“You have to look at Outing Person like Old Yeller at the end of the movie. He was good for a time and then … he got the rabies and it was over for Old Yeller. He just wasn’t any good for anyone. And his best friend had to shoot him in the head.”
Hahahahahahahaha.
He speaks my language, that man.
It’s official. I hate doctors. Now, true, I haven’t liked them in general for quite a while because they haven’t had a whole lot of good news for MB and me over the years. Then, of course, there was the Obli Doctor and his incompetent stabbing of the hideous and horribly located obli (unscramble the letters — I still can’t say it) and the Pneumonia Doctor who pointed out the “gas” and “poop” on my x-ray and made me turn the beetiest of beet reds while he chuckled at me like a condescending weenie. In his defense, I did ASK him what that alien “Mr. Bill-looking thingie” was inside my body, but did he lie to spare me the embarrassment of it all? No. No, he did not. I mean, look, Slappy. My temperature is 104. My pulse is 150. Cut me some slack. Do not point out my “gas” and “poop” — EVEN IF I ASK. I am delirious and deathly ill. Necrotic and awful. Comprende?
But my enmity for doctors is spreading, going national, because I now hate every plastic surgeon in New York in a deeply personal way.
Because I now KNOW every plastic surgeon in New York in a deeply personal way.
And Old Yeller? Mustard Teeth Guy? Honestly, you seem to have had a brow lift and yet your teeth are little yellow beach pebbles. Where are your priorities? Brows over TEETH? I mean, if a patient peed that color, you would no doubt hook them up to an IV of saline, do a urinalysis, a CBC, a CMP, now and STAT! and all that other medical mumbo-jumbo.
The thing is …. your teeth …. they actually ENRAGE me, which can only mean that all this talk of breast mounds has truly sent me ’round the bend.
Or mound.
Or whatever.
Stay tuned for even more blather including: priceless hoity-toity doctor quotes.
Yamahama, Crackie. For doctor types, they sure be dumb.
So I’m editing a ton of video interviews with these hoity-toity Manhattan plastic surgeons. Basically, every plastic surgeon in Manhattan, it would seem. A massive, sort of soul-sucking undertaking — oh, how I hate editing the spoken word — but good money. So I’ll be a little absent until Friday is good and gone.
I’m learning SO much about breasts, though. Weird, because I kind of considered myself an expert since I came with two and have to corral them on a daily basis, but seems I don’t know everything.
For instance, did you know it’s very challenging to make a “breast mound that looks like a breast mound”? It’s true. One doctor looked straight into the camera and said that to me, in a voice a little low and rumbly and inappropriate.
You know what I said to him in response?
“Doc, your teeth are yellow like dried mustard. Do you know NO ONE who does teeth whitening? Aren’t you filthy stinking rich?? Also please stop talking about breast mounds. I’m delicate.”
But he didn’t listen. He just kept droning on and on about breast mounds, those two words slipping through his ochre teeth until I became uncomfy in my own skin and hyper aware of my own breast mounds. And I’m usually fine with them.
Another doctor was very nervous and fat and basically pre-verbal in front of the camera. He broke out in flop sweat. The entire interview, he glistened like an Easter ham and I wanted nothing more than to stick him with cloves. And, you know, I’d say “aww, poor guy,” I would, but he’s clearly not poor. Just ….. socially marginal.
Another doctor went on a rant about doctors who ignore “the human element”:
“So you’re an oncologist and you walk into the examination room and say, ‘You know you’re going to lose your hair, right?’ I mean, those are the first words out of your mouth? Who does that? Who says that? I don’t care what kind of physician you are. Make believe you’re a human first.”
And right there, on the spot, I looked him dead in his pre-recorded eyes and declared my undying love for him, porn ‘stache and all, because honestly, that — THAT — is genius.
Those are words to live by.
I can think of several people at a recent church I attended who really need to hear these life-changing words:
Make believe you’re a human first.
So, thanks, Doc.
But, seriously, shave that thing or name it.
I didn’t just read that balderdash Shiver in January. No, there were others. Yes, indeedy. And because I feel the need to redeem myself — although if I really wanted to do that, I suppose I’d stop blogging altogether — I list them now.
My other January books:
~ Her Fearful Symmetry, Audrey Niffenegger
Funny, I’ve never read Niffenegger’s first book, The Time Traveler’s Wife. I started with Her Fearful Symmetry. Loved it. A story about identity and ghosts and obsessions.
~ A Reliable Wife, Robert Goolrick
Hypnotic. Redemptive. Obviously needs to be a movie. I’m casting it in my head already — along with my new “book” friend who I see every Saturday now. She works at the bookstore and the last two Saturdays have been ALL about A Reliable Wife. Although the cover with the dress is lame and makes it look like a bodice-ripper, which it’s not. There’s a better cover out there. I’ve seen it.
~ Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
Can’t even talk about this one. I’m still processing. SO different — and so much more amazing, really — than any preconception I’ve ever had about it.
~ Blue Like Jazz (a reread, thank you, Brian!), Donald Miller.
Perspective-changer on issues of faith. I love it.
~ The Sacred Romance, John Eldredge and Brent Curtis
Healing.
I’m still ruminating on much of what I’ve read last month. So much easier to spew something out about a book that didn’t matter to me.
Oh, hurrah! I discovered more notes from our time at Maybe but really Not On Your Life Church.
These are just my notes. MB doesn’t weigh in, which is a real shame. So the pastor’s preaching and I’m talking to myself in this notebook like a weirdo.
I really would NOT have fit in at this cult …. er, church. I mean, I’m a weirdo, but not their kind of weirdo. My brain is just not washable enough.
So here I go, dissecting the church AT church. Probably our second week there.
~ Nearly every man here is wearing a short-sleeved shirt, either a polo or a light cotton, all in pale pale almost non-colors. They don’t tuck them in so their bellies are covered. Ugh. It almost seems like a uniform here. Pale ghosts of people.
~ The sleeves on those cotton things stick out at the elbows like little pup tents. Ick. Come worship the Lord! Sartorial castration — no extra charge! It’s a room full of Homers.
~ If they were all naked, they’d look better.
~ I should rethink that.
~ Basically, they all look kind of pasty and weak in their Easter-egg clothes. I’ve never been more turned off in a room full of men.
~ Oh, the words between the songs at worship: “I believe there are people today struggling with guilt about not getting things done.” Hm. Really, Peaches? Pretty safe bet, isn’t it? Holy Spirit not really swinging out in omniscience with THAT one, is he? Why bother? So you can get up and look godly with a no-brainer? Boo-bye.
~ Every song is a dirge. Am I dead?
~ Ugh, P-Geist! He’s praying and he CANNOT just say “Amen.” He is literally droning, “in the name of the glorious, beautiful, powerful, amazing Father …. Amen.” No need to butter up the Almighty, Crackie. God’s not impressed.
~ TOO MUCH TALKING!! (ed.: Sorry. I was clearly losing it.)
~ The pastor is asking, “What’s the background noise of my heart?” Uh …… Guns ‘n’ Roses?
~ I really don’t see myself hanging out with these people.
~ Also, don’t come up and introduce yourself and let ME hold up the entire conversation.
~ Why does everyone want to know how we found out about the church?? EVERYONE has asked us. WHO CARES?? We’re here. Is this a marketing thing?
~ Why do they all talk about John Piper? “Do you know John Piper?” “Have you read John Piper?” They seem very worshipful about … John Piper! John Piper!! JOHN PIPER!! Calm down, Homers. And roll your sleeves.
~ He’s now talking about joy in a room full of the glummest people I’ve ever seen.
~ “Dripping with mirth.” Oh, I BEG you to please stop saying that.
(Seems I had issues from the get-go, doesn’t it? Well, you could call it issues or, uh, critical thinking skills. Let’s go with the second one, shall we?)
He: So did you have some ice cream on your anniversary?
My dad loves ice cream. He is perpetually slender. I hate him.
Me: Uh, no, Dad.
He: You should have had some ice cream.
*******
He: So I had that treadmill test.
Me: Yeah, how did that go?
He: The doctor told me he’d only had two good tests that week, a 26 year old’s and mine.
Me: Wow, Dad.
He: And I’m 73!
Me: I know!
He: I think the doctor was jealous.
Me: I’m sure he was.
*******
He: So he told me I have only a 1% chance of having a cardiac incident in the next five years.
Me: You are truly amazing.
He: Yep.
Me: Obviously, you should start smoking.
He: Heeheeheeheehee.
Me: And pigging out on ice cream.
He: Heeheeheeheehee.
Me: I mean, why not?
He: Yeah, why not?
He’s just a little kid, that man. I’m glad he’s still around so we can come full circle.
All we do when we talk now ….. is laugh.
Where I write a book review off the top of my head, all careless and free-form.
Shiver — Maggie Stiefvater
I don’t know what possessed me on this one. I bought it at the bookstore because I liked the cover. I seem to do that a lot. Apparently, Ms. Stiefvater has already sold the movie rights to this werewolf/human romance. It’s no Twilight and I cannot believe I just said “It’s no Twilight.” I mean, Twilight is Twilight; it ain’t Romeo and Juliet. Still, it’s effective, in its way. Here’s part of what makes the vampire work: Vampires can be young but wise, be 18 but 112 or whatever. So they can look forever young, but be grown men emotionally and intellectually, which is nice, and really the only thing that made me feel slightly less icky about devouring the whole Twilight saga.
Sam, the werewolf/hero in Shiver IS 18 and ……. ugh, is he ever. 18 and “emo.” He’s described that way: “Emo.” Everything’s very “OMG” with Sam and his human love interest Grace and, basically, I found them both necrotic and awful (to quote MB). I wanted everyone to wolf out and rip everyone else to shreds.
OMG! I’m a wolf! OMG! What if I STAY a wolf? OMG!!
Ooh, here’s a bonus: Sam the werewolf writes lyrics. At any random moment, a song might come to him because his mind is always “snatching for lyrics” when it might be better used finding a solution to his perpetual wet dog whiff. But no. He’s too emo to be practical, our Sam, so you never know when his mind might simply burst into song. Just whenever he’s swept away, I guess.
For instance, oh, mid make-out session.
Here’s one that came to Wolf Boy while getting hot and sweaty with Grace. But brace yourselves. I’m serious. Clench everything down. Are you clenched?
Okay.
She draws patterns on my face/These lines make shapes that can’t replace/the version of me I hold inside/when lying with you, lying with you, lying with you
Best, I think, to keep these to oneself.
You know, I think I can honestly say that I’ve never started composing an ode to a makeout session in my head whilst engaged in said makeout session. I’ve always been too busy. If you have time to do that, well, I think you’re doing it wrong or you’re not really in the moment which means you need to ask yourself why, because — news flash — maybe you’re kissing the wrong person.
The other thing here: Sam turns into a wolf based on temperature. The colder it gets, the closer he gets to wolfing out. So Grace always has to “keep him warm.” Ahem. He’s the perpetual damsel in distress, constantly needing to sit by the fire or to borrow a sweater or to wait in the car with the heater on. Turn-OFF. This dude would have gotten nowhere with 18-year-old me. Sure, I was naive and Amish, but I wasn’t stupid. Maybe today’s teenage girl finds this version of guy sexy, but not me. He was too needy and too dainty and too emo.
Wolf out forever, Sam. I just don’t care.
Shiver, indeed.
We pull up to a stoplight on Sunday, chatting about this and that. As we’re waiting, a guy runs up; he’s working out, but misses the light. I do a double-take because, well, the guy is practically naked. He’s lean, muscled, obviously a regular runner, and wears ….. God help me, I do not know. They’re running shorts, but shorter; they’re boxer shorts but tighter; they’re tighty whiteys but with a flounce. Or something? Whatever they are, they’re very low-riders and a manly aqua. On his feet, these silvery ballet-like slippers.
While he waits for the light, he prances and sashays. Spins and leaps. He doesn’t stay in one spot politely jogging in the typical compact way you see runners do.
Oh, no. He’s a stoplight Nureyev, dahling, and he
uses
his
stage.
It’s mesmerizing. Distracting. Basically, I can’t look away.
MB, on the other hand, sighs in exasperation.
“Oh, for the love of Europe.”
One glance at his furrowed brow and I howl the whole way home.
Random Thoughts has a touching post about her new church experience.
So many people seem to be feeling similar things about “The Church” these days.
Not Jesus.
“The Church.”
We all long to feel a part of something, but when that something beats you down and just doesn’t care, what do you do? Where do you go?
I saw her standing in the express line at the grocery store. A woman I had taught with several years ago. Back then, she and her husband were struggling with infertility, and she was always open about that. MB and I were struggling with it, too, and I was never open about that. Never. Not with anyone outside the people I called my “hand people,” meaning, they fit on one hand, the number of people in real life I shared this with. If you weren’t one of my hand people, I talked to you, sure, but only through a small hole in the wall I built around myself. Most of me was hidden away, armored, silent. Too many people just aren’t safe. Emotionally safe. Women, especially, aren’t safe — not on this issue. Too many times in my life I’ve seen the smug gleam of schadenfreude in the narrowed eyes of some nosy woman. Not my hand people, no, never, but random women full of “good intentions” or “godly curiosity.” Those women got nothing from me. Or if they got anything from me, it was flat rudeness and they never spoke to me again which, to be honest, was my goal. I knew how I knew how I knew the caring from the curious, the real from the fake. I still do. It’s a discernment that serves me and cloaks me and frustrates people who deserve to be frustrated. I have no guilt over it. If social marauders have no guilt about trying to breach the tall towers of my life, I have no guilt over defending them.
Still, even though she wasn’t one of my hand people, I liked this woman. Her voice had a disarming baby doll squeak and her smile would go all crinkly-eyed at the corners. It was impossible to see that and not smile back. She talked about their infertility struggles to anyone who would listen. The other teachers listened impassively. I listened intently and tried to seem as detached as the others really were. I was desperate not to give myself away. A couple of times a week, she’d stand in the teachers’ lounge and share with me while I busied myself. I’d nod and shuffle some papers. Glance at her and make some copies. Furrow my brow with her and check my inbox. Anything to distance her plight from mine. Her outcome will not be mine. Her outcome will not be mine. I didn’t want to seem rude, but I didn’t want to seem vulnerable either. I needed to seem vague because it was all too specific. I needed to seem detached because it was all too consequential. I had to. Survival mode. Of course, at some point, this woman asked about us. Women do. It’s just what they do. “Do you want kids?” she asked one day while I stapled papers that didn’t need stapling. “Oh, yeah,” the smooth stone fell from my lips, “I’d love to have kids some day.” If I focused just so on these papers that didn’t need stapling, I could pull it off. Don’t look at her. Do not look at her. Because your face, your naked face, will give it all away. I tugged at a crooked staple and smiled sideways at her, clutching the side of the table, waiting for the searing limbic burn to fade away so I could breathe again. She just smiled her crinkly-eyed smile and said, “Oh, good. You’d be a great mom.”
She never knew.
Some people have basic boundaries. Some have high stone walls.
She may have suspected, but she never knew.
She never knew that we were trying and failing and trying and failing and trying and failing. She never knew that I cried myself to sleep and that I cried myself awake; that I had dreams where I had babies, lots of babies, pink chubby babies. She never knew that even waking up at all was a kind of torture for me. She never knew that I could not bear the sight of any pregnant woman anywhere, even the ones I called friend. Even the ones I called sister. She never knew how many times I sat alone on the edge of our bed loading and unloading my gun. Such pretty little bullets. Tiny silver teeth. I wouldn’t feel a thing. She never knew how one night, in a small voice, I finally told MB to hide my gun far far away from me. She never knew how that man, my mountain, jumped up, white, frantic, so fast, to do as I asked. She never knew any of this because I could not tell her. I just could not. The towers were tall, more stones every day. She never knew how much I understood. She never knew how much I wanted to hug her and lie and say it would all be okay. She never knew how much I wanted her to hug me and lie and say it would all be okay. I listened behind my high stone walls and marveled at her ability to tell anyone who would listen about their struggles. I could never decide if I marveled because I thought it was admirable or if I marveled because I thought it was stupid. To this day, I can’t decide. I just don’t know.
So I saw her standing in the express line at the grocery store, this woman. I know she saw me too, standing in a line several feet away. Our eyes flashed on each other a split second and then we looked away. She stood over there, childless, and I stood over here, childless. Perhaps you could say she had children at home. But I say you recognize your own. You just do. We looked at each other and we looked away and I knew how I knew how I knew the look of emptiness and longing in her eyes mirrored my very own.
You look away out of respect. You look away out of shame.
I stood there still and silent in my tower until the cashier shook me out of it.
“Have a nice day now.”
