What matters?

It may not matter where I live or what I do, but I want it to matter.

The Good Dream

Not long ago I had a good dream. In this dream, I had a little plant. Some kind of ivy. It was badly withered, so I thought to repot it, but by the time I had set up a new pot and fixed the soil, the plant had nearly dried into dust. I was about to give up on it, but then it produced a bright green tendril. Moments later, it had taken root. New leaves were practially erupting from the plant, and it produced some enormous tuber thing that almost took up all the space in the new pot.

This is the most hopeful dream I've had in a long time. But right now, my memories of it are disturbing. I guess unusual pleasant things can be more disturbing than ordinary unpleasant things.

Lord Shiva is Kicking My Ass

Perhaps one day I will be able find peace in the lessons of "Lord Shiva Kicks Ass: The Liberating Power of Loss."

For now, I just feel like I'm getting my ass kicked.

And now, a little immaturity

"You and the little mermaid can go #1*$ yourselves. The books are in La Jolla. Buh Bye."

What I Did this Weekend

I forget that I can write about things that I actually did.

This past Saturday, I rolled around South Jersey with MJP. That evening, we were joined by his daughter, the little Rock Star. I made delicious pork chops. In the middle of the night, the Rock Star came down with a bad case of the "bromit" (hopefully unrelated to the bite of pork chop she had at dinner).

Sunday was no day of rest. I visited Mama Ass and learned about the wonders of dollar store flower shopping. I shaved my boyfriend's head and watched episode after episode of Unhappy Days (I'm not done with season 1 yet, so don't talk about the rest of the show with me until you know that I've caught up.). I also learned that fruit flavored Pedialyte doesn't taste so bad.

All the while, I continued to be frustrated by my inability to master basic lace knitting and other signs that I am outside of the flow of the universe.

Don't Tell My Dad

When my Mom announced to the family that she had voted for a Republican in gubernatorial election, my Dad said not to go around telling people.

Well, no offense, Dad, but I am considering donating money to senator Arlen Specter's campaign funds. I could be all partisan and strategic and speculate that if someone like Toomey beats Specter in the primary, that would increase odds of adding another Democrat to the Senate. But I was thinking more along the lines of defending what remains of collegial, statesmanlike, practical, and independent thinking from a bunch of loo loos. I figure a donation is more meaningful that a thank you letter from a low value zip code.

Time to Rethink

This blog needs a design enema.

Tarnation

Check out MJP's new web comic opus, Tarnation.

Let's Play Find my Organs

THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY LAST POST.

Hey, let me tell you a bit about the pelvic ultrasound I had this morning. (If you can't blog about that, then what can you blog about?)

Perhaps because I work at and live near a large research university, I often find that when I undergo a medical procedure, the person doing it to me is still in training. First, I will be examined by the trainee, then the real professional will come in to make sure things were done correctly. I don't mind. Doctors, nurses, and technicians need hands-on training, so they might as well put their hands on me since I'm not usually in critical condition. The worst thing about it is that it takes up a lot of my time.

Well, today's trainee was an ultrasound technician. I figured she was a trainee long before she announced it because the patch on her scrubs had the name of a different institution on it. She also looked to be about 20 years old. Another thing gave her away. Whether she intended to or not, she had positioned the ultrasound screen so that I could actually see it. This is a first for me. I've had my share of ultrasounds and usually all I get to see is the ceiling light fixtures. Now that I could see the screen, I had to start asking questions and making comments. "Gee, I don't know how you can tell what anything is from that image." "Is that what you're looking for?" "What's that on the left?" After a while, I cut the kid a break and shut up. She needed to concentrate. She wasn't having much luck locating the things we were expecting to see.

She fetched her sonogram instructor. And with him came the probe. Oh no. Oh yes.

One woman I met compared getting a vaginal ultrasound to being a small motor boat. The ultrasound technician controls you by means of a large steering stick.

They covered the probe with some kind of sterile lube, but it's a cold, cold lube and there's nothing they can do about it. The trainee applied the lube to the probe very gingerly, but the professional was like, "Here. Give me that." and he slathered on half a tube of the stuff. "Now that's how you lubricate a probe, junior. Don't be shy."

As a motor boat, I was no longer in a position where I could see the screen. Then began the Mysterious Medical Talk. "Hmm. Tweak the rack and pinion." "Go distal." "No that's just vascular." "Tilt to the harmuncula." "We lost it." "Ah, there's the mizzen mast."

Teacher and student were having a bit of trouble locating all my originally assigned parts. As far as I knew, they were still in there, but just for good measure, they had to be located and photographed. The teacher went to fetch the doctor, but the student had to stay so she could continue to hold the probe inside of me. I didn't ask why. I figured it had to stay in for the same reason the lube had to be cold as hell.

Finally, the doctor came in. At first she, too, was stumped. Where were all my bits? Here I must note that the more experienced or educated these medical people were, the more forceful they were with the proddings. With Junior Tech it was glide. With Tech it was push. With MD it was squish. "There they are."

With everything present and accounted for, the three left me alone. It's not that I expect them to call or write or even friend me on facebook, but after over an hour of intimacy, "Okay. That' s it. There's more towels in there if you need 'em. Bye." seems kind of abrupt.

No News Is. . .

I have to admit things aren't looking so good at this point. I hate to be cryptic, but then I really don't know what's happening so I couldn't describe what's going on or not going on even if I wanted to.

P.S.
No need to start collecting canned goods for me or anything like that. I am still employed.

Gruss vom Grumpus

I've got a bad mood and it's looking for a for a reason. No need to give it any clues. There are always plenty of available reasons for discontent in this world.

There are also plenty of reasons for me to feel fortunate. Why, this very morning, I enjoyed an oatmeal cookie.

I think seeing The Watchmen last weekend contributed to my current grump. It's a decent movie. Not the most subtle. Perhaps I can only take one gloomy cinematic comic book adaptation per year.

The Hair is Cut

I finally got a haircut today. It's not too bad. It should be an acceptable length in about a month.