This looks more promising.

Label/Receipt Number: ##################
Scheduled for Delivery: Thursday, December 10, 2009
Class: Package Services
Service(s): Delivery Confirmation^™
Status: Arrival at Post Office

Your item arrived at 5:31 AM on December 10, 2009 in LONG BEACH, CA 90808. Information, if available, is updated periodically throughout the day. Please check again later.
 
Detailed Results:

	Arrival at Post Office, December 10, 2009, 5:31 am, LONG BEACH, CA 90808
	Electronic Shipping Info Received, December 09, 2009
	Arrived Shipping Partner Facility, December 07, 2009, 11:14 pm, UNION CITY, CA 94587

Dear Apple,

Why has my package been sitting in Carson since 3:50 yesterday morning?

(I just ordered a case for my iPhone; don't get excited.)

Date	Time	Location	Activity
12/9/2009	03:50 AM PST	Carson, CA	ARRIVAL DESTINATION DHL GLOBAL MAIL FACILITY
12/8/2009	05:45 AM PST	Union City, CA	DEPARTURE ORIGIN DHL GLOBAL MAIL FACILITY
12/8/2009	12:08 AM PST	Union City, CA	PROCESSED
12/7/2009	11:14 PM PST	Union City, CA	ARRIVAL ORIGIN DHL GLOBAL MAIL FACILITY
12/7/2009	08:15 PM PST	Elk Grove, CA	PICK UP

Reading stuff

In the summer, I read a story in the LA Times about a little girl who was diagnosed with Childhood Onset Schizophrenia, a very rare (disease? condition?) diagnosis in children. I'm not going to link to it. You can find it quite easily. Anyway, I read the article, and was impressed by the writing, and how the disturbing subject matter was handled. It made me extremely sad, but curious about the topic. And I hoped there would be future updates or features on the little girl (there have been, but not many).

Then, while I was visiting my mom on Monday, we were watching Oprah, and she did a whole show on the little girl the article was about, and interviewed the little girl, her parents, and the author of the LA Times story. It turns out this was a re-run, but the original ran just a couple of months ago.

I was disappointed: Oprah provided nothing that the LA Times story didn't say. She brought nothing to the story but herself, and this is why I am not a fan. But, seeing the show and re-reading the article got me to thinking about the little girl again, and that lead to a Google search, and that lead to me finding her dad's blog.

I read a lot of it it, until it kind of started feeling very exploitative. It's seriously a very raw journal, the full-on "truth" (truth in quotes because that's what he says it is, but how can we know?), and it's rough reading. He writes some very scary things about his past, his own mental health issues, wanting to kill himself, about his relationship with his wife, and about his daughter. To be honest, as I kept reading, I thought, this guy wants to be famous. He must be writing one of those memoirs like "A Million Little Pieces" where the author writes the most horrible stuff about himself and gets rich and famous from it. I'm no longer interested in this type of book (Augusten Burroughs, Dave Eggers... thanks but no thanks). He admits that he's writing a book (and boy I hope he gets an editor. He needs one). The parts that are purely about him were the least interesting things to read (sorry, dude). I am really only interested in the story of the little girl. It's another example of figuring out when too much is too much. I feel very sorry for this little girl: she will probably never have a normal life. Her parents have made decisions that probably mean that they too will never have normal lives. I read a few other blogs that comment on the story, and I read the comments on the father's blog, and most people were either sympathetic or judgmental. I'm not judging - I don't know anything about mental illness or parenting, and I'm definitely not qualified to make any pronouncements on anything related to this story except to say that it affected me, a lot.

I don't know why.

Maturity IS a bitter disappointment.

Side by side comparison (sort of) of my new banner.

Turns out Patrick doesn't like either the hat or my font. He thinks serif fonts are too old-fashioned (or something - I was listening to something at a rather loud volume). Maybe so. Since I like both the goofy photo and the font, I'm not sure how I'm going to handle his notes. My friend Paul's critique was easier to understand: he thought the orange-iness of the font was too brutal. Then again, he only had about two minutes to look, and that was on my iPhone in the dark lobby of the theater.

For now I am going to try just changing the colors around. Maybe the font is just too big or something - but I always fall in love with something and then other people don't fall in love with it and it takes me a long, long time (if ever) to come around to their way of thinking. For now, this is how I want this to look (one of the two choices). Maybe I'll change it later. Maybe not. I mean, I'm not a graphic designer or anything (obviously). I've seen blogs with way worse designs than this one, and who cares, really?

That said, I will definitely appreciate any comments* you all may have, since it's pretty obvious that to the question "who cares," the answer is "I do."

*Well, by "any," you know that I, of course, mean only the nice ones.

Today's silly hat photo

Yesterday I left work early and headed over to Culver City to spend the day with my mom. She had a doctor's appointment (just a follow-up with her primary car physician) but she wasn't feeling good so we stayed home. She ended up taking a nap and we rescheduled the appointment.

She had her second chemotherapy treatment last Friday, and this one seems to be affecting her more than the first. She seems okay, but it takes a lot of out of her. Luckily she has this week off from therapy, and can hopefully recuperate some before starting the whole thing all over again.

Before the nap, though, she asked me to make lunch for her and my dad. I made them tuna melts, at their request. I think I freaked them out because instead of celery (which they were out of) I used carrots. They seemed to like their sandwiches, which looked yummy - perfectly golden on the outside, nice and squishy on the inside. I wasn't that hungry so I made myself half a toasted tuna sandwich (minus the "melt" part), but I added raisins to the leftover tuna. I wish I'd had some nuts to put in it, too! Yum, but I think my parents would be shocked. Shocked, I say!

While my mom was napping, I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen (I never cook or clean as much at my own home as I do at my parents' house!) and watched the rain. It was a cold day in Culver City yesterday.

After lunch and my mom's nap, I took the dog for a walk. I don't know if I've talked about Goldie, their dog before, so I will tell you now: Goldie is an aging, beautiful golden retriever. She is 100% retriever: though she's graying and getting a bit less agile, Goldie will play catch with you forever. It's her favorite thing to do. I have literally tossed that ball for her until she's practically limping. She's a sweet dog, and I have been tempted many times to take her home, but she needs more attention than we can give (I work too much! I wish I could stay home with a dog!) and would totally miss my dad, her best friend. It stopped raining for about 20 minutes, and I put on my coat, my scarf, and borrowed my brother Dan's hat (see photo), and took her out. I looked a little weird but it was cold and wet. That hat was warm. I think I look a bit like a chauffer (I always thought that would be a fun job, but that could just be because I loved that movie with Eric Stoltz). Goldie had a good time, I think, but we turned around earlier than I wanted to because of the rain. I didn't want to bring home a wet dog to my mom's clean house.

After the walk, when we got back my mom was up and watching TV with my dad. My dad has a strange fascination with the Maury Povich show (his favorite, Ricki Lake, went off the air in 2004). Total trash! The topic of yesterday's show was typical: DNA tests to determine the fathers of babies. Some of the stories were hard to watch because the people were such trainwrecks. Maury seemed like a good guy, though, I don't know. I could never watch that stuff on a regular basis.

After Maury, I went back in the kitchen, put on my mom's apron, and put together a turkey meatloaf my mom had her heart set on. It was easy, and no gourmet recipe (I followed the directions on the flavor packet, which includes a layer of ketchup on top of the whole thing) but was complicated by the fact that my parents' oven is jacked up. I'm not sure how my brother cooked a whole turkey in there on Thanksgiving, because the temperature was all over the place. It took much longer than I expected to cook that thing (my dad's going to get the oven checked out soon). My dad made mashed potatoes, I cooked a can of corn (ah! Just like the old days!) and finally we sat down to eat. Just like the old days, I helped myself to seconds (and, ahem, thirds). It's a good thing I don't cook at home (see, Patrick?) because we'd have even more serious weight issues to deal with.

Thursday's random thoughts

A friend posted something about the full moon tonight in his Facebook status. I could've sworn the moon was full last week. Which one of us is wrong?

I am ashamed to admit that I am compelled to watch the skanks of the Real Housewives of Orange County, and I find it interesting that now that Jeana, the only one who was pretty enough to be an actual Playmate, is gone, the show seems even skankier than ever. Could it be that she had some class?

My feet hurt.

I'm not getting enough sleep and I'm eating too much and I haven't been on my bike in a MONTH.

I think I am thinking about a new job and this worries me because my current job is kind of great. It might not be the job that's the problem.

I had mentioned awhile back that I was considering taking a writing class at UCLA Extension starting in January but it looks like the money is not readily available (I don't want to put it on a credit card; those classes are expensive) so I will wait until the spring. This is fine. I just wonder how much of my sanguinity about putting it on hold is due to the fact that I might be scared. That's fine, too. It's just something to think about. Also, I'm not sure if I used "sanguinity" properly. Spell check keeps thinking it's misspelled. The word I'm really looking for would mean "acceptance." Whatever: I'm tired.

I had a weekend off from being in the booth, and I go back tomorrow after a very busy day (errands around town in the morning, then a concert at Lamp Community in downtown Los Angeles for the residents there, then a flute lesson, then hopefully a nap on Patty's couch), and I'm totally looking forward to it, but at the same time it's a lot to do. And this month is just getting busier.

Finally, Patrick doesn't like my new banner, and I'm trying to figure out if it's him, or me. I like it, but that might be because I made it. Now I'm not sure. I made new ones for the Stewart Copeland and Flute Choir blogs too (he likes those just fine). What do you think? It could be that he just doesn't like that stupid hat, but the hat is supposed to be stupid. I am supposed to look ridiculous. His actual comment was concerning the size of the font, but like I said, I like it. He has a very good eye for this sort of thing, though, so I don't know. Grr.

My co-workers and I may have seen a baby mountain lion on our walk today. That's really cool, but it doesn't bode well for the bunny I saw yesterday.

I'm going to bed.

'Night.

Be vewy, vewy quiet....

At my work, like most places, I get two 15 minute breaks. Since I usually I roll into work about 11 minutes late every morning, I skip the first break and hope that my boss notices (or doesn't notice, whichever works out better for me), but later in the day, I do try to take a walk. Getting out of the office at least once is a must or else I go nuts and start thinking about my co-workers in less than friendly terms. Today I was ready to go at 3:30 but apparently there was some brouhaha from yesterday about coverage and nobody being here (I was scheduled off so I missed the whole thing)... so instead of standing around waiting for my co-workers to figure out what they should do, I went by myself.

A couple of months ago, we received a message from one of the executives warning those of us who walk (East LA! I work in East LA!) that a mountain lion had been spotted up in this area, which is literally just above the 710 freeway. There is a helicopter pad and a dog run where the sheriffs' department people bring their K-9 companions for lunch time ball breaks. There's a shooting range. It's definitely not desolate up there. In the communication we were warned not to go by ourselves, and given tips on what to do should we see a mountain lion (don't run, don't crouch down, wave your arms and try to appear larger, fight back, etc.).

In spite of the mountain lion scare, and because by going alone, I could call my friend Michael earlier in the day rather than waiting to do it on my way home, I was fine with the idea that I had just ditched my co-workers. I was walking up the hill, had just passed the fire station on my right, and I was talking to Michael about some upcoming comedy gigs he has and mocking his pantry and what he would serve a surprise guest ("What are you offering him? Cigarettes and beef jerky?") when coming toward me, down the hill, was the cutest little bunny you've ever seen. He was brown, with a big fluffy white tail. He was running, fast. I interrupted Michael and said (and by "said" you should realize that I mean "screeched") "Bunny!" Michael kept talking. Apparently at this point my voice was only audible to dogs. "Bunny!" I said. "I saw a bunny!" By this time the bunny had bounded toward me, crossed the street, and plunged himself into a big bush of flowers. I laughed - how could I not? Bunnies make me happy! - and Michael laughed, and commanded me to write about it, which I have just done.

Now, it's not that interesting, what I have just written, but it is done. I am nothing if not obedient.

When I came back and told my co-workers, who were just then gearing up to go for their own walk, one of them asked how big Mr. Bunny was. "He was pretty small," I said. "Darn," he said. "I'm starting to get hungry." Tomorrow I'm going to recommend that this particular co-worker of mine start taking solo walks. What do mountain lions eat, I wonder...

(Yes, I am aware that mountain lions probably eat bunnies. Shut up now, please.)

A couple things I learned while visiting Las Vegas:

During the relatively quick trip there (4 and a half hours):
Patrick has the best music for road trips. Though I may have more actual music on my iPod (over 8,000 songs but it doesn't function in his vehicle) his music has not all been listened to over and over again. My music lacks a certain amount of newness. A sampling of what we listened to from LA to Las Vegas: Meshugga (from Wikipedia: "Meshugga is a Swedish five-piece experimental metal band formed in 1987"), Captain Beefheart (Clear Spot, The Spotlight Kid), Dr. Nico, Melvins, Eric Dolphy, Bolt Thrower, Slayer, Fela Kuti. So we had some avant garde weirdo stuff, a bunch of metal, punk, jazz, afrobeat, and SLAYER. I was most pleased with the Slayer. We pulled onto the Strip listening to Fela, though, and it was perfection.

About drinking:
If one is a casual drinker (myself), i.e., I really don't drink very often anymore, maybe once every couple of months, perhaps starting things out with four gin and tonics and half of Patrick's whiskey sour in quick succession was a poor decision. Following the G&T's with a couple of Newcastles? Total insanity.

However, this face (see photo) can be eradicated quite simply: one must simply drink a ton of water and take a couple of Advil. A couple of hours later, problem solved! Let's do it all over again (with a bit of moderation this time)!

About hotels:
We stayed at the Hard Rock Hotel, which was fun, loud, young, with lots of fun stuff to listen to and see (including an in-house tattoo parlor). Our room was a bit disappointing but Candice and Adrian's mini-suite with corner windows was really nice. Well, the price was definitely right. We walked around to other hotels and casinos, and finally went to the Wynn, which is, in one word, GORGEOUS. Totally sublime. Elegant. Beautiful floors. Patrick and I had a couple of margaritas while sitting on a heated patio overlooking a lovely pool and waterfall. We were a tiny bit scruffier than the rest of the crowd, but we loved it.

On foreign languages:
While visiting the Paris casino, it is funny how funny all the ladies in the ladies room found the translations provided via speakers of "Useful phrases" from French to English ("What happens here stays here," "Would it offend you if I told you how sexy your body is?," "Oh sheet! I lost my wedding ring!"). I'll admit it: I thought it was funny, too.

On gambling:
I would prefer to spend my money on drinks and cabs.  

About showgirls: 
We saw the classic Vegas production Jubilee! on Saturday night at Bally's (we saw the topless show, not the earlier, family-friendly show), and it was beautiful, fun, and just a bit too long for my teeny attention span (though I suspect Patrick and Adrian will disagree). Those women have beautiful bodies and incredible posture. I got inspired to stand up straight. Shoulders back, chest out: I can do that. Also? I think I need feathers.

During the longest ride home:
It took us twice as long to get home as it did to get there. I had received tips from a few friends advising us that Sunday was a bad day to go home, but our schedule couldn't be changed. Patrick is a champ, and didn't need relieving at the wheel (that sounds different than what I was originally trying to say) (also, it took awhile for the giant mimosa I had at breakfast to wear off). Also, it's amazing what Slayer can do. We were in good spirits and had fun. And I learned: never eat an entire can of Pringles during an 8 hour drive.

Best of all, I was reminded that a road trip to Vegas with Patrick is fun, fun, fun. We laughed so much, and had a great time. More pictures later.

Thanksgiving update:

Good morning, all,

Just wanted to let you know that mom has been doing pretty well this week. She sprained her ankle on Sunday while getting out of the car at church, but thankfully nothing was broken, and she's okay. She started physical therapy in the rehab center at Kaiser last week, and this might be a tiny setback, but her spirits are good.

Tomorrow she has her first round of chemotherapy. She will have chemotherapy one day a week, for two weeks, with the third week off. Then she starts again. We don't know how long the chemotherapy will last yet - she'll get a check up next month and and the doctor will see how she's doing. She had a pretty good experience when she had chemotherapy before, so we're hoping this time around will be just as gentle, though she knows she will probably lose her hair. Hair loss is temporary!

We wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving. Is it time to eat yet?

Today I am thankful for my family, and for you.

Love you,
Irene

What a mess!

Yesterday I allowed myself to feel like a 5 year old.

I was perhaps provoked but still - I'm the one who went there.

Let's chalk it up to stress and lack of sleep, and not talk about it anymore. Hopefully I will grow up at some point and not let my thin skin become an issue again.

This is not the news I'm looking for.

Yesterday kind of sucked. I had a really bad headache at work, and I ran out of Advil last week. All I could find in the office was some Excedrin Migraine that my co-worker gave me. I will tell you this right off the bat: I. Will. Never. Ever. Take. That. Again. Apparently it has caffeine in it. Caffeine and me, we don't get along. I get jittery, heart fluttery, and I was already kind of a nervous wreck. As I was leaving to meet my parents for my mom's doctor's appointment, two of my co-workers wished me luck (they knew where I was going) and I totally lost it. I had to leave, in tears.

I got to my car and cried for awhile, and I told myself, You can't do this! You have to be strong! I did not want my parents to see me cry. Or, frankly, my co-workers. So I sat there for awhile, and calmed down, and played an old Kevin and Bean podcast, because sometimes they make me laugh. Not so, yesterday, but I suspect it wasn't all their fault. The drive to Culver City was really fast: like 15 minutes (I took the 10 and there was no traffic. I wish I could do that all the time!), and I still didn't feel ready to go to my mom and dad's house, so I stopped at Target to pick up some stuff we needed at home (i.e., Advil).

When I got to my mom and dad's, they were both fine. My mom was cheery and fine. So I sucked it up and got cheery and fine, too.

Follows is an email from me to my "mom's army"  about the doctor's appointment. It's much easier to be "cheery" in an email.

...

Hi, everyone,

Mom had a follow-up with Dr. McRobot today to discuss the results of the CT scan. He found a small lesion on her liver, and is scheduling her to begin chemotherapy starting in the beginning of December. This wasn't the news we wanted to hear, but we're glad Dr. McRobot has a treatment plan, and of course we know that she's blessed to be getting good care.

Mom goes tomorrow for her first physical therapy session at the rehab center at Kaiser, and we're going to concentrate on her getting stronger and healing her leg and knee. On Friday she'll have more bloodwork done and meet with her very sweet primary care physician, Dr. Holly, and Monday, November 23, we'll go for a "teaching" session to learn about the chemotherapy.

Thanks for all your prayers! She's scared but thanks to you all knows she has a great support system.

Keep my dad in your thoughts. This is hard for him, too, and he appreciates your love and support.

Love you,

Irene

Yesterday I was in Target (shopping for a new cabinet thing for the bathroom... I bought one but when Patrick took it out of the box to install it today, it turns out there's a huge crack in the top. I hate it when stuff like that happens. Now I have to find the receipt, take it back, find another one: I just want the damn thing on the wall), and in the deodorant aisle when I heard a kid crying.

This was not the cry of a child who was hungry or hurt. This was the cry of a kid who was bored and whiny. Choosing a deodorant took a surprisingly long time, so I listened to the kid for awhile, and then I heard mom, who sounded young, pissed off, and desperate. Their one-sided conversation went something like this:

Mom: "Please stop crying."
[Crying]
Mom: "You have to stop crying."
[Crying.]
Mom: "Come on, ______, please stop crying. I can't shop like this."
[Crying.]

It went on like this for awhile, and then mom's tone escalated from exasperated to... slightly psycho. And yes, meanwhile, I'm wandering the nearby aisles, browsing the hair removal items. 

Mom: "God! Would you be quiet?"
[Crying.]
Mom: "What is wrong with you?"
[Crying.]
Mom: "Do you want to go home and see daddy?"
[Crying, but with an uplifted, hopeful tone. I suspect the kid was interested in going home and seeing daddy.]
Mom: "If you're quiet I'll get you french fries."

When I first heard all this, and then I saw mom, who was indeed, very young, I was kind of shocked. I'm not doing a very good job of describing just how inappropriate and scary what mom was saying and the way she was saying it was. When I got my first look at her, she was bent over at the waist, very close to her son, who was probably 2 or 3 years old. He was indeed crying. They were real tears, not fake ones, but there also seemed to be something going on here: it took so long (I eventually walked away and paid for my items, and mom was still there, talking to her now sobbing boy), it just felt wrong. But then I got off my high horse, and realized that I've never been in public with a crying baby. I've never had to reason with someone who is unreasonable, who I'm supposed to be protecting and caring for. Personally, I think I would just turn around and take the both of us home and do my shopping another time, but what do I know? She knew everybody in the vicinity, including a security guard who was hanging out in the hair removal item aisle with me, could hear her, and yet she continued to beg, yell (oh, yes, she yelled), and threaten her little boy. She never touched him, and he must've eventually stopped crying.

I know being a parent is something most people are totally unprepared for, I know most people learn as they go that bribing your kid with french fries is a bad idea, I know everybody's different and there probably was no underlying story with these two that I need to be worried about, but let's just say that exchanges like this don't make me any more eager to be somebody's mom.

My cats never cry in public. Never.

Flute lesson - CMA awards

Last night I had my first flute lesson of the year. I can't remember exactly when I decided to take a break, but I think it was in January or February. I could research this but I'm too lazy, so you're just going to have to take my word for it. It wasn't really a lesson - we didn't do much besides establish that I'll be playing a solo at a recital to take place... next month. I played a couple of scales, and the two movements of the piece I'm going to perform. Since it's been so long since I've worked seriously on anything or since I've been on the spot (there isn't a lot of pressure involved in playing at these recitals - I've been doing them since I was a little kid, but I still get nervous), and there isn't a whole lot of time (I am very slow at learning new pieces) it seemed like a good idea to play something I know. We picked two movements from "Suite de Trois Morceaux," by Godard. Relatively easy, beautiful (if done correctly, which: we shall see), French: it's right up my alley. I'm doing the "Allegretto" and "Idyll" movements. Pretty!

Having a lesson was fun. Granted, I didn't have to perform: it wasn't like a real lesson, where you have to prove that you actually did some work since the last time you were in that spot (interestingly, I fell right back into place in Patty's living room... I did all the [obessessive/compulsive?] things I always used to do at a lesson, such as needing a glass of water and a tissue right from the start, constantly arranging and rearranging the music stand to fit perfectly in the corner of her green rug, surreptitiously [and I'm sure totally obviously] reviewing the music while she talked to me), but since I didn't have to pretend I had practiced anything out of a study book (ah, those were the days! Slopping my way through an exercise was always so much fun) because she already knew I've been slacking off, I felt totally relaxed. I really like these two movements and so even though it's been at least a couple of years (maybe more but let's not think too much about that) since I first learned this piece I like to get it out once in awhile and make sure it still makes sense. It does. I also like the idea that I'm older now and might have something else to say about the music. I remember working this one up and the ideas that I had in my head from that time, and I think there might be something a little different in there now. I've been playing a lot in flute choir and I do practice on my own, but I have to say that, for me, working on a solo is different. Even if the only people I'm performing for are Patty's young students, their parents, and the old folks from the retirement home she has her workshops in, there's something about working up a solo that's exciting. Maybe it's the thrill of playing with piano (her accompanist, Marc, is an amazing player, and manages to make even your mistakes sound good), or just being on your own in front of people, but I like it. And, I liked the feedback I got from Patty and having to get out of my comfort zone a little and really listen to myself - all the nit picky things!

...

After the lesson, and a quick dinner with Patty (we haven't had much time to chit-chat lately so catching up with her was almost as important as the lesson itself), I went over to spend a couple of hours with my mom and dad. We watched the CMA awards, and surprisingly, I liked what I saw. Not so much all the performances themselves (Taylor Swift is adorable, a wonderful performer, but not the world's greatest singer; Brad Paisley is gorgeous, a great host, and writes horrible, cliche-ridden songs; Darius Rucker sounded really rough and his song was pretty dull; same goes for the Daughtry/Vince Gill duet and the Dave Matthews performance...) but there were a couple that were really good, and I loved that there was so much live music. I totally enjoyed Zac Brown band's version of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" (that fiddle player was hot - and talented), but my favorite performance was Miranda Lambert's song "White Liar." I thought she was clever, a great singer, and fun. I am not a huge country music fan, but I might seek her out. I also am now curious about Jamey Johnson, who won for song of the year. I wish they'd let him perform it or played it more.

Right now I think I'm going to go see if I can find "White Liar" on iTunes... I bet I'm not the only one downloading it today.

Not Quite a Book Review: Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins

Over the last couple of days I read two books by Suzanne Collins - "Hunger Games" and "Catching Fire." They're books one and two in a (trilogy?) sci fi/fantasy series for young adults. My friend from Rizzoli who (lucky dog) still works in a bookstore (another one) recommended and got them for me: we both love this kind of fiction and bonded several years ago over the Philip Pullman novels, "His Dark Materials."

I thought these books were really, really good. Lots of action, teen angst and yearning, they moved along very quickly, and were a very fun read. This is "not quite" a book review because I'm not going to tell you anymore than that.

Anyway, the best thing was, my friend also got me a funny little lapel pin that figures in the story. I probably won't be wearing it but it was nice of him, no?

Photo stolen from jabberjays.com, a fan site for the book, and, get this! The movie! It's coming out in 2011. Exciting!

Update on my mom

Here's an email I wrote to Mom's Army with an update about my mom.

The scan I mentioned that she's getting on Thursday makes me a little nervous but I'm trying to start thinking about them like you think about x-rays at the dentist. Then again, I'm not the one who has to get in that machine and wait a week for the results.

Every once in awhile I read Dana Jennings' blog at the NY Times website on his own "battle with cancer" (the NY Times also has a column on "grammar, useage and style" where they point out misused and overused words that appear in the paper, and "battle with cancer" is one of them, which is why I put it in quotes), and though I don't really know what else he wrote before now, he's a wonderful writer and does a great job. This article about humor and a life-threatening illness is really good.

...

Hi, everyone,

Just wanted to let you know that my mom has been doing really well! She's had several visits with a physical therapist, is walking a lot more (with the walker) and getting out of the house to do fun stuff like go to the movies or to her friend's house to play games. Her scar is healing nicely and I think her leg/knee looks wonderful.

Last week a blood test showed that her potassium level was low again, but this may be caused by medication she takes for her high blood pressure (which is perfect, by the way). Her doctor is keeping track of it.

Mom will be having another CT scan on Thursday, followed by a visit to the oncologist next week. I think she's getting used to these scans but still, they're a little nerve racking for her, as well as the visits to the oncologist, so keep her, and us, in your thoughts.

Thanks for everything!

Love,
Irene

Like water off a duck's back, or something

This weekend, I spent part of the day on Saturday over at my parents' house. I took my mom to run a few errands. She's been getting out of the house more now, which is good for her. She's walking great with the walker and has been cruising up and down McDonald Street, but for outings like this, she uses the wheelchair. I was a little nervous about it because it was our first time out, but it was okay. I took her to the Dollar Tree, Target, and Bed Bath and Beyond. I was afraid Target would be a madhouse. It was, but we managed just fine. Next time we're going to leave her wheelchair in the car and use one of the little motorized carts they have at Target. I hope those things have a horn or a bell installed.

We had a nice time. In spite of what I'm about to say, we have fun together. The only thing that is an issue is me.

How can I put this and not sound ungrateful?

My mom is sweet, and loving... but she can also be exacting. She is very, very sharp, and she likes things done in a certain way (I too have this trait, and believe me, it has been pointed out to me by my very patient husband). I vividly remember being a child and being instructed on the right way to dust the living room furniture. It made sense because even I remember that I was a lazy, dreamy child, more interested in whatever book I was reading than in keeping things neat, and without detailed instructions and supervision, I'm sure I would've done a half-assed job. As I got older, this kind of micromanaging made me rebellious, cranky, irritated, and pissed off. I never learned to shake it off, though, maybe my defense was to pretend to not care as much about how neat and clean my own home is now.

Besides household chores, my mom pretty much has an opinion on everything. It's cool, because you know what? So do I. I'm just as opinionated as she is. It's how we are. But when it comes to commenting on how I should drive, I kind of lose it.

Don't get me wrong, it's not just her: I don't like anybody criticizing my driving. I mean, why do people feel they can do that, anyway? If I don't like the way somebody's driving, I just make sure I'm buckled in, hold my breath, and count the minutes until I can get out. I think it's kind of rude to comment on it, right? (Though, Patrick, sometimes you really do drive too fast.) I guess I'm sensitive because it took me so long to learn in the first place (I didn't get a car, or my license, until I was 22), and it took me multiple times to pass the test... and my brother used to mock the way I rode a bike. But now I've been driving for quite awhile, and I drive quite a bit, and I think I'm responsible and safe and finally, a good driver.

My mom and I were driving around Culver City on Saturday, and she said something about something (possible the "right route" to take from their house to one of the places we were going, which was probably different from the way I wanted to go): I don't remember what, exactly. I just remember maybe losing my temper a little (it's possible she'd already made other comments), and I got pissed off.

There are, I guess, two ways to look at this. One is that I need more self-confidence, because a self-confident person wouldn't be bothered by anyone's criticism, even coming from their own mother. And the other is that I need to control my temper. After all she's been through? I felt horrible. I didn't really say much, I just got mad: I felt it, being mad, and I didn't like it. After a while we laughed about it and talked about other stuff, but I don't know. I felt bad.

When I got home, I mentioned it to my sister. I said, "I need to learn to be more patient when people are criticizing me." I was general because there was another incident with someone else last week that was kind of on the devastating level, which we won't be talking about here. My sister agreed. She's right: I should be better about handling this.

It's sort of obvious to me, now that I've written these paragraphs (and possibly was obvious to you, sooner, if you've been here before or actually know me), that the key words here are "self-confidence." Standing tall, and proud; not taking shit in a way that means I think I'm important but not in an annoying way - knowing when it's not worth it to get angry. This seems doable, I guess? I think controlling my emotions is something I need to work on, too. Being nice (instead of snapping back, or worse, sobbing) when someone is heckling you seems counterintiuitive, but what do I know? It might be a good idea to try.

So I guess I get to be the duck (you knew I'd get to the title of this post somewhere in here, didn't you?). It should be easy: I already walk funny.

I'm tired

I'm tired, had an exciting, busy and strangely overwhelming weekend, and I've still got this stupid cough that apparently annoys even my own mother (she's doing great, by the way! Her potassium is still a little low but the doctor thinks the culprit might be a water pill she takes so they're monitoring that. And: she has a CT scan on Thursday, and those are no fun for her at all [and neither is the waiting to discuss it with the doctor], but she's doing well using her walker, and getting out of the house more to do fun stuff like going shopping or to lunch with her friends, or to church). But don't worry: I still have plenty of codeine cough syrup (and if I run out, there's always the Jägermeister).

I did get a wonderful hug on Friday from an old friend, and yesterday I received a very sweet email from an unexpected person, and a lovely thank you gift today from someone else, and I've been a little high on that, so it's not all bad news over here

I'm not sure that the way I feel right now lends itself to interesting writing though, so I'll just say that after two weeks of rough tech rehearsals and an exciting and successful opening weekend at City Garage, I'm looking forward to getting back on a doable schedule and to getting some sleep. Starting right now.

Please don't call me ma'am...? / or / Covering up a more important issue by talking about myself

On Saturday, I took my antibiotics and cough medicine and drove to Seal Beach, where I got a facial. Lili, my old (as in "former;" she's probably 10 years, at least, younger than I am) aesthetician retired awhile ago to pursue another career, and I've been without a trusted place to go. I had been seeing Lili's old ("former") boss but it wasn't the same. I didn't expect to find someone as lovely as Lili had been, and I hadn't even really been looking (I pretty much stopped getting facials in favor of this new foot massage place [Rivini Foot Reflexology] that opened by my house). Anyway, the other day Lili made a recommendation, and I made an appointment.

I was still a little concerned about being sick, but the cough medicine was working, and it turned out to be a great day to get outside during the heat of the morning. Seal Beach was celebrating Halloween in the daytime, and I saw a bunch of cute little kids trick or treating at the shops on Main Street.

It was a great facial, and Leako (isn't that a cool name? She also has a very cool voice) did a wonderful job. I think all the steam even helped my sinuses or whatever. I didn't cough once. I was relaxed afterwards, and comfortable with her, and I had missed the kind of personal care you get when you get a facial. Also, I don't know about you, but there's something about lying on that table with my eyes closed in that half awake/half asleep mode that gets very close to levitation. I love it. She complimented the quality of my skin and told me that she would've guessed my age at 6 years younger than I actually am.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. I like being told I look younger: who wouldn't? Several years ago my masseur (the Great and Wonderful Bruce; at 60-something I suppose he could be described as "old" but that's exactly why I was so comfortable with him, and I don't mean because I considered him "harmless," which isn't what I mean at all. He was just a special guy who I was very comfortable with, and who I looked up to) told me that he thought I was 27 (I was not) and I had a hard time accepting that compliment then, too. I mean, I was pretty naked at the time, you know? Using his math and accounting for the years that have passed... both of them had me at around the same virtual age. I'm trying to not make such a big deal out of it - Leako reminded me that to keep my skin looking good, I need to wear sunscreen more often than just when I'm biking or baking in the sun for some reason. And to stop touching my face. It's good advice. I will try to follow it. She used a new sunscreen on me that felt like nothing (a vital quality). But my joy at her statement about my age makes me wonder how important being young and looking young has become to me, and how healthy that is (or isn't).

(And no, it hasn't escaped me that while both these people are very nice [Bruce and I had an almost friendship thing going on there - we talked about a whole bunch of things unrelated to whatever it is you're supposed to talk about when you're getting a massage, and he had lots of great life experience and stories to tell me that always, always helped me], ultimately, the truth is, they might be capable of saying anything in the hopes that I would be flattered into leaving a bigger tip. I don't think either of them is mercenary; they are earning a living. I get that.)

Anyway, my joy at being thought I'm younger than I am makes me a little nervous.

I'm not especially a "girlie" girl. I don't wear makeup often (lipstick: never), or pretty clothes. I don't like to dress up. My work clothes are very utilitarian (I pretty much wear a v-neck sweater every day; a couple of of them have holes). I have about six pairs of earrings but I usually wear the same pair all the time, and my very plain Swiss Army watch, which I wear on my right hand (I'm left-handed). These items, with my wedding ring and a hair elastic around my right wrist are usually my only "accessories." Given a choice, I would happily wear my ratty old Gap jeans rolled up at the cuffs with flip flops and any one of my multitudes of v-neck sweaters or t-shirts every day. Every day. On the weekends I'm rarely in anything else. Oh, I switched it up a little this weekend, I went to the mall to pick up a book wearing capri-length Old Navy sweats, flip flops, a t-shirt, and my hundred year old denim jacket. I'm a tomboy, or maybe just a slob. I get pedicures because honestly, I don't like touching my own feet. I'm slowly losing a few pounds but I'm not "thin." I like to look pretty but my idea of "pretty" and yours are perhaps not the same thing. My hair is too long and messy-looking; my current home dye job is passable but nobody's going to mistake me for Sandra Bullock (she's 8 years older than me). I don't know what I'm getting at with this excessively long description of what I am, and what I am not. Maybe what I'm trying to convince you of is that I'm not vain. But that's the thing: I totally am.

The other day I had lunch at this yummy Thai restaurant by my house. I was alone (I think it was a Friday). I don't mind eating alone - I had a book with me and I was fine. The waiters and waitresses were sweet, and it was a fine meal. Until the end, when my waitress called me "ma'am." I try not to let that bother me: it's just a way of being polite. Even if I were six years younger than my actual age, the fact that I'm married excludes me from the "miss" pool. Still. I love being called "miss." I love getting carded. I love having the young guys at Von's talk to me in a way I recognize as being reserved for people their own age. I love calling people "dude."

During the run of the last show at City Garage, one of the actresses from the company worked box office this one night. If they can't find any of the members to do it, I will; it's not a big deal. Though sometimes I bitch about having to do it (I already have a job at the theater, the other members should do it, blah blah blah), the truth is, I really like it, once I stop being nervous about the show. I'm pretty shy, normally, but the patrons are mostly nice and it's fun to talk to people. I miss interacting with strangers like I used to at the bookstore. And these people are not always strangers: some of them are repeat customers, or friends of the actors who I know too, or they remember me from the two shows I was in, and it's always fun when that happens. Anyway, this girl was going straight from the theater to another event in Hollywood. She was gorgeous, as the actresses (and actors) at City Garage tend to be, and dressed to kill. She had on a fringed, short black dress, and gold high heel shoes. She was beautiful, kind, fun to talk to, and interesting. She had a cool accent. She was perfect for the front of the house. I was wearing my uniform of a two-year old, very thin, navy blue v-neck t-shirt from the Gap, my holey jeans, brown leather flip flops, and possibly an army green jacket. Next to her, I looked homeless, or like a particularly endowed boy. I looked like I belonged backstage, possibly with a broom in my hand. It doesn't bother me: looking this way is comfortable and familiar, and I do like it. I can't imagine looking any other way.

This would be a good place to end today's post if this was really what I wanted to talk about.

I'm covering up what's really on my mind by talking about my looks. Isn't that typical? The thing that's really been bothering me is, a couple of weeks ago my mother asked me and my brothers to go to church with her (my sister goes more regularly than we do). My mom is a former Catholic, born-again Christian (for 30 years or so now) and attends one of those Baptist churches that profess love for everybody and then the next thing you know, the pastor is espousing opinions about what he considers the sinful lifestyles of the gay residents of Palm Springs that don't jive with the whole "love one another" theme. When I was a child and forced to go to church, the hypocrisy made me sick. I hated going. Catholic church, at least, tended to veil the message in long boring stories. Nothing was said (in those days) that was outright, or at least I didn't understand it to be a condemnation of people who were different. Granted, I was young, and I didn't pay much attention. She switched to Baptist churches when I was around 9 or 10, and went to a couple different ones before finding the one she's gone to for about 10 years now. The last time I went to there, they showed a movie that somehow managed to imply that global warming and the war in Iraq was caused by... sinners (not George Bush and Dick Cheney). Now that I'm older and realizing that my own feelings about religion are just as silly (apparently my beliefs are very similar to "the Force" from "Star Wars"), and my mom's health has become an issue, it bothers me that though she has asked on several occasions for me and my brothers to join her at church, and it seems like an easy request to grant, I just can't seem to make myself go. It would make her happy, it wouldn't hurt me much, it's over soon enough... but I don't know. I don't want to do it. I don't particularly want to discuss it with her, either - we've never agreed much about religion, though I know it gives her so much strength and hope, and her church family gives her so much support. I don't want to do or say anything that would hurt her or seem like I was trying to diminish that. She wants so much for us to believe what she believes. I just can't do it, and I don't know how to keep it balanced: what I believe, and respecting her.

If there's anybody out there who made it through this whole post who might have a suggestion (if talking about my looks didn't scare you away; it's kind of what I do with how I dress, now, isn't it), let me know. I'd love to hear what other people think.

Bike ride... sort of

After not being on my bike for awhile, even though I am still coughing and on antibiotics, I decided not to waste this beautiful morning and to go for a bike ride.

At about 3.30 miles, I heard a strange sound coming from my front wheel. It went away, so I kept pedaling. Later, I heard it again - sort of a scraping sound. I stopped and checked that my wheel wasn't coming off. I checked that my brakes weren't rubbing. I couldn't figure it out, so I sat there for a minute, and I realized that I had a headache. So I blew my nose, drank some water, and turned around to go home. Then I looked at my computer, which had this readout: Exit.

Hmmm.

Then it said, "Reset Odo." My computer's name is Odo? I had no idea. 

I have a wireless computer, but that's the only thing I know about it. I assume there's some sort of magnet or something attached to the front tire but I have zero clues as to how the thing works. Alberto at the bike shop set it up for me, and I wasn't there, and as long as the thing works, that's all I'm concerned about.

So this ride was kind of a bust. I went about 7 miles, and the last 3: very slowly. I was tired, my head hurt, it was hotter than I thought it was. Also, my stomach started to hurt, and though I did take my pill this morning with food as instructed, the food was just cheese and crackers. I couldn't get a straight answer when I asked the pharmacist if the "take with food" instruction meant a full-on meal complete with waiters and a cloth napkin, or if I could just eat an apple or something. She was all, "If you don't take it with food you will get a stomach ache." Thank you, Robot Pharmacist. I figured cheese and crackers was "food" enough.

I figured wrong.

...

Update:

Oh, and when I got home, and walked in the door, I saw Franny, sitting in the corner, looking very wide-eyed and... guilty. I wondered what she had been up too, and she stayed put while I wheeled my bike over to the other side of the living room, where it lives. When I went into the kitchen to get something to drink, I discovered that while I was gone, she had gotten into the catnip I bought yesterday to go with the new cardboard scratcher thing we got the cats.

She knew she was bad. And oh, so cute.

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!