Fragile Industries

My Last Post Was Written Under The Influence

Hey, can I write an attention-grabbing title or what?  The problem is that everyone jumps the explanation (this post) to read whatever trash I wrote while in a blackout.  Maybe I'll re-think this.  Because the explanation is awfully goddamn noble and I want people to know about it.

I Survived Swine Flu.  Really.

And the last post was written in that uber-crabby phase of flu where everyone and everything is Out To Get You.  You Personally.  The 6am trash trucks?  Sent especially to wake you and remind you how you feel like crap.  The loving cats who want to snuggle since you are a) immobilized in bed, and b) 2 minutes late for their 5 pm snack -- they are clawed demons who not only drool and expose you to Gawd Knows What Further Pathogen, they don't love you, they never really loved you, and should be put down immediately.  AND WHY ARENT THERE ENOUGH BLANKETS???  Or, five minutes later, GLOBAL WARMING IS REAL AND IN MY BEDROOM!!!

Under that viral impediment, I re-read a book that anyone would know was a bad choice for someone in their Krusty The Kranky Klown mode.  Any attentive caregiver knows that soft boiled eggs and a steady diet of tabloids and cheap fiction are all the patient can digest safely.  Unfortunately, I'm not always my own best caregiver, and couldn't find anything else on the shelf during the time I was upright.

But I stand by my premise: Robert A. Heinlein was a sick fuck.

Today I'm larger than that -- I finally feel 100% today after 16 really rotten days -- and add this observation: who the hell cares about Robert A. Heinlein?  I mean, who the hell cares what I think of him?  But I was sure it was of Burning Importance at the time.

OK, I could pull the post.  But seriously, he was a, you know ...

This post is less an apology than a ploy to obtain sympathy for having a disease As Seen On TV.  As a virology and epidemiology groupie, it was kind of like sleeping with Jagger.  I mean today's Jagger.  Sure, you could brag about it, but would it be worth the process?

And could I write about my oinky illness the way Katherine Anne Porter wrote about the 1918-1919 Great Influenza in Pale Horse, Pale Rider?  Or that staple of my adolescence, Love Story?  Was there a moment when I turned to my "preppy" (jesus, imagine today's sad wreck that is Ryan O'Neil and try to remember when he was believably "preppy"?), if I had one, and say something deathless like, "Love means never having to say you're sorry," while looking attractively wan and smelling like baby powder?  Apart from that line being entirely contrary to everything I know about love, no, I can't equal that pathos, or Porter's otherworldly quality.

Mostly, I despised everyone and everything around me, in this world or any other.  And looked like hell.  And smelled worse.  And scared room service at the Mall of America Hilton and interrupted my therapist's vacation, but that's another story.  That outbreak of swine flu in Minneapolis?  Not me.  I swear.  I was sitting in first class, our air is filtered differently, so there.  So I'm not even going to write about it.  Forget you read this.  Just give me the Congressional Medal of Honor for valor under fire, and I can move on. 

Happy Veterans Day to the real heroes, by the by.

A Perfect Day

 

"Surfer's Point" by Tina O'Brien

By noon, the June Swoon was nearly burned away, and it was another day in Paradise in My Little Town.  A double threat Saturday.  A free lecture at the temporary quarters of the Art and History Museum of My Little County, on book arts (an art form I fancy myself semi-qualified to do and talk about) AND at the fairgrounds, a Tribute To Johnny Cash concert/event thingy.  I ADORE Johnny Cash.  I think he was one of America's Top Five Artists, any form you'd care to name. 

So I went to the lecture first.

Afterwards, I asked an artist friend: "I have to ask you, as an artist:  When you go to an "artist chat" at a museum (if you ever do) do you ever get so pissed off at the artist's line of bullshit that you ignore what might be good work and just walk out?"

I did that today.  Now really, it was a wonderful day.  At 2 pm, the creaky, ancient, bland County Museum of Art (and History, it's all one stupid ball of wax) had a talk by book artists in their temporary HQ.  The main museum is under construction for the past year so the art is crowded into the first floor of the local County Tourist's Whatever.  I can ignore that.  And the leader of the discussion among 3 "book artists" was very good, and slides were shown and it should have been a love fest.  Instead there were three "artists" I couldn't take seriously.  There was one middle-aged white fat lady with whom I should have identified but she couldn't articulate why or what she did.  Then there was this professionally Latino guy who through a terrible language deficiency made it clear that he was so much purer, more sensitive to cultural differences, that we should apologize for being dumb anglos.  His books, while adequate, were not worthy of his claims (cultural preservation, not his main gig, he's a Serious Artist, the books were just a side line, and he was devoting all of them to his 7 year old son who couldn't even speak the language they were written it and he never addressed, in his role as steward for the globe, how he planned to remedy that linguistic deficiency) and one woman I really admired, psychologist by trade, who grasped the infinite possibilities of book art, but technically was nowhere close to being proficient.  I mean, she couldn't finish her next project because she didn't know how to do coptic binding.  I can do coptic binding in my sleep.

So... does this mean I'm an opinionated asshole or they are?   I went there full of hope to find a community (I thought I was the only book artist in the county) and they were all so full of themselves I walked out and went to the restaurant on the pier and had steamed mussels and a glass of white wine to calm down.

However, it got better -- I'd been planning this day for weeks.  Today was ALSO the Johnny Cash Tribute Music Festival.  You know my JC fetish.  I adore Johnny Cash, always have.  So the county Fairgrounds (right off of Surfer's Point, the boardwalk, park, bikers everywhere, palm trees -- it's beautiful) had all these tribute bands, a hot rod show, I mean it was rockabilly without irony.  I walked the mile from the pier and paid my ten bucks and wandered around.  It was a trip.  They were auctioning off chances to get your truck or van pin-striped.  I saw so many trashy mamas and middle-aged guys in self-conscious black ...  and the tribute bands!  Every song began and ended (whether it was a JC song or just rockabilly in the flavor of JC) "God Bless Johnny Cash!"  The crowd went wild.  I had fun for about 45 minutes, didn't want to look at the dragmobiles or hot rods or cruise the "craft faire" or do anything but listen to Johnny Cash, who, it must be said, is dead.  As a doornail.  I realized I could go home and play "Live at Folsom" and be just as happy, and multiple amputees would not be hitting on me.

I am not making this up.

I must explain the Seaside Park Fairgrounds.  Not only is this acreage devoted to the county fair, cat shows, gun shows. and Johnny Cash tributes, there is an Off-Track Betting site, a separate building with racetrack and other games you can bet on.  I was there once.  It was about what you'd expect.  Horrible.  Lots of beer and guys who either look like Uncle Buddy with the beer belly and the backwards cap or Old Uncle Buddy who spent a spell upstate and we don't talk about him.  It was all horseracing while I was there, but I'd bet the customers would bet on anything, ball games. cockroach racing, dog fights.  Ick. 

OK, so I've left the JC festival and am walking back to the boardwalk and a good mile to the pier and my car.  A guy buzzes up next to me on a motorized chair/scooter.  I notice that only one hand is on the controls, the other shirtsleeve is limp.  I'm cool with my differently abled brothers and sisters, it's fine.  The face belongs to a guy maybe late '60's or early 70's.  My gaze travels down.  There are no feet on the controls.  The pants legs hang loose.  Wow, a triple amputee.  He asks me "What's going on?"  I try to explain the Cash tribute.  He waves that off as so much noise.  "No, I mean in THERE."  He points, with his one hand, taking it off the scooter control for one giddy minute.  "Oh, that's some kind of gambling den."  "Yeah, I KNOW, but is there anything going on?  Are they open?"  "Uh, I don't know, I don't go there to gamble."  "So where did YOU come from?"  He gives me a saucy grin.  I realize, fuck it, I'm being flirted with.  By a triple amputee.

"Honey, I was listening to Johnny Cash!"  Honesty is the best policy.

He kept smiling and waved as his little go-cart delivered him to the door of the gambling club.  Bless his heart.  Some women are crazy for amputees.  I bet he gets action.

Me?  I walked the mile back to my car and drove home.  It was past 5 pm, time to deliver ice up to the third floor.

TGIT(hursday)

Because that means W(ednesday) is over.  Yesterday was D(entist) Day.  I spent 2 1/2 hours being poked, prodded, drilled, glued, and although consensual, I can't say it was fun.  Prep for 3 crowns on molars -- 2 upper, one lower, all on the right.  Temps glued on.  I can bite, but not chew in any meaningful way.  The permanent crowns go on in two weeks and I'll be drilled on the left side for two more molar crowns.  Same deal (I nearly wrote "drill") for two weeks, then on a third visit he puts in the permanent crowns on the left side, and on a fourth and final (this stage, anyway) visit, I get my nighttime custom bite thingy.   I have always thought I had great teeth, and I do, they just don't line up right so after 50 years, they're falling apart.  All the molars are cracked, so I guess it's needed yet I still feel vaguely insulted.

Great dentist, though, very kind, gentle, good assistants, who would make great tops.  They constantly patted my shoulder and told me what a good patient I was being.  For $3,000, I paid for a very expensive play scene.  The best part (if there is a "best") is that he offered, and I instantly accepted, sodium pentathol gas.  I drained the better part of 2 cannisters, inhaling mightily.  A very weird high.  I was never completely "out" but parts of it were like living through "Dark Side of The Moon" complete with echo chamber.  At one point I was sure I was a sequoia and loggers were drilling a hole through my trunk for a road.  It was not unpleasant.  There were birds on my branches and the sun filtered around me in gossamer shafts.  Afterwards, I tried to explain this to the dentist who put on his best "there, there" face.  I also asked for a doggy bag to take home any leftovers, which did make him laugh.  It's supposed to have no after effects, safe to drive once you've sucked down some plain O2, but after waiting an hour, the office was closing, everyone looked at me expectantly and I waited in the car another hour.  Even then, I was very glad the route was familiar.  I'll take a cab next time.  They gave me some NSAID or other and I was dopey and still hurt, a bit.

Not so ouchy today.  I do feel as though I've been pulled through a knothole (perhaps the one in my trunk), stupid and tired.  Even with gas, I must have been hugely tense at a muscular level, and I'm feeling that, feeling blue, very blue, too.  I expected to be blue after the trip, that's a given with any vacation I take.  The gas probably has some hangover effect as well.

Tomorrow I'll bounce back physically, and emotionally, probably.  If not, Friday is Shrink Day and I can bitch for an hour with Andrea which always cheers me up.

Going Off the Rez....

 

I'm going away for a week.

I  have had a 12+ hour day getting the home front in order before I leave.  For Mom: O2 deliveries, food run, a bunch of tupperwares for Mom's meals carefully labeled, along with toting 6 (count 'em, 6) liters of Smirnoff upstairs (moi?  an enabler?), directions for cat meds written out, along with lists of phone numbers for everything from my cel phone to the vet to a helpful neighbor, copies of my itinerary.  Lori the White Trash Cleaning Lady is in thrall to Mom and will be here for a few hours every day, so all should be well.

Then the pre-packing: more tupperware to take with me, containing lots of wiccan herbs and crystals and special sachets and god knows what, so that I can cleanse and purify the farm.  20+ acres.  There will be a full cleansing, a sage smudging with outdoor burning of aromatics (lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus, from my own garden, plus bunches and bunches of purchased sage), plus homemade and sewn purification sachets and bath teas -- then a chicken baked with sage, lavender, rosemary --- herbs d' provance ... did witchcraft influence French cuisine?

 

Then crating a fragile but adorable lamp for grandbaby that I hope makes the trip (LOTS of styrofoam and bubble wrap), books, dog chews, cat treats, sex toys (My farmer is so cute!  He found a toy shoppe in Minneapolis and ordered ahead, there will be a parcel to pick up on the way from the airport -- the advantages of an Asbergian lover is they focus so wonderfully) and if I'm lucky I can pack some clothes.  Those seem optional.

 

I'm more worried about leaving my lush garden than Mom or the cats.  With my assiduous care, 12 gorgeous plants in pots stand on the 3d floor deck, with silk flowers staked alongside and wire-mounted to branches (like that's going to fool anyone)  -- they are a marvel.  Less than 8 weeks from seed, and they are 3'+ tall and 3' wide, bursting with rude good health.  I pray they don't start blooming while I'm gone, I have to murder the boys once they show themselves.  I've gone over the top with organic nutrients and pest control, I have a sensor for light, alkaline-acid balance and watering, I have named every leaf.

 

And now they're on their own for 8 days.  I've explained it to them, they nod their green heads, but I wonder if they really understand that today's soaking, feeding and massage is the last for a while.  Oh yeah, they call them weeds, but these are the most pampered plants in the universe.

 

Thursday, we had a bit of excitement -- a woman was brutally murdered about 2 blocks away.  There may be a serial killer on the loose in My Little Town -- the crime was nearly identical to the brutal murder (I'm just copying the "Breaking News" lingo -- "brutal murder" is what makes it to CNN, as these have) of a couple living about 4 miles up the coast on Faria Beach.  So of course I'm triple-checking locks and windows, but the real threat were all the news and police helicopters hovering within view of the deck.  That's when I got the silk flowers out.  Bless our sweet neighbors -- two came by to remind us to lock up carefully at night.  I think Mom and I are on the list of The Crazy Ladies We Love on Kingston Lane. 

 

All this will wash away once I'm in the pleasant, cow-fucking land of Minnesota.

 

I can't wait to see what happens.

 

See ya in a week or two.

 

The Rewards of Being Auntie Mame

 

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It is amazing (or maybe not) how many blessings, like the flowers in the picture above (blossoms from the Loire Valley -- 2007), I find in my own back yard.  I have come to adore the next generation in my family.  They are wiser than I at their age -- perhaps that's to be expected in the logarithmic advance of time.  And there is something very green and fruitful and fresh in the communion with people one has known before utero, known the parentage and followed along their lives, which tag along one's own.  And then, suddenly, wonderfully, catch up -- and have wisdom to share.  Let's never get so old that we can't appreciate that. 

And hey nieces (I'm talkin' 'bout you) I was the one to send lace-trimmed-hand-embroidered newborn-sized dresses from Bloomies in Beverly Hills (where I worked at the time, mid '80's) just because I KNEW your mommies and daddies were clothing you in Oshkosh or thrift store.  After that, you were on your own for style.  And you've made me proud.  Style is wisdom -- style is self-confidence -- style is originality.  You've both got that going in spades.

Come see Auntie Mame here in Bakersfield-By-The-Sea and we'll go have caviar (or a vegan alternative) and champagne.

A Baker's Dozen

 

 1. I have another package of ugly baby hats and blankets in varied palettes going out to Afghans for Afghans.  I won't subject you to a photo, you've seen enough before.  In toasty wool, all donated to me from kind folks.  Thank you all.  And I still have plenty of wool yarn left for the rest of Afghanistan and parts of Mongolia. Yak.

2. Since I also have a warehouse of synthetic yarn, I'm knitting as fast as I can for Soldier's Angels, but they need Great Big Blankets for Great Big GI's, and they take some time, especially considering that I knit on the textile equivalent of the EZ Bake Oven: a Knifty Knitter.  I'm just too inept with the long needles to avoid dropped stitches and mysterious lumps.  I'm ept as hell on the Knifty Knitter, but it's not a speedy process.

3. In the course of my endeavours, I triggered a flare-up of my old carpal tunnel woes, but two days off of knitting, and sleeping with my hands encased in blue ice, has calmed it all down, so I will return to my busywork tomorrow.

4. On Wednesday, I return to Sin City for a solid week of electioneering designed to push Nevada from its currently purple condition to solid blue.  On Election Day itself, I'll be rejoining my friends in the Voter's Protection corps to be a poll watcher, lest anyone be turned away from voting.  I'm hoping the election machines are the only machines in Clark County that give an honest return.  For some reason, the Voter's Protection group only recruits lawyers, paralegals and law students for this job.  Given the general belief about lawyers and honesty (As the dear late Charlie Whitebread, my favorite law prof at USC, used to say: "NO MATCH!") I should think we'd be the least desireable witnesses to assert claims of dirty tricks, but them's the rules.

5. After McCain's own Tawana Brawley (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8fD0rmKOio4) was revealed immediately to be, well, at least deeply disturbed, I put nothing, NOTHING, past the frustrated GOP at this point, so poll watching might be interesting.  But I hope, quite sincerely, to be bored.

6. A lot of blue state residents, especially here in California, are claiming the race is over so loudly that I fear that some voters, especially new ones uniquely encouraged by the Obama campaign, and younger voters, who historically have low turnouts, will stay home.  I don't know that California will suffer a sudden upset as a result, but other, closer states, may.  Even in California, every vote counts.  Should there be a recurring nightmare of the 2000 theft, you'll be kicking yourself in the morning.  Moreover, if it comes down to an electoral college vs. popular vote question, then each vote counts more than ever.  My theory, which belongs to me, is that if the electoral college fucks us over again contrary to the popular vote and McCain gets in, the electoral college system will, as it should, be scrapped.  So add your vote to the blue pile anyway -- come the revolution, it will matter, comrade.

7. Ooops, just revealed that Obama supporters are secret socialists.  Nyet, nyet.  I mean, no, of course not.

8. I already voted, so there.  I loves me my absentee ballot.  Almost said "ballots" but then that raises the whole Acorn thing... don't mind me, I'm just here to give paranoid ammo to the Drudge Report.

9. While in Vegas, I'm staying again at the Stratosphere, cheapest rates on the Strip. It's also the only casino whose buffet does NOT feature delicious bread pudding, at least based on prior samplings.  Stay tuned for updates on this burning issue.

10. Speaking of burning issues, I think I have an ulcer.  No, really.  Off and on for the last month or so, I've had bad tummy days, and the last four days solid, near constant burning pain between sternum and belly button.  Worse when tummy is empty or when tummy has acidic food.  Occasional jolts of real ouchiness. I'm learning to love plain white bread.  Every hour on the hour.  With Tums chasers.  Where's my bread pudding, dammit? Other than bread, my relief comes when I'm typing.  I am not making this up.  I've written a dozen e-mails today, comments on blogs I never read, a children's story (unpublishable garbage) and now this long post.  Works as well as Tums.

11. Now is the time for all good men to ... well, that was a typing exercize for belly relief, but it's true.

12. Had the promised chat with Mom about our situation here, her choices, my role.  It was wonderfully rational, honest, and surprising.  No name calling, no stomping out of rooms (I'm guilty of that, poor Mom doesn't have the breath to do so) and a lot was revealed.  Turns out she's as frustrated with me and my attitude. 

13. So, as good Dr. Phil watchers, we're getting couples counseling.  I'm not making this up, either.  I think a third party will bring a breath of fresh air here to Gray Gardens.  As long as the counselor's office is on the ground floor, we should do well.

Hanging Tight

Just in case my devoted readers are holding their breath, so to speak, all is nearly well with Mom's oxygen.

We went to the substitute pulmonary guy on Thursday morning, Mom grumbling all the way.  Once we were in his august presence, he turned out to be a really nice guy.  As is her regular lung doc.  They tend to be decent fellows, after all the hassle of getting appointments.  He did as thorough a workup as could be accomplished in an office visit, putting her through her paces with the O2 meter on her finger.  Lo and behold, with any activity, she does indeed fall to abysmal blood oxygen levels on her previously prescribed supplemental flow.  She needs more than her current machine can give, this is now confirmed by grand poobahs and not just simple observation by lay peasants like me.  This kind man kept asking, now, what is it you need from me?  I repeated what I had been told, that he needed to authorize the new machine for her supply company.  As Mom was walking around slowly, between meter readings, I gave the doc the abbreviated version of my rant, focusing on the frustration with both the company and the patient.  He was kind to her but once she had rested and regained a better blood oxygen level, emphasized to her that she needs to maintain a sufficient O2 level or there will be dire consequences, including but not limited to the acceleration of her condition, increased and permanent mental confusion, and, not to put to fine a point on it, um, death.

She was fully alert and understood him.  She then fixed him with a steely eye, smiled, and said, "I'm dying ANYWAY."  Very black humor.  He was quite shocked, but I had to admire her moxie.  She is indeed.  A subtle pattern emerges.  I think she wants it this way.  This is Presbyterian suicide.

Anyway, the doctor escorted her to the lobby and motioned me aside.  He said, in a kindly medical beside manner, that I did have a difficult patient, I was doing a good job, all things considered, and he was going to rip a new one on the supply company.  Before we returned home, a message from the supplier was waiting on the answering machine: could they please deliver the new machine?  Funny how they just that day got one in stock. 

Actually, they had a broken one.  After delivery and installation, I discovered that a key tube was affixed with duct tape, and, surprise, duct tape blows apart when subjected to compressed air.  I called the 24 hour line and a brand new machine was delivered that night.  Over the weekend, the increased flow did seem to help Mom.  However, the fill station for the portable tanks didn't work.  Today, the idiot responsible for the duct tape dropped off new tanks, which he assured me would do the trick.  And he didn't know nothing about no duct tape, not him, no sir.

Two steps forward, one step back.  We have yet to prove that the entire set up works as promised.  Still, it is an improvement.

Mom now complains because she doesn't understand how to fill the tanks.  It is a much simpler process, but a new one, and she is, as she says, an old dog.    But a breathing dog.

Since my rant, I have been coping well.  Dear readers, your kind words, a great deal of Merlot, and hours of computer games have kept me sane.  I'm in a holding pattern here until the machine has gone through all its paces, I can't in good conscience go or do during this trial period.

Among the many wise words I received from those who tried to talk me down is the reminder that my job is not to SAVE her.  Saving is out of the question.  She has a terminal condition.  My job is to observe, honor, and ease her passing with dignity.  Those are wise words indeed.  Yet even though she clearly wants "no heroic measures," there is a selfish purpose to easing her way.  The better her cognition, the more she can extend even minor activities, the more independence she has and less dependent she is on me.

The next time she makes a choice that will render her less able, I'm going to remind her of that.  That for all her proclamations that she doesn't want to be "a burden," her choices keep returning her to that state.  If she wants to take to her bed permanently and turn her face to the wall, waiting stoically for death, then let's be up front about it.  I'd honor that choice if she admits it.

You have no idea how contrary to all family history it is to speak honestly about choices, consequences, and dependency with my mother. 

So, yes, I'm hanging tight.  Tight to her, tight in the sense of my condition after a great deal of wine, and tight in the pucker factor of confronting this stuff.  I aspire to hang loose.