Blackberry Molasses

Well, I'm back...I don't know the last time I wrote something, there has been a fair amount of stuff going on in my head, if not my life. I've been wandering the long and lonely road of post-operative depression (again) because I had surgery (again) and it hurt (again), which I, for some reason, never really anticipate or appreciate.

I did watch Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby for the upteenth time last night. That shiz is so freaking funny. I think I will take a cue and name my kids Walker and Texas Ranger (T.R.) for short...that slays me every single time. And the discussion of crepes as "really thin pancakes." Killer.

I also took some hits about my appearance yesterday. Among the things I was critisized for: being too skinny, looking weak, and having scribbling all over my body. Now that I write it I can't believe I went through all the trouble of feeling hurt or concerned. i think I just managed to be in the line of fire of someone who was having a series of really crap moments strung together. How foolish is that: you're too skinny? Well, within the context of I've been in and out of the hospital all summer and honestly, this is the healthiest I've been in 15 years and I eat whatever I can (there are necessary limits, these have not been cosmetic procedures after all). As far as me looking weak, well, I am weak. All my physical resources are focused on a 3-inch long, 6-inch deep incision on my abdomen in addition to all the other subdermal openings I have.

As far as the scribbling, well, if I had it to do all over again I might have stopped at the first one. It is the most beautiful and glorious. The rest were results of nothing more interesting than boredom. But I don't care so much about criticism on the body art, I've heard it too much.

"I'd rather be paid than popular..." How do I feel about that statement? I've never been popular. Ever. I've been notorious, but not popular. Popular implies that you put yourself out there and I've never been good at that. I value my privacy (this she types with a straight face despite yammering on about emotions and physical ailment for the past few paragraphs).

This morning I was reading Perez Hilton's blog. I enjoy Prezzers, he's funny and flippant and has cool hair. He posted something on Angelina Jolie and her father, rather her brother making a small statement about her father. I was suprised to read all the desperately hateful comments that came in as response. People were threatening death etc. Where do people get off doing that? Apparently the folks involved in Ellen Degeneres' doggy adoption fiasco are also receiving death threats. Did I miss something here? I tend to think of people who call and say over-the-top, outrageous things like "if you don't let blah blah blah happen, you will get killed!" as weak, scared, yappiing little dogs. They are the human equivalent of chihuahas. Pepe's.

Have you noticed that? The people with the 'flame-on' personality more often than not are the least developed adn least capable of interacting with life in any sort of proactive manner? These are people to whom everything happens and they NEVER take control of their own lives. So the threats and flashing anger is just a way for them to express themselves that they somehow think is justified or okay because they feel otherwise powerless.

Sometimes I want to put them through boot camp just so they learn that they, too, can survive in this world. Then I wonder if their parents are contributing to the problem. I have to say that this suspicion could be the result of the socio-economic class to which I belong. But it seems that the kids whose parents either coddled them too long or abandoned them entirely are the hottest heads and the least able to understand coping in the world. Two sides of the same coin, I guess.

Well, spottieottiedopalicious is playing and I'm going to sit back and listen to my cells mend.

"Now who else wanna f*ck with Hollywood Cole?"

A Tiny Tirade To Start

I went through all the trouble of downloading Firefox on my Mac, totally unnecessary btw, just so I could use advanced text editor for this blog and myspace is still refusing to accept my browser for advanced editor settings. It's beyond conspiracy, I'm beginning to take this personally. Additionally, I wanted to upload a new picture and that would not work either. Am I asking too much? Obviously.

Well, I'm over my post-operative depression for the most part. I'm still sore and cranky, but I'm eating again and most of the bitterness has passed. I did spend a couple hours last night riding around in the electric carts provided by Wal-Mart and Kroger while grocery shopping, that was big fun. I am a dangerous driver, I hit about 3 kids and their parents apologized to me even though the run-ins were avoidable if only I'd been paying attention to the direction I was driving in. Ah well, there are small benefits to being a crip.

Today I sat on the porch and watched what has to be timeless male/female behavior dynamic. Perhaps we can expand the metaphor beyond male/female and into the realm of social hierarchy dynamics. Whatever floats your boat. I watched two dog, Buddy and Dolly, dance the dance of insanity. Dolly is part rat terrier, she's energetic, brown, skinny as a rail and greedy as all outdoors. She's also about 1 foot tall.

Buddy is a full-blood Collie, shaggy, older, gentler, but he's never been clipped so he's got his 'older man' vibe in full effect. Every so often he and Dolly tangle with one another. Not that sort of tangling, more of the 'one of us is gonna bleed' tangling. Usually Dolly starts the fracas.

Today I watched Dolly flirt with Buddy, and oh how she flirted. She sniffed his paws, she licked his nose, she scampered across the deck and poor Buddy followed. How many times has he gotten close to her in the months I've been here and been rewarded with snarls and snaps? STill, he follows her! And it occurred to me, this plays out every single day.

Recently I threw a rather significant series of fits - the healing wasn't going as well as I'd hoped, I was uncomfortable (read: everything hurt like fresh hell) and no one seemed to have an answer for why. So, I called my boyfriend crying as though all my sutures had opened, and I sobbed on my father's shoulder and I had sporadic teary outbursts as I ate yogurt. It was all very entertaining for most of the people watching. I called my surgeon, but I was so upset that I couldn't get the numbers right, so I had my boyfriend call. Well, the upshot of all this is that my boyfriend - himself a top-notch surgeon - culled the supplies to deal with my medical emergency then made the hour-and-change drive down to my dad's house to fix his woman in distress.

Of course, by the time he showed up, my medical distress had resolved somewhat and what remained was emotional distress and quite a bit of fatigue. When he walked purposefully into the house my father told him "she's not going to let you touch her" which made my boyfriend think "for all the trouble I've gone through, i'm going to put this catheter down her throat if i have to!" Well, he gets up to my room and he tries to tell me my surgeon has insisted I take the medical treatment. I inform my boyfriend i talked to my surgeon not 15 minutes ago and told him I was refusing treatment, I could make it through the night and no one was touching me, damn it.

AT that point I saw the thought flit across his face "I could strangle her with this bit of tubing" but he resisted the urge and held me til I fell asleep. The family has been laughing ever since.

Dolly and buddy are just like that. There she was sniffing and being quasi-friendly with him when I knew I'd hear her snarling like a cornered animal within 10 minutes because of his ardent attentions. Why does this happen? It's all very confusing to witness, though it makes perfect sense when you're the creature who is feeling cornered. The brain, I suppose, is powerful mojo. Whatever fears and pains we store in my minds as emotions and memories make a real mess of things when given free rein, even if they weren't intended to have free rein, perhaps just a little crack in the wall to relieve the pressure of contemplating mortality.

Fatigue is also a culprit. I guess if it can kill you while driving, it can wreak your life in a multitude of other ways as well.

Well, that's my transmission for today. i shall make a real effort to attach a picture of buddy and dolly to complete the descriptions I offered, especially so my readers can see just how outmatched Dolly is when she starts shit with Buddy. She always wins, though, mainly because he lets her. Go figure.