A Fine and Peculiar Place

Here's a quick follow-up to my just-entered post. The link to Justine's blog is: http://chatpigs.blogspot.com. Male readers may not like this blog much. Some of you might even the kind of bastards who pull this crap on nice ladies like Justine...

Once again, Justine, l'm honored to have a reader. Come back anytime you like.

As long as your real name is NOT Teresa, and you're NOT from Nashville, Tennessee, that is...

Good morning, gentle readers. Apologies all round to those of you waiting with bated breath my withering "Ten Reasons Why My Employer Is A Bosshole" post. lt's coming soon, l promise; but there is good news and l'm not gonna make it wait.

First, went to see Mom in the hospital last night. She was very sleepy, and Phyllis, who was there when l arrived, was just about to leave and let her rest when l arrived. Mom's been resting much better these last few days, and last night her color was improved. Her bilirubin (for those who may not know, bilirubin is a bodily fluid made by our livers; too much in your system and you become jaundiced), which had been--as l've said in earlier posts--high enough to turn her skin orange even in her eyes, was noticeably down. ln other words, she felt just a little bit better! But we had to leave shortly thereafter, so she could go back to sleep again. l left feeling positive yet again; l'm still semi-deluding myself just yet.

And l behaved myself; l didn't try to hit on those two really cute nurses at the nurses' station. Phyl didn't have to knock my teeth loose from my face for being a swine.

ln Sunday's post, l made mention of an errand that l wouldn't discuss at the time. l've been getting harassed by Mom and both Phyl and my other big sister Sharon to get a physical, because l haven't had one in years. l'd been wanting to get one for myself anyway, so l'd made an appointment to have one with the doctor l went to for the bug l picked up a couple weeks back. That appointment was this past Friday. After the doctor finished with his exam, he sent me to the medical center's lab to provide samples for blood work and a urinalysis. But when the tech at the lab learned l'd drunk a pint bottle of orange juice that morning just before arriving for my appointment with the doctor, she sent me home; for those tests to be accurate, l had to fast for a twelve hour period, so had to go back and provide the samples Saturday. Rest assured, gentle readers, l made a beeline for a McD's soon as l got out of there. But yesterday, the doctor's office called me at the Mausoleum to inform me that all my tests came back good! l am almost as healthy as a horse! The one problem they found: my blood platelet count was low. lt was (is?) 120, but should be 140. Don't ask me what that means, l don't know. The doctor's judgement was that this is not a serious problem, but that l should return in 3-4 months for a follow up, to see if there have been any changes. There is, however, one caveat; one of the reasons l'd wanted to get a physical was that my neurologist (l have one, and l'll tell you all why soon, honest and for true l will) told me last time l went for my annual visit to him--this is an exact quote--"Up till you get past [age] 40, you're pretty much bulletproof." l KNOW he didn't mean that literally, but...never mind!

l have one last item of good news to report...but first, a little preamble.

ln the spring of either '82 or '83, l'm not sure which, l had a dream. ln it, l was being held facing a wall by a man (NO, ASSHOLE, THIS IS NOT THAT KIND OF DREAM, SO JUST SHUDDUP AND LET ME FINISH) who l knew to be very fat, easily in the 3-400 pound range, middle aged, balding but with a long fringe of graying black hair and an eqaually graying full black beard, wearing old faded bib overalls. ln the dream, l knew l was going to be forced to marry a woman named Teresa (and l've always felt that was the correct spelling for the name, at least in the dream), who was from Nashville, Tennesee, and whom l dd NOT want to be married to. l remember feeling desperately unhappy about it, as if l were hopelessly trapped. The very fat man behind me whispered in my ear, "She loves you," and l responded, "l know," after which l woke up in the real world. Over the years, l've always depicted myself as being in a shotgun wedding, which is not really the case, but it helps for dramatic impact. And l've never quite forgotten the dream...

Which is why l used that anecdote to lead into my last bit of good news: l now officially have my first acknowledged reader!

Here's how this wonderful event transpired. l've said in earlier posts that l've given up going around in chat rooms, and l am still going to make an effort to avoid chat; l consider Mom's condition to be too serious to be distracted by it. There are other reasons for that, which l won't go into here. But Sunday l was so bored that l finally got back into Yahell Messenger and room hopped, managing to touch base with some of the real people (there are a few, even in Yahell's chat rooms) that l've chatted with in that particular cyberspace realm. Yesterday morning l was in a regional chat room, checking profiles to see who might be friendly and who might not be, when l checked the profile of a lady whom l will call Justine (she does not provide her name on her profile, and with good reason, i think) who has a blog of her own right here on blogspot.com! So l speak up in the room, and tell her about AFine&PeculiarPlace, and give her the link to it. Last night, we chatted a while, and she'd already read all of my posts! Not that there are all that many, but what the hell. She finds my blather, in her words, "enlightening." Well, l like to think my brain cell is capable of producing something other than generic nonsense, but "enlightening" is not exactly the word l'd use for it...

Thank you Justine. Welcome to A Fine and Peculiar Place. Come back any time you like.

Good morning, gentle readers. Yesterday l had to run down the nursing home where my brother Alex has been for the last year and pick up his laundry so l could run it through the washer&dryer here. Fortunately he doesn't have much so it didn't take long. After taking it back down, l ran another errand which l won't discuss here, then went to see Mom in the hospital. Her color is still very yellow, even in her eyes, and she was sleeping for much of the visit, so after about 45 minutes l left her to rest.

lt's fitting that today is gray with rain this morning. lt is, after all, the last day of my "vacation." That's in quotes because for most people a vacation involves traveling somewhere, and except for my car, travel is something that's beyond my financial means. So for me a "vacation" is just nine days away from the two jobs l work, and for the most part what money l spend gets spent on things l have to spend them on, not, as l would think most people on a vacation would do, on all manner of souvenirs and taking endless videos and just plain having fun. Okay, so l got to eat more fast food than usual. But unless the lottery tickets l bought on Mom's behalf won something other than jack shit, l get to go back to work tomorrow. l'm not complaining about this. Believe me, these last nine days away from having to work at all have been quite therapeutic, if only because l didn't have to do much of anything over that time span.

All of this has been preamble for talking about the places where l work. The part-time job is easier to speak of. lt's a Mexican-style (at least the food is Mexican, except for a few items on the Rotten Little Brats' menu--oops, sorry, l mean the kids's menu) restaurant called the Guacamole Grille, which l just refer to as "the Grille," while all other employees call it "the Guac." l wash dishes there on Saturdays, except l'll also be there for the next two Sundays, because l have to make up for the two Sabados l've missed during my nine days of wonderful freedom. When l started about 5-6 years ago, the kitchen was still made up of mostly other Yanquis, but has now, at least on Sabado (notice how l switched from the English "Saturday" to the Spanish "Sabado" ? l have learned something besides "NO MAS!" and "PUTO PENDEJO!") has now become entirely Mexican. Before anyone can assume that this means that l have a problem with anyone who is not as lily-white as myself, l state for the record that the only difficulty l have with this is that nearly every thing said is in Spanish, which, while l've managed to pick up a few words here and there, is not even close to being my second language. That, and the fact that 90% of the music being played is Mexican pop. (Just try listening to that for one entire 8-hour stretch...ANYTHING that has English words in it sounds good after that.) Otherwise, l get along well with them and like them just fine. lt's not really a big deal that there's not a lot of folks to talk to. Most of those whom l can talk to are young women who work as servers, and since they're all college age--which makes them half my age--l leave well enough alone. l may be giving the impresssion that it's not a good place to work, which isn't the case. Bruce and Lance, the owners of both Grilles (there are in fact two of them, one in KC, the other in Olathe; l'm at the original location, in KC) have seen fit to keep me working, in spite of the fact that they would do well to cut me loose, since l only work the one day a week; they could certainly find somebody else younger and dumber than me, who'd gladly work more hours for less money. Might as well count such blessings as l have.

l was going to go on and finally, finally lay down my thoughts about my day job at the place l call the Mausoleum, for reasons of my own; but it has occurred to me that it might be best to leave that until tomorrow night, because l want to know what's been going on in my absence. What, you thought l'd go within a time zone of that place when l don't have to be near it? Would you happily traipse around in a toxic waste dump without full protection gear? Seriously, l just got the idea that maybe l'll want to see what, if anything, has changed while l've been gone, so that l can present for you, my gentle readers, an even more clearly prejudiced picture of what it's like being a Caucasian Stepin Fetchit. l'm thinking of you, here, not just my own need to spew venom while l still can...

Good evening, gentle readers. l'm surprised to find myself in here tonight, because yesterday's post was, for me at least, taxing in the extreme. My brain cell did finally cool down, but l think it's best if l try not to stick around in here for long.

One thing regarding yesterday's post. Honest. lt occurred to me after posting it that l didn't make any suggestions as to who should say the Pledge, or any kind of Pledge. lt's a good thing l didn't, because it's occurred to me that many of those who might best be required to say it--our elected officials--don't take their oaths of office seriously anyway. Look, we're always seeing some politician getting dragged through the media mud for some scandal or other, right? Whether or not they get caught, the oaths they took upon either being elected or appointed couldn't have meant much. Yet we see many politcal figures--Pubes II not the least among them--denouncing the idea that our sweet precious innocent little baby children should not be required to parrot on a daily basis a bunch of words that sound patriotic and devout, yet upon close examination don't say nearly as much as they could, and become more meaningless with each repetition. lf l were even more stupid than l am, l'd suggest that such folks might do as least as much as the kids, retaking their own oaths on a daily basis. Good thing l'm not THAT far removed from reality...

Good morning, gentle readers. l have a far better chance of winning the lottery than l have of avoiding trouble after today's post goes up.

When l was growing up in the '70s, l went first to Boone Elementary School, then beginning in second grade, Martin City Elementary. Each morning, of course, all the kids recited the Pledge of Allegiance:

" l pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which
it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Only we always did it more like this:

"l pledge allegiance (pause) to the flag (pause) of the United States of America (pause) and to
the Republic (pause) for which it stands (pause) one nation (pause) under God (pause) indivisible
(pause) with liberty (brief pause) and justice (brief pause) for all."

Saying it like that, by rote, every day the same way as l did, made it meaningless to me, just another dull part of the dull daily routine. They were just words l and all the other kids were supposed to say, so we did.

Now, here in the 21st century, Michael Newdow, an atheist, is arguing before the Supreme Court to have recital of the Pledge removed from public schools on the grounds that it is unconstitutional. He wants to prevent his daughter, a third-grader, from having to recite the Pledge in class. By all accounts, even those of his opposition, Newdow, a rookie lawyer, has argued his case well, having managed to bring it before the Supreme Court and even getting Justice Antonin Scalia recused. In my humble opinion, he won't win his case, but l have to give him points for getting as far with it as he has.

But then, l don't think anybody should have to say the Pledge, as it now stands. You see, most people who support keeping the Pledge as is don't seem to understand (and woudn't have a problem with it if they did) is that back in 1954, religious fundamentalists pressured Congress into shoehorning the words "under God" into the Pledge. The thinking at the time was supposedly to show that we were a God-fearing nation, unlike those evil Communists over there in Russia; but it wouldn't surprise me that at least some of those fundamentalists were thinking , "lf we can get kids in schools to say the Pledge like this, they'll all grow up to be God-fearing, patriotic Americans!" Fifteen years later, we had the Summer of Love. Now THAT is what l'd call "forward" thinking. Of a head-stuffed-permanently-up-the-fudge-tunnel variety.

Now, before the jackbooted stormtroopers suddenly arrive in the night and spirit me away never to be seen again, l'd like to point out that l did NOT say there should not be a Pledge at all. l said, no one should have to say the Pledge as it is now recited. Here, without further ado, is my modified Pledge of Allegiance:

"l pledge allegiance to the Republic of the United States of America, one indivisible nation,
standing for liberty and justice, for all."

l dispensed with the flag and went straight to pledging to the Republic, since we are in fact supposed to be a republic, not a democracy, and why not pledge allegiance to the Republic itself, instead of a piece of cloth? l left out "under God" because, as l said earlier, it wasn't originally included in the Pledge in the first place, but added by others for reasons of their own, which really didn't have much to do with allegiance of any kind. No, l am not in any way suggesting Peculiarpledge 1.0 should replace the current version, because l don't think it goes far enough (and no, there isn't going to be a Peculiarpledge 2.0; we are well into the realm of half-baked quasi-opinions here, as it is, and my brain cell is dangerously overheated now, so l'm just trying to get out of this alive). l'm saying that my version, naive though it be, is at least more to the point. But even then, if we must have a Pledge, why should little kids not yet old enough to really comprehend its meaning recite it on a daily basis in public schools? lt didn't do much for me. And look how l turned out.

Good morning, gentle readers. Went to see Mom in the hospital yesterday afternoon. She hadn't slept well the night before, and she was yellow from jaundice again. She was lucid, and said she was hurting. That isn't surprising, given her recent surgical history, but hearing it made me wince anyway. A doctor, who as it turned out neither Mom nor l knew, popped in and out without saying much of anything. Bastard. He wouldn't have gotten away so easily if my sister had come in, but she didn't make it there until ten minutes after he left.

l want to talk about my sister Phyllis a moment. Our mother's cancer has been harder on her than me or the rest of my siblings. (l have more of them, whom l have not yet spoken of.) But other than being exhausted much of the time, she doesn't show it. Or tries not to, anyway. We are fortunate to have her at all, because she is a cancer survivor herself, having undergone several surgeries, the first one occurring in the early '70's (the Dark Ages, before the coming of things like the Star Wars movies, the Internet, unreality TV, and the like) for throat cancer. During one such operation, the doctors literally cut her in half. But she survived it all, and learned all she could about cancer along the way, so that when Mom was finally diagnosed, she knew how to deal with the doctors who were and are in charge of Mom's case. She does not take any crap from anyone where Mom is concerned; she asks questions and she gets answers, she raises hell if Mom's care is less than excellent, and she also deals with the care of one of my brothers, who is in a nursing home. She does all this and more while holding down a very demanding job at the FAA installation in Olathe, which is considered a major military target and has been on Red Alert since 9-11. As l said, she is very tired much of the time, but she keeps soldiering on for Mom's sake. Mom worries about Phyl pushing herself too hard (which isn't good for her to do, given her condition, so of course she does it anyway), and it's true that if something happens to Phyl, the rest of us would be screwed, because none of the rest of us have been--or are able to be, l must make that clear--as close to the situation as she is. But l think, from seeing the way that Phyl tries to hold things together, that while she does have her physical limits, she has another kind of strength, which l think she inherited from someone l barely remember: our dad.

l'm lucky to have a big sis like you, Phyl. l love you.

Mom underwent another surgery on Saturday. A feeding tube, which had been surgically inserted so that she could be fed directly, had become infected and needed to be replaced. She has already gotten a little better, but is now on antibiotics and morphine as well as being fed through an IV. She's mostly lucid, but not quite; yesterday she told my sister that she'd been seeing smoke again, which she also saw after her original hysterectomy (and thought the hospital was on fire!), but that this time there was a skinny arm protruding from it. She thought it belonged to my brother Mike, who died in 2002, and had the idea that he was teasing her, which he used to do years ago. l think that once she's off the morphine, she'll be a little less foggy. Otherwise, l am surprised to find myself feeling very positive about her. ln spite of her condition, which was frail to begin with, she has undergone two major surgeries in less than three weeks...and she's still hanging on. l know that she is still slowly being drawn into the black hole that all of us must eventually gravitate to, but dammit, she's still here, and l intend to look forward to seeing her come home one more time!

l don't want my gentle readers should think that all of us ('us' meaning me, myself, and l) here at AF&PP intend to use this blog solely to enter posts about Mom. She is most important to me, and l will continue to update her condition here. But l haven't quite lived up to the theme of this blog, and so l turn to other matters.

First up: The Passion of Mel Gibson--er, the Christ--was dethroned as the boxofffice champion over the weekend by the remake of George Romero's Dawn of the Dead. l'm sure it's really just me, but it only seems fitting that a gorefest made on a shoestring budget should knock off yet another gorefest made on a shoestring budget. And for those of you who may be offended by my dismissal of St. Melvin's cinematic magnum opus: shut up and go read someone else's blog. 'Nuff said.

Next, l will proceed to attack yet another sacred cow: American ldiot--er, ldol. l've watched bits and pieces of this example of insulting people and making money off of them at the same time over its three seasons, usually the first episodes where the talentless ones demonstrate their lack of it. l don't find it amazing in the least that the show is successful. We'd already had two forerunners, Pop Stars and Making the Band--which had shown the record industry how it could bleed us of more dollars by not only selling us the shows themselves, but then turning around and selling us the manufactured bands those shows spawned (Eden's Crush, all female singers, from Pop Stars, and O-Town, all male singers, from Making the Band, respectively)--so we should have expected this. But isn't anyone else annoyed at seeing only singers as contestants after three seasons? For the first two seasons, we saw that glaring bit of computer animation before and after commercial breaks, which showed us not just a microphone, but also a keyboard and a guitar, yet they never even paid lip service to the idea that maybe singers weren't the only kind of performer we'd like to see. (They have changed that this season, so at least they're being that honest now.) Nope, they are sticking with what they already know works: using us to find a naif--college age or younger in order to appeal to that demographic group--with a good singing voice and preferably dance skills but little knowledge of how the music business really works, whom they promptly sell back to us and then discard as soon as they stop making money for the record label. Nice work if you can get it l supppose, but wouldn't it be awesome, just once, to see some guy who's maybe 35 but looks more like tough-as-leather 45 walk in without a word, plug an old beat-up guitar into an equally beat up Fender amp, and lay down a blistering blues lick that makes Simon crap his pants, gives Paula the best orgasm she's ever had, and scares Randy white, after which he turns and walks right back out as silently as he walked in. Ha ha, like THAT would ever happen on REALITY TV...

Good morning, gentle readers. l haven't posted since Wednesday because on Thursday night Mom was readmitted into the hospital. She had become so jaundiced that she had literally turned orange, even in her eyes. That, combined with her inability to eat or drink enough to sustain herself, has put her back on the cancer ward. l didn't find out about her having gone back until l got home from the Mausoleum, and needless to say, it didn't put me in a posting mood. We--my sister Phyllis and l--went to see her last night, and she was doing much better. But l am very doubtful that she is going to come home again soon. lf she comes home at all.

l talked to my friend Jay Manifold (you are reading his blog, A Voyage to Arcturus, aren't you? of course you are!) and he informed me that he been plugging AFine&Peculiar on that far superior site. This, naturally, has me scared shitless. lt means l'm really going to have to think carefully about what l say and how l say it, which is equivalent to trying to ride a tiny bicycle on a wire stretched across Niagara Falls...after training for the attempt by standing on a balance beam a foot off the ground. Mind and body strong, grasshopper!

l'll be on vacation, of sorts, for the next nine days. All this really means is l don't have to be at either of my places of employment for that stretch. Mostly, l'll be trying to get the rolling death trap fixed. Okay, so it's not really a rolling death trap, it's a '93 Skylark with 111, 000 miles on it. l'll have plenty of spare time, so l'll try to fill in some details about what l'm doing here--along with an incoherent rant or two--to anyone kind enough to check it out. And l just got an idea for something that could really be entertaining...

The pain l was having early Sunday AM were caused by intestinal spasms, and l ended up in the emergency room. They lasted for the better part of two hours, but began to fade by the time l left the ER. There was nothing else eventful about the day, except that they returned at roughly 8PM that night and lasted for at least another hour, after which my abdominal area ached the entire night and well into the next day. Fortunately, gentle readers, l am no longer in any pain. C'mon, you cared. You know you did.

l am entering this post from my day job. My bosshole, Bob Jr., is on vacation with his family this week, so l have access, and because everything is slow here at the Mausoleum, which l promise l'll really piss and moan about soon, l'm taking the opportunity to catch up.

Mom has indeed been home since Friday. It was and is good to have her there, but today she went in for treatments because she is getting too dehydrated again. She has now been told that she has a choice: stay hooked to a machine for 12 hours each day or night, or die. At the same time, the people who were coming in for her home care appear to be trying to back out of their commitments. lf they can, and do, we will lose her in a month. She claims she is ready to "leave it in the Lord's hands" but at the same time she is saying that she doesn't want to make this decision. We may learn more about her situation this coming Friday, when my sister Phyllis takes her in for another appointment, which suggests to me that it may not be over just yet. So l'm hanging on to a little bit of grim hope still.

l've been distracted these last few days for a couple of reasons. First, that bug l've had lately didn't really start to go away untll yesterday, so l just let this ride until this morning. l didn't want to sit in front of the dumbputer trying to post while my digestive tract was still unstable. l know you all cared ever so much, gentle readers, but spare me the flowers and get-well cards. Just send the money you'd have spent on them. l could use that.

Far more important is the fact that MOM IS HOME!!!. She's as wobbly as l've ever seen her, she's begining to lose her hair from the chemo again, and she still has the feeder tube in her stomach, but she is home and l am glad to have her here. lt's going to be walking on eggshells for the next few days until we can be sure she is not going to contract this crappy bug l'm getting rid of, because if she does it's right back to the hospital. My sister Phyllis, however, has been here too and has not gotten it herself, so l'm positive about our chances of dodging that bullet.

Suddenly l've got this abdominal pain, feels like a cramp. Uh-oh.

l havent't posted for a couple of days. l would have gotten around to it yesterday, but instead l was contending with one of those stomach bugs of the 24-48 hour variety. l won't go into details, gentle readers, for which l know you will be grateful, except to say that l don't recommend such nasty little things as a quick weight loss program. lt comes at a bad time, too; Mom could be sent home from the hospital this week, and she cannot afford to catch what l've just started to get over. lf she is sent home, that is. Today she had a setback, and may be hooked back up to all the lV's she's just gotten loose of. This is not good. There is still much riding on her shoulders, and we need her to come home. Soon.

Yesterday l finally had the pleasure of listening to and/or watching a baseball game for the first time since the Royals concluded their first winning season in a decade last October! lt was only a spring training game, but l couldn't have cared less about that. l've been a Royals fan since 1978, when l happened to watch their last playoff game against the Yankees. l would have been 16 or 17 then. Up until l watched that game, which ended when Pete LaCock (who was the son of Peter Marshall, the original host of The Hollywood Squares game show)(don't you think that 'Pete LaCock' sounds more like the name of a '70s porn star than that of a pro baseball player?) flied out to left field, l had no interest in sports of any kind. l might have gotten into baseball late, but l still love it in spite of the ugly greed-based (on all sides) business that has been allowed to grow around it. l say 'around it' because the game in my humble opinion the game itself, while having been changed in a number of ways in order to feed the money habits of players, owners, agents, and anyone else who happens to make some kind of profit from it, is not corrupt. lt still comes down to simple factors: whether or not a pitcher throws that needed strike, or an outfielder makes that running catch, or a scrappy infielder gets that one hit that scores the winning run. Simple things, really, if in fact you can do it at all. Regardless of how much money George Steinbrenner spends.

Oh, and the Royals won that game yesterday, 10-7 against the Texas Rangers.

l haven't posted for a couple of days, because l've been running into what must be called "blogger's block." That is, l come in all ready to blog my brains out but once l'm here...nothing. l think l've been just a bit too eager to vent, and it promptly caused my brain cell to lock up, which isn't a difficult task in the first place. l have now learned that l can't force myself to blog every day; l've got to ease into it a little bit at a time. So l intentionally took last night off, and here l am today, free of blogstipation! Arent you all thrilled, gentle readers? Of course you aren't, you don't exist!

Mom has been improving at the speed of a glacier. They have now put her on a liquid diet, and are trying to jump-start her bowels, since with all the IV treatments they've gone into hibernation, with so-so results. We're all pleased with her progress, though; keeping her around is of vital importance to us. l tease her that it's just because we want her to stop being cheap (which she is), buy lottery tickets (which she does once about every other new moon), and win a huge jackpot. This has been a running joke between us for years. l argue that since old people win more lotteries than young people, and since she is old (which she denies, even she oh-so-slowly grows nearer death's door at the age of 78), that she ought to be a shoo-in. And she would be, too, if she'd just stop being cheap and buy tickets.

l've been getting ahead of myself quite a bit. lnstead of attending to more of what's going on immediately around me, l've b
been blathering about that movie that Mel Gibson is now projected to make at least $300 millionfrom, which fact has now guaranteed that l'll avoid it; and putting in my worthless two cents about gay marriages. l'll still try to comment on current events, as they come up, and if l can manage to do so while they're still being talked about. For now, l'm going to try to talk a bit more about the world l know best: my own. However, it is now officially time for breakfast, and my ass is starting to fall asleep in this chair. You can wait. Not that you're paying attention as it is.

Mom slept okay last night, but this morning she woke up vomiting. But her stomach settled down afterward, and she didn't do it again the rest of the day. l didn't stay long tonight, but she told me she was up and walking twice today, which she needs to do to build up her strength. l'm hopeful she won't have to have that tube put back in, since it has irritated the tissue in the passage to her tummy and would be painful to have to put back. She was up twice today, once walking around the whole floor of her hospital. They are trying to build up her strength as quickly as possible. Her nurse, a thin but pretty young woman named M------(name left unrevealed to protect her privacy and me from a lawsuit) tells me she is still doing well. My only disappointment is that they didn't get the surgery done sooner. But since they took the risk at all, and since the results so far have been positive, l won't complain. l'll save my slings and arrows for more deserving people. Unfortunately l've been fighting sleep tooth and nail for the last half hour, so it'll have to wait. l just know that all my gentle readers (all zero of them) will hold their bated breath for my next post...or not.

Good morning, gentle readers. This is, as many of you will know (not that any of you exist, let alone many) my one-week anniversary here at A Find and Peculiar Place! l was working on a post last night about gay marriages when three things occurred: 1) l realized that l care about the subject about as much as l care to be used for live shark bait; 2) all l really had to say was, "lf two (or more) people want to be together in some kind of sexual relationship, they're going to be together--just look at some of the hookups that happened on Jerry Springer's show (which l mostly avoided because of it was so poisonously fascinating)--and nothing will stop them from doing, certainly not Ahnuld ze Governator, and certainly not a Constitutional amendment as promoted by our second Chief Executive whose last name happens to be a slang term for thick, untrimmed pubic hair (and which he's only doing, in much the same way he proposed that "hey everybody, let's build a moonbase so we can go to Mars for real!" program, because it's an election year); 3) l wasn't able to come up with a good Rosie O'Donnell joke--but then, it isn't as if she needs my help for that; 4) l was boring myself to sleep.

Went to see Mom in the hospital last night, and watched Wheel of Fortune with her. She has had the tube they ran through her nose into her stomach removed, because it had become too irritating for her. l'm hoping she had a good night; if she did, they won't put it back. She should be there for another week, and then she'll come home. l am currently deluding myself about her condition; that is to say, l know what it really is, but right now she's still in this world and that is all l care about. Except that l wish they'd get around to replacing Vanna White.