who cut you down, the What-ifs

13.  3 Things I’d like to learn:  patience, cross country skiing, Russian

14.  3 Favorite foods:  quiche florentine, gorgonzola cheese, shepard’s pie

15.  3 Beverages I drink regularly:   Pellegrino, coffee, juice du jour

16.  3 Shows I watched as a kid:   The Addams Family, Muppet Show, 321 Contact

17.  3 People I’m tagging:   Thordora, Karrie, Venessa and anyone else who wants to.

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Man, I Give Up

I should probably explain–my people are a bit…rigid with the Christmas tree decorating.  By rigid, I mean there is a proper order for the entire process to the extent that by the time one is eight or nine years old, one can accurately remember on which branch each ornament goes.  Well, maybe just the lower branches that hold the non-breakable ornaments that the kids are allowed to handle, but still.  It’s total killjoy  for a child since by the time the garlands have properly been tucked in, and lights applied–white first, then colors–it becomes apparent that any wrong move may just destroy the perfection of the tree.  What kid needs that kind of pressure?
I was in therapy when the first Christmas rolled around in the new apartment, and my tree stress was bad enough that my therapist ordered me to take the whole thing down.  I swore that year, two Christmases ago, that I wouldn’t let my family’s obsession with the perfect tree interfere with my daughter’s experiences.  Do you know how much effort that takes?  How hard it is to stop myself from explaining that the felt and wood ornaments must be evenly spread throughout the tree?  That we shouldn’t have all of the stars in one place?  That the empty spaces between branches must be filled so that we don’t have to look at the ugly inside of our fake tree?

Well, Internet, I did it.  I don’t know how the damn thing looks, but Lucy and I actually had fun decorating the tree.  I think it’s all worth it, really, being able to look at the joy in her face as we unwrap ornaments we haven’t seen in a year.  Maybe my family’s trees are more perfect, but I doubt they enjoy them as much as we enjoy ours.

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…and boy do the dead dream weird shit.  I was passed out enough to not really remember the circumstances of my dreams, but there was something to do with Robert Pires and blogging.  Perhaps I have gotten stressed out enough about coming up with daily entries that my subconscious is doing my legwork whilst I sleep?

For the eventuality that I get folks popping by from The Google looking for information about Pires’ parents–dude, I have no idea.  Nor do I know anything about Ronaldinho’s grandparents or house, or what high school Zidane attended, or what *his* parents’ names were, or the names of Pele’s parents, or information about Ronaldinho written in French.  Try this site for a start.  It’s not that I don’t like the hits, but my OCD compels me to have answers for these questions and to be quite honest, I don’t need to know the names of footballer’s parents.  Unless, of course, all of y’all want to pay me to do your Googling for you.

Anyhow, I’d write about Arsenal at this point but I missed both of their games last week due to travel.  I did catch the Man Utd-Chelsea match today, and honestly the only result that could’ve possibly been satisfying was if somehow points were taken away from both.  Why did I watch?  A week without football is like a day without shitting.  Or something.  Watch, that will show up as a search engine term and I’m going to remove all references to sports entirely.

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Three nights of talking until the wee hours of the morning have taken their toll on me.  I’m gonna put on sweats, heat up soup, and try not to think about unpacking.

I managed to leave my keys somewhere down in the southland, as well as Lucy’s drawing book, my Yankee cap and a skull shirt.  I remembered the kid, my cell phone and the camera, though I took nary a picture.  Frankly, so much happened that it’s pretty effing hard to remember all of it.  The best news is that my grandfather’s consult for the pacemaker yielded a no-pacemaker verdict from the doctor.  I’m seriously relieved.

In the meantime, I’d like to point out that after today, there are only like five more days of NaBloPoMo.  I wish I wasn’t so relieved, but I kind of am.  It’s hard to write something new every day anyway, but when it’s something that other folks will read?  Tough stuff.

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