The title is a quip from SNL's funniest skit series, "Celebrity Jeopardy." But it's also a way in to introduce a more serious subject: an apology and a reminder to myself as a writer. I compiled a list of used book finds in my last post, and in it, I mentioned a book by Thich Nhat Hanh along with the statement that I'm a sucker for new age spiritualism. Well, I started reading the book last night and quickly realized my error. Thich Nhat Hanh is a serious Buddhist monk and writer of considerable grace, working in a religion that's been around longer than Christianity. Hardly new age.
It's a good reminder that if the pen is in fact mightier than the sword, then writers must handle words with care. In fact, not just writers, but anyone striving to be or in any public forum. This realization came to me at roughly the same time as Rush Limbaugh made news for calling a college student a slut for advocating birth control and Santorum for saying that "separation of church and state" made him want to "throw up." Words are indeed powerful, and anyone writing laws or news or blogs or even emails at work would do well to remember. What a difference a few words make!
Nobody reads my blog, so I'm safe, and the error was minor anyway. But philosophically, the error was huge. I don't want to be known for making this kind of mistake, or worse, for influencing anyone else's understanding toward incorrectness or worse. This morning I was reading some old Backpacker mags I've kept around, and the same thing came to mind. There was a story about an inexperienced guide leading a group of yuppies on a brief backpacking tour, and in it, he mentioned that he had told the would-be enthusiasts by email that there may be outhouses, and that they should pack a fleece, not thinking that his lie about the outhouses would jeopardize his authority, and that incompleteness in describing gear needed was actually misleading, as most of the newbies who came along packed very little for warmth and were quite miserable. A hearty but lackadaisical or laissez-faire attitude about information is just asking for trouble.
A friend reminded me of the Four Agreements recently, and one of the four tenets is to be impeccable with your word. For me, all of this is a good reminder to slow down—and act with intent—at work and in craft.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
My book sale bag runneth over
Once a year at the old local hotel in the conference room, a local nonprofit group has their fundraising book sale. Sunday is bag bargain day: Fill an Albertson's plastic shopping bag with books for $10 (sans collectibles, of course).
I cleaned up this year. I practically zead it:
I cleaned up this year. I practically zead it:
Here's a catalogue, with commentary to spice it up a bit (pictures below):
• American Photographers of the Depression (depression-era photog is one of my half-assed obsessions. The depression is such a huge part of who we are, and photography was really coming into its own at that time.)
• Two mid-century hiker's/backpacker's guidebooks
• Deborah Tannen's You Just Don't Understand, which might sound lame, but Deborah Tannen is a rocking linguist.
• Jung's The Undiscovered Self (I snatched that book up faster than a dog on bacon.)
• A mag-type book about barn decoration symbolism (hexes on barnsides! oh my!) and another about Pennsylvania folklife (some of my ancestors are Pennsylvania Dutch, and I dig stuff about folklife and symbolistic art)
• A photography/anthro book about New Orleans African-American spiritual folk culture (YES)
• The Common Stream: Two thousand years of the English Village (something I've been wanting to know more about since I read a Gary Snyder essay that talked about the commons. Don't we all have this vague notion, probably from children's fairy tales, about a village life seemingly outside of time and historical markers, rife with bears, fresh-made bread and free fishing?)
• Skeletons of a Bridge, a small press book of stories and oral traditions of the Taos Pueblo
• Bold Spirit: Helga Estby's Forgotten Walk Across Victorian America (The back cover says she started in Eastern Oregon and crossed 14 states with a shotgun and a few belongings. This woman is my hero! I love it when you find out everything you were led to assume is bullshit. People did stuff, people knew stuff, women kicked ass in Victorian times too, and there you have it.)
• Everything You Need to Know About Latino History (stickin' it to Arizona lawmakers and honoring Librotraficante)
• Poetspeak (poets on their writing—books like these are comparable to self-help books for normals)
• Steinbeck's The Red Pony and The Moon is Down
• Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (my copy is coming apart, and this one is green!)
• Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children
• Best Women's Erotica No. 4
• Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies (I need to read this already)
• A sweet little chapbook-style "Walking" by Thoreau
• An equally sweet little copy of "On Love and Friendship" by Emerson, with mod art nouveau-styled print illustrations
• Arms and the Man, by George Bernard Shaw, whom I've been meaning to read
• The Financial Lives of the Poets, by Jess Walter, whom I went to listen to at WWU
• Thich Nhat Hanh's No Death, No Fear (I'm a sucker for new age spiritualism, the best of which I lump, with good philosophy and psychiatric studies, into a Blows-Your-Mind bucket)
• A whole bunch of poetry (Petrosky, Petrarch—the sonnet guy, Alice Walker, Whitman U students, zen poetry, Poetry mag, Euripides, the actual Whitman, an anthology...)
• A paperback book of master printmakers of the 20th c. (my trade; I ought to know a thing or two about my context)
• A book about American folk tales and myths (one more for the collection)
• Poor Richard's Almanac (also chapbook style, with the original styling of type and borders, etc., which, as someone who works in publishing and makes prints, I find very interesting)
• A book called Hiroshima by John Hersey
• A couple fiction books and some other stuff I've yet to describe but looked interesting
• A bag of records and audio books (these were free and pretty picked over, but I did snag One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and a few others)
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| The pretties |
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| Awesome |
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| The spoils |
Can you BELIEVE I got all this for a 10 dollar bill? (I filled a bag to bursting, and right after I paid, the bag DID burst. I ended up putting it all in a box, and I probably ought to have paid for two bags.) I was fighting for elbow space with all kinds of people who were equally gleeful, but no fights broke out this year (last year was a shitshow of crazed, glossy-eyed fanatics, all vying for that same elusive book that you must surely have been standing over.) I was jealous of a friend who picked up a weird old book with photographs of signs and one about repairing television radios (?). One woman was so into it that she left her purse on the other side of the room and forgot about it.
Book sale Sunday is such a wonderful day. It reminds me of the joys of my summer of '07: sorting through boxes of donated books at St. Vincent de Paul. This is the kind of thing where you find the forgotten, the weird, the looked-over, signs of outdated beliefs and records of people's lives and what once mattered, the fleeting bits of pop culture that come and go, the book you never would've sought on the shelves at Barnes & Noble. When I get to heaven, I hope it turns out to be not a library, but an enormous garage sale overflowing with used books.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Gluten-free, egg-free pancakes and the immediacy of Saturday mornings
One of my favorite things to do on a weekend morning, particularly in the lower light of the three seasons-that-are-not-summer in the PNW, is to wake up at a reasonable hour, spin some Simon and Garfunkel, and putter around in the kitchen. This morning, the album of choice is Bridge Over Troubled Water, and I decided to finally try my hand at gluten-free, egg-free pancakes (out of a package—actually, two packages).
I used Arrowhead Mills organic pancake mix, and for the eggs I used Energ-G egg replacer for the first time. I also don't have any milk in the house, and one of the things about Simon and Garfunkel mornings is that the minute you step outside to take out the garbage or borrow sugar from a neighbor or run to the store (which is only three blocks away, in my case) to get some milk, you've broken the magic spell. Once again, one of the joys of being single (for one must claim the joys one can) is that you can do what you want and envelope yourself in a lovely world of your choosing on lonely Saturday mornings. Anyway, I had to use the very last of my powdered milk—a very handy thing to keep around, by the way, for anyone who doesn't keep his or her fridge stocked with milk at all times (and I don't, because it often goes bad when I do).
I whipped up the egg replacer without the benefit of exact science—I have no measuring spoons, and this I should remedy soon—so I made roughly two-ish eggs? and proceeded from there. Cooking in my kitchen is a game of chance and guesswork.
The recipe on the bag called for honey; I thought about replacing it with sugar, which is much cheaper, but now, tasting the pancakes, I'm glad I didn't. The honey gave them a great flavor that complements the surprisingly eggy flavor one expects in pancakes (but which I was surprised to get out of fake eggs) very nicely.
Overall, the pancakes are too heavy, but I think that's owing to my inability (or stubborn refusal) to measure exactly. The first couple pancakes I made in particular will be bricks; when I first made the mixture it was more like airy dough than pancake mix, but after I cooked the first two I got brave and added more and more milk until the mixture was runny as pancake mix should be, with success. So that's an A for Arrowhead Mills pancake mix: Not only do they taste like pancakes, but the process of making them is satisfyingly similar, and the dough is a similar consistency. They are fluffy and browned up in nice pancake-like dapply patterns (as you can see in the picture), though in the center there is that slight grittiness that you get from using rice or potato flour.
And that's a definite A+ for Taste for Energ-G egg replacer, though since this is my first time using them I can't report yet on their consistency or usefulness in doughs that require the other properties of eggs, such as the fluffing factor or the sticking factor.
I topped the pancakes with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, my favorite light spread with a stupifyingly horrible name, and Safeway Organics maple syrup, which is a bit runny but a nice price for those of us who just make a living wage.
I have coffee percolating on the stovetop, fake flames dancing in the fake gas stove, and the real deal playing on my record player. The wind outside is howling and I have a million things to do today, but these concerns only lend to my awareness of these walls and this immediate moment and make me grateful for my winter cocoon.
I used Arrowhead Mills organic pancake mix, and for the eggs I used Energ-G egg replacer for the first time. I also don't have any milk in the house, and one of the things about Simon and Garfunkel mornings is that the minute you step outside to take out the garbage or borrow sugar from a neighbor or run to the store (which is only three blocks away, in my case) to get some milk, you've broken the magic spell. Once again, one of the joys of being single (for one must claim the joys one can) is that you can do what you want and envelope yourself in a lovely world of your choosing on lonely Saturday mornings. Anyway, I had to use the very last of my powdered milk—a very handy thing to keep around, by the way, for anyone who doesn't keep his or her fridge stocked with milk at all times (and I don't, because it often goes bad when I do).
I whipped up the egg replacer without the benefit of exact science—I have no measuring spoons, and this I should remedy soon—so I made roughly two-ish eggs? and proceeded from there. Cooking in my kitchen is a game of chance and guesswork.
The recipe on the bag called for honey; I thought about replacing it with sugar, which is much cheaper, but now, tasting the pancakes, I'm glad I didn't. The honey gave them a great flavor that complements the surprisingly eggy flavor one expects in pancakes (but which I was surprised to get out of fake eggs) very nicely.
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| Gluten-free, egg-free pancakes. The picture looks rather lurid in the light—with a greenish hue—because it was taken with my cell phone and on my coffee table (which also serves as my dining table). |
Overall, the pancakes are too heavy, but I think that's owing to my inability (or stubborn refusal) to measure exactly. The first couple pancakes I made in particular will be bricks; when I first made the mixture it was more like airy dough than pancake mix, but after I cooked the first two I got brave and added more and more milk until the mixture was runny as pancake mix should be, with success. So that's an A for Arrowhead Mills pancake mix: Not only do they taste like pancakes, but the process of making them is satisfyingly similar, and the dough is a similar consistency. They are fluffy and browned up in nice pancake-like dapply patterns (as you can see in the picture), though in the center there is that slight grittiness that you get from using rice or potato flour.
And that's a definite A+ for Taste for Energ-G egg replacer, though since this is my first time using them I can't report yet on their consistency or usefulness in doughs that require the other properties of eggs, such as the fluffing factor or the sticking factor.
I topped the pancakes with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, my favorite light spread with a stupifyingly horrible name, and Safeway Organics maple syrup, which is a bit runny but a nice price for those of us who just make a living wage.
I have coffee percolating on the stovetop, fake flames dancing in the fake gas stove, and the real deal playing on my record player. The wind outside is howling and I have a million things to do today, but these concerns only lend to my awareness of these walls and this immediate moment and make me grateful for my winter cocoon.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Sincerest form of flattery
I love things—and people—that stand in opposition to the fascism of modern life. I suppose we'll never have a society without ridiculous constraints. There's never been a Golden Age free of tyranny and the evils of poverty, disease, war, organized religion, or brand-name hoodies, except in the imaginations of we Don Quixotes of the world. Maybe this is what makes certain things like music and art more beautiful. And adds a halo to those who stand for freedom.
Lately I've been thinking especially about three people with those halos: Frida Kahlo, Stephen Fry, and Gram Parsons. Silly, I know. I just love what each of them stand for, and I think my admiration says something about the things that hold me back.
Consider Frida. She wasn't afraid to be different. She was beautiful, partly because she accepted herself (and her mustache) the way she was. She didn't give a flying f*ck what other people thought of her. Her art and style were completely fresh and contemporary, but celebrated traditions. She constantly referred—with pride—to symbols and values of the people of Mexico, whom she loved even as she put up with misunderstanding and rejection. And her art is so good—unique, personal, symbolic without being comical or simplistic.
Then there's Stephen Fry. I'd be oh-my-god so embarrassed if he read this, but I don't think there's any reason to fear that will happen. He's intelligent and funny, and he's capable of being both without allowing skepticism and cynicism—natural outcomes of his high level of intelligence and humor—to make him come across as negative or hateful. He's wonderful. I aspire to achieve his mixture of humor, intelligence, and kindness. And I only wish I could be half as charming—a gift my brother was granted in excess but that skipped me.
And Gram Parsons. For me, he's a symbol of the American West (even though he's not actually from the West, and his music more closely fits the "country" in "country western")—and of a lonely kind of freedom. He died at that age and at a time when purity and beauty began to give way to corruption—that's really when beauty shines the brightest. This, too, is how I think of my West, of the land of trailer parks and dessert flowers and logged mountain peaks. Like Frida, he didn't seem to care what anyone thought, or at least he didn't let that stop him, and he embraced the old and the new together in a personal kind of religious symbolism. If you don't see what I mean, consider that he called his favorite music "Cosmic American Music." And he sang it really beautifully. Wearing a white leather Western suit bedecked in rhinestones, with images of pot and pills and naked ladies—and a burning cross.
Others, by the way, include Woody Guthrie, William Blake, Walt Whitman, Richard Brautigan, Shem (the wild one, Rumi's best friend), Billie Holiday, Bill Murray, Pancho Barnes, Joni Mitchell, Emerson, Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Picasso, Gary Snyder (notice a trend? They're almost all artists); for all their flaws and shortcomings (being human), they stand for freedom and creativity. I guess the cause of my admiration is rooted in my own fierce shyness and fear of rejection, both with my art and in my personal life. Maybe in most of them I also detect a bit of that shyness and vulnerability that plagues me, but maybe I'm assigning traits based on my own experiences. I don't know any of them; how can I admire them as actual people? They just stand for something, each a little differently, that I would like to nurture and grow inside myself.
A coworker once told me (in my impressionable 20s) that if I admired somebody else, I should consider what traits they possessed that I so admired. And name them. And then recognize that I must also possess these traits; otherwise I wouldn't recognize them. And the same went for things I disliked in others. (By the way, that coworker turned out to be an immature jerk, ultimately, at least in the workplace. What does that say about me? Hm.)
It's a scary thought. If you can give it a name, you own it. You possess the same trait. But it's also nice to consider. Maybe I can be as brave and colorful as Frida, or as bright and witty as Stephen Fry, or as beautiful as Gram Parsons. Maybe the fascism I referred to is really just the roadblocks I put in my own way.
Lately I've been thinking especially about three people with those halos: Frida Kahlo, Stephen Fry, and Gram Parsons. Silly, I know. I just love what each of them stand for, and I think my admiration says something about the things that hold me back.
Consider Frida. She wasn't afraid to be different. She was beautiful, partly because she accepted herself (and her mustache) the way she was. She didn't give a flying f*ck what other people thought of her. Her art and style were completely fresh and contemporary, but celebrated traditions. She constantly referred—with pride—to symbols and values of the people of Mexico, whom she loved even as she put up with misunderstanding and rejection. And her art is so good—unique, personal, symbolic without being comical or simplistic.
Then there's Stephen Fry. I'd be oh-my-god so embarrassed if he read this, but I don't think there's any reason to fear that will happen. He's intelligent and funny, and he's capable of being both without allowing skepticism and cynicism—natural outcomes of his high level of intelligence and humor—to make him come across as negative or hateful. He's wonderful. I aspire to achieve his mixture of humor, intelligence, and kindness. And I only wish I could be half as charming—a gift my brother was granted in excess but that skipped me.
And Gram Parsons. For me, he's a symbol of the American West (even though he's not actually from the West, and his music more closely fits the "country" in "country western")—and of a lonely kind of freedom. He died at that age and at a time when purity and beauty began to give way to corruption—that's really when beauty shines the brightest. This, too, is how I think of my West, of the land of trailer parks and dessert flowers and logged mountain peaks. Like Frida, he didn't seem to care what anyone thought, or at least he didn't let that stop him, and he embraced the old and the new together in a personal kind of religious symbolism. If you don't see what I mean, consider that he called his favorite music "Cosmic American Music." And he sang it really beautifully. Wearing a white leather Western suit bedecked in rhinestones, with images of pot and pills and naked ladies—and a burning cross.
Others, by the way, include Woody Guthrie, William Blake, Walt Whitman, Richard Brautigan, Shem (the wild one, Rumi's best friend), Billie Holiday, Bill Murray, Pancho Barnes, Joni Mitchell, Emerson, Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Picasso, Gary Snyder (notice a trend? They're almost all artists); for all their flaws and shortcomings (being human), they stand for freedom and creativity. I guess the cause of my admiration is rooted in my own fierce shyness and fear of rejection, both with my art and in my personal life. Maybe in most of them I also detect a bit of that shyness and vulnerability that plagues me, but maybe I'm assigning traits based on my own experiences. I don't know any of them; how can I admire them as actual people? They just stand for something, each a little differently, that I would like to nurture and grow inside myself.
A coworker once told me (in my impressionable 20s) that if I admired somebody else, I should consider what traits they possessed that I so admired. And name them. And then recognize that I must also possess these traits; otherwise I wouldn't recognize them. And the same went for things I disliked in others. (By the way, that coworker turned out to be an immature jerk, ultimately, at least in the workplace. What does that say about me? Hm.)
It's a scary thought. If you can give it a name, you own it. You possess the same trait. But it's also nice to consider. Maybe I can be as brave and colorful as Frida, or as bright and witty as Stephen Fry, or as beautiful as Gram Parsons. Maybe the fascism I referred to is really just the roadblocks I put in my own way.
My smile is stuck
When you're talking to an interesting guy and he mentions his wife.
I never know what to do with my face.
I never know what to do with my face.
Calypso
I love folk recordings and musicology (what the what? I originally wrote "folk etymology"); it's one of my little half-assed obsessions.
One day I borrowed Calypso Awakening from the library. I didn't really think I particularly liked calypso (not that I didn't like it), but I was surprised to find out that, as with all genres, its roots and local recordings are full of energy and conviction. The album is a collection of recordings made by Emory Cook back in the 50s and 60s in Trinidad. The music is fresh; the recordings, while I guess very high-tech for their time, capturing live performances—sometimes on the move in street carnival—actually have that scratchy, earthy, organic sound I love. And it's totally lively and loaded (political correctness does not enter into the equation in these songs, and part of calypso is verbal sparring).
A couple gems: "No, Doctor No" by Mighty Sparrow, the "Yankees Gone" steel band procession, "Come Go, Calcutta" by Lord Melody, "He No Dead Yet" by King Fighter, and "Bongo Man" by Wrangler. And of course "Jean and Dinah," also by Mighty Sparrow. (You can sample the songs on the album's Amazon or Smithsonian page.)
One day I borrowed Calypso Awakening from the library. I didn't really think I particularly liked calypso (not that I didn't like it), but I was surprised to find out that, as with all genres, its roots and local recordings are full of energy and conviction. The album is a collection of recordings made by Emory Cook back in the 50s and 60s in Trinidad. The music is fresh; the recordings, while I guess very high-tech for their time, capturing live performances—sometimes on the move in street carnival—actually have that scratchy, earthy, organic sound I love. And it's totally lively and loaded (political correctness does not enter into the equation in these songs, and part of calypso is verbal sparring).
A couple gems: "No, Doctor No" by Mighty Sparrow, the "Yankees Gone" steel band procession, "Come Go, Calcutta" by Lord Melody, "He No Dead Yet" by King Fighter, and "Bongo Man" by Wrangler. And of course "Jean and Dinah," also by Mighty Sparrow. (You can sample the songs on the album's Amazon or Smithsonian page.)
Virtual readers?
If you're reading, stop by and say Hi! I don't know whether or not to keep this blog, so I would love some feedback, constructive or positive.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
My FitDay journal entry No. 1
Pre-day 1. The opening measure to my weight-loss suite, if you will.
My name on here is Legs Nelson. That's not because I have awesome legs or anything (though they're not bad); it's because I recently said "Who has two legs and just registered for Bloomsday?" That's right, this girl.
I have about 100 pounds to lose: That's 6 pounds less than I weighed my senior year in high school. I am dense (har, har) and tend to look like I weigh less than I do. Once I reach that weight I'll see if I need to tweak my goals further.
For now, though, my goal is to lose 55 pounds by my 35th birthday. I was going to set my goal at 35 by 35, but I can do better than that. July 24 is just shy of 7 months away; that's 2.2 pounds a week. Totally doable.
I have always struggled either with weight or eating issues or both at the same time. But recent developments have made me more hopeful about weight loss. The first is that I discovered a major cause for my lethargy, achy episodes, and 10-year battle with terrible IBS (lifechanging, actually; it sometimes keeps me from traveling or going too far from a bathroom. For an adventurer, pretty devastating): wheat. The less I have, the better I feel. It's amazing to suddenly realize that you had forgotten what it felt like to be alert, be able to concentrate, and not have a distended stomach and constant diarrhea. You have no idea unless you've experienced a similar revelation.
So knowing what was making me sick for so long gives me a HUGE boost. Without IBS as a major roadblock, I can look at my diet proactively instead of as a literal crapshoot. Sorry, too much. Anyway, the other major boost is that I just had my tonsils out. I was told that I will experience more energy now that I'm not fighting chronic infection. Yay!
In 2002, I made my second trip to the Enchantments, a famous group of high-alpine lakes that are also infamously difficult to get to. In 2004 I hurt my back working at a nursing home. I've only done minor hiking since. So this year, I am planning a return trip to the Enchantments! Too much? Life is short; I'm not getting any younger; and when I went I weighed 220 pounds (I got some looks of surprise on the trail, yes). I figure, if I weigh a lot less than before this summer, I can do it. Plus after carrying this weight around for so long, I'll actually be stronger as I lose weight, as long as I maintain and then build on my muscle.
That's for the end of August. But first, in May, I'm doing the Spokane Bloomsday run. It's 7 miles; I'm going to jog as much of it as I can work up to by then. I could step outside and walk 7 miles today (believe it or not, even at my weight. I'm of hardy peasant stock), but I registered for 2 hours. So I have to jog part of it or do that crazy speedwalking that makes you look like a wounded duck running from a bear. I'd rather jog.
So this is my first journal entry. Tonight I did my first workout (besides walking) since my tonsillectomy (which was two weeks ago today): 15 minutes on the elliptical followed by 10 on the treadmill. I felt ready to do more (20 on the elliptical was my regular light workout before my op), but my throat still hurts quite a bit, so I'm working up to it. Blog readers, I'll occasionally check in. On FitDay, I'll keep this journal up each day with my total calories eaten and my workouts.
My plan is simple:
Breakfast—Flax oatmeal (1 packet), coffee, half and half
Snack—Medifast or other protein shake
Lunch—Salad with nuts, cheese, ranch dressing
Snack—Yogurt, cheese stick, or other 150-calorie snack
Dinner—1 protein, 1 carb, veggies
Dessert—Protein shake with frozen berries
Drink water and tea
Morning exercise—Couch 2 5K (3 times a week)
Afternoon—20 minutes elliptical, 5 minutes stair trainer (to be amended as I get in better shape) OR full yoga workout OR swimming (6 total laps)
Every weekend—Hike
Wish me luck as I do you!
Monday, January 30, 2012
You learn something
every day.
I didn't know until 10 minutes ago that "Fox on the Run" wasn't a bluegrass song to begin with. Manfred Mann, you fooled me.
I didn't know until 10 minutes ago that "Fox on the Run" wasn't a bluegrass song to begin with. Manfred Mann, you fooled me.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Boot envy
I really want these boots (but not the wallpaper).
Or their counterparts,
If I'm a good girl, will a pair of bright-colored vintage Ralph Lauren cowboy boots show up in my size? I think I'd have to get a 9 1/2 or 10 owing to my outrageous instep (can't get barbie doll feet down the shaft and into the footbed—wow, that sounds dirty) but I'd take a chance and buy 8 1/2s or larger. Any help out there, Universe? I want these so bad I practically pee my pants just looking at them. Can you just see me, in a jean skirt and cotton shirt, rocking these amazing statements? Gram Parsons himself would approve. Either pair is to die for. And it seems that in the 1970s every urban cowgirl wore a size 7 1/2. The bitches.
Hang on to your quill
I put on big-girl pants (well, pants, period; I was on my way to pajamas and severely tempted to stay home) and left my apartment to attend a reading by Jess Walter and Daniel Orozco tonight at Walla Walla University, sponsored by Humanities Washington.
It was an unpretentious reading—and by that, I mean that there wasn't anybody up there in an excessive scarf reading what other writers have said about these writers just to introduce them, and there was no big fanfare. Just a couple sofas and some comical-looking portable mics. The space was perfect: a theater room in an old campus building. I love it when a place is comfortable enough in its age that nobody has restored the soul out of it. Even though it's winter, the night was mild enough that they propped the large oak doors open to the street. There were old theatre seats, covered in tattered red material that may have been velvet or just velveteen with age, with wooden backs and hinges that allowed you to lean back.
Some sixty-plus students and the oddball prof or community librite (yes, I made up that word but you totally know what I mean) filled the room. Though WWU is an adventist college and students can't drink, wear jewelry, or eat pork (and therefore do all three with conviction, I'm sure), they were still familiar to me, and as someone two years out of a University and formerly submersed in the humanities, I missed them and loved them—the ones in dark glasses or vintage cardigans or dyed hair or knitted hats sitting forward, waiting for their moment to shine at question-and-answer; others in their bright new clothes and well-behaved hair taking diligent notes of details and missing the reading, others acting bored and probably believing they didn't understand anything but laughing at all the good lines (and let's face it, dirty jokes well-told are the good lines). I showed up three minutes early and already Orozco was reading from his essay/short story, "Shakers."
Jess Walter was sexy. He name-dropped (Sherman Alexie), but not, thank God, gratuitously or smugly—he and Alexie play basketball together, so they're each writing a series of stories about a fictional team, and eventually the teams will meet and play against each other. That's fun. I kind of want to look both teams up, now (so to speak and that's the only time you'll find me using those words). The story he read was really engaging, but to be honest I preferred Orozco's sweeping essay-like piece about a California earthquake and its unconnected, isolated victims. It broke a lot of rules, and I love that. It bordered on that sentimental, almost religious sense of place, and I love that too.
A couple of ideas that stood out to me:
Orozco said, in his essay, that "The middle of nowhere is somewhere to somebody."
Orozco also pointed out that when writers say they create the characters and after that the characters just kind of take over and tell the writer what they're doing, that's insanity.
Jess Walter said that he gets up and writes at 5:30 every morning. Now I think that's insanity.
Walter also noted that some people want to write, others want to be writers.
That last point made me wonder, which am I? Writing is not easy for me. I always believe before starting that I couldn't possibly have anything to offer of value. I don't understand people; how could I describe them believably? I've never done anything of great importance. I have lived a small and sheltered life—I live in a sad little shoebox world. But when I start to write, it turns out that I have a million things to say about every fine point. I get carried away as if I'm holding a brush and torturing the life out of a painting trying to get a blade of grass just right. Then I think of three or ten different things to say at once and get all pen-tied. The end result is often a big mess of words that I can't really expect a reader to follow. I believe that at my best I have a great sense of cadence and an instinct for leading from one sentence to the next. But my ideas get in the way. I'm like a graceful dancer with an extra foot. So writing is hard for me, and I keep it locked away. Because when I start writing, I feel compelled to write more. And then I don't have the discipline to keep at this painful joy so I abandon it again. All of which proves, I would be a terrible heroin addict.
So anyway, as you can see, my darling hypothetical audience, going to the reading gave me a wee bit o' the itch, it did. I haven't really written since I finished my thesis. I felt that it was a fraud, except maybe the art (I made prints to go with the poems and essay) and about two poems out of twenty-some, and I believed that my mentor/ the chair of my thesis committee was disappointed in it, too, so I lost the nerve, verve, piss and vinegar, all of it and went back into my head. But I guess I really just need to come at writing from a new angle—a refreshingly not-for-college angle. Of course, universities are where the surface of it all happens because it's one of the last places in a society where the arts are celebrated and recognized for what they are: the thing that makes us human and makes life beautiful. But they're not where writing happens; where it's done, where the stories take place; where it's read. Anyway, what I mean is, maybe it'll help me if I return to writing for the sake of writing, for ME, rather than for a grade or to meet somebody else's expectations. And of course, I hit on it a minute ago: Writing keeps me from retreating completely into my head. Rather, it gets my head out into the world. So I guess I'm writing again. Hold on to your hats.
Which reminds me of a quote from Revenge of the Lawn by Richard Brautigan, the guy who posthumously got me thinking about writing in college in the first place: "Then my sister would say to me, 'Do you think you can do it?' and I'd reply, 'Of course. Hang onto your hat.' / Your Hat/ Gone Now These/ Twenty Years..."
It was an unpretentious reading—and by that, I mean that there wasn't anybody up there in an excessive scarf reading what other writers have said about these writers just to introduce them, and there was no big fanfare. Just a couple sofas and some comical-looking portable mics. The space was perfect: a theater room in an old campus building. I love it when a place is comfortable enough in its age that nobody has restored the soul out of it. Even though it's winter, the night was mild enough that they propped the large oak doors open to the street. There were old theatre seats, covered in tattered red material that may have been velvet or just velveteen with age, with wooden backs and hinges that allowed you to lean back.
Some sixty-plus students and the oddball prof or community librite (yes, I made up that word but you totally know what I mean) filled the room. Though WWU is an adventist college and students can't drink, wear jewelry, or eat pork (and therefore do all three with conviction, I'm sure), they were still familiar to me, and as someone two years out of a University and formerly submersed in the humanities, I missed them and loved them—the ones in dark glasses or vintage cardigans or dyed hair or knitted hats sitting forward, waiting for their moment to shine at question-and-answer; others in their bright new clothes and well-behaved hair taking diligent notes of details and missing the reading, others acting bored and probably believing they didn't understand anything but laughing at all the good lines (and let's face it, dirty jokes well-told are the good lines). I showed up three minutes early and already Orozco was reading from his essay/short story, "Shakers."
Jess Walter was sexy. He name-dropped (Sherman Alexie), but not, thank God, gratuitously or smugly—he and Alexie play basketball together, so they're each writing a series of stories about a fictional team, and eventually the teams will meet and play against each other. That's fun. I kind of want to look both teams up, now (so to speak and that's the only time you'll find me using those words). The story he read was really engaging, but to be honest I preferred Orozco's sweeping essay-like piece about a California earthquake and its unconnected, isolated victims. It broke a lot of rules, and I love that. It bordered on that sentimental, almost religious sense of place, and I love that too.
A couple of ideas that stood out to me:
Orozco said, in his essay, that "The middle of nowhere is somewhere to somebody."
Orozco also pointed out that when writers say they create the characters and after that the characters just kind of take over and tell the writer what they're doing, that's insanity.
Jess Walter said that he gets up and writes at 5:30 every morning. Now I think that's insanity.
Walter also noted that some people want to write, others want to be writers.
That last point made me wonder, which am I? Writing is not easy for me. I always believe before starting that I couldn't possibly have anything to offer of value. I don't understand people; how could I describe them believably? I've never done anything of great importance. I have lived a small and sheltered life—I live in a sad little shoebox world. But when I start to write, it turns out that I have a million things to say about every fine point. I get carried away as if I'm holding a brush and torturing the life out of a painting trying to get a blade of grass just right. Then I think of three or ten different things to say at once and get all pen-tied. The end result is often a big mess of words that I can't really expect a reader to follow. I believe that at my best I have a great sense of cadence and an instinct for leading from one sentence to the next. But my ideas get in the way. I'm like a graceful dancer with an extra foot. So writing is hard for me, and I keep it locked away. Because when I start writing, I feel compelled to write more. And then I don't have the discipline to keep at this painful joy so I abandon it again. All of which proves, I would be a terrible heroin addict.
So anyway, as you can see, my darling hypothetical audience, going to the reading gave me a wee bit o' the itch, it did. I haven't really written since I finished my thesis. I felt that it was a fraud, except maybe the art (I made prints to go with the poems and essay) and about two poems out of twenty-some, and I believed that my mentor/ the chair of my thesis committee was disappointed in it, too, so I lost the nerve, verve, piss and vinegar, all of it and went back into my head. But I guess I really just need to come at writing from a new angle—a refreshingly not-for-college angle. Of course, universities are where the surface of it all happens because it's one of the last places in a society where the arts are celebrated and recognized for what they are: the thing that makes us human and makes life beautiful. But they're not where writing happens; where it's done, where the stories take place; where it's read. Anyway, what I mean is, maybe it'll help me if I return to writing for the sake of writing, for ME, rather than for a grade or to meet somebody else's expectations. And of course, I hit on it a minute ago: Writing keeps me from retreating completely into my head. Rather, it gets my head out into the world. So I guess I'm writing again. Hold on to your hats.
Which reminds me of a quote from Revenge of the Lawn by Richard Brautigan, the guy who posthumously got me thinking about writing in college in the first place: "Then my sister would say to me, 'Do you think you can do it?' and I'd reply, 'Of course. Hang onto your hat.' / Your Hat/ Gone Now These/ Twenty Years..."
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Post-editorial post
Today I also took advantage of the 15-minute massage therapy service offered Tuesdays at work. He worked on my shoulders and neck and really dug in. It felt so good with all the stress (and a new dose of Vicodin) that I actually caught myself drooling. What a very professional thing to do in the lobby at a conservative medical publishing company.
I always recommend a good massage, of course. But one more thing I discovered today, and I wish I'd thought of it sooner, is that those Vitamin Waters are actually very soft and soothing on the throat. I would've been drinking those from the start. Add that to my list of recommendations: Vitamin Water! I'm not usually a product pusher, either. That's saying something.
I always recommend a good massage, of course. But one more thing I discovered today, and I wish I'd thought of it sooner, is that those Vitamin Waters are actually very soft and soothing on the throat. I would've been drinking those from the start. Add that to my list of recommendations: Vitamin Water! I'm not usually a product pusher, either. That's saying something.
Tonsil-lect-o-me
It's been a week today (so that makes this day 8, according to my system) since I had my tonsillectomy. Here's what I have to report.
Don't stop setting your alarm and try to sleep through a night without keeping up your Vicodin. Just don't do it. Not yet. I'll tell you what day I was able to do it. But take my advice.
I didn't work yesterday. I stayed in bed all day. It was good. I started feeling a little stir-crazy. (Not that I hadn't already felt like if I but had the strength I could tear down my walls. The ugly winter weather and howling wind, of course, make me feel a little less inclined.) I spread my half-doses of pain killer out to 5 or 5 1/2 hours. OK. I took some Ibuprofen, which is really the stuff if you want to kill pain for longer periods of time and maybe take care of some swelling too. But it's not really strong enough to do the trick.
I found that out at 5:30 in the morning when I woke up with somebody's sword stuck down my throat. This is not a sexual innuendo; it's a description of the pain. It was enough to make me feel dizzy and shaky. I got up, took some Vicodin, and knew I wouldn't be OK in just two hours to get up and go to work, especially since I had insomnia (an unfortunate side effect of feeling well enough to get restless and require less sleep but not well enough to do anything about the energy. A side effect, I think of anxiety disorder's side effects).
I called in and forced a very VERY tired self to get up at 10:30 and go to work. I was in at 11 and sort of creepy-crawled through my day, like a wild animal on the edge of the park who doesn't want to be noticed.
That's day 8.
Don't stop setting your alarm and try to sleep through a night without keeping up your Vicodin. Just don't do it. Not yet. I'll tell you what day I was able to do it. But take my advice.
I didn't work yesterday. I stayed in bed all day. It was good. I started feeling a little stir-crazy. (Not that I hadn't already felt like if I but had the strength I could tear down my walls. The ugly winter weather and howling wind, of course, make me feel a little less inclined.) I spread my half-doses of pain killer out to 5 or 5 1/2 hours. OK. I took some Ibuprofen, which is really the stuff if you want to kill pain for longer periods of time and maybe take care of some swelling too. But it's not really strong enough to do the trick.
I found that out at 5:30 in the morning when I woke up with somebody's sword stuck down my throat. This is not a sexual innuendo; it's a description of the pain. It was enough to make me feel dizzy and shaky. I got up, took some Vicodin, and knew I wouldn't be OK in just two hours to get up and go to work, especially since I had insomnia (an unfortunate side effect of feeling well enough to get restless and require less sleep but not well enough to do anything about the energy. A side effect, I think of anxiety disorder's side effects).
I called in and forced a very VERY tired self to get up at 10:30 and go to work. I was in at 11 and sort of creepy-crawled through my day, like a wild animal on the edge of the park who doesn't want to be noticed.
That's day 8.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Simple resolutions
Annie Dillard said, "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives."
If you're like me, you'll know why this is an uncomfortable observation. I'm one of those people who starts on any project or resolution with a bang—compiles journals, ledgers, flowcharts, complicated matrices (OK, maybe not going that far)—and then sort of fizzles out with a schwa. I'm completely disenchanted by rituals and complications, so most things sort of happen in one energetic burst or very laissez-faire.
With that in mind, and the idea that water always flows around a rock that's taller, I compiled a list of everyday things to do, along with a few weekly tasks, and put it on my refrigerator. I will admit that promising myself time to do the same things each day would not be so simple if I had more responsibilities. But I also feel that, as a single person, I ought to do productive things with my time, and with nobody else there to hold me to any sort of accountability or to keep me from embarrassment of, say, a sink full of dishes, I think the list is a good idea.
Here's what it says.
Every day...
• Work out/ do a yoga routine/ take a long walk
• Drink some water, eat 3 vegetables
• Clean [apartment] for 15 minutes
• Don't leave any dishes or laundry out
• Recycle
• Take care of all incoming mail, send outgoing
• Know what's in the bank
• Spend 15+ minutes writing
• Spend time researching PhD programs or networking*
• Post something to sell on the internet**
• Positive toward self and others
Every week...
• 2 hours at Humane Society
• Take a hike***
• Make something
[*I have in mind that this is the general "Self or world improvement" bracket: applying for online instructing positions, working on causes, etc.
**Etsy shop, used books, etc.
***As weather/health permits]
This is my list for now. An elegant plan, I think. Of course, it'll change with the times and my projects. Flexibility is important, but intent is key. Don't get me wrong; it's not like these are things I never do. It's just that if I follow this very simple list every day, rather than whenever the mood strikes, I will be living a life much closer to the one I envision for myself.
If you're like me, you'll know why this is an uncomfortable observation. I'm one of those people who starts on any project or resolution with a bang—compiles journals, ledgers, flowcharts, complicated matrices (OK, maybe not going that far)—and then sort of fizzles out with a schwa. I'm completely disenchanted by rituals and complications, so most things sort of happen in one energetic burst or very laissez-faire.
With that in mind, and the idea that water always flows around a rock that's taller, I compiled a list of everyday things to do, along with a few weekly tasks, and put it on my refrigerator. I will admit that promising myself time to do the same things each day would not be so simple if I had more responsibilities. But I also feel that, as a single person, I ought to do productive things with my time, and with nobody else there to hold me to any sort of accountability or to keep me from embarrassment of, say, a sink full of dishes, I think the list is a good idea.
Here's what it says.
Every day...
• Work out/ do a yoga routine/ take a long walk
• Drink some water, eat 3 vegetables
• Clean [apartment] for 15 minutes
• Don't leave any dishes or laundry out
• Recycle
• Take care of all incoming mail, send outgoing
• Know what's in the bank
• Spend 15+ minutes writing
• Spend time researching PhD programs or networking*
• Post something to sell on the internet**
• Positive toward self and others
Every week...
• 2 hours at Humane Society
• Take a hike***
• Make something
[*I have in mind that this is the general "Self or world improvement" bracket: applying for online instructing positions, working on causes, etc.
**Etsy shop, used books, etc.
***As weather/health permits]
This is my list for now. An elegant plan, I think. Of course, it'll change with the times and my projects. Flexibility is important, but intent is key. Don't get me wrong; it's not like these are things I never do. It's just that if I follow this very simple list every day, rather than whenever the mood strikes, I will be living a life much closer to the one I envision for myself.
Days 6 and 7
It's been almost a week now since I had my tonsillectomy. I read online that around day 7 was the worst pain, and I'm beginning to find out. About two days ago, a spot on the right side of my throat started to hurt, and the pain has been just steadily blossoming; each time the Vicodin begins to wear off I find out it's a little worse. I hope that it's a scab forming or scaling back, not a wound. Thing is, I can't get my mouth open enough and flatten my tongue enough to see what's going on back there. I even took a cell phone picture to see part of it the other day, out of curiosity.
Last night (between days 6 and 7) must've been like an eye in the storm. I slept like a baby. I didn't want to get up and bother to take the medication; I had to set my cell phone alarm, drag myself out of bed, and voluntarily put myself through the torture of swallowing that fowl stuff. But had I not gone through the ritual every four-ish hours, I'm certain that I would've eventually woken up in agony.
When I woke up this morning—Monday morning, the day I'm scheduled to return to work—I felt heavenly. There was an insistent feeling at the back of my throat, almost like a tickling but comfortable, and my body felt nearly rested. I instinctively knew that today was a critical turning point and if I went to work I would just drag out the process. I called in and left quiet, raspy messages with two of my bosses—and suddenly my throat was on fire. So I took the medication and went back to bed. And laid there, listening, in a way, to the crawling, almost burning sensation. Sleeping fitfully. It's really not that this pain is worse than when you first have the surgery; it's just different, much more intense but also more mentally manageable.
I keep doing these silly little half-yawns. They hurt, but my body must think "If I can't get a good one in, I'll just keep torturing you with little yawn-waves."
I do have some advice for scaling back the medication to return to life and work, if you're taking Vicodin: cut the Rx in half, and grind up some ibuprofen (maybe 400 mg) and take that in your eating window with some applesauce. I can't wait to switch over to just ibuprofen. It lasts longer and doesn't put your body and mind on a rollercoaster ride.
I looked back over what I wrote when I was really on that ride, and wow. I'm not naturally an organized thinker, but that's definitely hard to read.
Last night (between days 6 and 7) must've been like an eye in the storm. I slept like a baby. I didn't want to get up and bother to take the medication; I had to set my cell phone alarm, drag myself out of bed, and voluntarily put myself through the torture of swallowing that fowl stuff. But had I not gone through the ritual every four-ish hours, I'm certain that I would've eventually woken up in agony.
When I woke up this morning—Monday morning, the day I'm scheduled to return to work—I felt heavenly. There was an insistent feeling at the back of my throat, almost like a tickling but comfortable, and my body felt nearly rested. I instinctively knew that today was a critical turning point and if I went to work I would just drag out the process. I called in and left quiet, raspy messages with two of my bosses—and suddenly my throat was on fire. So I took the medication and went back to bed. And laid there, listening, in a way, to the crawling, almost burning sensation. Sleeping fitfully. It's really not that this pain is worse than when you first have the surgery; it's just different, much more intense but also more mentally manageable.
I keep doing these silly little half-yawns. They hurt, but my body must think "If I can't get a good one in, I'll just keep torturing you with little yawn-waves."
I do have some advice for scaling back the medication to return to life and work, if you're taking Vicodin: cut the Rx in half, and grind up some ibuprofen (maybe 400 mg) and take that in your eating window with some applesauce. I can't wait to switch over to just ibuprofen. It lasts longer and doesn't put your body and mind on a rollercoaster ride.
I looked back over what I wrote when I was really on that ride, and wow. I'm not naturally an organized thinker, but that's definitely hard to read.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
More on tonsillectomy recovery
By day 4/5, the pain killer has become nauseating, taking its follow-ups, applesauce and popsicles, down with it. Try gargling with some warm salt water (not too much salt). It helped me a bit. I'm not sure it would be a good idea in the first couple of days, though.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
If your tonsils offend thee, pluck them out
It's day, lessee, 5 after my tonsillectomy (which I opted for and didn't have to undergo; I'm beginning to wonder if I'm insane). I found great information online—mostly in forums—about what to expect as an adult recovering from tonsillectomy. I thought I might add to the noise.
Unfortunately, there is no one thing to expect. A friend of mine once was out of the office for three weeks recovering; another friend recently recovered so quickly that he drove 5 hours the second day after his surgery, and two weeks later was shooting tequila (I witnessed this). So what to expect? Anything.
As for me, there are a couple of things I should mention. First is that they gave me a drug called "magic mouthwash" (and despite the name, it is not in any way mind-opening) containing lidocaine, maalox, and benadryl. I won't touch the stuff. I can't stand the feeling of anything in my mouth being numbed, especially my throat or tongue. I have a phobia called "global anxiety"—a fear of choking or asphyxiating when I swallow—probably at least partially resulting from the swollen tonsils problem.
When I came out of anesthesia in the operating room, I was really agitated. What was freaking me out, I finally came to realize, was that my throat was numb. The first words I uttered (in a tiny, raspy voice), beyond gibberish, were "I feel compelled to swallow but it's not possible."
So much for normal. Even in confused states I sound like one of those weird little kids who reads too much and never hangs out with other kids. What will I sound like if I ever get dementia, I wonder? (This is not a thoughtless crack at victims of dementia; I used to be a caregiver and I think about things like that.)
So without the benefit of magic mouthwash, as enticing as it sounds, I have to rely on liquid hydrocodone (generic Vicodin) for pain relief. It's nasty stuff. I'm pretty sure my nausea and headaches have stemmed from the medicine rather than the surgery.
Anyway, with that caveat, here is a breakdown, as I remember, of my experience, with notable points summed up at the end for the benefit of those looking for information only (note: this is not my best writing. I'm drugged up. I can't spell Vicodin the same way twice. I won't even bother to fix the verb tense shifts, despite the name of this blog alluding to the writer's mantra: revise, revise, revise):
Day 1 Surgery at 3. I enjoyed the nurse who put in my IV; I hope I run into him at a bar or something when I'm wearing more makeup and, er, clothes. (I asked him, "Is it OK that I kept my own socks on?" His reply: "Should be fine. You're having a tonsillectomy, right? Probably won't get in the way—unless you're one of those people who tends to put their foot in their mouth.")
Most of my time at the hospital was spent waiting in boredom. I have a brief head rush and my eyes fill up with liquid a few minutes after the IV starts. I tell a nurse and she blows it off as anxiety.
Note: My stepmom drove 3 hours and took time off to help me through surgery and recovery, an act of kindness that means a lot to me and made the day possible. Later, in my foul and freaky mood, I drove her away, but that's another story.
After the procedure, my stepmom reports that one of the tonsils was really infected and the other was gross, too, so this was no mistake. Even if it doesn't feel worth it right now.
I'm mostly out of it for the whole night. Outside, Old Man Winter has made himself known with a vengeance, having been absent for most of his namesake season. Pain: Irrelevant. So out of it, weak, and confused that pain was only part of my situation. I find that as long as I don't move much and people don't say much, I'm OK, if OK means "not actively being tortured."
Day 2 Pain: Don't even remember. A constant 8? I spend most of the day sleeping fitfully. I keep track of when I take the Vicadin, a trick my stepmom introduced that I highly recommend to anyone recovering from anything requiring pain killers. You'll never remember otherwise, and your dosages will be intermittent and inconsistent. All I can eat is (very slowly) frozen things. Popsicles and a bit of ice cream.
In the afternoon, a friend comes over with frozen yogurt and a hyacinth. She stays and we talk until I begin to fade away. The vicodin, incidentally, makes you feel as though you're OK to talk, but it only lasts a while. I feel bad asking her to leave. Her visit was like sunshine. She walked a mile each way in the snow just to make me feel better.
News comes that the roads are even worse where my stepmom lives, and I say I was going to ask if she can stay another night.
Day 3 Pain: 5 in stasis, 8 swallowing. Post-nasal drip: Unbearable. Uvula swollen; back of throat feels like I got slimed by an alien. Constantly trying to spit up, which hurts. I'm glad I have a cup for spitting, a box of Kleenexes, and a garbage near my bed.
A friend brings over her dog, Rupert, who loves me, and a really good humidifier. This, it turns out, is a must for recovery (the humidifier, and yes, possibly the doggie cuddles). I try mashed potatoes and gluten-free gravy; terrible mistake. Will be sticking with the cold and frozen stuff for another day. While my stepmom is gone at the store, a nurse or somebody (?) from the hospital calls with follow-up checkup questions (apparently designed to torture tonsillectomy victims who, it's worth noting, CAN'T TALK). She asks if everything was going well; when I describe what's bothering me, she talks to me like I was in 4th grade and incapable of tying my shoelaces. "Well, what do you normally do for post-nasal drip?" Every time I speak, the film in my throat grows thicker, so I have to pause and try to clear it (painfully) between sentences. She didn't seem to have any sympathy, but that could be my interpretation through the phlegmish veil of hell. She says she'd have the doctor's office call me. They never did.
(Drama alert) Meanwhile, my stepmom has to stay another night because of the weather. I misinterpret her terseness as being irritated at me for asking her to stay longer in the first place, causing her to be stuck by another storm. She goes away and returns with movies. I begin watching a movie with her while doing macramé but am unable to finish.
My bad mood continues after a fitful nap, and we have a blowout fight. She leaves. I don't have the energy to feel guilty yet. I feel a little guilty anyway and have decided we both behaved like monsters. There's more to it, but I've removed it. Let's just say that the lesson is, be prepared to be at your worst.
I walk the three blocks to a neighborhood Safeway to pick up Rx refill and some Mucinex. Pharmacy lets me know that the trucks didn't make it because of the weather; they lend me a little of the hydrocodone liquid—enough to last a day.
Once I'm home and take the Mucinex: RELIEF! At last I can breathe and sleep with minimal throat blockage. Rupert and I are relatively happy campers.
Day 4 Days 3 and 4 are the worst. Pain: 6 in stasis (it has spread to my ears and an occasional throbbing headache); 7-8-9 swallowing. I wake up in the middle of the night with a terrible headache and dizziness; I decide that's a sign I need to force myself to drink more water. Swallowing feels as though the liquid is coating my throat and trickling down, and it's very uncomfortable, but at least it's now doable. But I learn that if I wait until the Vicadin has kicked in (about a half hour after taking), I can drink most of a glass of cold water in a few goes.
I call the pharmacy and they're still out of the liquid vicadin. Two things dawn on me. 1, It's Friday. 2, What about people whose medicine is critical? Fortunately for me, anyway, they send the Rx across town. I am blessed enough to have a friend who's willing to drive across town and pick it up for me in this terrible weather.
Rupert and I hang out until my friend picks him up after 3. I'm feeling a little more able to eat. Finally able to be awake long enough for one movie (the first "Sherlock Holmes," which I enjoyed despite its bastardization of the real Holmes). Continued taking Vicodin and Mucinex at the same time. They're a little hard to take at once (lots of sharp syrupy goop), but otherwise I'll forget. Applesauce immediately afterward helps hide the flavor; an ice pop helps mask the pain. Had some mashed potatoes, thin, with no gravy but with some "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" (which I wish had a different name; I love the stuff, but really?) and did OK. Heaping amounts of applesauce. Continue to force water down. Noticed that I drank almost all the water in my big Brita pitcher since I came home from surgery, so that's a good sign.
At 9:30, I took both medicines and fell asleep. I woke up at 2:30 in the morning (Day 5) in terrible pain. So recovering has a little catch: If you're feeling better, you might oversleep and forget to take your medicine. Note. Began setting an alarm on my cell phone.
Day 5 Feeling better. Pain: 4 in stasis; 7 when swallowing or burping or performing other movements of the mouth (it all still hurts, but now I can at least move my neck around. Don't forget to stretch your neck, by the way, now and again). Extra spittle continues. There's one spot in my throat that I may have aggravated when I was trying to hock up a particularly nasty gob of crap last night, but it may also be where a scab is starting to come off. Woke up feeling well-rested. Now that I have figured out the waiting game, I knew to wait until my vicadin had almost worn off (about 3 hours) to walk to Safeway and pick up some supplies. Purchases: Cheetoh puffs, two kinds of pudding, a bottle of 7Up, orange Tic Tacs, and Robitussin. (The Mucinex syrup I had purchased before was a little strong; it stung in my throat and was expensive. I also don't think I'll need a giant bottle now.)
I feel like I have lots of energy, other than the wooziness, but I'm still only good for a couple hours at a time. Started writing this blog...eyelids began to fall. Back into napping cycle. Also, it's worth note that I started the day more nauseated than usual and believed for a minute at Safeway that I was going to vomit and make a scene; the 7Up helped but only temporarily. Tic Tacs also help.
So that's my experience so far. It may be helpful for at least one person, but like I said, nothing is universal in this game. My biggest advice is to stock up on applesauce and popsicles, avoid anything salty or warm for at least 3 days, and have a humidifier going all the time. Drink as much water as you can stand. Keep a piece of paper next to your medicine to record when you take it; set an alarm so you don't oversleep and wake up in extreme pain. And if you're taking hydrocodone, know that it'll give you a half-hour window when you can eat and drink, followed by at least two hours of drowsiness. Ocassionally ice your throat and don't forget to stretch your neck a couple times a day to relax and keep the muscles moving. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention (in fact did, and am adding this after-the-fact): the smell is disgusting. Burnt skin constantly in your mouth is not a pretty taste or smell, my friend. Brush your teeth and get something, like a nice little hyacinth, that smells fresh and pretty in your living quarters.
Tomorrow is Sunday. The next day, I return to work. I'll report back on how that goes.
Unfortunately, there is no one thing to expect. A friend of mine once was out of the office for three weeks recovering; another friend recently recovered so quickly that he drove 5 hours the second day after his surgery, and two weeks later was shooting tequila (I witnessed this). So what to expect? Anything.
As for me, there are a couple of things I should mention. First is that they gave me a drug called "magic mouthwash" (and despite the name, it is not in any way mind-opening) containing lidocaine, maalox, and benadryl. I won't touch the stuff. I can't stand the feeling of anything in my mouth being numbed, especially my throat or tongue. I have a phobia called "global anxiety"—a fear of choking or asphyxiating when I swallow—probably at least partially resulting from the swollen tonsils problem.
When I came out of anesthesia in the operating room, I was really agitated. What was freaking me out, I finally came to realize, was that my throat was numb. The first words I uttered (in a tiny, raspy voice), beyond gibberish, were "I feel compelled to swallow but it's not possible."
So much for normal. Even in confused states I sound like one of those weird little kids who reads too much and never hangs out with other kids. What will I sound like if I ever get dementia, I wonder? (This is not a thoughtless crack at victims of dementia; I used to be a caregiver and I think about things like that.)
So without the benefit of magic mouthwash, as enticing as it sounds, I have to rely on liquid hydrocodone (generic Vicodin) for pain relief. It's nasty stuff. I'm pretty sure my nausea and headaches have stemmed from the medicine rather than the surgery.
Anyway, with that caveat, here is a breakdown, as I remember, of my experience, with notable points summed up at the end for the benefit of those looking for information only (note: this is not my best writing. I'm drugged up. I can't spell Vicodin the same way twice. I won't even bother to fix the verb tense shifts, despite the name of this blog alluding to the writer's mantra: revise, revise, revise):
Day 1 Surgery at 3. I enjoyed the nurse who put in my IV; I hope I run into him at a bar or something when I'm wearing more makeup and, er, clothes. (I asked him, "Is it OK that I kept my own socks on?" His reply: "Should be fine. You're having a tonsillectomy, right? Probably won't get in the way—unless you're one of those people who tends to put their foot in their mouth.")
Most of my time at the hospital was spent waiting in boredom. I have a brief head rush and my eyes fill up with liquid a few minutes after the IV starts. I tell a nurse and she blows it off as anxiety.
Note: My stepmom drove 3 hours and took time off to help me through surgery and recovery, an act of kindness that means a lot to me and made the day possible. Later, in my foul and freaky mood, I drove her away, but that's another story.
After the procedure, my stepmom reports that one of the tonsils was really infected and the other was gross, too, so this was no mistake. Even if it doesn't feel worth it right now.
I'm mostly out of it for the whole night. Outside, Old Man Winter has made himself known with a vengeance, having been absent for most of his namesake season. Pain: Irrelevant. So out of it, weak, and confused that pain was only part of my situation. I find that as long as I don't move much and people don't say much, I'm OK, if OK means "not actively being tortured."
Day 2 Pain: Don't even remember. A constant 8? I spend most of the day sleeping fitfully. I keep track of when I take the Vicadin, a trick my stepmom introduced that I highly recommend to anyone recovering from anything requiring pain killers. You'll never remember otherwise, and your dosages will be intermittent and inconsistent. All I can eat is (very slowly) frozen things. Popsicles and a bit of ice cream.
In the afternoon, a friend comes over with frozen yogurt and a hyacinth. She stays and we talk until I begin to fade away. The vicodin, incidentally, makes you feel as though you're OK to talk, but it only lasts a while. I feel bad asking her to leave. Her visit was like sunshine. She walked a mile each way in the snow just to make me feel better.
News comes that the roads are even worse where my stepmom lives, and I say I was going to ask if she can stay another night.
Day 3 Pain: 5 in stasis, 8 swallowing. Post-nasal drip: Unbearable. Uvula swollen; back of throat feels like I got slimed by an alien. Constantly trying to spit up, which hurts. I'm glad I have a cup for spitting, a box of Kleenexes, and a garbage near my bed.
A friend brings over her dog, Rupert, who loves me, and a really good humidifier. This, it turns out, is a must for recovery (the humidifier, and yes, possibly the doggie cuddles). I try mashed potatoes and gluten-free gravy; terrible mistake. Will be sticking with the cold and frozen stuff for another day. While my stepmom is gone at the store, a nurse or somebody (?) from the hospital calls with follow-up checkup questions (apparently designed to torture tonsillectomy victims who, it's worth noting, CAN'T TALK). She asks if everything was going well; when I describe what's bothering me, she talks to me like I was in 4th grade and incapable of tying my shoelaces. "Well, what do you normally do for post-nasal drip?" Every time I speak, the film in my throat grows thicker, so I have to pause and try to clear it (painfully) between sentences. She didn't seem to have any sympathy, but that could be my interpretation through the phlegmish veil of hell. She says she'd have the doctor's office call me. They never did.
(Drama alert) Meanwhile, my stepmom has to stay another night because of the weather. I misinterpret her terseness as being irritated at me for asking her to stay longer in the first place, causing her to be stuck by another storm. She goes away and returns with movies. I begin watching a movie with her while doing macramé but am unable to finish.
My bad mood continues after a fitful nap, and we have a blowout fight. She leaves. I don't have the energy to feel guilty yet. I feel a little guilty anyway and have decided we both behaved like monsters. There's more to it, but I've removed it. Let's just say that the lesson is, be prepared to be at your worst.
I walk the three blocks to a neighborhood Safeway to pick up Rx refill and some Mucinex. Pharmacy lets me know that the trucks didn't make it because of the weather; they lend me a little of the hydrocodone liquid—enough to last a day.
Once I'm home and take the Mucinex: RELIEF! At last I can breathe and sleep with minimal throat blockage. Rupert and I are relatively happy campers.
Day 4 Days 3 and 4 are the worst. Pain: 6 in stasis (it has spread to my ears and an occasional throbbing headache); 7-8-9 swallowing. I wake up in the middle of the night with a terrible headache and dizziness; I decide that's a sign I need to force myself to drink more water. Swallowing feels as though the liquid is coating my throat and trickling down, and it's very uncomfortable, but at least it's now doable. But I learn that if I wait until the Vicadin has kicked in (about a half hour after taking), I can drink most of a glass of cold water in a few goes.
I call the pharmacy and they're still out of the liquid vicadin. Two things dawn on me. 1, It's Friday. 2, What about people whose medicine is critical? Fortunately for me, anyway, they send the Rx across town. I am blessed enough to have a friend who's willing to drive across town and pick it up for me in this terrible weather.
Rupert and I hang out until my friend picks him up after 3. I'm feeling a little more able to eat. Finally able to be awake long enough for one movie (the first "Sherlock Holmes," which I enjoyed despite its bastardization of the real Holmes). Continued taking Vicodin and Mucinex at the same time. They're a little hard to take at once (lots of sharp syrupy goop), but otherwise I'll forget. Applesauce immediately afterward helps hide the flavor; an ice pop helps mask the pain. Had some mashed potatoes, thin, with no gravy but with some "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" (which I wish had a different name; I love the stuff, but really?) and did OK. Heaping amounts of applesauce. Continue to force water down. Noticed that I drank almost all the water in my big Brita pitcher since I came home from surgery, so that's a good sign.
At 9:30, I took both medicines and fell asleep. I woke up at 2:30 in the morning (Day 5) in terrible pain. So recovering has a little catch: If you're feeling better, you might oversleep and forget to take your medicine. Note. Began setting an alarm on my cell phone.
Day 5 Feeling better. Pain: 4 in stasis; 7 when swallowing or burping or performing other movements of the mouth (it all still hurts, but now I can at least move my neck around. Don't forget to stretch your neck, by the way, now and again). Extra spittle continues. There's one spot in my throat that I may have aggravated when I was trying to hock up a particularly nasty gob of crap last night, but it may also be where a scab is starting to come off. Woke up feeling well-rested. Now that I have figured out the waiting game, I knew to wait until my vicadin had almost worn off (about 3 hours) to walk to Safeway and pick up some supplies. Purchases: Cheetoh puffs, two kinds of pudding, a bottle of 7Up, orange Tic Tacs, and Robitussin. (The Mucinex syrup I had purchased before was a little strong; it stung in my throat and was expensive. I also don't think I'll need a giant bottle now.)
I feel like I have lots of energy, other than the wooziness, but I'm still only good for a couple hours at a time. Started writing this blog...eyelids began to fall. Back into napping cycle. Also, it's worth note that I started the day more nauseated than usual and believed for a minute at Safeway that I was going to vomit and make a scene; the 7Up helped but only temporarily. Tic Tacs also help.
So that's my experience so far. It may be helpful for at least one person, but like I said, nothing is universal in this game. My biggest advice is to stock up on applesauce and popsicles, avoid anything salty or warm for at least 3 days, and have a humidifier going all the time. Drink as much water as you can stand. Keep a piece of paper next to your medicine to record when you take it; set an alarm so you don't oversleep and wake up in extreme pain. And if you're taking hydrocodone, know that it'll give you a half-hour window when you can eat and drink, followed by at least two hours of drowsiness. Ocassionally ice your throat and don't forget to stretch your neck a couple times a day to relax and keep the muscles moving. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention (in fact did, and am adding this after-the-fact): the smell is disgusting. Burnt skin constantly in your mouth is not a pretty taste or smell, my friend. Brush your teeth and get something, like a nice little hyacinth, that smells fresh and pretty in your living quarters.
Tomorrow is Sunday. The next day, I return to work. I'll report back on how that goes.
Intro
2012 has begun, per T.S. Eliot, not with a bang but a whimper—a misused quote, but one that is especially apropos, given that this is the year the world's supposed to end.
(The Mayan calendar is cyclical, everybody. Don't panic.)
It's the 21st of January. A Saturday. I'm 34 years old and recovering from tonsillectomy, which I had on Tuesday. I'm very excited to have just eaten cheese puffs and flat 7Up.
I'm also fat and burdened with many of the doubts that beset those creeping up on middle age. But—as always—there's another way of looking at it. OK, there's no getting around that I'm fat. But the doubts thing. The middle age thing. It's an outdated notion, one that begins with our culture's perverse youth worship and culminates in the shiny red sports car of the 1980s businessman whose hair is slicked back with money itself.
I am anything but executive, so I don't really have anywhere to fall. Instead, I feel as though I'm still young, and my personality is just beginning to blossom; become real. I finally know what my values are, what I want for myself, what I like—and, by extension, what I don't like, what I have no time for.
The burdened part has to do with a restlessness that comes from the realization that life really is short. When you're young, you know you're mortal and that life is finite, but you don't really understand it until something happens to wake you up to the reality, or time passes and you just can't ignore that reality anymore. But instead of feeling frustrated with the realization that time is limited, I feel energized. It's rather like the energy a procrastinator feels when they've put off writing the paper and the deadline is approaching.
So this is my new blog. It really is a midlife-crisis diary by virtue of insisting that it's not. My new blog, in which I hope to flesh out some of my thoughts and dip back into writing, something I've avoided since I finished my creative writing thesis almost two years ago. Let's see where this goes.
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