pronoia

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On top of the isolation and feeling a little (but only a little) wonky from the radiation, I've caught Ms. P's cold. This is day 4 of it for her, and she's still feeling awful. It's day 2 for me, and I'm quite grumpy about the whole thing. And I'm likely to start my period tomorrow.

So much for the cleaning and the craftwork and even watching any TV we haven't already seen before. Ms. P keeps falling asleep on the couch and only wakes when I blow my nose like a foghorn. I'm hunkered down in the armchair in three layers of clothes and blankets and a warming laptop on my lap. My solitaire average is dropping precipitously, and I can't think straight to do much else.

I had high hopes for this confinement. I had beading projects post-it-noted in magazines, I had visions of a pretty, pretty house. It can still be pulled out, but damn, I need the D*yquil to kick in.

This morning we had a brief bout of energy and went to the grocery store to replenish the fridge. It's surprising how quickly the food disappears when we actually eat at home every single meal and every single snack. Going to the store was depressing. The whole damn place is full of food I can't eat (cheese, ice cream, sour cream, mac and cheese) or shouldn't eat (everything processed). And when I'm sick like this, I want to eat the world, and especially everything I shouldn't eat. Not having eating as a coping mechanism isn't helping my state of mind.

What I've found interesting about the whole WW experience is how often I eat out of boredom or anxiety and how much I'm addicted to things I shouldn't be eating. Revealing, yes. Fun right now, not on your life.

When we turn off the Gilmore Girls and I put down the computer and my book, I start thinking about how the baby plan is on hold for six months, how I need to develop new coping mechanisms, how I've been eating terribly and that hasn't been helping my dicey health, how I'm freaked out that another health issue must be around the corner, how I'm worried that going from hyperthyroid (now) to hypothyroid (inevitable but unclear on the timing) will completely screw any chance I have of ever getting pregnant, how we're already up to 7 on the other-people-having-babies toll which is nowhere close to Bri's total but we've got 4.5 more years to match her record. It's really better if I keep the tv on and the book close to hand.

We're supremely unlikely to ring in the new year, and without kissing it doesn't seem to have much point. But tomorrow is a new beginning, and there's a superstition that whatever you do on the first day of the year is how you'll spend the rest of it. I'm planning to push through and do my best to have a lovely beginning.

This is a Kissing Moment

Apparently, we kiss a lot. We knew we kissed more than most couples we know, but we didn't realize quite how much we kiss until we can't kiss. Today we would have kissed upon waking, when we had a funny tussle over the scale, when we made breakfast, when we made lunch, when Ms. P said she felt horrible, when we remarked on the cuteness of our cat, when I came in from deciding tater tots were the perfect dinner, and generally any other time one of us got up from our seats. This sucks.

We've been substituting cheek rubs, but while cheek rubs are nice, they aren't the same.

I suppose that if this is the worst experience of the whole Fireseed incident, we can certainly live with it.

Swallowing the Fireseed

We pulled into the hospital parking garage early. Ms. P has contracted a cold, and at some point I just couldn't stand to do one more thing at work when I was worrying about the radiation treatment, so we grabbed a quick sandwich and then sat kissing in the car, trying to get some touch in before we went on hiatus.

The waiting room of nuclear medicine is small and overpowered by Fox daytime television. (I haven't watched daytime television in years; it's gotten just abominable.) There are small clusters of people listlessly flipping through magazines about boats, and every so often someone is wheeled by in a wheelchair or a bed. Ms. P and I read Figure magazine and then sat trying to ignore Judge Alex. After a while I got called to the desk to sign yet another piece of paper asserting that I'm not pregnant, and then I sat holding my order and my consent form.

I was finally called back, where I had to produce two forms of ID to prove that I am, indeed, myself. Although that is debatable right about now, my driver's license didn't dispute it. I asked a few questions of the PA, and then the tech picked up a large leaded jar with my prescription on the front and the top taped down with RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL tape. She twisted open the top and pulled out a small plastic tube, from which she dropped a white capsule into a small plastic cup. I swallowed the pill, swallowed some water, and that was that. I was done.

Home again home again jiggety jig, where I got restless watching Gilmore Girls, cleaned the kitchen, got grumpy with Ms. P, and halfheartedly attempted to clean up the art room. Until Tuesday night, I am in the house. I have my distractions, but my distractions only work if I can sink into them. I suspect that by the end the house will be spotless and I will have begun eight different projects and finished none.

R is preferring to think of my treatment mythically, thus swallowing the fireseed. I am at my wits' end with my body and my crappy immune system and my endless treatments for this or that. I cannot enter myth right now; I'm too much in the moment. I will try to see this as a time of retreat and rejuvenation instead.

Preparation

Today I had to go in for my pregnancy test so the nice nuclear medicine people could reassure the regulators that they aren't creating monsters. They wouldn't take an affidavit, even though there's no way in hell I'm actually pregnant. I understand why, but really, it was just adding insult to injury.

I've been collecting materials to get me through the five days of isolation: two books, a few bead projects, the entire run of Firefly, some magazines, and a new crocheting project. I'm going to be so stir crazy by the time I get out of jail that I don't want to predict what I'll do.

Tomorrow is my birthday, and I'm planning to eat cake, buy myself a book or two of porn at the local gay bookstore, go out for sushi with my friends, and work lightly. My last day of freedom before the evil.

Friend of Dorothy's

I haven't seen The Wizard of Oz for something like 20 years. My parents have it on tape, and we watched it endlessly when I was a child, but I had never watched it as a critical adult and I had never seen it on the big screen. Since our local indie movie theater is doing a Judy Garland tribute and we had a whole day to spend, we went with R and S after a nice sushi lunch.

It's a very odd movie. But what I never noticed before (along with not noticing the GUN Scarecrow carries on their way to the witch's castle or the person scurrying along behind the set at the end of the forest scene) was how completely queer the companions are. I mean, could the Tin Man be any more a prissy queen? It's like central casting from the bathhouses of New York. I knew people used "friend of Dorothy's" as code to introduce mutually closeted men, but I had no idea why.

Ms. P had an interesting chicken-and-egg question: were the companions played this way because they were being played queer and these mannerisms were already associated with the gay community or did the gay community pick up these mannerisms and run with them out of a love for Judy Garland? I have no idea, myself, but either way, it's pretty cool.

So, to all the friends of Dorothy's, and all of the friends of friends of Dorothy's (and that means you), I wish you, on this day, brains and hearts and courage and home. And most of all, the companions to help you melt the wicked witch.

Happy Holidays

May you have a lovely Christmas, if you celebrate it, and a wonderful Monday if you don't. I intend to have a fantastic Monday.

Kisses!

Who Are the People In My Neighborhood

Udge told me that he doesn't really know where it is I live--what kind of neighborhood, urban or suburban, etc. He asked me to describe what I can see outside my living room and kitchen windows. I'm doing him one better: I took pictures.

This is the direct view outside my living room window. These two houses both have little kids, so we have the occasional fun conversation about what the best part of the Renaissance Faire is. We're not very chatty neighbors (because I really don't know how to do that!), but we wave and say hi and the woman of the house on the left watched very carefully when we accidentally locked our dogsitter out of the house and she broke in through the front window.

This is the side view from our front porch. What you can't see well is that our yard extends far past the fence all the way to the point where the two roads come together. This is the part of the lawn I was mowing when I got so out of breath and heart-beating-fast that I had to come in and lay down and mourn my being out of shape. In retrospect, it was a symptom of the hyperthyroidism doing bad things to my heart.

This is what you see out our kitchen window: our neighbors' multiple cars and St. John's Episcopalian Church, which has services in English and Igbo. If you enlarge the picture you can see some of the fantastic outfits the parishioners wear. If I could ever figure out the schedule of services, I would plan to watch people leave and ogle their fantastic outfits, but alas, it doesn't seem to be the same twice.

And finally, Mr. C's house, which you can see from our back porch or the side door. His house is gaudy even when it isn't Christmas, but it's worse when it is. He has an enormous and ratty flag tacked to the side of his house, to which he affixes holiday decorations. This year there is a santa face and the turkey he never took down from Thanksgiving. His fence is painted in patriotic colors, his entire lawn is made of astroturf, and it's packed with plastic seating. The very worst part, for me, is that there is a radio that he sometimes blasts such that you can hear it at the next intersection, and he's not even always out there to listen to it. Mr. C is the one who comes up to our fence when I've asked him not to bother the dogs and calls them "Blackie" when I've told him their names. They are terrified of him and thus bark like crazy. We wave and shout hello and get the hell back inside as soon as possible.

I had planned to take a little walk around our neighborhood to show you the fun parts: the natural foods co-op three blocks from here, the dance/yoga/drumming studio, the little boutiques, the endless liquor stores. But it's not a nice day out, so we're ensconced.

To answer Udge's question more directly, we're neither urban nor suburban. You can walk all kinds of useful places from the house using actual sidewalks, so it's much more urban than suburban. At the same time, when the cats spend the day outside or one of the dogs escapes, I'm not convinced they're going to be run over instantly. It's a lovely combination of the two: the quiet and yard space and driveway of the suburbs, combined with the interesting local color of the city. It's pretty awesome.

We're off to shower and dress for N's birthday. Us holiday Capricorns have to stick together.

Happy Fucking Holidays

The weather here is unreasonable--highs in the 50s and 60s when they should be firmly in the 40s. I think it's contributing to my lack of holiday spirit. That and everything else.

I keep thinking I'm not that freaked out by my upcoming thyroid treatment. I mean, I get five whole days of rest and relaxation! I can putter and clean and finish overdue holiday cards and generally get my life back in order! But then again, I'm getting five days of rest and relaxation because I'll be damaging to the people around me. Yee fucking haw.

I just feel like I'm running a race. Holiday party tonight. Help R. dispose of kitten accoutrements tomorrow. Rush to finish Yule shopping in time to have a relaxing Yule. Try to fit in an emergency therapy session because my therapist is a little concerned about me. This three-day weekend will certainly help, and I expect to be celebrating N's birthday on Sunday, but then it's all pregnancy tests and sending out work mailings and generally rushing around until I run smack up against my treatment.

And I'm just discouraged in general. Work is both wonderful and occasionally awful. The weight plan is going swimmingly, but I can't start back on the baby plan until at least July, and every single one of our pregnant friends will have given birth by then. Things around the house are okay, but not truly organized, so I have a low-level anxiety about it all the time. The coven is in some respects lovely, and in others completely crackers, and I have to deal with that soon. I want to be doing creative things and I can't see my way there. I don't feel like there's much me in my life right now and I don't know what to do about it. It's work and eat and sleep and let the dogs out and start again, and that's not much of a life.

I have so much to be thankful for and I am thankful. So thankful. But I'm also discontented, and the dissonance is giving me whiplash. I really hate the holidays.

So here's an idea. Can you all help me out? Ask me questions or suggest things you'd like me to blog about. Blogs go a little dead around the holidays, what with all the family time and traveling and such, and I'll do my best to give you a daily dose of ... well reading, if not entertainment, but I'll try to do that too.

Points

The evil illness appears to have left me for the moment. Several days of doing absolutely nothing helped, although now I'm being woken up with random remembrances of things that MUST happen tomorrow. Must make a list.

Today we attend two holiday parties, although I'm grateful that they're both later in the day and we can do things like laundry, cooking, and holiday card writing. And these holiday parties will be very interesting.

See, about a week ago, Ms. P and I joined W*eight W*atchers. She has been very discouraged about her weight lately, and I could use a few dozen pounds less than I have, so we went ahead and signed up for the online plan. It's the first time Ms. P has seen possibility in doing something like this, rather than gastic bypass (which terrifies me), so it's another testament to the Therapeutic Dose.

So far, we've decided that work days are easier than weekends. On work days you plan out food and take it with you, and getting other food is both expensive and requires leaving the building during the winter. Sitting around at home with friends watching Lord of the Rings, however, means plans can be unclear and soy ice cream bars are there for the snacking.

Luckily, the whole WW plan has a new feature: the weekly allowance. In addition to the daily points allowance, you get a weekly allowance for special occasions or days when you're going to go just a touch over your daily allowance. Today, the weekly allowance goes into play.

We'll certainly do all of those things you're supposed to do when trying to eat healthfully during the holidays: eat first, drink lots of water, case the joint, be selective, and don't stand next to the food tables. Still, I'm not sure we're going to have lots of truly healthy choices.

It's a testament to our committment this time that we started last week rather than waiting until after the holidays. We're feeling pretty good about this, and the nicest part is that every day begins anew. Screw up today? Go to sleep and wake up with new points and the opportunity to try again.

We're fans of motivators, so while we have prizes along the way for certain big milestones, when everyone hits their true end-point targets, we get a trip to Scotland. I think that's worth losing a few pounds, don't you?

The real test of this for me is whether I can stick to it when I'm home, irradiated, and irritable. We'll see, won't we?

Wish us luck.

My Life is Hilarious

I now have the stomach flu. I'm ensconced on the couch with two animals, the Gilmore Girls, gingersnaps and coke. I think I may be able to keep something down today, which will be a nice change.