Nobody wants to hear the details about being sick (updated)

So I will spare you most of them. I seem only to have a cough*; my favorite, reoccurring cough, which every year brings with it the magic that is... phlegm. Sputum, really.

(I say "only" because I don't think I have a fever, I'm not vomiting or having other intestinal problems. I'm pretty sleepy, though.)

There, that's enough for now.

After doing a little internet reading, I think I might have bronchitis.

*No, I do not have the swine flu. Stop asking me.

...

Yesterday I went to the doctor. After explaining to him all my symptoms and (most importantly) the color of my phlegm, he deduced that what I have is... an upper respiratory infection.

From Wikipedia: Onset of the symptoms usually begins after 1-3 days after exposure to a microbial pathogen, most commonly a virus.

I don't know who exposed me to the "microbial pathogen," but when I find out? HEADS ARE GONNA ROLL. 

So, I am continuing with my plan of staying in bed, eating soup, and drinking lots of juice and water. I just ventured out of bed to check my email and to consider watching Star Wars (probably "The Empire Strikes Back"). Unfortunately, later I have to go to the theater, where I will have as little contact with other people as possible, to avoid infecting them. It shouldn't be hard: the booth is rather isolated.

Proving that the world is a strange place indeed

I like to read the "blog" at nytimes.com devoted to style and grammar issues. Sometimes I learn something. Sometimes I find out that I was right all along (the apostrophe some people use when pluralizing abbreviations like "CD" drives me nuts and has driven me nuts forever). Sometimes I read it just to laugh at the funny/ridiculous/psycho comments people leave on a blog about grammar. (Also, it annoys me that newspapers have blogs. Newspapers have columns, and writers. Columnists. Journalists. Journalists are not necessarily bloggers, and bloggers are not necessarily journalists, or writers. The act of writing does not make you [or me] a "writer." There's a difference. I wonder what Katharine Graham would say about this?)

This comment in particular is a trip:

October 27, 2009
11:50 am

I typed “payed” recently and saw that it was underlined in red, indicating a misspelling. It took me a second to realize what was wrong. Never having misspelled “paid” before, it’s funny that this mistake should suddenly appear.

— Shaun

(The writer of the blog had pointed out that "payed" had slipped through as a typo somewhere in some random article. Shaun was responding to that.)

Here's my response to Shaun, who is so obviously from L.A. that all that was missing was the word "totally" in between the "I" and "typed" in the first sentence:

Shaun, it is a crazy world, full of strange coincidences that, taken by themselves, seem like nothing. However, if you add them all up - the song you were singing in the shower was the first song you heard when you turned on the radio; the streetlight above your home went out the second you pulled into the driveway; the pretty girl on the bus looks just like your 10th grade girlfriend - they add up to a magical list of... things that mean nothing. So come on, dumbass, pack up your dreamy fictions about coincidence and karma and get off the public library's computer. There's a line of people waiting for that PC and they're starting to get angry (and you do not want to get people who use public computers angry, belive me).

(And no, Shaun, the word wasn't underlined in red because you misspelled it [or did you? Are the words on the screen words you were thinking or perhaps you've had an episode of automatic writing?], it was underlined in red because Satan is talking to you through your keyboard. What other words were underlined? Are you hearing voices, too? Dude, call the nurse: it might be time for your medicine.)

I love Google product search

I love it not because I actually use it to shop for stuff (I get everything I need at Target, my local Hallmark store, Borders, J. Crew, and the Gap, thank you) but because I love to see what other people are shopping for. And because sometimes I am too lazy/too bored with my own schtick/coughing up my lungs too much to come up with something else to write about. Also, it used to be called "Froogle," and I'm glad they renamed it because "Froogle" reminded me of "the frug," some old-timey dance I'm too young to know about, or "Fraggle," as in "Fraggle Rock," a stupid off-shoot of the Muppet show. I hated those damn Fraggles. Anyway, here's a taste of what people were searching for this morning:

A few of the items recently found with Google Product Search:
venetian masks	spork	gumball machine	espn nba basketball	deep space nine dvd
atomic clock	money sorter	homeworld	godfather dvd	back massager
1 day acuvue	boat shoes	birthday card	flash card	hotwheels
firewood rack	car amplifier	bottle opener	carpet shampoo	frank sinatra cd
corkscrew	cat collar	baby crib	cpu fan	desk lamp

I refreshed four times to find this particular list, and I would like to say that "back massager" appeared twice. Somebody really needs to relax. Carpet shampoo... hmmm. Is that for before or after the "back massager"? I love this list. Venetian masks! Sporks! Cat collar! Boat shoes! Somebody is planning a seriously awesome Halloween party. Also, "birthday card." Hello! That's what the Hallmark store is for, dumbass! And, I didn't know individuals like you and me (as if anybody on the Internet right now is like me) could purchase an atomic clock. I tried reading up on them at Wikipedia to figure this out but I'm on cough medicine right now, am not very smart to begin with, and frankly, don't care all that much.

On to the next list!

A few of the items recently found with Google Product Search:
nikon coolpix	doormat	gas generator	dustbuster	briefcases
norton antivirus	dave matthews	coffee percolator	mustache trimmer	clogs
foosball table	superman t-shirt	gatorade	baseballs	ladies watches
apple imac	air conditioner	faux fur coat	baseball glove	hip flask
pony beads	stationary bike	frontpage	elvis costume	george foreman grill

I find it very interesting that right after "doormat" comes "Dave Matthews." I wonder if his wife was on Google this morning? Looking for a gas generator, probably. This is actually a much more useful list for me, because you know, I've been looking for a new faux fur coat. I'll need something to cover the Superman t-shirt.

...

Follow up:

That second list reminded me that I haven't had a new pair of clogs in years, and in fact, the only ones I know the whereabouts of are my hundred year old black Dansko professionals that look awful. So I clicked on the "clogs" list and found these. Are they not adorable? I'm not quite ready for fall and/or winter or to give up my flip flops (I am so lucky to live in California) but these? I might go for these.

Housework

After putting it off for weeks (some might say, "months"), last night for about two hours, I cleaned my kitchen (note: I'm not done. I still need to mop). What was involved? A sinkful of dishes, combat with one or two containers of, um, mold, and cleaning out and scrubbing the refrigerator.

I found a bottle of Ken's Salad Dressing that was four years old.

Four years old! How can this have happened?

Well, I'll tell you: I'm a slob.

Cleaning the refrigerator was surprisingly entertaining and I felt very good about life, myself, and my household when the task was complete. Who knew that 120 minutes (the time MTV used to take to play the good videos) of elbow grease could accomplish so much? Man is that thing clean now. And, when I was done: it was empty. I can state from memory pretty much everything in there as of completion of the cleaning:

1. 3 bottles of Fat Tire beer
2. 1 bottle of Asahi
3. 1 bottle of some sort of pink mum (?) wine somebody brought to a party I had at least 5 years ago
4. 1/2 bottle of Jagermeister that Patrick's friend Chris sent us from Germany when we got married... 11 years ago
5. Mustard
6. Ketchup
7. Baking soda
8. A package of wheat tortillas
9. Patrick's container of "Superfood" that expires next month and just barely made the cut

After discovering that we have no food, we went to Fresh & Easy, normally my least favorite household chore (and F&E makes it, literally, easy). We didn't go nuts - we'd like to cut down on eating out for lunch so much, so we bought the sort of things you buy when that's what you have in mind (sandwich stuff, including our favorite Omega 3 multi-grain bread, salad stuff, yogurt, cereal, etc.). We bought good stuff. When we were in the chip aisle, I put my foot down (I consumed a whole container of Pringles over Friday and Saturday night only because we HAD. CHIPS. IN. THE. HOUSE). When I tried to sneak a six-pack of diet Coke into the basket, Patrick had his moment: "No chips for me, no diet Coke for you." Fine. We had fun dancing to the 70s hits they like to play; thankfully I wasn't afflicted by the urge to sing the Eagles' song "Take It Easy" (substituting "Fresh and" for "Take it"), as I usually am, though, I guess my joy at coming home to a clean kitchen did have me singing Queen's "We Will Rock You" as we emptied the car (thank you, neighbors, for the round of... silence). We forgot a gallon of pink lemonade somewhere between the parking lot and home, but decided it wasn't worth while to go back and get it. The best part was, we made lunches!

Patrick: several peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fortified with apple slices and... raisins? Cesar salad. Some sort of burrito thing. Baby carrots, baby tomatoes. I sense a theme that I'm going to ignore.

Irene: turkey sandwich; salad (tomatoes, apple slices, raisins. I bought the yummiest salad dressing in the cuttest little container).

I can't wait for lunch time and to go buy a diet Coke at the vending machine across the way. And maybe a little bag of chips, too.

Bike Ride

This morning, after finishing reading Stewart's book (I'll talk about that later), I went on a bike ride to Huntington Beach today. HB was not initially my destination - but when I got to Pacific Coast Highway, where I had to cross the street (the bike path was flooded), I started following this group of three guys (two of them on road bikes and in full road bike regalia. The one guy who was riding a mountain bike, and in sweats and a t-shirt crossed the street with me - hey, that's a crazy place to cross! I was glad of the company - and for awhile I kept up with him but then they lost me), and then suddenly I was a little confused. I knew the bike path to Seal Beach was around there someplace but somehow I couldn't find it. Instead I stayed on PCH, which was quite an adventure. There's a nice wide bike path there and lots of stuff to look at, but I felt very unsafe. The speed limit for cars is 55 miles an hour, but I ask you, when was the last time you drove the speed limit on PCH? Whoosh! was the sound in my ears. And I couldn't turn around and go back because the highway is divided and there's a big wall down the middle. I kept telling myself - at the next light, turn around and go home if it's too scary, but every time I'd get to a point where that was conceivable, another group of cyclists would engulf me and I'd get all fired up again. Still not really keeping up, but they were inspirational.

I have to admit that though I grew up in West Los Angeles, I'm pretty hazy when it comes to the names of the beaches and beach communities. At some point I got sick of PCH and headed to the right, where I found myself on one of those bike-friendly one way streets that serve the people lucky enough to live a few hundred yards from the ocean. I just kept heading (south? away from home). Not a lot of speed through here but I was getting a little tired (this was about 15 miles into my ride, and there was a lot of wind). Finally I took a break (and a photo) and drank a bunch of water. I considered going back (my goal was for a 30 mile ride, at least, and at this point I was guaranteed at least that), but then another gang of cyclists whizzed by, and I hopped back on my bike.

Heading further south, it's not a real bike path. Or maybe it is, but it's called a "multi-use path" in those parts. I had forgotten that today is Saturday, and there were a lot of people out, so it was almost as treacherous as PCH had been.

One thing I really like about riding in areas like this is people watching. I saw a couple of sea captains, the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (20 years into the future), cute dogs, Balloon Boy, surfers in various states of undress. I  was chewed up and spat out by several large groups of sparkly cycling groups, whistled at by a (presumably drunk and/or blind) dude in a huge truck, and I almost ran over a woman and her dog (dog saw me, woman didn't). I love those surfboard hitches the surfers have for their surfboards on their bikes. I saw one guy with a dog hitch on his bike for his dog. I saw a couple of beautiful golden retrievers like my mom and dad's and now I totally want a dog. I saw one woman with my exact flabby body shape walking along wearing a bikini top. Granted, she had a very beautiful tan. At one point I had the Doors song, "Hello I Love You" in my head, and then, magically, it turned into "Mean Mr. Mustard" by the Beatles. The mist from the ocean or the haze in the air covered my sunglasses and I had to stop to wipe the water off my lenses. I had teary eyes which is somehow embarrassing, and a dry mouth, and my knees felt creakier than usual. I was gone for about 3 hours, and now I'm starving. I was amazed by the beautiful ocean, and confused about my exact location more than once.

Fun! When can I go again?

From an old NY Times article about Paula Poundstone

(Follows is a random bunch of words that seem to say what I meant to say but then somehow... don't. I started writing this and found myself confused and using the dictionary and the thesaurus and going, "what's that word that sounds like...?" I don't think I've had a stroke, but you wouldn't know it from this post.)

Paula Poundstone's manager was quoted (in 2002; click on the title of this post to read the whole thing) as saying of Paula's comeback after her arrest and subsequent legal troubles,

"I'm optimistic because I don't know what else to be."

It's not exactly applicable to me or what I've been thinking about (my mom's health) as far as context goes: these people were trying to repair a derailed career (according to the article, Paula earned 1.2 million dollars a year; those earnings took a nosedive after her legal and personal troubles), though I don't think at issue was merely Paula's earning potential (I think she's a good woman, and a comeback probably a matter of pride for her) <-- that was a very confusing sentence, and I'm not even done yet. Anyway, I'm not sure why Bonnie's statement (I know her name because I am Paula's "friend" on Facebook, and sometimes Bonnie updates Paula's status; you know it's Bonnie because the status is suddenly not funny. Also, she says, "Bonnie, Paula's manager here..." when she starts each update) struck a chord with me, but it did, and I'm sharing it, albeit, not very judiciously ("judiciously" is not exactly the right word but it's very, very close).

Argh. I want to be optimistic because I don't know what else to be. Not because I'm hiding from the truth, but because optimism is the only choice. Does that make sense? Well, sense or no, it's what I want.

Yesterday

Yesterday, after being told that she was tired, my mom's doctor ordered some blood work. After she'd gone home, the doctor's office called around 7 p.m. and told her to go to the emergency room because her potassium was low. My dad and my sister took her and were there until 2:30 a.m. with her. She was given medicine and I guess is okay - it was too early in the morning to talk (Angie texted me). I'll get more details later.

...

It was interesting: I learned that I deal with stress by doing laundry. When I'm stressed and I don't do laundry, I just stay all pent up and tense. If I do laundry, I have a surmountable task with a beginning and an end, and that seems to calm me down.

I went to bed around 11 p.m. I stayed up doing laundry (see above) and actually putting the laundry away, and I watched "The Good Wife" with Patrick. For once, I figured out how to deal with his critical comments about whatever TV show I'm enjoying: agree with him. The courtroom details (well, mostly the so-called private investigating of her firm's investigator) of last night's episode were pretty weak but somehow the show is still good. I really like Juliana Margulies: I just love her, for some reason. I hope they don't keep pressing the issue of the young stud lawyer and her having conflicts. Also it's hard to look at that guy (Matt Czuchry, Rory's boyfriend Logan from "The Gilmore Girls") and not wonder... where Rory is. I really like the guy who plays her boss, Josh Charles. I loved him in "Dead Poets Society."

After that we went to bed. Patrick is still snoring (literally: right now he is snoring) but I picked up some earplugs at Target last night, and slept okay. I had a weird dream in which me and Adam Carolla (from "Loveline") were gourmet chefs. I know we were gourmet chefs because we were wearing chefs jackets a la "Iron Chef." At the beginning of the dream, we were organizing lawn furniture on somebody's lawn so maybe we were really caterers and just considered ourselves gourmet chefs. Later we were eating lunch in a famous chef's restaurant, with the famous chef at our table, and Adam was complaining (loudly) about the service while I devoured the plate of food in front of him. I don't remember exactly what we were eating but there was definitely a piece of bloody steak involved, and it was delicious.

Now I'd better go get ready for work. I have a report to prepare today, and then all I want to do is talk to my mom after she wakes up. I'm sure her night in the ER was tiring.

I'm cheap.

This month I decided to forgo my salon cut and color. For one thing, I like my long hair right now. I changed the part to the right side a couple of months ago and it's made a surprisingly big difference (to me. I don't think anybody else noticed, which is fine), and other than the creepy crawly gray hairs, I'm pretty satisfied. Sure, I probably need a trim, but let's put it off awhile. I usually let my girl trim me up about an inch, but I actually like my hair right now. That in itself is so rare that to mess with it seems unwise. It has been on my mind that perhaps my girl has been doing my color a tiny bit too light, too, so, I figured I could do it myself, instead of forking over $90 (cut, color, plus tip - she's a very nice girl). If the color was wrong I'd have no one to blame but myself, and only be out a few bucks.

I've colored my own hair exactly twice, with one good and one bad outcome. The bad outcome: the color I chose (on purpose; I was... trying something) was too burgundy, and I hated it (I also ruined the shower curtain and my favorite flannel shirt, in the process. It's a good thing grunge is dead). I let it grow out a little and then I went and had it corrected. Now, I know lots of people successfully dye their own hair all the time (my mother-in-law; my friend's wife, who uses one of those complicated caps and some kind of knitting needle-like tool to do her highlights, and her blond hair is gorgeous and natural looking and has depth; my friend Missy who had pink, platinum, black hair in high school) but like wearing makeup, this is one of those girly skills I just never cared about learning. Also, why do something yourself when you can pay an expert to do it? And my girl at the salon gives excellent scalp massages!

(Interestingly, my mom, who has never colored her hair, and has gorgeous salt and pepper locks, advocates against coloring it, but, when I was a little girl and she was the age I am now, used to pay me a penny for every gray hair I could find. I don't think I have more grays than she did then, but mine are not as evenly dispersed as hers were. They seem to find my part, whichever side it's on, a nice fertile place to grow, and then they like to hide in little thatches along the crown of my head. Dammit, I'm too young to look like the mom at the end of "Poltergeist.")

Anyway, I decided that I've read lots of novels where the heroine or hero or serial killer goes on the lam (it's my favorite scene in "The Outsiders"), buys a bottle of cheap color, and colors their own hair in the gas station bathroom using cold water and paper towels, and it always sounds pretty simple. Why do I have to make such a big deal out of little things? If Ponyboy and Johnnycake could do it, so can I, right, in the comfort of my own messy bathroom?

Sunday was a bona fide slug day for me: I slept in, read, played on the computer, and watched a movie. I never got dressed in actual clothes. I didn't even put on a bra (a sign that I really mean to just slum around the house all day), I didn't take a shower (slugs don't bathe!), and so when I got up (late) on Monday, my hair was nice and dirty, the way I was told it should be (where I learned this, I don't know, but it's one of those rules that may or may not be true that stick around in my head, like "never paint a room when it's raining"). Patrick wasn't feeling well so he stayed in bed most of the day, and I trucked off into the bathroom to spend some time with my hair.

I suppose that a smart person would've spent some time on the Internet, searching for the best brand of color to purchase, or barring that, would've taken an informal poll of her friends (I'm sure Facebook would've been an excellent tool for this), but I didn't feel like bothering people or reading stuff, so when we went to Walgreens on Friday night, I looked around at all the boxes and... picked one based on the commercials - Garnier Fructis. What can I say? I like Sarah Jessica Parker. (The successful time I did it myself, I used Clairol Perfect 10, and while it was perfect, and easy, the Garnier Fructis was on sale, and so was about half the price.) All the time I was contemplating this choice, Patrick was buying Zicam and Doritos (super combination, no?). Since my complaint was that my last shade was too light, I decided to go with "Sweet Cola," which on the box I picked up, I swear was described as "dark brown," or maybe "darkest brown;" however, the website is calling it "soft black." The next darkest color ("Dark Brown") didn't have as sexy of a name (did they just give up?), so I bypassed it. I'm not sure what "soft black" is meant to convey. Anyway, perhaps this was a mistake, but when I looked at the swatches on the box (the "if your hair is... your results will be..." section), it seemed like the best bet. Early on Monday afternoon, I wrapped an old towel around me, banished the kitty from the bathroom, and got to work. It seemed to go fine (despite forgetting to add the "oil" to the color and creme until it was time to do my whole head), but I'm not sure: I think it's possible I've gone too dark.

What do you think? This is a terrible cell phone photo (could I be any more googly-eyed?), and my friend Andrea claims I look "va-va-voom," whatever that means (I think it means, shut up you big dork, your hair looks the same as it always does), but I don't know. I feel a little self-conscious, especially since the girl at Chipotle who made my burrito called me Miss, and then the guy who rang me up called me "Ma'am."

You may have noticed that the sweater I'm wearing has a hole in it. For some reason, I just love this sweater. It was the only thing I considered wearing on this drizzly day. Maybe it makes my hair look less... "soft black" and more "Sweet Cola."

An update about my mom

This was an email to my mom's friends and family that I sent yesterday.

...

Hi, everyone,

Today we met again with my mom's oncologist [who I have begun to affectionately refer to as "Dr. McRobot"]. He told us some good news: for now, my mom doesn't need to have chemotherapy because there is no evidence of further cancer. He is going to keep a very close eye on her and has another CT scan scheduled for November 18th. For now, her job is to get her strength back after her knee surgery and to keep her spirits up. We believe this is the answer to all the prayers.

The cancer she had was stage IV, and this type of cancer is very "sneaky" - this is why her doctor wants to monitor her carefully. While it's gone for now, we need to continue to pray that it stays gone.

She was happy to hear she didn't have to go through chemotherapy again, and is looking forward to getting back to her old routine. On Tuesday we have a follow up with the orthopedic oncologist, who will check her knee. Prayer, positive thoughts, and your love and kindness will help keep mom feeling like herself.

Thanks for all your support throughout this time! We appreciate all of you so much.

All the best,
Irene

A contest

I re-designed my two work newsletters (I was talking about newsletters earlier this week), and I am getting rid of any and all clip art. Also the cutesey fonts my predecessor was using are gone. Good ol' Georgia is the name of the game now. I made a very nice (in my opinion) header, and now that that's done, all I have to do is continue to come up with content on a weekly basis for them. Ah. The fun part.

(Sarcasm? Who knows?)

So, over on my other blog I've been writing about the building excitment I've begun to feel about tomorrow's booksigning at Amoeba Hollywood by none other than Mr. Stewart Copeland. I've got a gift for him for this, our third encounter in 2 years (wow, I'm a lucky girl). You can read all about it and all the other crap I have to say about my crush on him by clicking here. And since I'm having a little contest over there, I didn't want to leave you guys, my loyal readers, out on the fun.

Here's the deal: should Mr. Copeland refuse my lovely gift (and I hope he doesn't but you never know), I will offer it to the first person to leave a comment on today's post over there on the other blog (we just discussed this, but for those of you not paying attention, click here). No, it's not my panties, I'm not that crazy, but if you want to know, just click on the link. Go ahead, click. Read. I'll wait...

Okay, so as you can see, this gift will really only be suitable for somebody who lives in Southern California or who plans on visiting in the next couple of months, so my readers in France and on the East Coast and elsewhere, sorry guys: next time!

And, this is totally unrelated to today's topic, but what the hell did Blogger do with spellcheck? I had to use a dictionary to make sure I was spelling "predecessor" correctly, and that's hella time-consuming.

So! I will post something either here or there about how it goes tomorrow with Stewart. I also want him to hug me, but I might be getting greedy. Wish me luck!

Making fun of clip art

I'm writing a newsletter at work about getting active, and I'm considering using some clipart. I always stay away from the drawn clipart but clipart in general is pretty lame. Here's an example of what I mean:

Hey, love the bandana, Santana! That guy has some... crazy legs. Why did she feel the need to put on a tank top over her mock turtleneck? And are those bowling shoes?

I discern a lot of sexual tension, here, too. Without that line on the ground separating them, there might be something going on. Clearly she's more into it than he is - she's almost over on his side.

Not seen in this photo: Harry and Sally, walking through Central Park, talking about how men and women can't be friends without sleeping together. Sally's wearing those cute high-waisted pants. And a tie.

Saturday, Sunday

Yesterday we went out for breakfast (Eggs, Etc. I had "Etc.": pancakes). When we got home, I took a blanket and a pillow out to the back yard, took off my pants, and napped/read a little. When it got too hot, I put my pants back on, went inside and watched about 5 hours of Glee on Hulu (great invention, that), and had a terrible headache. I don't know if these things are connected; I can say that the headache started before I curled up on the couch with Patrick's laptop, a blanket, and a bowl of grapes (oh, I also had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I was sitting there for rather a long time. Food was necessary to keep my strength up). I thought Glee was great entertainment. Very cute.

At around 7 o'clock, I got up and had a minor, headache-related meltdown. Patrick said he could tell I was all "pent up." I don't know what that means. He went and got us a pizza, which helped. Also, I took some Advil.

This morning I'm taking it easy. Patrick left early to visit his brother and help out with his satellite dish, then to pick up his mom, and I'm going to meet them at my parents' house, so that our moms can visit. It's time to take a shower now. I still feel the remnants of my headache. I don't usually get such bad ones (nor do they usually cause me to freak out). I wonder if it's because my doctor recently put me back on Allegra for my allergies? Hmmm. Something to think about.

Sorry this is a dull post!

Evening bike ride

Wow it's a beautiful night. Patrick went on an errand all the way out in Palmdale (I know!) and I came home to an empty house (well, my three cats and mostly dead houseplant were happy to see me). I decided it was time to get on the bike again. I went out a little earlier than the last time - by the time I'd worked myself up for it, changed clothes, pumped up my tires, put on my helmet and exchanged the stale water in my water bottle for fresh, it was about 7 o'clock. According to the references I referred to (some anonymous website I'm too lazy to find again and link to) the sun set today at 6:39, but it was still dusky and light-ish out when I left, and I felt comfortable enough with just the lights on my bike and my light gray Gap sweatshirt to leave off with the bright green poncho I usually wear.

I tried a slightly different route tonight - I went down to Bellflower, rode up to the park at Carson, and cruised along the bike path through the park. Later in the night this is fine, but because there were lots of kids still playing soccer and people walking around on the path, it felt a little too dark and treacherous, so once I made it to Woodruff, I made a right and decided not to go around that way again. I went in a bit of a circle, crossing back through to Bellflower by taking one of the through streets close to my own house, and then when I got to Carson this time, kept on Bellflower all the way up to Candlewood, and took Candlewood to Woodruff. It meant a few more lights, more traffic, but there's a bike lane most of the way on Bellflower, and all the way down Woodruff, and I felt safe enough. On Candlewood, I was beeped at by a couple of kids on the other side of the street, and it's always fun waving at strangers on bikes. Why is that, I wonder? It's akin to the feeling I get in petting friendly but strange dogs when I'm walking around Santa Monica.

Once I was back in my own territory, I did my usual ride down Woodruff to Los Coyotes, back up to Bellflower, and then went in a couple of circles. At some point the sun went down completely and it became totally dark, and, surprisingly, almost instantly cooler. It was a nice ride (almost 12 miles, as you can see from the newly reinstated bike log on the right), I went a tiny bit faster than last time, and though not full, the moon is way gorgeous tonight. When I got home, I stood in the driveway looking at it. Also, getting my breath back under control. And adjusting my bike pants.

It's a Waxing Gibbous Moon, which doesn't sound half as pretty as it looked.

Melic Sub Rosa, and some other totally unrelated stuff

I'm pretty sure I've talked about my husband's band, Melic Sub Rosa before, but thought it was time to mention that you can listen to him and his mates play, here.

As his wife I of course am contractually obligated to support him, but as a listener, I think this stuff is pretty cool.

...

In other news, my mom told me yesterday that the widow of the pastor of the church she used to attend who was going to "marry" me and Drew way back in the olden days (and who tried to convince me that what I was feeling was just "cold feet" - had I believed him life as we know it would be totally different) found out about her health problems "on the Internet." This was fine, as my mom hadn't talked to her in a long time and she was calling to pray and wish her well and this was not something my mom disliked at all.

But, I haven't talked to anybody in my family about this blog before, though I'm sure at least one of my siblings has stumbled across it (hi, Dan!). I feel funny about that all of a sudden. Especially since I am prone to swearing and talking about my bad moods.

Hmm.

Something to think about, here.

...

Another totally unrelated thing - is it wrong that every time I see a depiction of a woman having a baby on television that the only thought that goes through my mind is "oh no, oh no"? I'm not pregnant or anything (and I've moved my deadline back, because my mom asked recently when I was going to do it, and the old deadline of "when I'm 32" has been long gone, so now "when I'm 40, like the movie stars" gives me a little time) - I like the "or anything," which was meant to imply, "or planning on it" - but I do think about it from time to time, especially when I see my friends with their beautiful babies, and then I see some TV birth that scares the living crap out of me.

Yeah. I think I'll stick with cats for awhile longer. I didn't have to push them out, "or anything."

Bike ride log

I had a minor mishap regarding the templates for two of my three blogs (this one, and the goofball Stewart Copeland one; the flute choir one was saved. Yes, I have since made copies of all the templates, thanks mom) this weekend, so I lost the bike ride log I had been keeping on the sidebar.

It's kind of okay, though, because according to that log, I hadn't ridden my bike since August 25!

Spaghetti

Today I spent about five hours over at my parents' house, hanging with my mom, dad and sister, and making them dinner.

I'm not a cook by any means (though somehow I can make a killer Thanksgiving dinner; luckily that's only once a year), and spaghetti must be the simplest meal in the world, but there you go: I made it exactly the way my mom makes it, which is no gourmet recipe (brown the meat, add the spaghetti sauce, add to the noodles); it was a hit. I also made a (dead simple) salad and bought those yummy round French rolls that are always so perfect for tuna sandwiches.

I was in a bit of a crabby mood on the way up to Culver City today. For one thing, traffic sucked. I hate weekend traffic because it never makes any sense. Then, when I got over there, my mother was asking complicated questions about her living trust that I am unable to answer. I wish I knew more about that stuff but on the other hand: I don't want to know! I don't want to know!

This head in the sand attitude is not very productive, I know, I know. And someone needs to understand that stuff. But why me? I'll get over this bad attitude, I know. I will be more helpful. This is my job. Today, however, I just didn't feel like it.

And, I just realized that I was headed north on the 405 freeway on a Saturday without any show in Santa Monica to work, and I think that might've had something to do with my bad mood. Doing a show every single weekend is sometimes (quietly now) a bit of a pain in the ass, but when it's gone, I totally miss it. Cast of "The Chairs"? I miss you. Okay. So I get it now.

Anyway, after awhile her friend Margie came over, and I went to the store to buy supplies for spaghetti making. I went to the local Pavilions, the same Pavilions I played at for the opening with the marching band a hundred years ago. The same Pavilions in which Drew and I did a few photography assignments using fluorescent lighting (which would be impossible today, because they've totally re-done the market with more natural-esque lighting). The same Pavilions where Drew swore that the mostly silent but very cute, much older (then) blond checkout guy was flirting with me. The same Pavilions where we used to buy our grab bag six-packs of exotic beers, which we drank on the beach, on his balcony, in Mark's backyard.

But this post isn't about the old days.

This post is about how irritated I was while shopping at Pavilions.

For one thing, the store was overrun with people. I am totally spoiled by the wide open aisle of the stores near my house, where I am free to push my little cart (I love those little mini carts!) right down any aisle my heart desires. In Culver City, right from the start, when I hit the spaghetti sauce aisle, I was thwarted by an Englishwoman wearing ridiculous high boots (lady: it's 98 degrees outside. Get real) and her American male friend, who were discussing the sodium content of every jar of sauce in sight.

Hey, it's an important discussion, I get it. But mom had sent me with a vague description of a "new" sauce she'd tried last time (not the usual brand) and she couldn't remember the name of it, except that it maybe started with an "R," and it wasn't Ragu. I squeezed in between Boot Lady and her pal, and tried to figure out what mom could've been talking about, but besides Ragu, there was not one brand that started with an R. I settled for Bertolli's Tomato and Basil because... it looked prettiest in the jar.

I only had a few things to buy (spaghetti, sauce, bread, a cucumber, salad bag stuff, ground turkey) but because the damn store was so packed with people (seriously. Is there nothing to do in Culver City but go to the grocery store?) navigating my way (especially in the produce area) was treacherous.

And I'm just going to go out on a limb here and say that those shopping carts for kids, the ones with the little red car attached to the front? Those things are fucking stupid. They're a hazard. Why so huge, man? When I was little, I was happy to ride in the (unpadded!) kid seat, or even in the basket of the cart itself, where I risked losing a finger every time I poked my hand out.

Anyway.

Finally I got in the express lane, and I'm standing there, waiting my turn in my crappy mood. The whole time I was waiting, this woman was standing to my left, practically in my lap (had I been seated). She was an older lady, with her daughter who was my age or older, and I guess I could've politely excused myself (pretended to be in her space) but I just couldn't work up any kind of energy for being polite: so I ignored her. When it came time to communicate with the checkout lady, I felt like explaining to the lady behind me, too. "Oh, my club card doesn't swipe anymore, you'll have to punch it in. Yes, can you see, lady? The card's been de-magnetized or something, so she has to punch in the number now. Can you see what's going on here, or am I in the way?" And my PIN number for my debit card - I felt like I was being watched. It's possible she was somehow touching me. She totally gave me the creeps.

When I got home, though, and heard what fun mom and Margie were having in the living room, I stopped thinking about me and whatever my deal was, and set to the task of making a good (or good-ish) meal for my family, something I never do. I put on my mom's old lady apron (it's like a little overshirt, with a loud floral pattern, about 10 sizes too big, with a pocket for my... tissues? iPhone?), started boiling the pasta water, and got to work.

The ride home, and the week prior

Some of this story has already been told here, but I'm going to put it all together in one, hopefully well-written narrative. Well, I can try, can't I?

...

Yesterday my mother was discharged from the hospital.

She'd been there almost a full week. She checked in (is "checked in" the right phrase?) last Thursday, the night before having surgery to remove tumor(s?) on her right leg, and for a complete knee replacement. This procedure was a surprise to all of us.

She'd been having intense pain in that leg for about 3 weeks since messing up her knee while getting into my aunt's car. The severity of the pain seemed too much to be explained away with just this injury, or even arthritis. She'd been going to doctors, and on the previous Friday, it was confirmed that the soft tissue cancer she'd had 3 or 4 years ago had returned... this time in her leg.

The possibility of radiation therapy to alleviate the pain in her leg was discussed, but the radiation oncologists didn't believe that this would help her, and they referred us to an orthopedic oncologist, Dr. A., in Baldwin Park, and an appointment for last Friday was made.

Thursday morning, my sister got a call from Dr. A.'s office, requesting that my mom come in a day early. The doctor could see her: in an hour. On her end, getting my mom ready to go and to Baldwin Park (about a 30 mile drive from their home in Culver City) was no piece of cake, but Angie managed it. I had a slightly shorter drive (about 22 miles, most of it on the fast-moving 605 freeway) and got there about 20 minutes before they did. I found the clinic in the large Kaiser hospital, and waited out front for my mom, dad and sister.

Somehow we all actually made it there at the time requested (though, the doctor's assistant, Regina, was so sweet that she told us that the doctor would see us "whenever we got there"), and it only took a few moments for us to go in and meet Dr. A.

He was young, handsome, thorough, scary-smart but personable, and it was his recommendation that my mom have surgery. He explained it all to us, showed us her new stainless steel knee, did a needle biopsy, and eventually mom was scheduled for surgery... the next day.

I think the selling point for everybody was his statement that in most surgeries like this, the post-surgery pain is so much less than the pre-surgery pain that most people are shocked at how great they feel again. Even with some pain. My mom had been literally miserable for weeks. Up until this point, we had been given no plan, besides morphine, for helping her. We knew she had cancer, and that terrified all of us. All this pain and cancer too? It was confusing. But having a plan to cut it away - hey, man, if it'll help: do it. Get it out of there. Now is fine, thank you.

Car journeys not being very much fun for my mom at this point, my dad requested that she be admitted Thursday so as to spare her the drive home and then back again (the surgery was scheduled for first thing Friday morning... can you imagine the traffic?). Dr. A.'s awesome staff found her a bed, and before long she was admitted and comfortable. Scared a little, but comfortable. My brothers Andy and Dan joined us at the hospital, too. The whole family was there for awhile, and I think that helped my mom calm down a little.

The next day, I met my dad and sister first thing in the morning at the hospital, and about an hour before her surgery was to begin, we were allowed in, 2 at a time. I went in first, with my dad. The anesthesiologist was talking with my mom, who was not very awake yet. He asked a bunch of questions about her medications and past surgeries that, truth be told, she had gone over with a guy during pre-op the day before (and she'd been much more lucid then). He was considering the possibility of giving her an epidural for the lower half of her body, and general anesthetic from the waist up. I have no idea how they do this. He asked if she'd had any experience with an epidural in the past, and she had: 37 years ago, when her "baby" (me) was born. He asked how that had gone, and she told him, seriously, that for awhile afterward she'd had really bad headaches. I had to laugh: right from the start, I've been a pain in my mom's neck!

(We found out later that her doctor nixed this idea, and she got full-on general anesthesia.)

After awhile I went out and got my sister so she could see mom, too, and then the three of us went to the waiting room, to wait.

Waiting sucks, in case you weren't sure. I had a book to read (the horribly written "Water for Elephants;" but this isn't a book review. I will only say, save your money) and my phone to play with.

After awhile, my brothers showed up to wait with us, and we were all sitting around, waiting. Right about at the time my brothers and sister went to get some lunch, the pager they give you while you're waiting (it's exactly like the pager you get at Island's or Elephant Bar when you're waiting for a table) went off. It took a few minutes to track down Angie, Andy and Dan, but once we told them where we were going, my dad and I went back up to the official waiting room (we'd been waiting in the main lobby because the surgery waiting room was overtaken with a huge, loud, Hispanic family. Also they were playing soap operas on the TV, and not one of us cares for them), where we learned we'd just missed the doctor.

Angie, Andy and Dan came up to meet us, and we sat around and waited some more.

Because the doctor had told us that surgery would take about 6-8 hours, and here it was, just 4 hours in, I started getting a little nervous.

This is how my brain works. I guess I hadn't factored in the post-op time, where my mom would be resting, waiting out the anesthesia, but I thought it was 6-8 hours of actual surgery. This was a major operation, and I thought for sure that having taken less time than we had been told... that this indicated something was wrong. I don't know what was going through the minds of the rest of my family, and I'm pretty sure I looked calm, but I wasn't. I was scared.

Finally the doctor came out again to talk to us, and he started talking about the surgery ("The surgery went great...") and I interrupted him pretty much head on and said, "Is my mom okay?" He stopped and looked at me, at all of us, and he said she was fine.

Then we let him tell us about the surgery, and he was pretty vague, to be honest. Beyond the "she looks great" detail, that's about all I remember. So it's possible there was more detail that I've just pushed under the "she's fine" gift he gave us, but I think no.

We had a couple more hours of waiting while mom came out from the anesthesia, and then finally they called us to accompany her to her room.

The walk from the waiting room door to her room was pretty scary. I'm sure she was still feeling the anesthesia a little, so I don't think at this point she was in pain, but she was crying. My dad looked scared. We all looked scared. The male nurse pushing her bed had everything under control, though, and as we all rolled down the hallway, my mom was praising God and crying. These are the two things I distinctly remember her saying:

"I'm so glad it's over!" and,
"Thank you Jesus!"

Without that last one I would've wondered if this was truly my mom.

We let the nurse get her settled with her IV and pain medication, and then finally we went in to see her.

She spent 6 full days in the hospital, and wow, that was an experience. For her, for us. I think she was glad to be there, and by the last day, her pain had tapered off a lot. In fact, I'm pretty sure she was almost pain-free. She was getting back to herself: complaining about the food a little, bossing us around a little, contemplating her future, getting ready to come home.

I brought her home yesterday in my car, which is lower than both my parents' cars (my Accord seemed like it would be more comfortable). Her leg is in an immobilizing strap-on cast like thing, and bending it is a big no-no still, but my front passenger seat didn't go back quite far enough. Right off the bat we realized that there was no good way to get her comfortable. My dad and sister had met me at the hospital in my mom's Blazer, which would've been impossible for her to ride in, so we had no choice but to just leave.

Angie rode in the back.

We gave her a couple of pain pills, but had no idea when they would kick in. I wanted her to be comfortable; I wanted to get the fuck home.

Luckily traffic on the 10 west (my dad swore by this route, but personally, I would've taken the 605 to the 105 to the 405, which I know seems longer, but to me, I hate the 10 west heading through downtown LA with the passion of a thousand suns). I should've done it. Instead, we made our way down the 10, and traffic was fairly light, but then my dad had told me to exit in Culver City at Washington Blvd., and this is where the trouble began.

Actually, this is not where the trouble began.

My mom was distressed the entire way home. She wasn't in too much pain, I think. I don't know, to be honest. It was very difficult and extremely uncomfortable for her, I know that. She cried. She prayed. She sang. Angie tried to help from the back seat, and we both spoke calmly to her.

I don't know how I stayed calm (usually in the face of my mom's tears, I get right in there with her and cry too), but my job, for 33 miles, was to drive. And I did it.

My mom, a born-again Christian, sang every Praise & Worship song she could remember (and some she couldn't. At one point she sobbed, "I can't remember the words!" I told her, that's okay, mom, make some up. And she did), she spoke directly to God and thanked Jesus for his mercy, and I sat there, with my "I'm driving us home and getting us there as safely as I can" face on. I tried to keep it at 60 mph - I don't usually drive that slowly on the freeway, and yes, I wanted to get there faster but the 10 is bumpy through parts of El Monte or where ever the hell we were, and I was afraid to hit a bump or a pothole or a mattress (why are there always trucks with questionably secured mattresses on them on the freeways? Have these people not seen CHiPs?) or worse. An accident or a near accident would've been a disaster. My dad, who left after we did (he had to get his car out of the parking lot) passed us. I was tense: but I tried to talk to my mom calmly, and we were okay, sort of, until we got off the freeway. My thoughts, as we drove, weren't in the same gentle vein as my mom's: I wasn't thanking God for his mercy but demanding that he DO SOMETHING for this woman who loves him so much: my belief or non-belief in him being beside the point. I was kind of mad about it all, which surprised me almost as much as my so-called nerves of steel.

And maybe I had stronger words in my head. I just wanted that ride to end. It was the worst 33 miles in my life, quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever done.

My dad prefers to exit the 10 at Washington rather than stay on and get on the 405 south for a couple of miles. Personally, if there's no rush, I don't mind going that way either. The downtown Culver City area (now) is new to me, and it's interesting to see all the new shops and restaurants down there. But if I had been thinking about it, I would've realized that it's also rife with traffic and stop signs and for some reason there were all these giant trucks out at the same time we were on the road, and I swear, that stretch of the ride was longer than all the time we were actually on the freeway. For once I agreed with Patrick about west side traffic, meaning: it sucks.

Finally we made it to Sawtelle (my trick of cutting through to Jefferson down Ince, instead of taking Duquesne, was thwarted by this mammoth truck that decided to make the same turn ahead of me, and he made me miss the freakin' light. Rather than sit there, I pulled back into traffic and just stayed on Washington), and I made an illegal right turn onto my parents' street, backed up into the driveway, and got out.

My dad and brothers helped get my mom out of the car, and she was calmer, now. Andy rolled her up the ramp my dad had made, and in a few moments, we were all fine (mom even complimented my driving).

Home has that effect sometimes, doesn't it.

I didn't realize I hadn't written since mom's surgery

I have a whole story to tell you, but first, just an update on what's been going on:

My mom went home today!

How did she get there? Well, that, my friends, is what the whole story is about. Except I have been having a week or so of shitty sleep, so I feel the need to tell you that you won't be reading that story tonight, because I took a little something to ensure that I would get a good night's rest. Also I am re-reading Jane Austen's "Persuasion" (a great book, but good for sleepy time. Someday a man will write me a secret note in which he states, "You pierce my soul." Maybe one day I will be that... piercing. Oh, wait. I play the piccolo, don't I. What am I saying?), and the combined total of those two things means I am guaranteed a good night's rest. Right?

Ah, I just didn't feel like drinking a beer.

(Someone suggested melatonin, but like, I don't even know what that is. This is a prescription. It's an extremely lightweight dose - or so I've been told. I got it from my doctor. I take it so infrequently that the majority of the pills in the last bottle expired before I could even take them, and my doctor only gives me like 20 at a time or something. So I feel just fine about taking them once a year or whatever it is. Man. I want to sleep. Like right now.)

My Facebook status right now is "sleep don't fail me now," a play on the phrase, "feet don't fail me now," which is corny and pathetic, but about right for my sense of humor at the moment.

Feh.

I go to bed. Here's to cotton sheets and pajamas.

See you.

Bionic mom?

My mom's surgery today at Kaiser went well.

She's resting now. She's been in so much pain, it will be interesting to see if she's really up on her feet tomorrow, as predicted by the surgeon (!). Hey, if she can do it, I say, Go Mom! I can't wait to see what that awesome stainless steel knee can do.

We spent the day there, and we're all a little beat up. And it was a bit rough when we first saw her coming out of the post-op recovery room: she was still out of it a bit, and crying. Tears of joy? I don't know. But she let out a big "Thank you Jesus!" while being wheeled down the hallway in her hospital bed, and that was such a thing she would do.

Also, the name of her nurse made her comfortable right away. What was the name of her nurse? The nurse's name is Blessing.

Thursday's update

I sent the following email to our friends and family. I created a Google Group called "Mom's Army" in my contacts listing; these are the family and friends who want to be kept updated about her status. This is the message they got today.

Hi, everyone,

Good news - my mom met today with an orthopedic surgeon in Baldwin Park, Dr. A. Dr. A is a specialist in this type of surgery, and has admitted my mom to the hospital and will do surgery tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. to remove the mass on her right leg. He will also do a total knee replacement, and showed us an example of what hernew knee is going to look like. To be honest, it looks like something might dad might have made for the space shuttle! Modern medicine is amazing.

We got a great feeling from her surgeon and his team, and feel very confident that this surgery will be successful and my mom won't be in so much pain.

Keep praying, and we'll keep you posted.

Thanks for everything,

Irene

...

I'm going to bed now. I have to be at the hospital at 7 a.m. tomorrow, and it's been a long day and night already.

Good thoughts. Good thoughts.