This weekend, I cleaned out my closet, which is why AT THIS VERY MOMENT there is a huge pile of clothes on my bedroom floor. Like I do with most household projects, I got bored about halfway through and could barely finish putting everything back on hangers and hanging it all back in my closet in the correct order. Pants are separated by color and type. Khakis, black pants, jeans, capris. Sweaters are neatly folded and placed on the closet shelf. Tops are separated by sleeve length. And occasion. You can't have short-sleeve t-shirts hanging next to long-sleeved, button-down silky shirts. I know most people don't have t-shirts hanging in their closet, but I have not progressed to cleaning out my dresser and there is really no more room in those drawers to be shoving anything. And hanging t-shirts in my closet is a step up from my usual brand of storing recently-washed clothing, which is keeping it in the laundry basket (sometimes even folded!) until I wear it again.
Back to the huge pile of clothes. By the time I got everything arranged in my closet, something that took much longer than I thought it would, I didn't have the energy to sit on the floor and neatly fold the clothing I had decided to get rid of. So it's still sitting there. Yesterday Phoebe tried to use it for a bed, but as she was kneading a pair of jeans the pile kind of toppled over and she was forced to run away and hide under the bed. What a pussy.
This is one of those entries that I have just completely lost interest in so it would probably be smart to just delete it, because if I don't want to write it, who will want to read it? No one. Except maybe someone suffering from insomnia.
Oh wait. So, one of my new year's resolutions was to submit at least three things for publication. If I don't procrastinate (ha!), I may fulfill one third of this resolution. The Dayton Daily News is having a short story and poetry contest and entries are due by March 1st. That gives me over a month to write at least one short story (you're allowed to submit two). I don't think I'll even attempt poetry because I have always been poetry's bitch and I don't feel like getting spanked. I told my parents I might submit this story I wrote in college, about this guy who shows up on his brother's doorstep late one night, borrows a shovel, asks the brother to go on an errand with him, drives out to a secluded area in the woods, makes his brother dig a hole and then shoots and buries him. Sorry to ruin the ending. I changed my mind based on the weird looks I got from my parents. I don't think Dayton is ready for my warped mind.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Dr. McCuddly
I need a roommate like George so I have someone to spoon with on bad days. Phoebe doesn't like spooning.
Friday, January 27, 2006
smitten kitten
Am I the only one who gets pissed that a boy can make me all giggly and stupid and blushy? Especially when I long ago decided that said boy is no longer allowed to be doing these things.
Sigh.
Sigh.
back to "normal"
Last night, I spent some much needed time cleaning my apartment. After a week of coming home only to grab a quick dinner (mmm, Hot Pocket) and sleep, my apartment looked like that big pile of garbage from Fraggle Rock. You know what I'm talking about? The pile of garbage that talked? And there were like two rats who hung out there? What was up with that show? Were the Fraggles always high? They always had the munchies and were all, "I'm gonna eat the dozers constructions and then laugh about it because I am a big, fluffy, Fraggle slacker." Maybe I'm a little high.
ANYWAY. Last week at some time I realized that Phoebe had peed in my bed. My bed. The place where I SLEEP. Do you want to know how I realized this? I pulled back the covers, sat down, and then jumped up when I realized my ass was wet. I was so tired at that point that I actually wondered if I had peed myself. I was also too tired to change my sheets, so I pulled them off and stuffed them in the washer, sprayed some stuff on the pee stain, flipped my mattress and curled up under my comforter. Last night I washed the sheets. I am disgusting. And I should probably just throw those sheets away.
Phoebe is now banned from my room, except at night when I am actually sleeping in my bed, aka the biggest litter box known to man and cat besides the beach but Phoebe has never been to the beach so she doesn't know. The first time she pees on the bed when I am actually in it, she is going to be banned to the bathroom forever and ever. Not really, though. That seems like a lot of work to keep her in the bathroom all the time.
Last night, as I was rushing to get the trash to the dumpster before The Office started (and oh my god, how good was it? I laughed. Out loud. LOL.), I hoped that I would never be kidnapped while I am taking the garbage out at night. Mostly, because it would suck to be kidnapped, unless you're being kidnapped by hot FBI Agent Mulder who I realize does not exist but leave me in my special, made-up world of make-believe, will you? But also because I was wearing pink Pebbles-print pajama pants (hello, alliteration, how are you?), brown clogs, my pea coat and no bra. You do not want to be kidnapped without a bra. Trust me. It can provide support AND be used as a weapon.
ANYWAY. Last week at some time I realized that Phoebe had peed in my bed. My bed. The place where I SLEEP. Do you want to know how I realized this? I pulled back the covers, sat down, and then jumped up when I realized my ass was wet. I was so tired at that point that I actually wondered if I had peed myself. I was also too tired to change my sheets, so I pulled them off and stuffed them in the washer, sprayed some stuff on the pee stain, flipped my mattress and curled up under my comforter. Last night I washed the sheets. I am disgusting. And I should probably just throw those sheets away.
Phoebe is now banned from my room, except at night when I am actually sleeping in my bed, aka the biggest litter box known to man and cat besides the beach but Phoebe has never been to the beach so she doesn't know. The first time she pees on the bed when I am actually in it, she is going to be banned to the bathroom forever and ever. Not really, though. That seems like a lot of work to keep her in the bathroom all the time.
Last night, as I was rushing to get the trash to the dumpster before The Office started (and oh my god, how good was it? I laughed. Out loud. LOL.), I hoped that I would never be kidnapped while I am taking the garbage out at night. Mostly, because it would suck to be kidnapped, unless you're being kidnapped by hot FBI Agent Mulder who I realize does not exist but leave me in my special, made-up world of make-believe, will you? But also because I was wearing pink Pebbles-print pajama pants (hello, alliteration, how are you?), brown clogs, my pea coat and no bra. You do not want to be kidnapped without a bra. Trust me. It can provide support AND be used as a weapon.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
relief
Yesterday was the day. The pick-me-up. I walked into my mom's room in the ICU and she was back. From Sunday to Tuesday she'd come back in spurts. Periods of lucidness followed by long fugue states in which she'd think she was folding laundry, scolding the dog, or telling people how to fix their computer. She was resting but it wasn't restful.
Last night, she was herself again. Not 100% healed but awake. Able to carry on conversations with us. Tired, weak, but THERE.
This past week has been such a blur. My routine has been hospital, work, hospital, home, sleep, hospital, work, hospital, home, sleep. Yesterday I went to the grocery, the first non-hospital, non-work thing I've done all week, because Phoebe had about four pieces of cat food left. I've lost five pounds. Stress is a great diet.
I just calculated that I have driven back and forth to the hospital sixteen times in the past week. Damn, Gina.
I wish I had something more eloquent to say, but I'm just so relieved. And grateful for all the people in my life who have made this whole situation somewhat bearable. That includes you, Internets. All of your nice comments really did help. Sometimes it seems so strange to me that I have these tenuous relationships with voices over the internet. I don't really KNOW any of you and yet I find myself thinking about you at times. If we didn't all live billions of miles away from each other, I would so hang out with all of you.
I'll bring the wine.
Last night, she was herself again. Not 100% healed but awake. Able to carry on conversations with us. Tired, weak, but THERE.
This past week has been such a blur. My routine has been hospital, work, hospital, home, sleep, hospital, work, hospital, home, sleep. Yesterday I went to the grocery, the first non-hospital, non-work thing I've done all week, because Phoebe had about four pieces of cat food left. I've lost five pounds. Stress is a great diet.
I just calculated that I have driven back and forth to the hospital sixteen times in the past week. Damn, Gina.
I wish I had something more eloquent to say, but I'm just so relieved. And grateful for all the people in my life who have made this whole situation somewhat bearable. That includes you, Internets. All of your nice comments really did help. Sometimes it seems so strange to me that I have these tenuous relationships with voices over the internet. I don't really KNOW any of you and yet I find myself thinking about you at times. If we didn't all live billions of miles away from each other, I would so hang out with all of you.
I'll bring the wine.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Paging Dr. McDreamy
My dad's voice this time was different. Calmer. Worried. But like he'd been expecting it.
Your sister found your mom unconscious in the basement. I'm on my way home now. I hope I get there before the ambulance.
I had been on the way to the grocery for the second time. On my first attempt, I realized I had forgotten my cell phone and, fearing possible car trouble, turned around (never having actually made it to the store) to get it. A couple minutes later, my phone rang. I didn't make it to the grocery that time, either.
This time was different, yet all too familiar. Same ER. Same time of day. Same family members holding vigil in the waiting area.
Like last time, she's back in the ICU. For observation. They can find no possible reason she would collapse, twice, and remain unconscious for hours. Last night Dr. YawnsALot met us in the ICU and told us that, while Mom was stable, they would be running the normal abbreviations. EEG. MRI. EKG. WTF?
This morning, I was hoping that, like last time, we'd march into Mom's room and she'd be awake. Tired. Weak. But awake. She wasn't. And as of 8 o'clock this evening, she still wasn't. This is like last time, but like all sequels, things have to get just a little more fucked up.
The doctors have all but told us that they're grasping at straws and have absolutely no explanation for Mom's situation. Dr. McNotDreamy, between poking my mother in the face with a safety pin and pounding on her legs with a mallet, told us that if they did happen to find out what had caused her . . . episode (?) and that if they found out how to fix it, they'd have something publishable. Whatever motivates you, Dr. McNotDreamy. Can you please tell Dr. House about this? He could solve it in less than an hour and then I would heart him forever.
I was holding it together fairly well, aside from having evil thoughts about the hospital chaplain (who meant well, but really, I just wanted her to leave us alone and no I did NOT really want to pray but, because I am polite and would have felt awkward leaving the room, did anyway). Who does that, though? I had evil thoughts about a (wo)MAN OF GOD.
The holding it together lasted until I called my friend Mary and proceeded to leave a five minute voicemail, first crying and then laughing about crying and then generally going locobeans until the Verizon lady jumped in and told me that I'd reached my time limit. Thanks, Verizon lady.
Now I am at my apartment. Doing laundry. On a Saturday. Is it Saturday? I keep losing track of the day. I'm hoping my dad will call after he calls the ICU. I told him not to call unless he had good news, such as Mom woke up long enough to exchange a few words with the nurse. So here I sit. Waiting for my phone to ring so I can quit being Gloomy McSadPants.
Your sister found your mom unconscious in the basement. I'm on my way home now. I hope I get there before the ambulance.
I had been on the way to the grocery for the second time. On my first attempt, I realized I had forgotten my cell phone and, fearing possible car trouble, turned around (never having actually made it to the store) to get it. A couple minutes later, my phone rang. I didn't make it to the grocery that time, either.
This time was different, yet all too familiar. Same ER. Same time of day. Same family members holding vigil in the waiting area.
Like last time, she's back in the ICU. For observation. They can find no possible reason she would collapse, twice, and remain unconscious for hours. Last night Dr. YawnsALot met us in the ICU and told us that, while Mom was stable, they would be running the normal abbreviations. EEG. MRI. EKG. WTF?
This morning, I was hoping that, like last time, we'd march into Mom's room and she'd be awake. Tired. Weak. But awake. She wasn't. And as of 8 o'clock this evening, she still wasn't. This is like last time, but like all sequels, things have to get just a little more fucked up.
The doctors have all but told us that they're grasping at straws and have absolutely no explanation for Mom's situation. Dr. McNotDreamy, between poking my mother in the face with a safety pin and pounding on her legs with a mallet, told us that if they did happen to find out what had caused her . . . episode (?) and that if they found out how to fix it, they'd have something publishable. Whatever motivates you, Dr. McNotDreamy. Can you please tell Dr. House about this? He could solve it in less than an hour and then I would heart him forever.
I was holding it together fairly well, aside from having evil thoughts about the hospital chaplain (who meant well, but really, I just wanted her to leave us alone and no I did NOT really want to pray but, because I am polite and would have felt awkward leaving the room, did anyway). Who does that, though? I had evil thoughts about a (wo)MAN OF GOD.
The holding it together lasted until I called my friend Mary and proceeded to leave a five minute voicemail, first crying and then laughing about crying and then generally going locobeans until the Verizon lady jumped in and told me that I'd reached my time limit. Thanks, Verizon lady.
Now I am at my apartment. Doing laundry. On a Saturday. Is it Saturday? I keep losing track of the day. I'm hoping my dad will call after he calls the ICU. I told him not to call unless he had good news, such as Mom woke up long enough to exchange a few words with the nurse. So here I sit. Waiting for my phone to ring so I can quit being Gloomy McSadPants.
Friday, January 20, 2006
I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling
Lately, I've developed the bad habit of staying up late for absolutely no reason, even when I know I have to be up early the next morning. My logic? I'm going to be tired when I wake up no matter what time I go to bed, so I might as well enjoy myself rather than lie in bed awake thinking about how much sleep I can get if I fall asleep RIGHT NOW.
So instead, I read. And read and read. Which isn't a big change. It's been my nighttime ritual ever since I could remember. I read before bed. It's not even a question, there are books on my nightstand as I type. The Lovely Bones (finished), Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (finished once, now halfway through a reread), and The Poisonwood Bible (finished last night at 1:30 AM). Books clutter my apartment. They seem to multiply when I am not there. I've even started selling some of the ones I don't read anymore. You know, those stuck-up books (James Joyce, I'm looking at you) from college that I keep saying I'll eventually pick up again so I don't keep reading Me Talk Pretty One Day over and over. I think I've realized that I am never going to make myself read Moby Dick again, no matter how starved for reading material I am.
Right now, I'm looking forward to reading The Kite Runner, which I checked out from the library once I paid my fine ($10.50, ouch). Does anyone else read a couple books at a time? I mean, I'm kind of still in the middle of reading Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and Lucky, all of which I have read before. If I'm reading something depressing, I like to have something lighthearted on the nightstand to lift me out of any crying jags I may have. Also, I like to read during commercials but you need an uncomplicated book for that.
I also read as I walk around the apartment. I read while brushing my teeth, eating, vacuuming. Which might explain all of the bruises on my body. It's hard not to run into walls and such when your head is buried in a book.
Who am I kidding? I run into walls anyway, with or without a book in my hands.
So instead, I read. And read and read. Which isn't a big change. It's been my nighttime ritual ever since I could remember. I read before bed. It's not even a question, there are books on my nightstand as I type. The Lovely Bones (finished), Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (finished once, now halfway through a reread), and The Poisonwood Bible (finished last night at 1:30 AM). Books clutter my apartment. They seem to multiply when I am not there. I've even started selling some of the ones I don't read anymore. You know, those stuck-up books (James Joyce, I'm looking at you) from college that I keep saying I'll eventually pick up again so I don't keep reading Me Talk Pretty One Day over and over. I think I've realized that I am never going to make myself read Moby Dick again, no matter how starved for reading material I am.
Right now, I'm looking forward to reading The Kite Runner, which I checked out from the library once I paid my fine ($10.50, ouch). Does anyone else read a couple books at a time? I mean, I'm kind of still in the middle of reading Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and Lucky, all of which I have read before. If I'm reading something depressing, I like to have something lighthearted on the nightstand to lift me out of any crying jags I may have. Also, I like to read during commercials but you need an uncomplicated book for that.
I also read as I walk around the apartment. I read while brushing my teeth, eating, vacuuming. Which might explain all of the bruises on my body. It's hard not to run into walls and such when your head is buried in a book.
Who am I kidding? I run into walls anyway, with or without a book in my hands.
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