Today is Bob's 40th birthday. My man, he be 40. I remember my mom being 40. I was 12. Today is also Bob's and my 3rd anniversary. That's over 1000 days of true patriot love here in A-town. We've had mostly ups and a few downs. We love each other and are getting married in 70 days!
I bought Bob the A. McPhee's meat-shaped bathroom rug and a t-shirt from Threadless, and a tres leches cake that is made by the same woman who is making our tres leches wedding cake. He enjoyed the cake and the presents very much! A. McPhee's mail order threw in some free retro recipe cards for 1950s American foods that look disgusting.
Last night was the AIC ladies-only slumber party, in which I was drunkenly requested to testify to the quality of Bob's lovemaking during Truth or Dare. I scored him high. I mean, I am marrying him.
Currenly, our birthday boy is out back, building a deck. He has been hit over the head by the 2x4 of home deck building. He's been talking deck for some time now, and in the last few weeks, I have been forced to go with him to Home Despot to purchase deck-making materials. In fact, yesterday he lifted a total of 750 pounds of cement deck anchors! He's getting a studly workout, too.
Bob!
"You do 10 things, two things are going to be fantastic, two are going to be great, two are going to be pretty good, two are going to be eh [he waggles his hand dismissively], and two are just going to suck. But just because two things suck doesn’t mean you shouldn't do the other eight."
--Bon mot from my friend and yours, Douglas Coupland
I completed the latest improv podcast. Get ye to monique.libsyn.com and listen to episode 2!
I just picked up Bob's berfday cake. He is 40 and the institution of Mo and Bob is 3. Yay!
I might be having surgery on Ye Olde Salsa Bowle (pectus excavatum) this winter. I'm not excited about this. Hanging out on the pectus info message boards has been informative but an eyeopener. Statements such as this are not encouraging:
"It's been nine months since my surgery and I still can't cough/sneeze/laugh without terrible pain."
I cough/sneeze/laugh A LOT. Laughing is very important to me, obviously. And without coughing, my poor, pathetic lungs would be so full of gack I'd drown to death (which is how my dad died, but he was 81 and wasn't interested in continuing -- a big difference, I hope). And sneezing -- since when is sneezing a choice? I know some folks who have trained themselves not to sneeze, but I always let them go in a noisy, sticky mess of glory. I don't know how I'm supposed to go MONTHS without coughing or sneezing or laughing.
I guess the big fear here is depression. I fear that the ordeal of painful surgery will leave me depressed, even if I do come out of it with a tank-top-ready chest. Having to take months off from My Life As I Know It--improv, work, starting over careerwise, hugging Bob--is going to wreak more damage psychologically than a surgeon's scalpel will wield physically. If I get surgery at UCLA (the leading place for adults to have it done--the surgery is usually performed on teens), I'll have to spend a week or two recouping and the family domicile, which is depressing even when I'm in perfect health. I can't imagine being infirm in that house, with my stepdad home blaring the downstairs TV, fighting with my mom about my consumption of rolled tacos, if I can even chew rolled tacos (mmm...so bad for you!), wanting to go home to Bob and Austin so badly… Yuck. Maybe I could convince my mom to provide home care in Austin.
Unlike a lot of the peeps on the pectus message board, I do not bear any hatred of my body for my pectus. Granted, a lot of the body-haters are boys who are socially required to remove their shirts from time to time, and that's never been a requirement. I just fear that I will have more problems with my lungs and heart down the road if I leave them all squished and that the 1.8 centimeter clearance between my spine and sternum will shrink even more. I'd hate to have to have emergency surgery on anything.
Today at the Medical Artistry Kingdom, I was given a barium swallow. They force you to wear a tie-in-the-back-so-your-ass-hangs-out medical gown and stand in front of an x-ray machine and guzzle a chalky, thick berry-flavoured barium shake while they photograph it sliding down your esophagus. I got to watch white metallic goo tumble down to my tummy, in a bent sort of way. Indeed, my esophagus has been found! It runs next to my bendy sternum in my chest cavity! Hurrah!
I also had a CT scan but was prohibited by HIPAA laws from seeing my horseshoe-shaped thorax in all its pectusy glory. Feh! I really want to see it. Friends at the pectusinfo.com website often post photos of their pectusy chests, as well as CT scans, so there! I want to be part of the Salsa Bowl Champions. I want a trophy for deepest pectus.
T'is deep.
We had dinner with Bob's parentals this evening at the local soul food jamboree, which was tasty. I had grilled fish which sort of reminded me of Old People's FishTM. Served Fridays in the cafeteria. But it started out being tasty. My salad was wilted. I can't always get what I want, I suppose.
I love Bob.
My former roommate and Most Talented Person Alive Ms. Dyna Moe co-produced a five minute tv show called "Cakey," about a cake from outer space. As is everything that comes out of that woman (even her poop), it was f-ing brilliant. I waited all week to see the newest episode, which turned out to be a finale, in which Cakey dies! I am so sad now!
I'm going to say this once: I do not do adorable puppets and death. Those two together WILL NOT STAND. Dead cute puppets make me CRY. Okay? Do you want to make me cry? I guess you did, Dynabot. And you succeeded.
Somewhere in heaven, there is a rusty, broken merry-go-round with her name on it.
We ate shark steaks for dinner. They were steaky and delicious! Very moist, too, what with all the marinade that was on them. I let the steaks sit in an olive oil/soy sauce bath for about an hour and a half and then threw them on Le Grille and then they were delicious. Sharky! Not so tough now, shark?
Happy birthday, Morrissey. I always remember.
Someone else knows what my life is like. And wrote a book!
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0374272298/ref=pd_rvi_gw_1/102-4823996-4679365?%5Fencoding=UTF8&v=glance&n=283155
Click here to see what I'm talking about.
Bob bought a chainsaw yesterday. He's been talking about getting one for awhile now, and after work yesterday, he went to Home Despot and got himself one. Currently he is in the backyard felling trees with his new toy. Indeed, the manly chainsaw purchase comes at a time when Austin homeowners are taking saw to tree at unprecedented levels. A few weeks ago, powerful storms started the job, and we puny humans with our fancy power tools are left to complete it. The chainsaw Bob purchased is Canadian-made. He commented that Canadians need chainsaws more than Americans.
Recently I have had large amounts of sticky mucus lining my lungular system. I've had the emphysemic smokers cough of a retired bowling alley waitress all week and I figured something was up, so I insisted on getting a chest x-ray to make sure I don't have TB. I got this call a few days ago from my doctors office making it sound like something was definitely wrong and that I needed to move my appointment up right away, so I'm thinking I've got pneumonia or something.
Nope. Just a cold. The reason I was called in? The grave news? My heart is enlarged, and my doctor couldn't find my esophagus. Why you ask? Because I've got one of the most severe extant pectus excavata on an otherwise healthy 30-year-old woman in recent medical history! As I sit here and type this on my ergonomically-correct computer keyboard, there is within my thorax a 1.8 centimeter clearance between my sternum and spine. Meaning that EVERYTHING in my ribcage is thrusted to one side or the other. The average number of centimeters of a moderate-to-severe pectus is around five centimeters. ONE POINT EIGHT. That's less than an inch, folks. That's one mortifying salsa bowl.
So the topic of surgery is again on the table. The heart, my squished lungs that get infected all the time, this is apparently not going to see me well into old age. And it puts me in with the "abortion to save the life of the mother" camp because a late-term pregnancy would probably kill me.
This Thursday, I am undergoing a special esophagus-locating investigation in the form of a barium swallow. Which is gonna burn and give me white poop. Clearly I have an esophagus, as I've been eating and shitting successfully for many years now. But it is apparently bendy, like a straw. Ooh, fun.
Last Sunday's fundraiser was indeed one of the most superior parties I have ever attended. Armed with my old vacuum and three dozen corporate cookies, I entered prepared to be entertained, and I was. The part where Christina sacrificed her long hair for Locks of Love and the festy was indeed painful. Her face scrunched up and her eyes turned red--I felt sad and scared for her, but her new shorter 'do is very becoming so it all worked out. I did not lose control of my bodily functions during the Journey cover band.
I bailed out of work early today for the mega funzies that are getting a chest x-ray (there is pudding in my lungs) and finalizing my wedding invite order. The dude tried to sell me inferior envelopes for $60 but I got superior envelopes for half that, in blinding bright yellow! Yay! I ordered from online envelope dealer Action Envelope. Indeed, the envelope is the most active stationery product. Yay again!
Tomorrow marks eight long, eventful years since my momentous graduation from the lady college, and eight years since I had to listen to gag-me Lady Dole barf out an ersatz commencement speech. And eight years since I lived in love and squalor in the most beautiful place on earth. I'll never quite get over all that...
Today during a random act of googling, I learned about the Sudbury Valley School, an alternative system of education in which students are not handed a compulsory curriculum with negative consequences if they do not excel at it. Nope, kids at Sudbury basically do whatever they want. It is modeled on the idea that children are naturally curious and will learn, and excel, at what they are interested in. If they want to nap and read comic books all day, that is fine. And if they want to study algebra and Proust, that's available, too. All staff (their word for teacher) comes up for annual review every year, and students essentially vote to see who stays and who goes.
I can't stop thinking about how different I'd be today if I had had this type of schooling.
It makes sense. I often think that if I had a teacher who could have taken the time to teach me math in a more direct and personal way, I could have excelled in it, instead of taking C's in it because public school teachers are spread too thin and don't get paid enough to give out personal attention. I think of how many of us smart, bright kids got stuck doing boring stuff because we were waiting for the slower kids to catch up. I think of how unsafe a school environment can be--emotionally, physically--and how burdened teachers are, and I think, why is this normal? Why is it normal for kids to have little to no say in their educations? Why is there a culture of mistrust? Why are talents that do not fit in with the reading/math/science paradigm left to rot when school could be a place to nurture them? I see how school and conformity has utterly broken my brother. He's a smart, funny kid, but doesn't do so well so he is given negative feedback and is called a bad kid. He's not a bad kid! He has only failed in conforming to some arbitrary, lazy, outmoded educational standard. He's a great kid, but no one in public school is ever going to see that.
Bob and I, when discussing our decision to have or not have kids, both emphatically agreed that if we did have kids, we'd have to leave Texas because the public schools are so crappy here. But where would we go? We never made it that far into the conversation, but I would definitely pursue this type of education if I had a kid. These schools have high rates of post-graduation success, success in both traditional and non-traditional ways.
I must visit Sudbury...
I just commented to Bob that I plan to lose control of my bowels tomorrow night when John E. sings Wheel in the Sky as part of his Journey cover band. Good thing I'm bringing my old vacuum cleaner.
JOURNEY comes before JOY DIVISION in my iTunes line-up. Followed by KANSAS and KATE BUSH. And THE KINKS.
Seriously, if you are in Austin, ditch your mom (or bring her) and come to the fundraiser for what is known here as the Beyond the Borders Festival and Croquet Bonspiel, tomorrow night (Sunday) at The Space on Airport Blvd. PM me for less crypic info.
I took a nice nap. I got up butt early (for a Saturday) to attend Marion W's writing workshop, which was fun, but we had to sit on metal folding chairs, which awakened the ugly beast that is my sciatica, which has been sleeping for a long while. Bollocks.
As of this year, my stepfather will have been in my life longer than my dad was.
Frowny Mo.
"The mind-set that invites a couple to use contraception is an antichild mind-set," she told me. "So when a baby is conceived accidentally, the couple already have this negative attitude toward the child. Therefore seeking an abortion is a natural outcome. We oppose all forms of contraception." --Some dumb cunt with lobbying money (From today's NYTimes Mag cover story, not from some biznatch on the street who deserves to be tossed under a bus. Violently!)
The sex-is-evil crowd needs to drown off the coast of Africa.
People didn't not have sex in the days before contraception. Horny men patronized prostitutes, brought home diseases to their wives, who often died in childbirth after, say, baby 15. Is this the way a modern civilized society behaves? Sex isn't going away, people. Modern, urban society necessitates the limiting of family size. Sex is pleasurable. Minding your own business is a virtue.
Conservatives need legions of poor orphans to build up the military, I guess. That's what this must be all about.
Note to Amy: Snares of Venus makes bras for the 55J lady, and there are plenty of models-of-size on their website! They rock!
We're seeing Ira live tonight. And Julia S. I'm totally psyched.
UPDATE! I was remiss in accurately identifying the above quotation this morning, in my anger and ire. My apologies.
Ira and Julia were very impressive and enjoyable. Then we had burgers at our fave burger place. And then we were saddened by the sight of the omnipresent homeless dude that hangs around our theatre sleeping on the street--in jammies. He changed into jammies to sleep on the street. That made us very sad.
I just ordered two custom brassieres from Texas-based custom bra maker DOESN'T DESERVE YOUR BUSINESS. They've actually considered the rare pectus excavatum-haver in their bra making, which warms my heart. LINK REMOVED BECAUSE THIS BUSINESS SUCKS ASS. I have to wait three weeks, but I am so so psyched to FINALLY be getting a custom bra that actually fits.WHICH DID NOT HAPPEN. THIS WAS A BAD EXPERIENCE! Even if you don't have problem tits, DO NOT order a bra from them anyway so they GO OUT OF business.
Bob left the passenger side window of my car down last night, inviting terror and copious amounts of water into the interior of the Corolla, which made me sad and angry. I just took the car to the local car wash to have the carpets and seats steam-cleaned, and I don't know what they did but the seats are just as wet as they were before, only now with a floral scent. Eh. I'm also out $60.
My wedding dress is supposed to be in this week.
Folks, at my super schwankster everyone-has-an-advanced-degree place of employ, there has recently been a certain unfortunate loss of decorum. Someone (perhaps not an employee) committed the disgusting offense of answering her cellphone in the ladies restroom. The nerve! Answering the phone from the toilet in a public setting is gauche. Don't even try to deny it: it's gauche. Gauche means "left" in French.
Zeus has been angered and is pelting Central Texas with lightning bolts.
More Canadia:
Today I was forced to explain my affinity to Canada to not one but TWO Canadians. And I don't know how to answer that to real live countrymen. I guess it's the same as if John Darnielle asked you why you like his music (Sarah, has this happened to you?). I felt dirty and weird. I recall a researcher from Texas North (AB) once told me I was weird for knowing a lot about Canada, this during the national period of mourning after Pierre Berton's death, tyvm. These guys don't think I'm weird, but I have been warned that there is nothing to do in the Maritimes and I understand that and am only going for serenity, beauty, and peace. I can have balls-to-the-wall funzies here in A-town anytime I want. Dr. Brad also informed me that the ferries are "a pain in the ass."
Why pay a travel agent?
Seriously, I think living anywhere where there was not a population of Mexicans would weird me out, as it did in Mexican-free London. There were all sorts of other flavours of people we don't have around here--Namibians, Amphibians, Libyans--but not anyone who can make a decent enchilada. I could have a kebab wherever but not a burrito. ALL HAIL BURRITOS! That would just weird me out. Like Maine weirds me out. But for different reasons.
I think I just really miss Northampton, even though there is no compelling reason to be there at this point.
BOOKS RECENTLY COMPLETED:
My Latest Grievance by Elinor
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