50 Tries

19. New Charity Wristbands

Off it went. I thought this piece was god-awful while I was writing it, but now it seems mildly amusing.

I’ve got a gazillion e-mail messages and telephone calls to return, but the fatigue is really catching up with me. It’s hard to prioritize work when you’re exhausted and your kid is sick and you’re constantly worried that you haven’t ingested enough olive oil that day, and that you can also get oleic acid from pecans but you don’t really like pecans, and you think that it’s also in cashews and almonds and avocados but you’re really not sure, and maybe olive oil shampoo and body scrub might help, too, but who knows how much olive oil is really in those products, and didn’t a doctor tell me a few years ago that I could put drops of it in my ears to soften the wax—or was that mineral oil?—and maybe that would be a better way of getting it into my system, but, you know, ICK, and is there even any point in ingesting it AT ALL, so is there fresh bread in the house for me to eat with olive oil? and so on.

Jon Friedman wrote me over the weekend to tell me that he made a donation to the Young Survival Coalition in my name. That sort of kindness keeps me going. Along with, you know, a pathological need for attention.

CAT scans and bone scans tomorrow; that should make for a really long, fun, chemical-filled day.

Maybe I Should Just Fall Back on My Trusty Friend, Alcohol

Stimulant or depressant?

In spite of having a solid idea about the proliferation of charity-based wristbands, which serve as a huge reminder that there has been an explosion in the popularity of wristbands, and trying to express that not all causes are created equal, I have made very little progress. I wanted to sit down and knock something out so that Adam and I could go to the movies and I could work on it more later. Instead, I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half (actually trying, not web surfing or screwing around) and so far I’ve mostly re-ordered the same list of terms I came up with during the week.

As an added bonus, Kylie has spent the morning telling me to go away, not to talk, or both. There’s that improved closeness I’ve been cherishing.

And now I feel pukish, and my shrink keeps telling me I should take something when I feel like this, so I’m sort of debating between Ritalin and Attivan. Thus far, the Ritalin hasn’t done anything but give me the jitters (which reminds me of a college friend who told me he tried cocaine, but it felt just like a dose of No-Doze—only obviously that was much more deviant and cool than the fucking ADD medication I'm thinking about taking), but apparently most people just LOVE the stuff. And while the Attivan might improve my mood, I don’t need anything slowing me further.

Hard choices.

Born Under the Wrong Star

My sister has the gene. I’m starting to believe that there is a god, if only because he hates me.

If I Moved to Chernobyl, Could They Skip a Couple of Steps?

So tired. They did the MUGA scan on me today, which meant that for a short time, I was radioactive. Fabulous.

Sweet, Sweet Rejection

I have been embraced by the Rejection Show!

Jon Friedman just contacted me and said that he had found the blog and planned to mention it at the next Rejection Show, as well as making a charitable donation from part of the proceeds in my name. Now I feel worthy of being accepted amongst the professionally rejected—it’s like being excited about being asked to join the club for the people who wouldn’t want to join a club that would have them as a member.

Okay, it’s not really like that, but I felt that there was a joke like that in there and I just can’t straighten it out right now. What I’m trying to say is that these are people who’ve been rejected by all the best places.

This week’s topic is those rubber bracelets everyone’s wearing. I feel guilty for not wearing a pink one, but the truth is that I think they look tacky (and all those pink ribbons, honestly, bug the hell out of me because I’ve NEVER wanted my entire identity to be about breast cancer), and don’t get me started on the ribbons that are suddenly on every car. Cancer! AIDS! Troops! Anti-War! Things that are good/bad depending on your point of view but almost always upsetting!

A blue states bracelet holds some appeal for me. Maybe if they sold them at Tiffany…

Pauline Kael & Olive Oil

Michael Eck's recent column in the Albany Times-Union describes a New Yorker experience much like mine, except that I first read the magazine only for Pauline Kael and the cartoons. So it’s not just me.

I miss Pauline Kael.

I’m obsessing about oleic acid, now that the news has come out about it fighting exactly the kind of tumor that I have (lucky me!). I know that it’s in olive oil, nuts, and avocados, but I don’t know how much I need or even whether eating it has any impact. I’ve got visions of IV bags draining Bertolli’s into my chest sometime soon.

18. Donald Rumsfeld Hit by Cupid's Arrow

I’m jittery.

So #18 is done, and I would love, someday, to have (for example) a MoveOn campaign for Donald Rumsfeld to read it. I'd also like to see Jennifer Garner kick his ass.

When Shih-Tzus Attack

Kylie has begun taking her naps in the guise of a shih-tzu. This involves not only sleeping curled up on a chair, but placing Clifford and Christmas Dog (whom she has decided are also shih-tzus) around her and then covering herself and both dogs with a blanket. I am increasingly impressed with her resourcefulness.

Didn’t feel well today. Stayed on the couch and didn’t work and didn’t do errands. I feel better now, but it’s late, and Sunday is usually when things bottom out. I’m going to have to try to work tomorrow, since I’ve got a heart scan on Wednesday which will naturally eat up more otherwise healthy time. So tired.

At Long Last Rumsfeld

Donald Rumsfeld hit by Cupid’s arrow. It feels right. Perhaps the week off was a good decision after all.

Just for the Record, I Think Hitler=Bad

Always a bump up in hits on Sunday night, right after “Desperate Housewives” airs. Feeling so sick. No more worries about being melodramatic now. I spent the whole day on the couch, and sitting up is making me dizzy and tired. Adam just rubbed my arm, and the muscles ache, like when you have the flu.

Is this my life? Will this be my life?

I ask myself these questions, over and over again. I just can’t accept how proscribed my circumstances have become. I read Diana Mosely’s autobiography today; she married, divorced, had four children and was thrown in jail for being friends with Hitler by the time she was 30.

I keep wondering where I can go from here. No living abroad, which I always wanted to do, since all my doctors are here (pipe dream anyway; Adam fears change). No fabulous job at a sophisticated magazine, out drinking cocktails and ending up on Page Six; I’m too old, too sick, and have a child.

And no more children.

Ah yes, poor me, sitting in my big house fretting that all I’ll be able to do is raise my perfect child and renovate my basement. But no one, thirty years hence (Diana Mosely was English), will be poring over my autobiography, fascinated that I chose my contractor because he suggested we paint one wall Benjamin Moore’s chalkboard black for the kids to draw on.

And Kylie clings to my mother. I missed her today, even though neither one of us left the house.

Not submitting anything this week. I’ll have to be strong enough to let myself be weak, and then go on.