Friends have dropped by. Friday night found us eating around the kitchen table with Marsha, Reed, Devon, Annie, Joe Lane, Stephen, Erik, Dave McGee and Janet. The conversations were everywhere and for the most part, gave us a good laugh - something we all needed.
I did feel sad when we talked about the referendum in Maine that revoked the right for same-sex couples to marry. I was sadder when Stephen said, "I'm just tired of feeling bad all the time."
Civil rights cannot be legislated by referendum. The masses can't be trusted. Less than 40 years ago, my marriage would have been illegal in certain states and Babbo would have been a bastard. There was a Southern judge who recently refused to marry an African American man to a white woman on the grounds that "those" kind of marriages don't work and the children resulting from them are fucked up. Surprise Judge, statistically, that's usually the case no matter the color!
Really, this growing crusade against access to basic civil rights (recap: there is theoretically a separation of church and state, marriage licenses are issued by a representative of the state, all citizens should have equal access to a license) is turning me into an uppity old Chinese woman.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 09, 2009
Join us, it's bliss
Finished my Oxycontin. Felt sharper pain the subsequent day, but it's all good now. Percocet got swapped out for Norco (a stronger version of Vicodin) because I was throwing up or feeling queasy most of the time. Swiss Kris (a laxative you can find at any health food store) works like a champ - not that anyone really wants to know, but one never knows....)
Have only stepped outside the house twice in 17 days - once for a checkup/stitches removal. I am a fast healer the docs say. I have heretofore been blessed with that ability.
Plowed through William Boyd's The New Confessions, and I still believe that Any Human Heart is his best. Have started on the Mishima tetrology. So far, Spring Snow (which I have read before) is sprawling, and I find myself craving the succinct writing from his short stories in Death in Midsummer.
Reading, surfing the internet, folding laundry, bathing, and hanging out with Babbo or the odd friend - recovery is like being on holiday, really.
Will probably transition from the walker or crutches to cane just in time for Christmas.
Have only stepped outside the house twice in 17 days - once for a checkup/stitches removal. I am a fast healer the docs say. I have heretofore been blessed with that ability.
Plowed through William Boyd's The New Confessions, and I still believe that Any Human Heart is his best. Have started on the Mishima tetrology. So far, Spring Snow (which I have read before) is sprawling, and I find myself craving the succinct writing from his short stories in Death in Midsummer.
Reading, surfing the internet, folding laundry, bathing, and hanging out with Babbo or the odd friend - recovery is like being on holiday, really.
Will probably transition from the walker or crutches to cane just in time for Christmas.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Now with new and improved stitching!
Got home Sunday from a Friday surgery.
I didn't think I was ready for being released from the hospital, but Blue Cross only approved one night's stay. I think I stayed five nights last time. In the end, it all worked out fine. I continue to get stronger by the hour. Matty and Babbo are waiting on me hand and foot. Babbo wants to spend a night in my single hospital bed with me. I don't think so. I do let him pile in after school and watch cartoons before dinner or before bedtime.
I got taut little black nylon stitches this time. I am a bit allergic to the monocryl they sometimes use. They are handsome stitches, and Dr. Perry seems quite pleased with how everything turned out. I got an epidural (first time ever) and there are three wee bites in my lower back to show for it.
In addition to the doctors and their schedulers, I am indebted to the kindness and competence of nurses - as always.
I was shocked, again, at how useless my leg became. In in the first day post-op, it took a lot of focus, sweat, and help to move it even a few inches. Yes, they sawed the bone in half, but the muscles should have theoretically still worked.
Waves of mild nausea and sleepiness come over me several times a day. It's the painkillers, the four hours of anesthesia I was under, and the vitamin supplements. I will forgo the iron supplements - they make me really sick- and just eat like a piggie instead.
I didn't think I was ready for being released from the hospital, but Blue Cross only approved one night's stay. I think I stayed five nights last time. In the end, it all worked out fine. I continue to get stronger by the hour. Matty and Babbo are waiting on me hand and foot. Babbo wants to spend a night in my single hospital bed with me. I don't think so. I do let him pile in after school and watch cartoons before dinner or before bedtime.
I got taut little black nylon stitches this time. I am a bit allergic to the monocryl they sometimes use. They are handsome stitches, and Dr. Perry seems quite pleased with how everything turned out. I got an epidural (first time ever) and there are three wee bites in my lower back to show for it.
In addition to the doctors and their schedulers, I am indebted to the kindness and competence of nurses - as always.
I was shocked, again, at how useless my leg became. In in the first day post-op, it took a lot of focus, sweat, and help to move it even a few inches. Yes, they sawed the bone in half, but the muscles should have theoretically still worked.
Waves of mild nausea and sleepiness come over me several times a day. It's the painkillers, the four hours of anesthesia I was under, and the vitamin supplements. I will forgo the iron supplements - they make me really sick- and just eat like a piggie instead.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Surgery got moved up a week
Have been running around like a headless chicken. Surgery got moved up a week, but Doctors Mast and Perry will be there. I am really still incredibly touched that Dr. Mast will drive down from Reno for this. I am touched, too, that I work in an incredibly flexible workplace. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
It was not a pleasure to wander around the streets of LA in the rain last week. I tried going to a Target in a large mall, but the sensory overload was too much, and I retreated to the peace of my car. My eyes also glazed over at a midsized Whole Foods, too. I'm such a hick.
I did run around Sunset Blvd. very late at night for two nights in a row to see two shows at the Echo. It'd been decades since I did something like that by myself. The adrenaline surge was huge. When I was getting gas at 11:30 at night off some unknown freeway offramp, all I could think was, "What the hell am I doing here?"
In the end, it was a huge pleasure to see Matt Salas' band, the Rhone Occupation. They are a young band, and they've been gigging hard. They have purdy songs and sound like a cross between Radiohead/Elliot Smith/the Phoenix Foundation. Their free set didn't start until after midnight, but they played as if their lives depended on it to a room of about 25 of us. I know Matt from going to the Phoenix Foundation shows in LA in 2006. He was with Sony digital music at the time and tried really hard to help the band out in any way he could.
It was even a bigger pleasure to see Steven Schayer, the Jazz Butcher, Downy Mildew, and the Black Watch the next night. It was a lovely treat to hang out with Marc Horton, Owen Harris (who was on a stopover in LA on his way back to NZ), John Andrew Frederick (the English prof and fellow William Boyd fan behind the Black Watch), and Steven Schayer in a Latino bar in the late afternoon before the show. Steven, Owen, and I met through the Able Tasmans/Humphreys and Keen/Puddle gig that Owen put on in Auckland in February. Marc and I met years ago through the Mutton Birds' listserve. I'd seen Steven's band, the Clay Idols, once when I was a teen. I wasn't prepared for how sad and lovely Steven's songs were and how well he could sing. There is something outgoing and endearing about Steven which reminds me of certain Lew cousins very very much.
Marc and I killed a few moments waiting for the Echo's doors to open by having some of the Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban I brought down. We sat in the heavy rain on Sunset Blvd. and toasted our lovely spouses and small children. Our spouses may not also be huge geeks, but they allow us to be. Bless.
So a group of us have become friends or have become better friends through geeking out over our love of New Zealand music. The friendships have gone from the days of going to the post office and sending blank cds so that somebody could make a compilation to the age of Facebook and Yousendit, where we can cut to the chase and crank the mixtapes out.
Motorcycle Michelle put me up in her fabby apartment in Glendale. I talked her ear off the first night, when I was hmming and huhhhhing about getting ready to leave at 11 pm for a midnight show. I did my best imitation of a a lump on her couch for the next two mornings in a row.
It would appear that boots and tights and skinny jeans are in with the in girls of the Republic of Silver Lake. The porkpie hats on the boys must go, though.
I am glad I got the chance to get out of Bishop for a few nights, glad that I missed Matt and Babbo and Bishop, glad I got to eat ramen twice, and glad I got to do something different before facing being laid up for a long while.
It was not a pleasure to wander around the streets of LA in the rain last week. I tried going to a Target in a large mall, but the sensory overload was too much, and I retreated to the peace of my car. My eyes also glazed over at a midsized Whole Foods, too. I'm such a hick.
I did run around Sunset Blvd. very late at night for two nights in a row to see two shows at the Echo. It'd been decades since I did something like that by myself. The adrenaline surge was huge. When I was getting gas at 11:30 at night off some unknown freeway offramp, all I could think was, "What the hell am I doing here?"
In the end, it was a huge pleasure to see Matt Salas' band, the Rhone Occupation. They are a young band, and they've been gigging hard. They have purdy songs and sound like a cross between Radiohead/Elliot Smith/the Phoenix Foundation. Their free set didn't start until after midnight, but they played as if their lives depended on it to a room of about 25 of us. I know Matt from going to the Phoenix Foundation shows in LA in 2006. He was with Sony digital music at the time and tried really hard to help the band out in any way he could.
It was even a bigger pleasure to see Steven Schayer, the Jazz Butcher, Downy Mildew, and the Black Watch the next night. It was a lovely treat to hang out with Marc Horton, Owen Harris (who was on a stopover in LA on his way back to NZ), John Andrew Frederick (the English prof and fellow William Boyd fan behind the Black Watch), and Steven Schayer in a Latino bar in the late afternoon before the show. Steven, Owen, and I met through the Able Tasmans/Humphreys and Keen/Puddle gig that Owen put on in Auckland in February. Marc and I met years ago through the Mutton Birds' listserve. I'd seen Steven's band, the Clay Idols, once when I was a teen. I wasn't prepared for how sad and lovely Steven's songs were and how well he could sing. There is something outgoing and endearing about Steven which reminds me of certain Lew cousins very very much.
Marc and I killed a few moments waiting for the Echo's doors to open by having some of the Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban I brought down. We sat in the heavy rain on Sunset Blvd. and toasted our lovely spouses and small children. Our spouses may not also be huge geeks, but they allow us to be. Bless.
So a group of us have become friends or have become better friends through geeking out over our love of New Zealand music. The friendships have gone from the days of going to the post office and sending blank cds so that somebody could make a compilation to the age of Facebook and Yousendit, where we can cut to the chase and crank the mixtapes out.
Motorcycle Michelle put me up in her fabby apartment in Glendale. I talked her ear off the first night, when I was hmming and huhhhhing about getting ready to leave at 11 pm for a midnight show. I did my best imitation of a a lump on her couch for the next two mornings in a row.
It would appear that boots and tights and skinny jeans are in with the in girls of the Republic of Silver Lake. The porkpie hats on the boys must go, though.
I am glad I got the chance to get out of Bishop for a few nights, glad that I missed Matt and Babbo and Bishop, glad I got to eat ramen twice, and glad I got to do something different before facing being laid up for a long while.
Undertheradar.co.nz : The Bats Virtual Show
The lovely Ian Henderson - whom I've known through things New Zealand music related - is putting on this show. He's fronted his own cash, and I wish him well!
Undertheradar.co.nz : The Bats Virtual Show
Undertheradar.co.nz : The Bats Virtual Show
Friday, October 09, 2009
Mad neurotic scratchings
- I was not very zen this morning when I tore the house apart looking for my old Moleskine notebook. Yes, I guess I would have been very sad if I'd lost my mad neurotic scratchings from the past few years, but I would have lived. I found it in the very last place I would have looked- well, well, well under the couch. I have started a new notebook. It is sexy and red and unmarked. Clean slates and all that.
- I have temporarily damaged my fingertips from moving around frozen pyrex bowls.
- Going down to Los Angeles to see AT, Karen, part of the New Zealand music mafia.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Date with my orthopedic surgeons
Doctors Perry and Mast will do me the favor of giving me another femoral osteotomy - this time on my right hip. It's hurting like hell in this low pressure system we're having, and I'm ready.
The left hip still has some arthritis, but that was always going to be a given.
The left hip still has some arthritis, but that was always going to be a given.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
I don't remember letting Ian Frazier into my home
> The New Yorker
>
> Shouts & Murmurs
> Easy Cocktails from the Cursing Mommy
> by Ian Frazier September 14, 2009
> Those high-priced bartenders in their red vests and white shirts who your caterers recommended to serve at your last party may know a thing or two, but for entertaining on a smaller scale—for parties of seven people, four, or even just one—a few simple steps to the perfect cocktail are all you’ll ever need. Take, for example, this drink I’m drinking right now. Where the hell did I put it? I just set it down five minutes ago. I had it when I was watching the news, I know that. Now what in hell could I have done with it? O.K.—I found it, thank heavens. I must have set it here on the stairs when I went to throw away the mail. Anyway, as I was saying, making this particular drink, which happens to be a vodka gimlet, is simplicity itself, once you know how.
>
> Plus, it’s so delicious! The tangy tartness of the lime juice combined with the antiseptic astringency of the icy-cold vodka—wonderful. Now, normally in this column the Cursing Mommy does not endorse any company, product, or institution, but just this once I’m going to make an exception, because, what the hell—I use Rose’s Lime Juice. It’s perfect for gimlets, so I always keep a few extra bottles in reserve in case I run out, as in fact I did just a few minutes ago when I mixed the drink I’m finishing now. The backup bottles, which are down here on the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet—don’t tell me they’re not here. Please don’t fucking tell me the Rose’s Lime Juice is not fucking here.
>
> If Larry took my last spare bottle to use in his fucking Sno-Kone machine, by Christ, I swear I’ll—oh, thank God. Here it is, back behind the Kahlúa and the walnut liqueur. Whew. That was a close one.
>
> Anyway, you take your Rose’s Lime Juice, you take your favorite gimlet glass (which, for me, is the one I was just using), and—fuck. I have lost my drink again. Somebody please tell me I have not lost my stupid goddam fucking drink again! O.K., it has to be close by, because I had it right before I was hunting around on all fours in front of the liquor cabinet. Wait a minute—can this be it? Here on the counter behind the flour cannister? I don’t think this is it. I’ll just take a sip and—Phewww!! Gahhh! Disgusting! This must be the drink I couldn’t find night before last. Fucking ants in it. Drowned ants. Good Christ, what was I thinking?
>
> O.K., we have established that that was definitely not the glass I was looking for. In situations like this, the Cursing Mommy recommends that you take three deep breaths, concentrate inwardly on some attractive and relaxing vacation scene, and scream “Fuck!” at the top of your lungs. There—I feel better. Don’t you?
>
> Usually at about this time of the evening I must begin making dinner. Larry and the kids will be home soon. Fortunately, however, tonight is Make Your Own Goddam Dinner Night, a recently instituted family ritual I shared with you in last week’s column. So basically I don’t have to worry about that. Instead, what I’m going to do is just close my eyes, wait until I regain a sense of calm, and when I open them again my missing gimlet glass is going to be right in front of me.
>
> Oh, fucking hell. Could I possibly have left it down in the basement? Of course not—that’s ridiculous. I haven’t even been down in the basement, not since I vowed I wouldn’t touch another piece of laundry today even if it meant the clothes already in the washer mildewed and rotted away. Regular followers of this column know that at about this point every week the Cursing Mommy flips out due to one problem or another and begins cursing a lot, throwing things, and giving people the finger. Somehow, however, I don’t think it’s quite appropriate to go to those extremes over a problem as minor as a misplaced cocktail glass. Instead, I will begin a systematic search, accompanying myself meanwhile with a sort of general, all-around cursing out of various deserving individuals and things.
>
> For starters, God damn to hell my father’s fucking girlfriend, who expects me to do all the food and the cleanup at his seventy-fifth birthday party, and then she’ll take all the credit for herself, such a fucking jerk. Fuck the township, also, for changing fucking Bulky Waste Day from Monday to Friday and now I have to haul all that shit that I carried down this morning back up from the curb or they’re going to give us a ticket, the fucking bureaucratic red-tape, petty, time-server assholes. And, just in passing, fuck the fucking Bush Administration—I know they’re not in power anymore, but fuck them anyway, because they’re such a bunch of fucks. And on the subject of stupid fucks, fuck the—
>
> FUUUUUUUCK! OW! JESUS CHRIST! FUCKING SHIT! I STUBBED MY FUCKING TOE! OW OW OW! JESUS! FUCKING LARRY LEFT THAT FUCKING BOX OF ADAPTERS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING DINING-ROOM FLOOR, THE FUCKING IDIOT! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT STUPID FUCKING BOX DOING THERE! I TOLD HIM TO PUT THOSE FUCKING ADAPTERS AWAY! FUCK! OW! FUCK!
>
> (Pause.)
>
> People say that when you misplace an object in your home, instead of tearing the place apart looking for it, you should just be patient, and the object you are looking for will eventually turn up. And now we see the accuracy of this saying, because as I sit here on the dining-room floor cursing and massaging my goddam stubbed toe, I notice that over there on the floor, just behind the door to the kitchen, is the stupid fucking cocktail glass I was looking for. And, thanks be to merciful God, there is still a fair amount of drink remaining in it, so I’ll down it now. What a fucking terrible day this has been.
>
> Next week the Cursing Mommy will show you how to put up the decorations for a child’s birthday party all by yourself with no help from your fucking husband. Watch for her column, entitled, “God Damn This Tape Dispenser to Hell: Party Decorating Tips from the Cursing Mommy.” ♦
>
> Shouts & Murmurs
> Easy Cocktails from the Cursing Mommy
> by Ian Frazier September 14, 2009
> Those high-priced bartenders in their red vests and white shirts who your caterers recommended to serve at your last party may know a thing or two, but for entertaining on a smaller scale—for parties of seven people, four, or even just one—a few simple steps to the perfect cocktail are all you’ll ever need. Take, for example, this drink I’m drinking right now. Where the hell did I put it? I just set it down five minutes ago. I had it when I was watching the news, I know that. Now what in hell could I have done with it? O.K.—I found it, thank heavens. I must have set it here on the stairs when I went to throw away the mail. Anyway, as I was saying, making this particular drink, which happens to be a vodka gimlet, is simplicity itself, once you know how.
>
> Plus, it’s so delicious! The tangy tartness of the lime juice combined with the antiseptic astringency of the icy-cold vodka—wonderful. Now, normally in this column the Cursing Mommy does not endorse any company, product, or institution, but just this once I’m going to make an exception, because, what the hell—I use Rose’s Lime Juice. It’s perfect for gimlets, so I always keep a few extra bottles in reserve in case I run out, as in fact I did just a few minutes ago when I mixed the drink I’m finishing now. The backup bottles, which are down here on the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet—don’t tell me they’re not here. Please don’t fucking tell me the Rose’s Lime Juice is not fucking here.
>
> If Larry took my last spare bottle to use in his fucking Sno-Kone machine, by Christ, I swear I’ll—oh, thank God. Here it is, back behind the Kahlúa and the walnut liqueur. Whew. That was a close one.
>
> Anyway, you take your Rose’s Lime Juice, you take your favorite gimlet glass (which, for me, is the one I was just using), and—fuck. I have lost my drink again. Somebody please tell me I have not lost my stupid goddam fucking drink again! O.K., it has to be close by, because I had it right before I was hunting around on all fours in front of the liquor cabinet. Wait a minute—can this be it? Here on the counter behind the flour cannister? I don’t think this is it. I’ll just take a sip and—Phewww!! Gahhh! Disgusting! This must be the drink I couldn’t find night before last. Fucking ants in it. Drowned ants. Good Christ, what was I thinking?
>
> O.K., we have established that that was definitely not the glass I was looking for. In situations like this, the Cursing Mommy recommends that you take three deep breaths, concentrate inwardly on some attractive and relaxing vacation scene, and scream “Fuck!” at the top of your lungs. There—I feel better. Don’t you?
>
> Usually at about this time of the evening I must begin making dinner. Larry and the kids will be home soon. Fortunately, however, tonight is Make Your Own Goddam Dinner Night, a recently instituted family ritual I shared with you in last week’s column. So basically I don’t have to worry about that. Instead, what I’m going to do is just close my eyes, wait until I regain a sense of calm, and when I open them again my missing gimlet glass is going to be right in front of me.
>
> Oh, fucking hell. Could I possibly have left it down in the basement? Of course not—that’s ridiculous. I haven’t even been down in the basement, not since I vowed I wouldn’t touch another piece of laundry today even if it meant the clothes already in the washer mildewed and rotted away. Regular followers of this column know that at about this point every week the Cursing Mommy flips out due to one problem or another and begins cursing a lot, throwing things, and giving people the finger. Somehow, however, I don’t think it’s quite appropriate to go to those extremes over a problem as minor as a misplaced cocktail glass. Instead, I will begin a systematic search, accompanying myself meanwhile with a sort of general, all-around cursing out of various deserving individuals and things.
>
> For starters, God damn to hell my father’s fucking girlfriend, who expects me to do all the food and the cleanup at his seventy-fifth birthday party, and then she’ll take all the credit for herself, such a fucking jerk. Fuck the township, also, for changing fucking Bulky Waste Day from Monday to Friday and now I have to haul all that shit that I carried down this morning back up from the curb or they’re going to give us a ticket, the fucking bureaucratic red-tape, petty, time-server assholes. And, just in passing, fuck the fucking Bush Administration—I know they’re not in power anymore, but fuck them anyway, because they’re such a bunch of fucks. And on the subject of stupid fucks, fuck the—
>
> FUUUUUUUCK! OW! JESUS CHRIST! FUCKING SHIT! I STUBBED MY FUCKING TOE! OW OW OW! JESUS! FUCKING LARRY LEFT THAT FUCKING BOX OF ADAPTERS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING DINING-ROOM FLOOR, THE FUCKING IDIOT! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT STUPID FUCKING BOX DOING THERE! I TOLD HIM TO PUT THOSE FUCKING ADAPTERS AWAY! FUCK! OW! FUCK!
>
> (Pause.)
>
> People say that when you misplace an object in your home, instead of tearing the place apart looking for it, you should just be patient, and the object you are looking for will eventually turn up. And now we see the accuracy of this saying, because as I sit here on the dining-room floor cursing and massaging my goddam stubbed toe, I notice that over there on the floor, just behind the door to the kitchen, is the stupid fucking cocktail glass I was looking for. And, thanks be to merciful God, there is still a fair amount of drink remaining in it, so I’ll down it now. What a fucking terrible day this has been.
>
> Next week the Cursing Mommy will show you how to put up the decorations for a child’s birthday party all by yourself with no help from your fucking husband. Watch for her column, entitled, “God Damn This Tape Dispenser to Hell: Party Decorating Tips from the Cursing Mommy.” ♦
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