Dear Dear Diary
"Tony," I said, "we have to establish some ground rules. I can't just have you popping in and out like this. It's disconcerting and you are keeping me on edge."
He smiled at me, like he does whenever I address him. "I like keeping you on edge," he said.
"I can't deal with it." I had to be firm. "I can't have Frank seeing you or knowing about you. You cannot affect that."
"Why do you even bother with this Frank guy? You have me. Why keep him?" He maneuvered closer.
I dodged. "Look, Frank has always been there for me, whether I felt I needed him or not. I can't have you upsetting him. You can only visit when he's not here."
"What do you want me to do, ring the doorbell?" He grinned.
The doorbell rang. I gave him look, but I ran to answer it. He was there, leaning in the doorway.
"How's this, princess? I can do this every time."
But the bint next door was letting her cat out, and watching me. I yanked his shirtfront and pulled him inside and shut the door. "Nobody can see you with me. I mean it."
He shrugged. "It won't happen."
"How can you be so casual about this?" I demanded. "That bint will tell Frank there was a man here."
"This is the only way I can have you, Jeannie," he explained. "I'm going to make the best of it." And he touched my cheek gently with his hand.
"But this isn't what's best for me, or what I need."
"Don't you like me, Jeannie?" he pleaded. "Don't you want me here?"
"That's not the point," I responded. "I can't have you disrupting things. Frank will notice. Then bad things will happen."
"Why do you bother with this Frank, when you have me?"
It sounded so reasonable, but I had to close my eyes and put my hands over my ears and scream for at least five minutes. Tony had gone when I calmed down again.
Blue pill day. Blue pill day. Today is a blue pill day. Blue pill day. No blue pills. No more, the couch doctor says. I'm fine. I don't need them. I'm fine. But it's blue pill day. Blue pill day. Blueberries aren't blue pills. Marzipan looks closer but I don't have the pleasant jittery of the blue pill. The dreams stop. I don't hear things. I don't believe things. I don't feel things.
Frank comes into the kitchen and turns on the radio as he grabs another beer. He looks at me, but he leaves me alone.
It's Tony I am listening to.
I dislike intensely the way I have to log in to this blog. Blogging may get lighter.
One thing I am seeing again and again in my line of work- medical transcription- is how the Vietnam veterans are reacting to the current war. The climate of public opinion being against the Gulf War and the simply shameful way the government is treating the veterans is bringing forth all kinds of flashbacks and nightmares, and the incidences of post-traumatic stress disorder seem to have greatly increased.
I'm so ashamed that anyone who thought this country worth fighting for (an admirable traight!) could be so taken advantage of in this manner.
The Vietnam veterans didn't all volunteer and the public treated them like they were to blame for the war. This is the only way in which I feel we are treating our current veterans better than we treated the soldiers in Vietnam- we have all tried not to blame our current soldiers for the Gulf war. I support our troops, but blame Bush and his cronies for the war and their absymal treatment.
But the Vietnam veterans are being reminded of all the bad things. Their buddies killed in front of them, pinned down by fire, Agent Orange exposure, traplines, and so much more. And we all should know that the folks in the Gulf are having similar experiences right now as you read this and I type this, and it's just so fucking wrong. My heart aches, and I have never been through anything like they have. I don't want to go through that, and I don't want anyone to have to- not for a fistful of dollars, and not for an impossible ideal.
In other news, Sassy fat cat went into the hospital for a dental procedure yesterday. She is obese, diabetic, and elderly, all of which are high risk factors. While inducing anesthesia, she went into respiratory arrest. They managed to save her, but the actual dental cleaning was impossible to perform. She is recovery slowly. Last night, her pupils were so dilated she was blind. This morning, she is less wobbly and can see, and has back her usual appetite. She still sounds congested and hoarse though, but anyone would be after a nasogastric tube. This doesn't bode well for her big picture, but she is still with us. I guesstimate six months before something more horrible happens.
I was making blueberry muffins yesterday. I love blueberry muffins because I can have blue food without needing to find where Frank hid the dye this time. Any meal loses its monochrome nature when you can put a blueberry muffin on the table. Frank likes banana better, but there is nothing but brown unless you sneak in some zucchini, which of course Frank hates.
I was mixing the batter when I felt someone in the kitchen with me. They hadn't walked in because I would have heard the doors. I put the bowl down, and turned.
It was Tony. Just standing there and smiling at me.
"You're a figment. Stop torturing me," I told him.
He shook his head slowly, still smiling.
"What do you want from me?" I demanded. My mind was full of white rooms and couch doctors and hazy memories. I do not ever want to go back to that.
He stepped forward, determined. I clung to the counter on either side of me. He reached forward and cradled my face in his hands.
"I... I can feel you," I wondered. "I can feel your touch!"
"Feel this," he murmured, and he kissed me. I could not remember the last time Frank kissed me like that. I wanted...
But when I opened my eyes again, I was alone in the kitchen.
I turned back to the bowl and added the salt of my tears to the muffins.
Fuck the new blogger. If I don't like it better in the next week or so, I'm deleting it. I hate the way comments are handled. I hate the need for fucking Google Account. I hate being forced to change. Fuck Blogger.
Once, my father worked at an Air Force Base in Wyoming. One of the projects ongoing at the base was the habit of acquiring two young beavers for placement in a certain location on the base for water management. Whoever got handed this responsibility had to deal with the accompanying paperwork which was often more trouble than it was worth. The budget declared that funds must be spent quarterly. Therefore when the $50/quarter had not been spent, the funds were always threatened. Therefore for first quarter, a letter had to be written explaining that one-half a beaver was useless and out of season. The second quarter, the letter had to explain that while one beaver was useful, it was still out of season, and pointless without its mate. The third letter had to request the funds for two entire beavers, requiring an advance on the budgeted amount, and of course one and a half beavers aren't quite as useful. Every year.
So now whenever my family discusses some particularly inane thing the government has done, we just comment, "well that's half a beaver, right there!"
I am a terribly hypocrite when it comes to blogging. I want new stuff on every blog I read every day. EVERY DAY! GIMME MORE! because of course all of the people I read are insightful or touching or beautiful or creative or make me laugh so hard milk will shoot out my nose, regardless of if I am drinking milk or not. They're just that good. And my day is ruined if I can't get my fix on their lives every day.
And yet here I am, lucky to put out a post a week. Sometimes I post as often as three times a week! Oooo.
I'm not sure how many folks would miss me reading their blog any more- or even notice I am reading it. It's just so personal. Here's my undies! /wave. And then of course, I hope you care and aren't just reading like waiting for the train wreck to happen.
Talked to my brother about his derriere's general health. Apparently, he had similar difficulties within the last year. So I've collected more info to share with my doc and dug up the pictures of my insides from the colonoscopy of 5 years ago. It looks like an octopus put little sucker rings all over the insides of my colon. Pretty artistic... or disturbing. I remember the gastroenterologist last time declaring my colonoscopy as "interesting" and that's not something a patient wants to hear from a doctor. I want to be boringly healthy. It's my favorite fantasy. Walk into a perfume shop and just inhale. Wouldn't that be lovely? How about a florist?
I am tempted very tempted to apply to my vet's office as a part time receptionist. They need one. I have experience. However... I worry about breathing there. It would pay better than the current job, however.
Tira stopped at a booth that advertised jewelry. “Pardon me,” she told Tyrrae, “but I wanted to get something new for tonight. This booth just opened, or I would have stopped earlier.” She looked the stock. “You do know you will be questioned about your people, don’t you, Tyrrae?”
“Of course,” she replied. “That does not mean I have to reveal anything critical, or what we would consider critical. I won’t endanger them. I’d be killed on my return if I did so.”
“We would never kill one of our kind,” Tira said. She held a piece up to her face in the small mirror provided, to see how it looked with her coloring.
“How do you punish then? You cannot claim to be such a utopia that no one goes against your society?”
“No, I can’t claim that either. We are very social creatures, and we are very nature oriented. To harm us, remove one or the other. And the worst punishment is to be exiled completely. Most of us could not bear to live in one of the human cities.”
“You would not enjoy seeing my city either. Almost everything is stone.”
“I’ll take this one,” Tira told the shopkeeper. She tucked the gem into her pocket, and they continued on their way. “I like to be surrounded by living things and the warm light of the sun. I don’t think I’d like your city at all.”
“Here we are then!” Tira let Tyrrae to a seat reserved for her by the Loremaster. The two seats were surrounded by many elves of all ages gathered to listen. A few had something quiet to do with their hands such as spinning or carving, and one young man had gotten out ink and paper and apparently was choosing to make notes.
Tyrrae bowed to the crowd and then to the Loremaster before sitting down. He smiled his approval. “Every,” he said, “this is Tyrrae N’Tyl, Second of House D’Ner in the line of Tartulos. As this is the first time I have ever encountered one of the dark ones, I will be asking a few questions afterwards, and you will all get the opportunity to question me. But let me tell you the story as it was told to me by my grandfather and by his grandfather to him. No interruptions please.” He closed his eyes, and simply began to talk.
When the world was younger, the elves lived as one people throughout this continent. They were all beautiful people, living in harmony with the needs of the world and each other, and finding time to spread beauty by creating art in everything and everything as an art. We were ruled over by our King and Queen, and they were just and wise and fair. More elves lived in the central city than the surrounding land, but there were enough outside to trade food for other needful things and luxuries like books and fabrics. So the elves prospered for many generations. While this is a wonderful thing, it makes for terrible stories. So we must introduce a terrible thing, because this is what happened.
The Queen’s years sat lightly upon her, but she knew her own mortality. She knew her king deserved heirs and it would be her joy and her duty to present them, but as the years passed, she was unable to conceive his child. There are many spells that will interfere with conception that are commonly known, so the Queen made sure that she had used counterspells for as many as she could think of. She also consulted with the best physicians she could find. Alas, all to no avail. She despaired.
Despair opened the window to the Queen’s heart to allow the Evil in. For there were indeed several brothers of the king and cousins of the king and nephews of the king who might have easily borne the title after him, and deciding who in particular would have gone fairly and easily among the successors. It would not have caused a rift of fighting like it does among the humans or worse among the orcs.
But the Queen felt she had been given one great duty to accomplish with her life, and she had failed. So what was she to do? She could no longer pray to Ariel and Galathiel, for she had beseeched the Twin Gods many times with no answer. She researched further magics, but her skill was not as great as some, for all she was our Queen. In her desolation, she went for long walks by herself, even putting off any tender reproaches by her mate our King. Surely had their relationship been less strained by the burden of Rule, he may have been able yet to solace her and turn her from the path she now walked.
The weather suited her mood. It was moondark and on the edge of raining and very cold. Our Queen stumbled into some stone ruins she had not seen before. The Lore does not speak of life before elves, but surely there must be something. She found an opening and entered, as it began to rain outside. She made a light in the palm of her hand and it lit the way for her. She could hear scurrying sounds outside her circle of light, but did not know fear. Occasionally she would see small reflections, as if the eyes of an animal in the distance were reflecting her light back at her. This only reassured her. If animals were living here, they would not harm her.
The passage wound this way and that, but never a moment did she think of getting lost, for she saw no branching paths- just the one she was on. And there was only scurrying in front of her, never behind, so she did not feel chased. It was only when the passage way led into a large chamber did more lights spring to life around her, and she realized the chamber was filled with spiders, and in the center of the room was the biggest spider of them all.
Yet, she felt no fear.
“My Queen,” the spider spoke, “welcome to my parlor.”
With all the elven grace of royalty, she replied, “Hello.”
“My companions and I would offer you a deal, My Queen. We know of your troubled heart, and would offer solace to you.”
“My troubles? They are but few and unimportant.”
“They weigh on your soul and tear at the heart of your kingdom. Someone fetch Her Majesty a chair. We need to talk for a while, and I would rather she was more comfortable.”
The smaller spiders scurried about the chamber pulling bits of debris together and spinning them into a webbing that could hold her weight. It wasn’t until she was actually seated that she realized there were bones in the silk, and they did not look like animal bones.
“My children are very proficient, are they not? They can make almost anything with their silk. Do you like my children?”
“I have never had problems with spiders. Their webs in the morning dew are very beautiful. I have never killed one, and no spider has ever bitten me.” She remained calm.
“Of course. I have watched over you. Your greatest trouble is your inability to have children. I have many children. I can help you have children.”
“We shall make a deal, my Queen. You shall let me have one little thing, and I will give you the ability to have many children.”
Such was her desperation, she did not even ask what that one thing was. “I will do it,” she said.
The giant spider was on her instantly. It bit her left hand. The pain was so intense that she blacked out and knew no more.
When she came to herself, she was back in the palace gardens. She did not remember exactly what happened, and thought it just a bad dream. Her husband had found her. “My darling,” he exclaimed, and he rushed her to their suite calling physicians forward to aide in whatever was wrong. The physicians did find a strange black mark on her left hand, but that was all. However, it was likely that the Queen was indeed pregnant at last.
The Queen was very happy. She readied the nursery. The only thing that worried her was the blackness of her hand seemed to be increasing in size. And when the time came upon her, she was attended by many of her usual handmaidens.
Only instead of one perfect elven child to be heir to the throne, she produced dozens of little black half elven, half spider monsters. These rushed about the room biting all present. Some of them died immediately. Some of them had their skin change to black completely. Their shrieks attracted the notice of others in the palace, including the king himself. They ran to the rooms as well, only also to be bitten and marked with the blackness or killed.
We do not know if the king was killed that day or not. We did not keep the names of those who finally began casting levin bolts at the spiders and that wing of the palace. Eventually, however, there was so much magic flying about the palace that the entire wing fell into the earth. Survivors of the nobility elected to continue to build over the site to ensure that the Queen and her children never escaped. Others of the elves chose to lose contact with the elven city, fleeing to found villages elsewhere in the wilderness. The elves were scattered throughout the land, when once they were numerous and united.
And what did the Queen give for her children? It was indeed a very simple tiny thing that few think much about. It was only her name. No single elf can remember her name.
There are not enough hours in the day for all the shit I need to do. But, I actually slept last night! Like in bed before midnight and everything! Here's to hoping I do the same thing tonight. If I don't, I had better be working. I'd almost rather work than go teach calligraphy tomorrow, but I expect it won't be a nightmare with so few girls. I am bringing the knitting for sure.
I feel a little guilty for not writing a paper for Ice Dragon. I really need to think about writing one *now* for entering next year. And the Clothestool has to be finished so I can enter that. I'd like to say to heck with it all and just curl up with a good book and think about just getting better, but that won't work either.
Sunday I know I won't be able to go to all of my obligations -- but I will go teach Lucet. I may skip the rest in favor of it, however. And tonight, I am going to bed on time. Pleasant screams.
Back from the specialist. Apparently he's a gastroenterologist and not a proctologist as I thought. He has the hairiest ears I have ever seen. His office was the first office I had ever been in that was completely devoid of art. The *only* art in the examination room was a huge poster of everything that can possibly go wrong with digestive tract, which I found terribly interesting, but I am sure would intimidate the hell out of anyone who doesn't want to know what can go wrong with innards. On a small cart older than my parents was a device that was definitely older than me that I could not figure out the use of. I did like the lamp he had- I wish I had one for my stitching on the couch, and I said so. I'd have liked it better if it wasn't permanently aimed at the middle of the table from the side. If I hadn't known what to expect, I think I would have been frightened terribly. But when it comes down to brass tacks, I found myself liking him. I assume it was his wife who was receptionist/nurse/telephone answerer/everything else needed. He did not put the desk between us. He did not put on gloves before speaking to me. He looked me in the eye and listened to me. He even mentioned briefly volunteering for a clinic in Africa.
The only bad thing is that he gave me a prescription for a suppository I am to take once a day for three weeks and then go see him again. This should help stop bleeding, and depending on my reaction to them, we will decide the course of treatment from there. I don't mind suppositories. Preparation H is my friend. However, these before insurance were $10+ each, and that's the same price as Viagra. Even after insurance, I can't really afford it at $80 total. But this is a serious thing, and I'd better do what I can to cure it.
Canasa is for ulcerative proctitis. Nasty, nasty stuff. I still worry in the back of my head that I'm just drinking too much milk and that's what's setting off an allergic reaction and causing this.
If you are offended by penises, this is not the post for you.
I don't usually do disclaimers, but I felt it necessary. I've said for years that yes folks, Size does Matter. Men come in three sizes. Tasty, comfy, and get that thing the fuck away from me- I want to WALK in the morning.
But I've never gone through and actually measured the things for a comparative scale... Not quite like this anyway.
I've been reading HeartlessBitches for quite some time now and I adore the messages. One of the better Canadian things. :)
I used to in college comment when discussing Freud, "Sure I want a penis! I want it stuffed and mounted on my wall." Apparently I am not the only one to have such ambitions. In my search for out of the ordinary crafts, I have found the AntiCraft
, and they have in their latest issue a crocheted Penis that I could mount on my wall. Oh dear the mind races and I think about finally making that hat rack I used to long for in college. The only problem now is how the hell do I convince my husband that I can put it on the wall? Maybe I'll just make one for my niece.... lol. You can find your own directions here.
And in the interest of equal opportunity offending, you can get directions for a snatchel too
- a lovely knit purse designed to be a full set of the female reproduction system.
Knitting and crochet- they ain't just stuff your granny does any more- and who need yet another sweater/scarf/hat/wristlets. Let's make something fun.
I love posting more when I am enjoying insomnia. I don't think about what my readers will say, I'll just say what eats me, and then it doesn't bother me any more.
Then maybe, just maybe I can sleep.
The story Dear Dear Diary itself is good, right up until the part where Tony walks in and becomes a part of Jeannie's life. Or Lie as I just typoed it. That's appropriate. I picture him following her around, popping while she moves from one part of the kitchen or the living room, or even the bathroom... She is talking to him and he is just listening at first. He doesn't need to say anything. He just watches her like a woman would like to be watched- he wants to watch her because of who she is and what she means to him and to hell with what the world thinks. Only because he's a figment of her imagination, nobody really knows.
We've talked about turning it into a screenplay. John would play both Frank and Tony, and I would be Jeannie, and Jazz would film it. Outside of myself that seems uncomfortable and odd. Yet, that very discomfort would act in catalyst and if we conveyed that onto the screen, it would be a fantastic movie.
I can picture a scene.... Jeannie is in her kitchen, cornered. Tony has been watching, and finally says something. "Jeannie, I'm going to kiss you now." And she shakes her head no.... but turns around anyway with her eyes closed, and Frank kisses her. Frank loves her very much. Jeannie? she isn't sure. And yet, she knows.
My day in summary....
Medieval dancing is a lot of fun, and I'm very glad I got to go. It was lovely to actually get to know some of the people who came, and overall I think I managed to behave well. I'm how old and I still worry about my manners.
Puppy Bowl ROCKS. Loved the kitty half time show! However, the commercials were just not as good as the other game on. Coke has gone Weird.
The only comment on my health I'll permit is Cold suppositories are an unpleasant sensation. If I warmed them before hand, it would not work however. So one must endure.
Worry is a rot that eats at the soul. It steals sleep and joy and leaves pain in its wake. Insomnia, aches from sitting in the same chair for hours and hours and hours, and treading water, barely keeping a head up. I worry about which side of the edge of sanity I am on sometimes, and I know that cannot be good. Worry eats its own tail until there is nothing left but the snake that swallows his tail squeezing constricting until something snaps.
I tunnel in circles. There are obvious solutions but I have ignored them or simply been unable to reach for the brass ring, and I know *know* deep in my cold dark heart the only thing that holds me back is me. Throw the lifeline and I will shrug it off with a smile.
Had bleeding in the place one should never blood over the weekend. Called for an appointment on Monday for the first available with anyone, and my regular doc was off for the week. So I got to meet a rather brisk doc who went straight to the point of the whole situation, and if I hadn't gotten lucky about the lack of perfume in the room, he would have completely steamrolled over me and my problems, because he wasn't keen on listening at all. Still, it was in the third person point of view an interesting way to meet someone. "Hi there! Shove a finger in my ass will you and then refer me to a specialist. Thanks."
I go see the proctologist next Wednesday. More cameras. Joy.