Husband has been on the laptop, surfing, I guess. I haven't been paying attention. He notices me busily typing on my birthday present, a Kindle with keyboard.
Husband: You like your birthday present?
Me: I love it!
Husband: So, you browsing Amazon or something? Don't spend too much, ha ha!
Me: No, I am working on my book.
Husband: (finally looking up from the laptop, where he's been looking at
motorcycle pictures on Faceborg . Don't know why--he'll be able to get a motorcycle the day after he buries me.) Wait. You uploaded your book onto the Kindle?
Me: Yeah! I love reading it there! It is so cool--
Husband: You are just reading it?
Me: Well, not really. I am editing it.
Husband: You are still editing it?
Me: This is more about sentence structure, and verb agreement--
Husband: Verb agreement?
Me: Well, two revisions ago, I played around with writing it in present tense, so I missed stuff--
Husband: In the last round of edits.
Me: No! In the last revision!
Husband: What is the difference between editing and revising?
Me: Hmmmm. (thinking hard about how to answer this) Revising is making changes to the body of the literature. Editing is making corrections.
Husband: Okaayyy.
Me: Oh! See, revising is like getting a boob job, and editing is more like just wearing a better bra.
Husband: ...I'm sorry, what?
Me: Okay, bad example. Revising my book involves me changing characters, or expanding scenes, or fleshing out backgrounds.
Husband: Uh-huh.
Me: And editing is fixing sentence structure. Or something.
Husband: So...
Me: I started a revision back in January that didn't work out-- the whole present tense thing. But I canned that and just went with making the story told from Elena's point of view, in first person.
Husband: And...
Me: I finished that in August, and now I am doing the last round of edits, so I can send it out again. I am hoping by November?
Husband: Okay.
Me: So, yeah. I am editing.
Husband: ...Do you want a boob job?
Thank you for the Kindle.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Who Wants To Live Forever?
Today is my son's first day of school. This post is NOT about that.
Well, it is kinda. See, I walked him to school, and there were all these parents there, snapping pictures, wiping tears. And I was thinking, "I cannot wait to get home. I wonder what I can eat with the Boy's grilled cheese sandwich crusts." I then thought, "Wow,I am a bad mommy. I'm not posting my son's first day of school pics to Faceborg. Of course, now I am an OLD mommy."
Yesterday was my birthday. I am 37 now. The thirties have been awesome, and kinda hip. Hitting 35 was cool, and 36 was grown-up. But 37 is close to 40, which is close to death! Tee hee!
I am going to die. Because people do die. But it is getting harder, apparently. My husband shared a news post, about this guy who figured out how to oxygenate blood, so when your heart stops, you can live longer without brain damage. It depressed me. We already live so fucking long. TOO fucking long. And why does a 86 year old person deserve a new kidney or heart? Sorry, but really? Why can we not listen to the signals our bodies give us?
Heart: Huh.
Grandma: What?!?
Heart: I am really not working so well. And...
Grandma: WHAT?!?
Heart: I know this is hard to take, but your arteries are kinda clogged, and your lungs are so inflamed from forty years of smoking that they aren't sending enough oxygen anyway.
Grandma: I don't understand...
Heart: And really, the extra fifty pounds you've been carrying since the 80s are kinda making it worse.
Grandma: Okay, I can't hear what you are saying. I keep losing my hearing aid, because I can't find them unless I wear those ugly glasses the doctor gave me.
Heart: JUST DIE ALREADY!
Grandma: You want me to go where?
I am not advocating the execution of the elderly. Trust me. I just lost my last grandparent this summer, and I was depressed for weeks. (Hence the no new blog entries.) I remember her telling fascinating stories, and braiding my hair when I was younger. She was a nurse for decades, and raised four kids. She created quilts, and she introduced me to naughty literature. But she was in her nineties, and they decided to do shoulder surgery, even though she kept talking about how much she missed Grandfather and didn't understand why she wasn't with him yet, and she wouldn't eat and was generally miserable. She didn't want to improve her quality of life...she wanted her long full life to end.
So, how do you make sure you won't live forever? A Do Not Rescusitate Order? My husband's grandmother had DNR paperwork, advanced medical directives, the works... and THEY GAVE HER A FUCKING PACEMAKER ANYWAY. I joke about getting DNR tattooed on my left breast, although I've been informed that this is not legally binding.
What does a person have to do to DIE a natural death? You aren't allowed to die when your body is clearly giving up. You aren't supposed to commit suicide. You cannot get someone to assist you in dying. And you cannot do a long term, subtle cyanide poisoning anymore (Waldorf Salad, anyone?), because there is even a KIT now, and then they cure you, and you have to start all over again.
So, we live long lives despite the terrible abuse we heap upon our bodies: eating McDonald's, smoking cigarettes, consuming vast quantities of high fructose corn syrup, breathing smog, watching over twenty hours of television a week, and never exercising.
We deserve to be able to die, and we certainly deserve to die. Maybe medical care should be saved for those to prove they really deserve it. Smoke? No healthcare for you! Addicted to McDonald's? Nothing for you.
Want to live forever? Not gonna happen. If you want to live longer, take care of your body, and teach your kids how to take care of their bodies. Eat fresh foods! Don't smoke! Exercise! Don't just assume you'll be saved by a fucking medical community that cannot figure out the difference between what you CAN do versus what you SHOULD do.
Is my son's first day of school important? No fucking way. Whether he becomes a life-long learner IS. And I hope he learns that he ought to throw mommy from a window rather than sign the paperwork for her to get a heart transplant when she is 98. If he learns that lesson, then I'll be happy.
Happy thoughts. And now for some Queen... Who Wants to Live Forever? (sorry about the ad)
Well, it is kinda. See, I walked him to school, and there were all these parents there, snapping pictures, wiping tears. And I was thinking, "I cannot wait to get home. I wonder what I can eat with the Boy's grilled cheese sandwich crusts." I then thought, "Wow,I am a bad mommy. I'm not posting my son's first day of school pics to Faceborg. Of course, now I am an OLD mommy."
Yesterday was my birthday. I am 37 now. The thirties have been awesome, and kinda hip. Hitting 35 was cool, and 36 was grown-up. But 37 is close to 40, which is close to death! Tee hee!
I am going to die. Because people do die. But it is getting harder, apparently. My husband shared a news post, about this guy who figured out how to oxygenate blood, so when your heart stops, you can live longer without brain damage. It depressed me. We already live so fucking long. TOO fucking long. And why does a 86 year old person deserve a new kidney or heart? Sorry, but really? Why can we not listen to the signals our bodies give us?
Heart: Huh.
Grandma: What?!?
Heart: I am really not working so well. And...
Grandma: WHAT?!?
Heart: I know this is hard to take, but your arteries are kinda clogged, and your lungs are so inflamed from forty years of smoking that they aren't sending enough oxygen anyway.
Grandma: I don't understand...
Heart: And really, the extra fifty pounds you've been carrying since the 80s are kinda making it worse.
Grandma: Okay, I can't hear what you are saying. I keep losing my hearing aid, because I can't find them unless I wear those ugly glasses the doctor gave me.
Heart: JUST DIE ALREADY!
Grandma: You want me to go where?
I am not advocating the execution of the elderly. Trust me. I just lost my last grandparent this summer, and I was depressed for weeks. (Hence the no new blog entries.) I remember her telling fascinating stories, and braiding my hair when I was younger. She was a nurse for decades, and raised four kids. She created quilts, and she introduced me to naughty literature. But she was in her nineties, and they decided to do shoulder surgery, even though she kept talking about how much she missed Grandfather and didn't understand why she wasn't with him yet, and she wouldn't eat and was generally miserable. She didn't want to improve her quality of life...she wanted her long full life to end.
So, how do you make sure you won't live forever? A Do Not Rescusitate Order? My husband's grandmother had DNR paperwork, advanced medical directives, the works... and THEY GAVE HER A FUCKING PACEMAKER ANYWAY. I joke about getting DNR tattooed on my left breast, although I've been informed that this is not legally binding.
What does a person have to do to DIE a natural death? You aren't allowed to die when your body is clearly giving up. You aren't supposed to commit suicide. You cannot get someone to assist you in dying. And you cannot do a long term, subtle cyanide poisoning anymore (Waldorf Salad, anyone?), because there is even a KIT now, and then they cure you, and you have to start all over again.
So, we live long lives despite the terrible abuse we heap upon our bodies: eating McDonald's, smoking cigarettes, consuming vast quantities of high fructose corn syrup, breathing smog, watching over twenty hours of television a week, and never exercising.
We deserve to be able to die, and we certainly deserve to die. Maybe medical care should be saved for those to prove they really deserve it. Smoke? No healthcare for you! Addicted to McDonald's? Nothing for you.
Want to live forever? Not gonna happen. If you want to live longer, take care of your body, and teach your kids how to take care of their bodies. Eat fresh foods! Don't smoke! Exercise! Don't just assume you'll be saved by a fucking medical community that cannot figure out the difference between what you CAN do versus what you SHOULD do.
Is my son's first day of school important? No fucking way. Whether he becomes a life-long learner IS. And I hope he learns that he ought to throw mommy from a window rather than sign the paperwork for her to get a heart transplant when she is 98. If he learns that lesson, then I'll be happy.
Happy thoughts. And now for some Queen... Who Wants to Live Forever? (sorry about the ad)
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Moving Sucks
Moving sucks. You go through everything you own, and wonder why you own so much shit. You throw stuff away. You pack the items you know you want to keep. You make huge piles of items to sell or donate. Then you pack up everything else, knowing that you probably don't need it all, but loathe to toss it before you have a chance to go through it all carefully.
And then you move. And the unpacking begins.
Me: So, we have like 8 quart size storage containers without lids.
Hubby: Should we get rid of them?
Me: I dunno. We might use them. Maybe?
Hubby: Maybe we should toss them.
Me: You may be right.
Hubby: Did you find the yellow cups yet?
Me: No. I hope they didn't get tossed. They were a matched set!
(These yellow cups are 32 oz. yellow plastic with the logo for a coin operated laundromat in Nacogdoches, TX. They are tacky as hell, but they are big and perfect for a big glass of water. Plus they are dishwasher safe. Oh well. Then there were fourteen boxes marked "Master Bath".)
Me: So, what is in this box?
Hubby: What does it say?
Me: Huh. There are four different labels. Mather bath. Kitchen. Hubby shoes. Misc.
Hubby: I am pretty sure that kitchen one is from when my grandmother moved.
Me: So, Master bath or shoes?
Hubby: I think my mom packed that box.
Me: ...Oh.
Hubby: What's in it?
Me: I haven't opened it yet. I lost my screwdriver.
Hubby: (whipping out his pocketknife) I'll get it.
Me: Nonono! My screwdriver is here somewhere!
Hubby: (opening box) Huh. I guess I didn't need to buy another package of razor blades.
Me: (looking in box) You bought more blades? So we have eight thousand blades for you.
Hubby: Where were these?
Me: It says master bath.
Hubby: Huh...
(And then there was the kitchen I spent hours organizing early one morning when I couldn't go back to sleep.)
Hubby: Where did the plates go?
Me: I moved them to the cabinet over there.
Hubby: But I thought you put them over the dishwasher.
Me: Well, I did, originally. But then I thought it made more sense over there.
Hubby: So where did the Boy's medicine wind up?
Me: Over the coffee maker.
Hubby: Okay. Hmmm.
Me: What?
Hubby: I cannot find the silverware now.
Me: (exploding) I just put everything where it was in the old kitchen! It makes perfect sense!
Hubby: (backing away) But the layout is different than in the old kitchen.
Me: Well, yeah. But the order is the same.
Hubby: Okay, look, I will try to figure this out. Now where did the cereal go?
Me: In the pantry.
Hubby: I don't see it.
Me: It is right in front of you! (looking) Huh. Wait, I know where it is... It was in that box marked Kitchen items.
I have made enough trips to Salvation Army that the old guy, who seems awfully reserved when he takes your bags and items, actually smiled at me the last trip. I think he is gonna smile again when he finds me buying back the yellow cups that we cannot find and are certain wound up inadvertently in the 'Donate' box.
And then you move. And the unpacking begins.
Me: So, we have like 8 quart size storage containers without lids.
Hubby: Should we get rid of them?
Me: I dunno. We might use them. Maybe?
Hubby: Maybe we should toss them.
Me: You may be right.
Hubby: Did you find the yellow cups yet?
Me: No. I hope they didn't get tossed. They were a matched set!
(These yellow cups are 32 oz. yellow plastic with the logo for a coin operated laundromat in Nacogdoches, TX. They are tacky as hell, but they are big and perfect for a big glass of water. Plus they are dishwasher safe. Oh well. Then there were fourteen boxes marked "Master Bath".)
Me: So, what is in this box?
Hubby: What does it say?
Me: Huh. There are four different labels. Mather bath. Kitchen. Hubby shoes. Misc.
Hubby: I am pretty sure that kitchen one is from when my grandmother moved.
Me: So, Master bath or shoes?
Hubby: I think my mom packed that box.
Me: ...Oh.
Hubby: What's in it?
Me: I haven't opened it yet. I lost my screwdriver.
Hubby: (whipping out his pocketknife) I'll get it.
Me: Nonono! My screwdriver is here somewhere!
Hubby: (opening box) Huh. I guess I didn't need to buy another package of razor blades.
Me: (looking in box) You bought more blades? So we have eight thousand blades for you.
Hubby: Where were these?
Me: It says master bath.
Hubby: Huh...
(And then there was the kitchen I spent hours organizing early one morning when I couldn't go back to sleep.)
Hubby: Where did the plates go?
Me: I moved them to the cabinet over there.
Hubby: But I thought you put them over the dishwasher.
Me: Well, I did, originally. But then I thought it made more sense over there.
Hubby: So where did the Boy's medicine wind up?
Me: Over the coffee maker.
Hubby: Okay. Hmmm.
Me: What?
Hubby: I cannot find the silverware now.
Me: (exploding) I just put everything where it was in the old kitchen! It makes perfect sense!
Hubby: (backing away) But the layout is different than in the old kitchen.
Me: Well, yeah. But the order is the same.
Hubby: Okay, look, I will try to figure this out. Now where did the cereal go?
Me: In the pantry.
Hubby: I don't see it.
Me: It is right in front of you! (looking) Huh. Wait, I know where it is... It was in that box marked Kitchen items.
I have made enough trips to Salvation Army that the old guy, who seems awfully reserved when he takes your bags and items, actually smiled at me the last trip. I think he is gonna smile again when he finds me buying back the yellow cups that we cannot find and are certain wound up inadvertently in the 'Donate' box.
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