My Nano is Not a Pet

I downloaded Anna Karenina today. I didn't order War and Peace. I am not that committed.

I am a big fan of audible.com. Except for the check-out part when they insisted I inform them of my audio device's nickname. Sometimes I call it, "Hey, whose got my nano and give it back right now," but really, does anyone out there give their mp3 player a nickname? I just bought Milton and Tolstoy. You would think the site would sense that I would be more comfortable being asked if my audio device had a "library identifier."


I have developed a kidney stone, which is really more information than anyone needs to know. I raise it only because it is kind of a funny condition. When the starfish-shaped raggedy ol' stone is at just the right angle, it feels like a knife with a rotating blade is spearing my lower body. As my various organs play internal hot potato, it feels like labor, the kind of labor that never takes a break. By the time I got to the ER, I was bent in half, with hands immobilized into a lobster-like dehydration clinch. Octagenarians at the ER intake windows were making way for me. I got a $75 parking ticket, but it was a small price to pay for all the morphine I wanted.

I love morphine.

But before the ER team got it into me, I lay on the table sounding like a four year old crying, "Make it stop, please make it stop" and thinking

1. I would make a lousy spy. Two seconds of torture and I would give everything up;

2. Little kids whose limbs have been blown off in Middle East bomb attacks don't seem to complain as much as I; and

3. This is a 10 . . . this is a 10 . . . this is a 10 on the hospital emoticon chart.

The doc told me I was a classic textbook case. I felt kind of proud, but I don't know why. Anyway, I was so nice when I left, that I have a standing invitation for more morphine whenever I need it.

I also have a doctor assigned to tracing the glacier-like advancement of my stone. He is a urologist, which means that his practice is mostly men, men with testicular cancer and prostrate issues. I go in, pick up a copy of Forbes and pretend to read. All the nurses are women and pretty, although yesterday I did happen to see where they put all the homely, heavy women in that practice. They are stuck in a room called "Billing," where they share cubicles and tins full of homemade cakes. No one is supposed to see that room, but I discovered it as I searched for the the stairs. A two story office building with only an elevator in view is a bit ridiculous.

Bully for You

Ok, I have been pretty sick and taking all sorts of medicines that have seriously altered my preferred state of jack rabbit high. I thought I would take this opportunity to begin exploring an iBook I picked up a few months ago. You know, I'm mellow, the computer is mellow, so wouldn't it be nice, etc.

I have also been holding in my back pocket a post on the high pressure, pull no punches, "what, are you stupid?" experience I encountered when purchasing equipment from the Apple Store (for now, let's just say my daughter said to me afterward, "I've never seen your face get so red!"), but again, I'm mellow, the touchpad is mellow . . .

"Hey!" I said to myself. "Why not create a new blog using the .mac program? There is no better way to learn than by creating a stage so I can talk about me, me, me. Think of the inspiration!"

I have just opened the part of the software that will allow me to Learn More. Up in the left hand corner is an old guy in a grey suit saying "I'm a PC" and next to him is a dude guy in jeans and a long sleeve tee saying "I'm a Mac." I want to puke already. "Hello. Welcome to Apple. Aren't those PC people such jerk asshole losers?" I feel like the substitute social studies teacher who just walked into a cafeteria food fight.

Mostly I want to know why on this keyboard the delete operates as a backspace and so where is the delete function. I wonder where I put the operating manual. Maybe it didnt come with one. Maybe it's designed on an intuition that I am too fuddy duddy to have. Does anyone out there even know the meaning of the phrase "fuddy duddy?"

Joan Rivers' Face

I remember seeing Joan Rivers on the Tonight Show.
I remember watching Joan host the Tonight Show.
I remember being at an impressionable age at the time and thinking, "Wow. It's a girl up there. How great is that."

Today, in every Hollywood industry magazine or TV interview, somone says, "Ewww. What has she done with her face?"

I don't know, but when between my birth and Roseanne, Phyllis Diller was the only other woman comedian I ever saw on television, how she looks doesn't phase me at all. Neither does her candidness. Before the placid sitcom laughtrack took over, what did I have for comedy? The physical humor of Ball, I remember. (Mostly I remember how predictable it was.) But for stand up, I can't recall much during my formative years, when two to five television stations was all we ever imagined, beyond Jackie Mason and Don Rickles. Their humor bore through me with the intensity of hearing the first bad word or, I guess, how little boys' brain passages get seared by the first Playboy image. "They are saying mean things about other people and not getting in trouble for it. How is that possible?" I used to wonder.

She does what she does. She paid her dues. She has her schtick. You don't like it, don't watch. As for her face? Well, let me just say she does what she does. She paid her dues. You don't like it, don't look.

My Own Personal Shoppers, Thank You

The Bloomingdale ad reads:

Our personal shoppers know mom best.

Well that's not too pathetic. Fortunately, that's not how it goes in my house. My kids know that I am a disorganized beyond redemption, that I prefer to work outdoors than in, calling me "a nerd" or "a geek" or "strange" is a compliment, I will dance to the car radio from behind the steering wheel for the sole purpose of embarassing them, and that a rise in my vocal decibels means either (a) duck or (b) get ready for a history lesson.

When I say, "OMG! I CAN'T FIND . . . ," it's a knee jerk for them to instruct, "Stop. Calm down. You have it. Look again." They can always expect to find forgotten food in the oven. When the car starts and they hear someone reading an audiobook on, say, rock formation or the adventures of some 16th Century sea farer, they don't bother to ask to change the station. They know I will order a glass of red wine as soon as I am seated at a restaurant table, and that I have been known to, on extended road trip, even suggested that such be served up as part of any Burger King's breakfast meal menu. They know my eyes will water the second I see an image of a dead child or hear a sad country song (as well as the fact that if I pinch the skin between my nose and upper lip I can stop the tears), and that I, under no circumstances, want to die. Ever.

And so every year, the girls get me a pair of garden gloves and a gift certificate for a massage. They also beg me to take them out to dinner. Except not Burger King.

My husband does nothing, explaining once, "You are not my mother." Having read that Elvis stopped having sex with Priscilla after she gave birth to their daughter because she was now "a mom," I decided not to push the issue.

Now, if I were to call Bloomies and give the above description to one of their personal shoppers, I wonder what they would recommend.

I tried to talk Elle and her best friend into rentng dates for the Prom.

"They would need an identity," one says.
"A dossier," the other says.

They are thinking 007. I just realize that I have proposed American Gigolo. I suggest next that a whole group of undated go.

"The prom is geared for couples, starting with intro photographs right down to seating arrangements," she responds.
"You have the power to change things," I say.
"I need a dress," Elle says.
"Are you even going?" I ask.
"You could make me a dress," Elle continues.

Well, yes. Yes I could. And wouldn't it look just swell, all uneven and poofy in the wrong place and mostly taped together. I imagine a few gowns done at my hand, full of satin and lace and tulle stiffness that will never fit well. I think of the three fairies in Sleeping Beauty.

How long does it take, that space of time when my imagination goes to far away places and images? Is it a noticable lag? Anyway, back to reality. I have to get the number of a few escort services.

When is a Goon Not a Goon

They are killing me.

This afternoon we four girls make it to the tennis court. Three skater boys riding a train track fence were thoughtful enough to remind us that, yes, indeed, tennis sucks. I wanted to yell something back, but after 36 years of failed retort, I gave in to better judgment and ignored them. Something about the three of them, riding the rickety metal gate as it swung back and forth, and each one complaining how it hurt his balls to ride that thing, made it seem not quite worth the effort.

Then three minutes before we leave the courts, Edit and Mac start chasing after a ball. Mac gets there first and at the moment of conquest Edit takes a full racquet swing at Mac's head. Edit connects. I saw it all in front of me. It was not a wait one second then get back at you swing. It was a strike intended to prevent losing the competition, done in the heat of. Mac deflates on the way home. Her head hurts. She gets sleepy. She feels sick. I watch, and she eventually shakes off the concussion. I warn the youngest that if I ever catch her striking anyone with anything ever again, she will sit out of sports for a year.

But it is odd. There is something about that lack of the second. If it had not been in the heat of, I know I would have been a lot more upset. As if the fact that it was a competitive reaction made it ok, which is didn't, but it did a little, but it shouldn't have.

I hate/love hockey playoff season.