Boy 1: I heard that he was, like, dating an English Ph.D. for a long time.
Boy 2: A woman?
Boy 1: Yeah.
Boy 2: No! He’s gotta be, like, bi.
Boy 1: Yeah. I’d do him.
Boy 2: Yeah. Really? But he’s got a little bald spot . . .
Boy 1: Yeah. He’s such a dork. It’d be so much fun.
Two college boys on the bus discussing an instructor
Category Archives: Life
A week to forget
After the near car accident Thursday evening, I’ve been forced to conclude that, in its way, this really has been a bad week. And all too well do I know that the worst may be yet to come.
First, my PMS symptoms seem to be worsening again. For the past 10 days:
- My muscles have ached constantly, more than usual.
- I have been so exhausted that I’ve fallen asleep over lunch, missed my bus stop on the way home, and fallen asleep at 8 p.m. with the light on.
- I’ve woken up as early as 4 a.m.
- My nether regions feel bloated and weighted down by a cannonball. Walking is difficult.
- My lower back feels like it might have starred as a punching bag in Rocky.
- I’ve been hungry, which makes me eat too much.
- I’ve been depressed enough to cry not only before and after sleep, but even while asleep.
The bright spot? The symptoms are receding, giving way to pain that is at least predictable.
On Sunday, there was a brief power outage. Normally, power is restored, and everything returns to normal. This time, however, I lost my DSL connection, and, after several days, chats, and phone calls, I am doubtful that it can be fixed (optimism is not one of my strengths). I’m back to dial-up for now. As a friend says, with his dry English wit, “You want to get cable or DSL or something. It’s faster.:)”
That cheered me up a bit. It really did. I insist.
Unfortunately, the headache, sneezing, coughing, and other precursors to a cold that began in earnest on Tuesday did not. With the cold and the approaching onset of my cycle, I can be miserable from top to bottom — and am.
Monday I came home to a new mini-blind — an elegant cream, unlike the rest, which are cold white.
I can live with it. Just don’t look too closely should you visit.
On Wednesday, I found myself reading something I shouldn’t have been, not at a time when even the slightest thing will set me off, and echoed Deanna Troi’s alien son, Ian: “My face is wet.” Sometimes it happens. Suddenly.
Thursday began harmlessly enough. J. who had driven to work, called to ask if I wanted him to take me grocery shopping. I rarely turn down an opportunity to pick up heirloom tomatoes (hit and miss at Whole Foods), so I said, “Sure,” little knowing . . .
At about 6:40 p.m. we were traveling southbound in the middle lane on Clinton or Canal or one of those streets on the west side of the river when a van in the right-hand lane made an abrupt turn left in front of us. Right in front. At speed. J. reacted amazingly quickly, slamming on the brakes, while the image of the broad side of the van, no more than an inch or two from J.’s front bumper — with the point of potential impact on my side — seared itself into my brain. There wasn’t even time to use the horn in warning. How could anyone drive so recklessly?
The driver of the van, oblivious to the close call, continued eastbound on his merry way while J. pulled over, ostensibly to see if there had been any impact or damage. I suspect he needed a few minutes to calm down. A pair of pedestrians hurried over to make sure he was okay; they couldn’t believe what they’d seen. They hadn’t been able to get the license number, they said indignantly.
Strangely, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel a surge of adrenaline when I saw the van turn so abruptly or when I felt the car stop suddenly. I wasn’t panting like I sometimes do when I’m startled or have had a fright. Although it had been a very close call and I saw it coming, I felt nothing. I’ve had moments of calm like that even in tough situations, but it seemed abnormal even to me.
Shaken, but recovered, J. drove off — only to have a UPS truck barrel up behind him fast enough to make him cry out and switch lanes for fear of being run down.
By the time we got to Whole Foods (after missing the turn), we ready to take an hour off from the road.
Later, on I-94, a vintage roadster roared up behind us, too close for comfort. J. said he was reminded of an airplane pilot suddenly spotting a missile bearing down on his craft from behind.
On Friday, he missed the 8:05 train again but decided to wait for the next one rather than to drive.
Given my fortunes, and his, it was a wise move.
Rebel without a cause
Hodge’s urinary tract health didn’t last long, little more than a week. By Wednesday or Thursday — the days are blurring — he was alternating his time among visiting the litter box, squatting on the carpet, and yowling aimlessly. Even L.’s story of another cat’s threatened penis amputation failed to impress him.
Back to the clinic we went, where he was greeted by two veterinarians — one to hold, one to palpate. Palpate they did, taking turns, but he wasn’t going to give up a drop of urine if he could help it.
“Come on, Hodge, it would help if you’d get excited and pee all over the table,” one of the veterinarians said, aiming his urination tool in my direction. Wisely, he stayed too tense to piddle.
Of course, he didn’t take this treatment lying down or quietly. He flailed strategically with his formidable back claws, and both women danced around them while struggling to retain their grips. From the back of his throat a deep growl emanated that needed only more volume to impress. One veterinarian chided him brusquely. “You have no cause to take that attitude and to talk like that,” she admonished. I thought, “You’re not the one whose tender bladder is being squeezed mercilessly.”
They mentioned the possibility of an x-ray for bladder stones if the crystal test proved negative. He gets better medical care than I do.
When I called on Saturday and mentioned my name, the girl at the front desk blurted, “Hodge is ready to be picked up!” which of course means, “I’m ready for that Hodge to go home!” She talked to one of the veterinarians, and we agreed he could have an extended stay until Monday night. During his stay he had presented them with no symptoms — not one. It is for me only that he leaves countless mini-puddles everywhere.
Despite temptation, Monday night I picked Hodge up. Dr. W. advised me to feed him canned food only and suggested that his urinary woes might be due to the frequent dramatic shifts in barometric pressure; apparently veterinarians see clusters of this type of case during iffy weather. It’s just another way in which this winter has been unkind to me. Dr. W. said something about the “life of an indoor cat,” and I replied Hodge may someday be an outdoor cat.
It looks like there is not much I can do except invest in paper towels, Cat Odor-Off, and some other kind of canned food.
Dr. W. related that Hodge was stowed near a kitten in for neutering. When the doctor went back to check on the kitten, Hodge snarled at him. The kitten, obviously a weak-minded, easily influenced type, also began to snarl at the doctor. I’m told it is probably now conditioned to snarl at the sight of Dr. W. for the rest of its life.
That’s my cat — leading the next generation of juvenile delinquents.
Party with Puppet Bike
It’s been more than a week since J. and I attended the first of three dates with Puppet Bike. It’s been a busy week, with health problems (Hodge’s), angst (mine), and exhaustion (mine). But I need to give the puppets their due — after all, it is the five-year anniversary of Puppet Bike, a Chicago phenomenon that I’ve only recently discovered.
First, I should mention that, in adulthood, especially middle adulthood, I’ve become reclusive. It’s not something I strive for, and my best guess is that it’s an attempt to avoid the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. You can’t be wounded if no one knows where you are — or that you exist.
The puppets make me smile, so I agreed to go to the Friday night party.
This is stranger than it sounds. While J. has met a couple of the puppeteers, and I’ve met one — the one who told us about the party — we would be going to a celebration where we would not really know anyone and where most of the attendees would be their friends. And I suspected many would be significantly younger. For an introvert like me, who felt lost at volunteer picnics where she knew most of the guests, this would seem to be at the least an exhausting thought.
I managed.
J. and I caught a 6:35 p.m. Metra train to the Ravenswood stop, then walked about a mile south. On the way, we passed a Napoli-style pizza restaurant. He said, “I wonder if the pizza there is any good?” and a voice responded, “It’s awesome!” A young woman smiled back at us as she passed.
Just when I wondered if J. could lug his heavy bag another step over the icy sidewalks, we found the Peter Jones Gallery. A young man on crutches and sporting a Morrissey T-shirt came over to greet us, calling us “super fans.” He is Brian Jones, the puppeteer we had tipped the week before. He had been able to see us, but we couldn’t see him. He said he’d broken some bones in his foot when he fell on ice. (And I’ve survived my numerous slips and falls — so far — intact.)
Later in the evening he showed us his portraits on the gallery walls and his portfolio of original comics characters. I found that refreshing because so many people draw the popular characters from the Marvel and DC universes and don’t try to come up with their own.
Of course, with so many puppeteers on hand, the puppets gave several performances (and took on many personalities). A few guests even tried their hand; some were actually very good. Not all!
With the theatrical (Black Forest Theater), musical, and karaoke entertainment, plus all the gallery artwork for perusal, we had a lot to do, and J. wanted to extend our stay until the last possible moment for him to catch his last train at 12:30 a.m. We dragged ourselves away at 11:20 or so. Reluctantly. I fell asleep on the el. J. tried to keep me awake.
Despite the lack of sleep, we drove back for the Saturday night party.
Upon arrival, I lost J. for a very long time. He was in the theater with his digital camera, enthralled by Environmental Encroachment. I had some beer, which I had not indulged in the night before, four altogether. I learned that three to four are enough to make me pleasantly tipsy.
But not tipsy enough to try karaoke. Despite the technician’s assertion that I should and that enough beer would put me in the mood (“It always does”), sober or drunk I know enough about my singing not to inflict it upon anyone. (Just in case, however, I had my song selected — “Riders on the Storm.”)
Although I watched many of the karaoke performances, including a particularly spirited rendition of the Steve Miller Band’s “Space Cowboy,” I escaped with my non-reputation intact — that is, safe in the knowledge that no one woke up the next morning wondering if they had been so drunk as to have imagined an off-key, hauntingly awful version of “Riders on the Storm” that would have killed Jim Morrison had he not already taken care of it.
In our wanderings, we learned that the bartender, an Eastern European whose name I’ve forgotten, alas, was the artist behind several of the brightly clad nudes in the front gallery. I liked them, and the plaid Packard-type car, and hope that she is able to sell them.
We were even more reluctant to leave than we were the night before; by Fridays, I am drained, physically and emotionally, but both of us felt much better after the day away from work.
On Sunday, conceptual sculptor Alan Emerson Hicks gave us a tour of his studio, explained his time machine in the front gallery, and told us more about Puppet Bike.
We left around 6 p.m. and decided to try the “awesome” pizza at Spacca Napoli. The wait was predicted to be 30 minutes or more, but we were greeted at the door with a sample slice each of pizza, which made it bearable. We ordered two different pizzas, one for dinner and one for later (in my case, lunch the next day). Both were good.
As we were in the general area, we couldn’t resist a stop at Julius Meinl, where we ordered coffee and crepes, Nutella for J. and strawberry jam for me. If Julius Meinl were in Hyde Park, I would live there. It was a satisfying end to a one-of-a-kind weekend.
But, as the last episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, reminds us: “All Good Things” (must come to an end). And so today Jason Trusty announced the end of Puppet Bike. I am saddened. In the broadest sense, it is a wonderful thing for Chicago, a city that needs more truly wonderful things. Closer to home, the puppets have helped me to stay sane during a very difficult time personally and professionally.
I will miss Puppet Bike, too.
Edit: J. T. relented. For now. Support your local PuppetBike!
After the party
Hodge looks as tired as we felt after two nights of partying with the puppets. A great time! More later.
Melting ice, freezing heart
After days of cold and snow, snow and cold, and cold or snow, there was a partial thaw last Sunday. At this point, the ground is so saturated that the melting snow and ice run off into the street or pools on the grass. Now that it’s cold again, the park reflects the odd gold of the streetlights at night.
By Sunday morning, so much water had run onto the north end of South Shore Drive that it had reached the hubcaps of a half-dozen cars parked in the lowest area.
When I looked out, I spotted a person (gender unseen) in knee-high boots, stabbing at the water between cars, occasionally making mopping or sweeping motions toward the park edge. This person worked hard at this for a half hour or more, as though he or she were trying to clear hidden, randomly placed drains, poke drainage holes in the pavement, and sweep the water back into the park, whence melting water was still flowing onto the street.
From an outsider’s perspective, it was a Sisyphean task — perhaps the perfect metaphor for my life and the state of my mind. It was painful to watch, yet compelling in an inexplicable way.
Last Saturday, I took Hodge to the veterinary clinic for urine testing (crystals). I had decided to leave him for a few days because I needed to take a break from taking care of him, and I needed to be alone — completely alone — with my thoughts. I told the veterinarian that I would like to leave him until Tuesday evening, and she looked at me oddly and said, “You’ll call Monday evening to let us know when you’re picking him up?” She looked as though she thought it likely I would never return. No matter how I feel, though, a sense of responsibility wins out, which is why I am still here.
As she started to turn away with him to take him to the back, he reached out to me with both front feet and pawed my chest. The veterinarian told him, “Now, now, Mommy can’t save you.”
She couldn’t have known that Mommy’s under enough stress saving herself.
Three days, three falls
Another day of snow.
Three days, three falls.
And numerous failed (?) attempts. Graceful I’m not, but nothing broken.
According to the good doctor, Hodge has a tender bladder.
Better that than other organs we could name.
Yesterday’s mixed bag
Yesterday was a mixed bag.
On the plus side, I completed CPR/AED (automated electronic defibrillator) training and now have a cute wallet card. I will, however, defer to seven-year-old Boy Scouts at places like airports. By the way, it’s apparently an advantage not to watch television, because I had no delusion that I could resuscitate the dead, a gift only actors have.
I also learned that a colleague claims she would rather die than have her clothes removed for the administration of CPR (that is, until I reminded her that her children might not appreciate the result of such modesty). This led to the idea of a potential interview question, “Are you willing to have your clothes taken off?” and the natural extension of the following conversation.
“How did the interview go? Did you get the job?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“I wouldn’t take my clothes off.”
I celebrated this minor achievement by waiting in wind, blowing snow, and frigid temperatures a half hour for a bus. Even better, when I got off the bus and headed for the corner, I fell on a smooth patch of ice cleverly hiding under snow. This was really for the amusement of the nearby college students, one of whom, a female, offered to help. She must not be a physics major, because even I know that without traction there’s no helping anyone slight up, let alone someone of my bulk.
I wobbled home on more ice and rewarded myself with tea, ham and goat cheese on peasant bread (later remembering that I forgot the heirloom tomato), and chocolate chip cookies. Then, while reading, I decided to warm up by taking a quick nap, just for a few minutes, just to rest my eyes . . .
And at 10:45 p.m. struggled out of one of the first untroubled sleeps I’ve had in a while.
I needed that.
And more.
Happy anniversary to me!
If my memory is correct, this month I celebrate (if that’s the correct word) 35 years of menstruation, or approximately 420 flushed eggs. As much as I’m not keen on ritual, at least as practiced in American society, I’m feeling a strange need for a ritual to acknowledge this anniversary. With a ritual, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so different and alone. Maybe I could share some of my secrets and fears, and maybe someone would understand them — really understand them.
Despite all the secret society filmstrips and lectures, I didn’t even recognize my first period when I got it. All I knew is that during the afternoon I started to feel bad. It wasn’t a headache, a stomachache, or anything recognizable. It was an overall sensation of ache, emptiness, pain, and malaise. I thought I was going to die and that that wasn’t a bad idea, under the circumstances.
The feeling came out of nowhere, as did the light brown stains in the panties. After telling my mother how lousy I felt, I showed them to her and said, “Do you think this [whatever it is] has anything to do with it?”
I don’t remember my adolescent cycles being painful, but then I had other things to focus on. PMS and dysmenorrhea seemed to come with adulthood, along with anxiety and depression. Welcome to the world of grown-ups.
Nothing helps PMS for me — for the past 10 days I have been tense, irritable, and despairing, despite knowing the underlying physical cause. Knowing and recognizing the pattern gives me no control over my feelings and little over my behavior. Last night I disappointed J. because I couldn’t bring myself to go to the University of Chicago folk festival. I had slept much of the day, trying to block memories and feelings, and to sit at a uplifting concert with tension pummeling my innards and my heart seemed unthinkable. Even grocery shopping, which requires some effort but is at least as unemotional as it gets, was preferable. Poor J.
Over-the-counter painkillers help the dysmenorrhea, but as time went on I took too many of them.
On one memorable occasion, my period started when my aunt had taken me to Charlottesville, Virginia, to see Monticello, Michie Tavern, and Ash Lawn. For me, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see them, so I could not afford to feel terrible, and I didn’t want to ruin my aunt’s trip, either. (She wanted to go because she was approaching 70 and didn’t know how much good health she would have left to take such trips. She proved to be wiser than she knew — after a very active life, she died at 71 of pancreatic cancer.)
So, in the morning I took more than the usual amount of ibuprofen, more than the dosage recommended for an entire day.
It didn’t work quickly enough, so I took more.
And more.
And more.
I don’t know how much I took within the next hour or two or three, but I guessed later that it was somewhere between 18 and 24. Although I was woozy, naturally, I did enjoy the trip, one of the highlights of my life. But I vowed never to do anything so foolish again.
A few years ago, I quit taking ibuprofen and aspirin because I wondered if abuse of them had contributed to my hearing loss. Now I seem able to get by on the regulation dosage of time-release acetaminophen.
If I assume 22 years of PMS, 12 times a year, lasting 10 days on average, that means that for 2,640 days of my life I have been a physical and emotional wreck, whatever my actual circumstances. That’s more than seven years. Seven years. For those seven years, which doesn’t take into account the dysmenorrhea, I have not been rewarded with a spouse, children, or a happy and stable family life. It’s been seven years of futility, of unrewarded pain.
Now, as I approach 47, remind me why I am supposed to dread menopause — the end of something that never really began but that caused a lot of misery for a lot of years.
