October 2005

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Holy Shit.

We decided not to go to knitting, since it’s Hallowe’en and most of the people there are parents who’ll be staying home to hand out candy (or they’re named Tammie and are staying home to guard their home). So Coffee and I sat on the sofa and we were talking and deciding which movie to watch – - and while Coffee was downstairs copying a movie onto the harddrive…the doorbell rang. And it was a REAL LIVE KID IN A COSTUME WHO CAME TO OUR HOUSE FOR CANDY.

Ho-ly-sheee-yit.

In all the years we’ve lived here, we’ve never had a kid show up. Ever. Not one. Not even one of the neighbours’ kids. I have whined about this for several years, I have wimpered about the children hating me, and this year I wasn’t even going to open the door. Coffee did.

Here’s the best part. The kid was dressed as a pimp. Lemon-yellow-lime zebra printed jacket, dreadlock wig, a hat and (best of all) a pimp cane.

The only kid who ever came trick-or-treating at my door was DRESSED AS A PIMP.

And that made me get all teary eyed, so I gave the kid half of the bowl of candy (because, um, he’s probably the only kid who’s going to show up) and then I came back to the sofa and grinned a little (all teary eyed) and I said, “Dude, he was a pimp! Heeeeeeee!” and Coffee said, “What? I thought he was a clown?!”

Next time he tries to tell me I’m all naive about ANYTHING, I’m going to point him to this incident – where he mistook a pimp for .. a clown. :)

Thanks.

I’m a mess, and I admit it freely and openly. But I’m a mess with a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning – thanks to my husband who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer when they told him they couldn’t fit me in.

We spent a few hours at the beach today, collecting rocks and beach-glass and watching the ladybugs hang out. It felt nice to be outside; the fresh air and the waves were good company.

I went to SnB last night, and I’m going to knitting class tonight – mostly because I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll never leave the house again. And, um, yeah. I’m not quite prepared for that level of crazy quite yet. I need to pick up a few (hundred) cats, first. Heh. But I’m not looking forward to it, really. It’s a distraction.

I’ve been reading up on panic disorder, and it seems completely and utterly bang on. At least for the past few days. It sucks – big – that I was feeling so very good for so very long, no panic, no depression, great mood, and… now this.

I’ll be okay. I’m determined. ;) And thanks for all your emails and comments, too. *smooch*

I had originally planned to write the whole story, but let’s just cut to the chase.

Last night I ended up in the ER at a local hospital after waking up with a racing heart that wouldn’t slow down, sweating, faintness and tingling limbs, and the worst case of agitation known to (wo)man. To say I was scared would be more than a slight understatement, and I think fucking terrified would still be downplaying it. I had waited about 20 minutes before waking Coffee – I tried to lay down, to curl up, to walk around, to drink water, and I just kept thinking I was going to pass out.

After a bit of discussion, most of which centred around me saying, “I don’t want them to think I’m being stupid…” and Coffee saying, “You’re freaking out…we should go.”, we got in the car and drove to Burlington. We arrived at 3 am, with me trying to avoid hysterics, and they checked all my vitals (pulse:140bpm, bp 160/111) and then ushered me into an open room where I tried to distract myself from my impending death. I kept repeating my mantra, “Family history…family history…family history..” to anyone who gave me a skeptical look.

After the chest xray and the ECG and blood work, which all appeared normal (except thyroid – the results will come back in a day or two, I believe) they sent me home at 6am. I couldn’t sleep – every time I started to close my eyes I’d start to panic (which is a lovely feeling). I finally fell into light sleep around 8, and have spent most of today alternating between feeling fine and feeling anxious and feeling faint.

The highlight was the doctor on call who took my vitals and all that, then asked, “Have you taken anything you shouldn’t?” which legitimately perplexed me, and my pause probably made him wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I said, “I don’t understand the question.” and he said, “Drugs or anything?” which made me laugh. Of course, my next thought was, “Does he mean..EVER? ‘Cause, like I *was* seventeen once..”

Sooooo… I suppose it’s good that I have a cardiologist appointment in two weeks.

Money.

It is rare that we play the lottery. When I worked for Xco I was part of a lottery pool – we never won much beyond a free ticket or $5 and it sucked. At the same time, the idea of my coworkers splitting a few million and me left behind to rot at my desk? Not appealing.

Coffee and I haven’t been much more lucky than that, ever, either. But when the lottery gets really big and chubby, I get the urge to daydream a little. I consider the $2/ticket to be a purchased daydream. When the 6/49 lottery went up over $40 million last week, we carefully selected our number, bought a ticket and set the daydreams into motion.

My favourite times are on Friday nights or early Saturday mornings – before we’ve checked to see whether our numbers have been selected. We’ll curl up on the bed together and inevitably I’ll say, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do with the money?” Sometimes Coffee is perfectly logical and he’ll talk about waiting for a week before cashing in the ticket, to avoid doing something rash. I roll my eyes. What good is a daydream if you’re going to be PRACTICAL about it? I get much fancier, much faster.

If my ticket wins tonight, and I wake up tomorrow with $40 million to my name, here’s the plan.

1. Cash in ticket. Hope to avoid the press while doing so.
2. Purchase a bunch of electronic gadgets. I love electronic gadgets. Expensive ones!
3. Disconnect phone altogether. I’d have no need for it anymore, at all.

and after a brief period of avoiding the world while shrieking a lot, I’d:

- give my very close friends a sum of money. Only the *very* close friends, as defined by Coffee and I (we’ve discussed this, and we’ve named names, in order to prevent everyone and their mother from showing up and demanding money from us.)
- speak to our financial planner, Virginia, and get some VERY IMMEDIATE ADVICE on investing
- put our house up for sale
- put all belongings into secure storage (or sell)
- go to Willow’s house for a month (pay her well for this intrusion!)
- purchase at least 100 acres of land, somewhere in Canada
- build a small and exceptionally ‘environmentally friendly’ home on said acreage
- build small, equally ‘friendly’ cottages to start a commune
- purchase/procure all items required to live ‘off the grid’
- build a barn for some animals and obtain said animals
- buy books. endless stacks of books.
- buy a condo in nearest major city for those occasions when I felt ‘urban’
- travel to various far-flung places
- take lessons, classes and courses in anything and everything

NOW who wants to be my best friend? ;)

Community vs Google.

After more than a decade on the internet, and even more time spent on FidoNet and BBSs prior to that, I feel comfortable saying that I’m aware of the power of the internet. With the invention of the search engine, and the all-powerful-all-seeing-Google, it is easy to find the answer to absolutely any question, to suss out the details of any invention on the face of earth, by simply clicking a few keys with your fingertips. There is absolutely nothing in my realm of thought that isn’t online at this point in some manner. If I wake up after midnight, with a question about the state of the world, I don’t need to pick up the phone and call someone, or make a note to drive to the library the next day. I Google it. Having said that, there is a comfort in getting to know things through the eyes of another, and that is where Google fails.

For example, I recently joined a few knitting communities in order to get to know the nuances of knitting – watching the conversations between the participants is, of course, ultimately no more instructional in some regards than checking a book out of the library. And I do check out those books, and I do surf the various web sites, and I do pick up technique in my knitting classes and SnB gatherings. (As is evident each time I come home from one of these and announce that NEXT I’m going to make mittens or socks or whatever someone else is making that I find REALLY COOL.) My own knitting prowess grows each time I pick up my needles and another ball of yarn, but there are tips and tricks that can be learned through observation and by asking people directly. I am enjoying learning about the various preferred textures in yarn, for example, and the accoutrements that others find invaluable in constructing their projects. What I enjoy most about these groups is the community aspect – a collection of people from endlessly different backgrounds who have a commonality. Obviously, I can google, “how to knit” and “how to knit seed stitch” or “free knitting pattern kitty hat” or whatever I want, and find what I want. But….

Knitting is, in some ways, much like baking where it is wonderful to ask someone’s opinion on a recipe before launching into it. They can warn of any pitfalls or problems, or they can tell you the shortcut in your recipe to save you time or undue effort. When faced with seventeen potential recipes for strawberry jam, I’d prefer to use one that someone else has tried before me, particularly when they are able to explain why they selected that one in particular. It can be hard, when searching through all of the recipe sites online, to identify which are the most flavourful, or which are most colourful or which have more chunks of fruit – especially if you’ve never made jam before. For knitting, it’s nice to know someone else who has done the pattern before you and can tell you not to do X and Y. Or to have someone tell you the end-result differences between pattern A and pattern B.

The phrase, “just Google it”, in my opinion, is only valid in instances where the person Googling is seeking only specific information – not technique or opinion. If I post to a mailing list, and I ask a question, it’s because I am seeking opinions and experiences and things that aren’t cold-hard-fact. I assume that other people do the same – and sometimes I’m incorrect in that. If someone posts a question that I can answer, I do, and I add my experiences and thoughts (and often end up being overly verbose, of course, but that’s just my nature). I just assume the person has already Googled and didn’t find an appropriate response, or that they’re not seeking a long historical essay on the origins of whatever they’re interested in, and are simply looking for some opinions.

But here’s the problem. My assumption that other people initially Google, then ask others, often leads me to leave out the rambling part of a query-email – the part that would read, “I’m looking for X, and I want to know your thoughts on it. I Googled and found [example(s)] and I’m wondering how to select between those and what makes that a better choice than the other and who/what/when/where…” Instead, I’m more likely to type, “I’m looking for X – does anyone have a good example?” I assume that others are on the same page as me in that regard, and that they realize I’m not just asking because I’m too lazy to type five words into the search engine box in the top right side of my Firefox window.

The whole point of joining a mailing list, for me, is the human side – unless it’s a non-participant list (such as a daily quote or a daily nutrition tip, or whatever). I want interaction and I want conversation and discussion and to benefit from others’ experiences and perceptions and ideas. In instances where someone shouts, “Google it”, I realize that someone has misunderstood – or assumed I was “being lazy”. And part of me really wants to shout back, “If we all Googled everything, what the hell point would this list serve, exactly?”

Clearly I am meant to avoid the internet lately.

I Forgot.

Yesterday would have been my Mom’s birthday. If I’m calculating correctly, she would have been 56 years old.

It’s odd that I forgot – or, more specifically, didn’t notice a connection with the date. Huh.

Twirl.

I vaguely remember being able to twirl for very long periods of time as a kid and I would stop only when I literally couldn’t stand up anymore. Andrew V and I would go outside on the lawn, stare up at the sky (so as to have absolutely no reference point for our eyes to lock onto) and spin and spin and spin ourselves until we collapsed into a dizzy nauseous haze. We’d lay on the ground totally paralyzed until the feeling passed, then get up and do it again.

Then I took dance classes and was taught how to pinpoint an object or a spot on the wall, and twirl my body while doing a ‘whip’ with my head to focus on that object. The idea, of course, is that when you’re dancing in a production you don’t want to dizzy yourself up and whirl right off the stage. Although I maintain that a little dizzy and unchoreographed crowd-surfing can liven up any production. (Yes, I did take dance lessons. Stop laughing at me. I dance like Elaine at an office party because, despite KNOWING the moves, I cannot put them together or do them in time to the music or be ‘graceful’ in any way. And when I’m not doing the Elaine, I’m also QUITE FINE with my Jen-Dance*, thank you very much.)

Last night while making pizza (because last night was Friday, and we make pizza on Friday) I twirled around the kitchen for a while, but it only lasted five or six rotations before I thought my brain was going to liquify. I love soft fuzzy socks on a clean floor. Twirl! Twirl! Twirl!

Is my brain out of practice? Did I wreck it with the whole ‘spotting’ thing from dance class all those years ago? Do adult brains just get crabby when spun?

——–
* In my first and second year at York, there was a girl named Jen who was friends with one of the guys I lived with. As such, she was sort of a peripheral friend of mine. Jen was a fine arts major who dressed all in black and dyed her hair black and was kind of a pudgy girl with a fuffy bowl-cut containing more bobbypins and barettes than I ever owned. We used to go to a pub on campus called “Jacs” on Thursday nights. They played “alternative” music (as opposed to pop or dance stuff) and we’d all get drunk and dance and have a lovely time. Jen was always in the middle of the dance floor doing what has come to be known as “The Jen Dance” – her feet were essentially glued to the floor (she never moved them) and she’d ball her fists up and hold them in the same position you may think of when someone says “old man jogging”. She’d wiggle her bum and twist her hips and bounce her knees a little, while sort of punching the air directly in front of her belly.

The thing is, she wasn’t doing it in time with the music, or with any style or groove. And we’d all imitate her on occasion, which made her laugh. But one you START dancing like Jen, YOU CAN’T STOP! Even now, if I want to dance, I find myself doing “the Jen Dance”. I can’t help it. I can’t stop it. I *know* how it looks and I CAN’T STOP.

I still wonder whether Jen wanted to dance that way, or whether she knew it as “the Dave Dance” and was stuck doing it for all of perpetuity as a result of once mocking some guy she knew from the past. Maybe she was fine with us ‘mocking’ her because she knew it was contagious and we’d be stuck doing it for the rest of our lives, just like her.

That Seems Likely.

As found on Melle‘s blog.

You have Cerebral Malaria


How you get it: Parasite passed through mosquito bite, especially frequent in children.
Incubation period: 7 days to 6 months
Early symptoms: generalised body ache, tiredness, headache, sore throat, diarrhea, and fever
Symptoms at full disease onset: Sudden onset of high swinging fever with marked shivering and dramatic perspiration
Final outcome of this horrible disease: In this form, the malaria virus is able to pass from the bloodstream into the brain. As time passes and the parasite eats away at brain tissue, delirium, coma, and death are a certainty.

There is nothing you can do now but wait for death to arrive and hope it comes quickly. Make your peace.


get your own internet diagnosis

Small Pleasures.

I remember one popular magazine – except I don’t remember WHICH one – had a feature they titled, “Celebrities: They’re Just Like Us!” (maybe it was Us Magazine?) They’d show some famous person walking their dog, with a gigantic caption above it that read, “SUPERSTAR X USES BATHROOM AT AIRPORT: SHE’S JUST LIKE US!” and we were all supposed to feel closer and more loving toward said celebrity because she took a crap, or whatever.

I think there’s a good reason why I don’t read most of the ‘mainstream’ magazines (and the day that Bitch or Bust put that shit in is the day I stop reading magazines altogether).

But, thanks to Tanya, I got a little giddy. Eat! EAT!

How To Pick a Movie.

“Oh, look! Another movie where Charlize Theron wears a kerchief on her head, looks miserable and gets dirty!”

“Yeah, but in this one she isn’t lesbian lovers with Christina Ricci.”

“We’re not seeing THAT movie, then.”

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