4:42 a.m. and I'm posting? Insomnia has struck again. It doesn't come often, but there's no way to fight it when it happens. I'm just glad it usually doesn't occur during the week. I've found that the only viable solution is to go into work at around 3 a.m. and just try to pull off a full 8 hours. By that time, I'm often ready to go to bed and try to realign my sleep schedule. My bosses have always been pretty flexible with my schedule, but it's still strange for them to find me working feverishly at 7 a.m. and then watch me depart before noon.
Despite my hopes that returning home might ease the depression that resulted from my extended trip to Connecticut, I'm still in a bit of a funk. The random crying jags seem to be lessening, but the return hasn't been the cure I'd hoped it might be. I still have my house, which survived the flood, but share it with two new people. We do not have our heat back yet, so I am curled up under an electric blanket borrowed from a co-worker. My relationship is in a weird place that I don't want to think about or define right now, as the only logical thing seems to be to end it. Am I being overly analytical? I started therapy on Friday. Some wise and cranky old vegans told me that it was OK to feel sad, especially given the amount of crap I've had to deal with in the last 2 months. I'm hoping to get out of therapy without any medications, but when I lay awake at night, my stomach twisting in knots as my mind races and picks apart every aspect of my life, analyzing all problems and possible outcomes, well, it starts to seem like a magic pill might be a good thing.
Yawn. I'm going to read car repair forums until I feel tired enough to tackle this "sleep" thing again.
4/29truth.com has a beverage-spewingly funny post. I'm not going to violate their copyright and reproduce it, because you can just click the link right here.
OK, I'll spoil it a little. McCain is a Cylon.
Seriously, go read!
I nearly fucked up my entire blog just trying to put in a new element. Somebody please remind me that I cannot use the new version of Blogger. My XML isn't valid and I haven't the energy to look at it. I don't have the energy for much these days, but that's a story for another day.
Today is the day I put it all in the hands of you, the readers. I am back in Fairbanks with my shiny new-ish car. And since I've got many weeks yet before I can actually register it in Alaska, I've got time to think. I'm thinking vanity plates. I've never done them before because, well, my cars don't last that long. But this one had better last, dammit. I'm going to make the $30 investment that share my passion, my pride AND my joy with the world.
So, what will they say? Well, that's where you come in. I'm putting up a poll to let you vote on what my new vanity plates should read. I'm going to give you several options, along with the "Other (See comments)" option that will allow you to make your own suggestions. And per a discussion with Christi and Tom today, I am pretty sure that the DMV will not let me put "Asshat" on my car.
Screw this country. I haven't had cell reception anywhere yet. I'm holed up in a tiny 8x8 cabin because it
a) has wi-fi (again, the first I've encountered in Canada)
b) has a shower next door
I'm in Whitehorse after some epic 800-mile days, getting ready to push for home.
My dad got out of the hospital on Tuesday. He went back into the hospital today. But it's a different hospital this time.
I'm starting to think he's just pulling this shit to keep me around. If you can have Munchausen syndrome by proxy, does he just have Munchausen syndrome? Or is it my mom who is secretly poisoning him?
Once again, I'm feeling like I'll never get home. My cat is an orphan. She was evacuated by canoe to my ex-boyfriend's house, then over to Dara's. Dara is in New England now, and I think her family is checking in on the cat. Or she has a friend staying at her place. Or something like that. Nibbles is going to totally snub me when I get home.
gay boyfriends in Fairbanks
Tom always says I shouldn't quote myself in my blog. Which lead me to....
My dad is recovering, but slowly. His heart is not repairing itself after that heart attack, so tomorrow the doctors are going in again. They'll do another angiogram, then place two more stents to help repair his hear. Dad is being persnickety, and refuses to let the nurses take any more blood for tests. I can't really blame him, since one arm is completely shot, and the other is covered with bruises and track marks.
But it can't all be hospital time, so Saturday I joined my sister and brother-in-law for a trip to the casino. They had tickets to see Chris Rock, but not me. No, I went to see Charo. If you don't know, Charo is like the Shakira of the Rat Pack. Like if Dolly Parton and Elvis had a Spanish daughter.
She's a big hit with the gay crowd, and it's easy to see why. It's hard to explain the singular joy of a Charo concert. She's loud, Latin and campy. And a little bit of me will always be with her. Because my hair got caught in her costume bodice. How did that happen? Don't ask.
But don't think she's nothing but Vegas. In the second half of the show, she toned things down, pulled out her acoustic guitar and started to play. She's trained with Andres Segovia, and it shows—the woman can play! Yet another free concert that was worth every penny. And I spent most of them in the magic crystal martini mountain after the show.
I'm in Connecticut, dealing with my father's health. My work laptop is wonky, slowing down my efforts to do my job remotely. I don't know if my house is livable or if I'll have to move when I get back. I don't know where my cat is living these days. I don't know if my boyfriend is aware that I'm still alive.
It's one of those not-good days.
Where did I last leave my updates? I don't think I've been very forthcoming in blogular terms.
My father had the surgery last week. The stent was successfully placed, meaning they won't have to do open heart surgery. This is normally cause for rejoicing, but you don't know my father and hospitals. A bout of Legionnaire's Disease about 30 years ago left doctors wondering what the long-term effects on his health would be. Apparently, it results in a bad case of everything-that-can-go-wrong-will-go-wrong-itis. Seriously, he's 61 and has the circulatory system of a 90-year-old man. He's already had a triple bypass about 5 years ago.
So, bearing that in mind, he got the stent. And then he started having bad back pain. And then he lost feeling in part of his body. Paralysis was a risk with the surgery, and it's been one of his big fears. All this stress combined with recovering for surgery is a recipe for disaster, and thus he had a heart attack. And then the doctors found fluid building up in his lungs. And so they sedated him and put him on breathing machines, aka life support. And then he regained consciousness long enough to rip out his tubes, causing a panic in the cardiac intensive care unit. And so now he's sedated once again and tied to the bed, just in case he wakes up.
The doctors estimate he'll be in ICU for at least another week, then about a month more in the hospital before he can come home. And if I sound flip and not too concerned, well, just bear in mind that I joke my way through any tough situations.
To distract myself, I went down to Mystic on Sunday for brunch at Kitchen Little with Meg. Mystic is my old stomping grounds - I spent my formative teenage years hanging out at the Green Marble coffee shop, mocking tourists, getting up to all sorts of no good. It felt weird to be back, though I skipped downtown because it was the outdoor art festival weekend, which is always a madhouse. And in case you're wondering, yes it is the Mystic of Mystic Pizza.
In the evening, I headed for the casinos. OK, it's true that I grew up in the country. It is also now true that the largest casinos in the world have been built in that countryside, which is a little freaky. But it also means concerts. On this particular night, at this particular casino (Mohegan Sun, instead of Foxwoods), I had my choice of three concerts. I could have gone to rock with the old hippies at Jethro Tull. I could have schmoozed with the blue hairs at the Smothers Brothers. But both of those cost money, and I have highly honed skills for getting a cheap night out at casinos. So I opted for the free show by They Might Be Giants. One local ale and one giant foam finger later, I was chatting up the people at my table and then bopping along to the entirety of the Apollo 18 album, plus a few extras and a few encores. The band dubbed it the "Night of 1,000 Fuckups." They came pretty close to success.
Today it's back to business. And by "business" I mean "sitting on my ass in the hospital instead of at home."
In an effort to save some money, I used some Alaska Airlines miles to get to Seattle, then bought a ticket from Seattle to Hartford. Clever, yes? No.
My father's surgery did not happen last week, which means my flights home tomorrow won't happen. And now I have to deal with two airlines.
My tickets on United? It seems the best thing to do is just not show up for the flight. It will cost me a $150 airline change fee, a $30 Orbitz fee plus the cost difference for a new ticket, which is around $120. Grand total: $300. On a $475 ticket. I can get a one-way ticket for under $300, so why bother jumping through these hoops, especially with the possibility of my flights changing again?
My tickets on Alaska? I cancelled the return leg. For right now they aren't charging me anything, but they're also holding my 10,000 miles for that leg of the ticket hostage. If I rebook that specific leg, I will be charged $100. If I don't rebook it and buy a car and drive back, which is looking increasingly likely, I forfeit the return and lose the miles but don't have to pay the $100.
And why, you may ask, would I consider driving back?
My car is the blue one in the back. Apparently the ground is much lower in that part of the driveway - who knew? So, why rush to get home? I'll just have to canoe in to my house and try to find a car in town to buy. Might as well see if I can get a better deal in the Lower 48 and drive back.
- Soy and mirin glazed tofu with spicy peanut sauce
- Dairy Queen soft serve ice cream
- Wasabi goat cheese
- Sushi
- All-you-can-eat Indian lunch buffet (and I can eat a lot)
- Mango ginger stilton
- Devil dogs
- Apricot wheat germ muffins
- Bombay fruit salad
- Corned beef hash — this was in the hospital cafeteria, where apparently they don't believe in overcooking it so that part of it gets all burnt and crispy
I know that no one ever believes me when I say I'm from the country. No one believes that Connecticut has any countryside left. But really, it does - mostly in the small area around my parents' house. Examples:
- Upon leaving the house to head to town for some groceries on Monday, I promptly got stuck behind a tractor.
- The farm stand has pies for sale on Tuesdays.
- While in the entryway looking at a flyer for a haunted pumpkin ride (not happening until October), I realized that the bank smells like manure.
- We stopped by the general store for grinders (know as sub sandwiches to the rest of you). The general store is located on the town green. I think it sells chicken feed along with people feed.
- Sign on the road: Baby donkey, $500.
And now for the update on my dad. We went to the hospital on Wednesday, leaving at 5:30 in the morning to get there on time. It is not sunny in CT at 5:30 a.m. Chalk one up for Fairbanks. A lot of the day was spent doing tests, including an angiogram. The two surgeons needed to talk with each other about the best way to proceed, so naturally one of them was in surgery most of the day. We left the hospital with a "We'll call you about scheduling surgery sometime within the next two weeks." That was a little disconcerting, as I came home on Family Medical Leave expecting that the emergency surgery would happen immediately (as in the day we went ot the hospital) and I could return to Alaska the next week. All jokes in my previous post aside, this is not a vacation and I am not at the beach. But I have had some damn good cheese.
The good news is that the FDA has finally approved the procedure they want to try on my dad, and the surgeons say he is just within the limits for them to do the surgery. For right now, the surgery is scheduled for next week. I wish I had more news of any sort, but I don't.
So I fly to Connecticut because my father is sick and in need of surgery. And while I'm here, dealing with this, what happens?
Oh, does that look bad? Let's take a look at the close-up.
I know I have a history of bad language on this blog, but seriously? Seriously? Fuck me.
According to my roommate, the water is around 3 feet deep. Our landlord dropped off a canoe. The rain stopped this morning, but the water is a few inches from getting into the house. And it will keep rising even after the rain has stopped.
My friends are trying to mount a rescue effort while I sit here, 5,000 miles away, unable to shake the feeling that I'm screwed.
Trapped in D.C. No flights out until tomorrow, if then. Almost rented a car to drive back. Have been up since 9 a.m. Saturday. Have not eaten since 5 this morning. Must find food or will eat my own foot. All clothing, toiletries, etc. in checked bag trapped at airport. Just found laptop charger and am now very happy. May start using full sentences soon.
Ugh. Travel commences tonight. I don't normally mind traveling, but buying a last-minute ticket means taking whatever The Man has to dish out. In other words, it's the middle seat for me. I've got a total of 6 flights on this trip, with one aisle seat and only one precious window. I think I hate everyone else on those planes who had the luxury of planning ahead for their trips.
10 days on the East Coast. I've told my father that the only reason I'm actually coming home is to go shopping. And I will certainly do some of that. But for those of you who don't know, I am going home because he is sick. Hence my lack of recent posting. Dear Papa has three aortic aneurysms in his heart, one of which requires immediate attention. He'll be playing the part of a guinea pig, as he's going to try an experimental procedure first. Open heart surgery is the last resort.
But rather than stress him out, I'm going to list some things that will have fellow Alaskans green with envy.
- Target
- Sushi
- Real cheese
- TJ Maxx
- Malls
- Indian food
- Indian grocery stores
- Pirated Bollywood movies for $2 at Indian grocery stores
- 90 degrees
- Beaches
I've heard from a lot of people wanting to know why I haven't been posting lately. Or, to be specific, they've told me to get off my ass and on my blog. Rather than explain where I've been, I thought I'd share this latest gem.
From the San Francisco Bay Area craigslist:
Nemesis required. 6-month project with possibilty to extend
I've been trying to think of ways to spice up my life. I'm 35 years old, happily married with two kids and I have a good job in insurance. But somethings missing. I feel like I'm old before my time. I need to inject some excitement into my daily routine through my arm before its too late. I need a challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping again. An addiction would be nice, but, in short, I need a nemesis. I'm willing to pay $350 up front for you services as an arch enemy over the next six months. Nothing crazy. Steal my parking space, knock my coffee over, trip me when I'm running to catch the BART and occasionally whisper in my ear, "Ahha, we meet again". That kind of thing. Just keep me on my toes. Complacency will be the death of me. You need to have an evil streak and be blessed with innate guile and cunning. You should also be adept at inconspicuous pursuit. Evil laugh preferred. Send me a photo and a brief explanation why you would be a good nemesis.
British accent preferred.
George Carlin, legendary comedian and funny motherfucker, died of heart failure in Los Angeles today. Carlin's bawdy humor always struck a chord with me, and I went to see him many times (usually with my friend Wayne, a dead-ringer for George. It was fun to fuck with audiences).
In honor of George Carlin and in a pathetic attempt to get my blog blocked by even even more censors, I present Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television (but can list in your blog unless you are actively job hunting):
- shit
- piss
- fuck
- cunt
- cocksucker
- motherfucker
- tits
See? Just be happy I didn’t call them hot bitches. On top is Itchy, Victoria’s Italian Greyhound. On the bottom is Zoe, Robin’s Italian Greyhound.
Saturday morning Robin took the big step of entrusting me with his dog. Zoe and I left him at home and went off into the big, wide world for our doggie playdate. First stop was Jeremy’s house, to pick up Jeremy and Jacques, his Chihuahua. The four of us tried to hit the Farmer’s Market in style for some falafel, but were quickly hustled out of there by an employee pointing out the “No Dogs” signs. My SUV was quickly transformed into Dog-catraz, as we put Zoe, Jacques and Itchy in the back. My car has never been so full of cute before.
After lunch, we headed over to the dog park and met up with Anne and Chachi, her pug. It is worth noting that the Fairbanks dog park is full of Fairbanks dogs. Big, loud Fairbanks dogs. Despite the relative safety inherent in being part of a group of small dogs, Zoe had some trouble hanging with the big boys. When I took her leash off, she trotted over to the fence and stared forlornly at my car. Pick dog up, bring dog back into dog park, repeat. After a few cycles, I put her back on the leash and took her for a walk around the perimeter as a form of therapy.
Back at the small dog picnic table, everyone else was having a grand time. Chachi amused herself by baiting the big dogs, then running away from them as fast as she could. When they started closing in, she would dart under the table for protection. This brought the big, drooly dogs in close proximity to us. Victoria was the unfortunate one in the line of fire when one drooler did the head shake.
I stopped at my office on the way home. I looked back before entering the building, and Zoe had her paws on the driver’s side window and was staring at me with the same intensity she’d stared at the car at the dog park. Awww! When I came back out 5 minutes later, she was in the same position, staring at me. AWWW!!!!!! Cue the sappy violin music. When I got to the car however, I noticed the detritus of my almond cake on the passenger seat. Note to Robin: If your dog got sick, that’s why.Because we were tired and I wasn't sure if I was going to see Robin that night, I took Zoe back to my house. After one hiss-and-swat attack, Nibbles seemed to call a truce with Zoe. In fact, I spent part of the afternoon in bed with the dog on one side of me and the cat on the other. The terms of their peace treaty did not include being in close proximity to each other.
On my way to a party that night, I dropped Zoe off in Ester. This is the part where I should say that Zoe was happy to be home. It would certainly make Robin feel better. But she did not want me to go. Her little whines at the window as I walked away made that abundantly clear.
And the rest of the night? Rock Star party, barbecue, hitting the Marlin for the Good Daze/Paper Scissors show. I danced for hours in brand new heels. They are broken in, as are my feet. It made me remember how much I miss going out. I need to start doing that again.
I don't know what was going through my head when I got to the gym Monday morning. To be precise, "Maybe I ought to run a few miles today" was going through my head, but I don't know why. I haven't run since my chiropractor told me it was bad for my knees. I love Dr. Linda Schertz. She gives me excuses not to run and prescribes me medically necessary (and thus covered by insurance) massages. So, having not run for about 18 months, I decided to hop right into it and ran about 1.5 miles. Tuesday morning my legs rebelled and informed me that we would not be going to the gym. As my main means of locomotion, they have the final say-so in such matters. We reached a truce and went to the gym today, but it's an uneasy truce. They still hurt.
Last night's attempt at mini cheesecakes was less than successful. I ended up with a bit too much filling in each well, causing it to spill over a bit as it baked. Not necessarily a disaster, but it made it impossible to run anything around the edge of the well, thus making it nearly impossible to push the cheesecakes out. I've selected the two best candidates to bring to Robin's house tonight. I plan to investigate this more thoroughly. If I can't master mini cheesecakes, I'll never get to move on to tartlettes. And lord knows I want a bunch of tartlette pans.
I'm getting stymied by Fireworks. Why should I use a different program to do essentially the same things that Photoshop does? I'm going to have to look into this program a little more.
Heard at a friend's house:
it makes it easier to get along after you break up.
I know it strikes most people as strange, but this breakup with Tom has been the best breakup of my life. For those of you who haven't bothered to read my entire blog for the backstory, here's the Cliff Notes: Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love with boy. Girl and boy date for five years, live together, get recognized as non-gay gay partners by girl's workplace. Girl and boy travel to New Zealand. Girl breaks up with boy in shadow of Mount Doom. Girl and boy continue to live together (separate bedrooms, people!) until their lease is up.
I know, I know. As my friend Anne put it, "You people are off the charts weird." But it works! Tom and I are still best friends. And as his mom put it, "You two sure got over each other quickly." And it's true: We are both new in relationships now. And, um, still sharing a house. Which is pretty awkward. However, Tom has found a place and is getting ready to sign the lease, so he'll be gone by next weekend. Until then, though, we continue to spend our sunny Saturdays running errands and eating corndogs and discussing the pros and cons of our new relationships. Plus, he got me a mini cheesecake pan on Thursday. That man understands my need to bake. And he wants mini cheesecakes.
I don't know how to explain it really, but breaking up brought us closer together. How did I manage to pull off ending the relationship but keeping him in my life? I don't know, but I'm so happy with the way everything worked out.
As for my new boyfriend, I told him this morning that I'm only dating him for his dog. Which is partially true. Zoe is absolutely adorable. I'm working on creating the Fairbanks Small Dog Playgroup. OK, not officially, but I do have two Italian greyhounds, one chihuahua and a hardened NYC pug lined up. We need to find a time to get to the dog park and strut our stuff.
