If I Only Had A Brain…
November 27th, 2001 by Kevin
OK, I am seriously perplexed. My neuro just called after reviewing my MRI films, and said that there is nothing new going on. And that’s great in the “no news is good news” sense, but terrible in the “well then why the hell is my vision still decreasing” sense. I asked what I should do, and she said, “Just wait.”Nothing like over-simplifying things.
Let’s examine that statement, shall we? Just wait. Just wait. Never mind that I’ve been on disability for a year in December, and that in itself has not been what I would call fun, considering I’m a Type-A workaholic who actually enjoys work. Never mind the fact that it is now 12:20, and I am still unshowered and in my damn robe, proof positive that I have become everything I have ever feared - a sloppy, lazy, hausfrau who sits on the Internet for hours on end in a vain attempting to alleviate her boredom. Never mind the fact that I can’t see well enough to walk around the goddamn block, let alone drive a car, and this has seriously hindered my ability to have a LIFE. But never mind all that, I should just be patient and just wait. I should just be Godalmighty serene, and sit here twiddling my thumbs while my life goes swirling down the toilet. Apparently going fucking blind is no big deal, and I should just be a good little patient and wait for further brain damage to occur before I utter a damn squeak about it.
Damn. When I started this diary, I swore that I would not rattle on incessantly about my health problems or my obsessive dieting, and haven’t I just stuck to that religiously… Well, enough of that. But if you know anyone at Diaryland, it would sure be nice if it was possible to enlarge one’s font while typing, because I’m sure as shit going to need that service very soon.
I am trying to chill out. In addition to my Insurance Company Mantra, I also have a Doctor Mantra.
They are insensitive bastards, but you must remain calm. They are insensitive bastards, but you must remain calm.
I really wish I had some sort of webcam right about now, because if you could see my son, you’d laugh your little heinies off. He is dancing around in training pants and a Starter jersey to “If I Only Had A Brain” from the Wizard of Oz, and if he’s not a drag queen in training, I don’t know who is.
J. is a Wizard of Oz maniac. We have the swanky version which has at least three hours of additional footage(mostly musical, oh yay), and we watch it every other damn day. I cannot even begin to express my hatred for the Wizard of Oz. It used to be a favorite of mine as a child, but after the thirty thousandth time, watching it is like having every individual hair pulled out of your head. I would like to rip every last straw out of that idiotic scarecrow, because not a day goes by that I don’t hum his evil, insidious little song.
J. is completely enamored of Dorothy. We drove to Pennsylvania to visit D.’s family a couple months ago, and D.’s sister has a daughter who is J.’s age. It so happens that she was dressing up as Dorothy for Halloween, and as we all know, if you buy your kid’s Halloween costume too early, they will wear it every single day until the day after Halloween, when you will hide it while they’re sleeping. We walked up the driveway to their home, and there was Dorothy on the front steps, looking sassy enough to put Judy Garland to shame. J. stopped short in the middle of the driveway and stared. You could almost see the little Pepe-Le-Pew-esque cartoon hearts floating over his head. He grabbed my hand and whispered, “Does she talk?”
He couldn’t believe that she was real. I have never seen a more love-struck child. It was cute until she started flashing her panties at him. I didn’t care for that at all. The very idea of my son ever mingling with the opposite sex while unclothed deeply disturbs me. When he’s a teenager, he’ll have to wear a chastity belt(I’ll find a male version of one somewhere - some Gothic freaky-freaky catalog probably has stuff like that), a house arrest bracelet, and a Lo-Jack. This probably won’t win him any popularity points, but I’ll be damned if I have an hormonal little heathen roaming the streets.
We purchased some coffee beans from the Original Pancake House(God, the name strikes fear in my heart - everything on the menu has at least 4000 calories), and it is the best damn coffee I have ever had. This is truly the the Lexus to my Maxwell house Tempo or my Papanicholas Mitsubishi. I am not a complete coffee snob, but if I’m going to drink something that exacerbates my insomnia and kills my stomach, it had better be good.
I can’t give up coffee. I don’t think I will ever go off caffeine. It was hard enough giving up cigarettes without going up on the roof and taking out half the populace. It’s been over three weeks now, and I really am not having any major cravings. That surprises me. I thought I would spend the next ten years sniffing around smokers, trying to get a little whiff of second-hand carcinogens. It’s been a pleasant surprise not to have that feeling. However, now that I said that, I will get a God-smack-in-the-ass, and I will start fiending for a cigarette. God likes to smack my ass often.
D. and I are dumping the child at Gramma’s this weekend, of that I have no doubt. I want to go out clubbing, and I want to drink an obscene amount of cheap beer. I’m sure J. will enjoy it immensely, since he is God at Gramma’s. I can see the change in his posture when we drive up to the house - he immediately starts acting like a miniature pimp.
Yeah, that’s right bitch, I make the rules. Now get me some damn fruit snacks before I smack you up.
Scary stuff. It’s strange to watch him do things that I would kill him for in my house, but I learned very early on that I am not allowed to override the authority of Gramma whilst in her house, unless I want to start a really hairy fight. Nor am I allowed to spank my child in her presence, unless I want to be hauled off to jail for suspected child abuse. I find it very ironic that the mother who once actually hurled a piano bench at me loses her damn mind if I tap my kid on the butt.
Hee hee hee. My ninety-year old neighbors are out raking once again. My neighbors probably hate me with a passion, because my trees shed all over their lawn. I have two giant trees in front of my house, and my neighbors have none, so I feel semi-responsible for all their leaves. Believe me, there are a lot. You would not believe how prolific these damn trees are. I suspect that some tree-huggin’ hippie is pouring Miracle-Gro in them in the night.
I’m impressed with their lawn-care standards, especially since both sets of neighbors are at least eighty. But as soon as the first leaf falls, they rush out with their little paper bags and rakes, and get right down to brass tacks. I, however, feel that it makes much more sense to wait until every leaf has fallen before I spend four hours raking. So I wait, and my leaves usually blow into their yards.
I’m just not a big lawn person. My grass has never seen an edger, and I wouldn’t even know how to use one. My excuse is that I believe wild things should grow freely, but I really couldn’t give less of a shit. I rent this house, so I am not going to bore myself picking at someone else’s grass. My neighbors, on the other hand, edge their lawn using protractors. Not one blade of grass would dare creep onto their sidewalk, nor would any renegade weed desecrate their botanical shrines, so all the stray crabgrass hops on over to my yard. My yard is ghetto.
I shovel their snow in the winter and bring them cookies when I bake, which hopefully lessens their hatred of me a little.
I really have no desire to go do anything productive today, but I suppose I should.
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