May 17, 2008

Caveat Emptor

I've just finished up with an interesting assignment: reading through a published novel and offering the author a critique.

The author is a local chap---who shall remain nameless, because I don't want to hurt him or his prospects in any way, shape or form---a gentleman the husband knows, and, somehow, the offer of a free copy turned into a project of reading, rereading, scouring the book for mistakes and then producing a brief critique. He has been wondering why it isn't selling. I am sad to say that, after reading it, it's obvious as to why it hasn't become a bestseller. I didn't have too many nice things to say about the book, but fortunately, the author seemed grateful for my honesty---so much so that he would like me to publish my review on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. I'll admit, I was a bit surprised at that. If someone had handed me a review like I handed him, I would have been dismissive, crabby and wounded, before grudgingly agreeing, a few days later, that they may have a point. He was grace personified in his acceptance.

I had a few problems with the book, but my main problem was that it could have been tighter. Much tighter. An international thriller should not meander. It should be sharp and to the point, while keeping the reader on the edge of their seat. This book didn't, for the most part, manage that. In my estimation, there's probably a hundred pages and a subplot or two that could be lost, and it would help the book tremendously---and would make it an international best seller. I'm absolutely sure of it. It may have its problems, but it's better than some of the current bestsellers out there. Trust me on this one. A decent editor would have solved this problem the first time around to make it sell. They would have seen that the diamond needed some polishing, and would have cut what didn't need to be there. Unfortunately, he didn't have a decent editor. He didn't have an editor at all. He simply has a publisher, who does nothing for him, other than printing his book. He published through a local company which charges him a small fortune to put copies on bookstore shelves (and even on Amazon). He is responsible for promoting his book, and as he's retired from another career that is miles away from publishing, and is somewhat shy, I can understand why he has trouble with this.

This is one of those cases where it obviously does not pay to self-publish. And it would behoove people to realize precisely what they're getting if they choose to take this tack in publishing their book. I've never really wanted to do this, despite encouragement from the husband and others, simply because while I can sell a product, particularly if I have stake in it, but I need a framework to do so. Self-publishing does not provide said framework. Yes, you will retain the rights. Yes, you will make more money if the book takes off, but if you do not have any idea of what is required to get your book onto shelves and how to get them off shelves and into people's eager little hands, it probably won't happen in the first place. There are more self-published successes in recent years, thanks to the glories of the internet, but they're still far and few in between. Of course, if you choose to go the traditional route, this means you're taking a much rougher path to having a published work, but it might just be worth it in the long run. I'd bet a hundred bucks this guy's publisher didn't even instruct him on how to put together a media kit, like some self-publishing companies do, because, after all, the publisher is already making money on each copy. It may not be as much as they could make it they helped to promote the book, but then again, they don't incur those costs, either. Some profit is better than none, or a huge loss if the book fails to sell.

I feel extremely sorry for this gentleman, because the plot, in all actuality, is nothing different than what Robert Ludlum (or the shadow writers publishing under the good graces of the Ludlum Estate. You do know the guy is dead, right? The Cake Eater Mother absolutely refuses to believe me when I tell her this. Yes, Mom, he has been IN THE GROUND for about seven years and everything published since has been written by ghosters. Wikipedia may not be the most accurate source about some things, but they generally get the death dates right.) or Dan Brown might have produced. Seriously. He's got that much right, and the book definitely has potential. He just needs a massive edit to make it successful, and I don't know if, after all he's tried to do to promote this book in its current form and how much money he's invested to get it onto shelves, he'll want to take that path. Fortunately for him, he still owns the rights to the book. He can do with it as he will, so the option of an edit is available to him, if he chooses to partake of it. He could easily do this, call it a second edition, and shop it around to other, full-service publishers. Ironically, the fact that he's published, even if it is of the self-service variety, will help him find an agent and a publisher more quickly than if he hadn't self-published. I can only hope he realizes that this is his best option.

So, I offer this up as a cautionary tale: if you are a burgeoning writer and think self-publishing is the way to go, be aware of the pitfalls. If you have some grounding in the book business, have a load of cash to get your books on the shelves, and know how to promote your book to recoup the cash outlay, go for it. But if you're simply tired of sending out queries and sample chapters to agents and publishers and the rejection letters they send out in return, and want to bypass all the bluster, just be aware of what you're getting yourself into. Patience can and does pay off, and it probably pays off more handsomely.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:14 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 1066 words, total size 6 kb.

May 15, 2008

You've Honestly Got Nothing Better to do With Your Time?

Fer the love of all that's good and holy.

A Christian group out of San Diego has found grounds for outrage over the new logo for Starbucks Coffee.

The Resistance says the new image "has a naked woman on it with her legs spread like a prostitute," Mark Dice, founder of the group, said in a news release. "Need I say more? It's extremely poor taste, and the company might as well call themselves, Slutbucks."

The group, which claims more than 3,000 members nationwide, is calling for a national boycott of the coffee-selling giant.{...}

Charbucks has gone from this

CharbucksI.jpg

To this:

CharbucksII.jpg

Notice anything different about the second one, other than that it's got a "slutty" naked chick on it? (Never minding the fact that the woman on the logo doesn't, indeed, have legs "spread like a prostitute," like Mr. Dice claims. She, apparently, doesn't have legs at all. )

Well, gee, Gomer, could it be that it's printed in black and white instead of color?

While Charbucks is selling this as a "keeping it real" move, this is more likely about money. Color in the logo costs money. And if they have to print cups and napkins, etc., with black, white and green, you can be sure the green is costing them coin. Switching to a black and white logo is the money saving equivalent of American Airlines taking one olive off every meal they served: it's a small move, but it's coin that can be used for other things. Like buoying up their decreasing stock price. Because that's what this is about: keeping those shareholders happy. They've apparently realized that they can't sell more coffee, so they've got to find the pennies wherever they can find them to keep the stock from decreasing any further.

But that's really beside the point: some Christian group is po'ed because there's a naked chick on the Charbucks logo.

Sigh.

Don't these people have anything better to do with their time? You know, there are millions of people around the world who are, with increasing regularity, falling victim to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (you know, famine, plague, war and pestilence) and this is what they choose to get their knickers in a twist about? A naked chick on a coffee cup? A logo that won't even be seen once the barista puts the cardboard coffee clutch on the cup? Get real, would you? Go and picket the Burmese embassy. Your social activism will be put to better use---and, ahem, it might actually accomplish something worthwhile.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:02 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 444 words, total size 3 kb.

May 14, 2008

My old bacon fest posts at Ace's

Here's the immediate after action report

And here's the last post I did prior to the competition, asking for advice on competitive eating.

Both found by googling "Russ from Winterset Bacon"

Posted by: Russ from Winterset at 06:14 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 45 words, total size 1 kb.

Random Question of the Day

So, there's this new trend going about---maxi dresses. And by this I mean long, floaty dresses that are reminiscent of the caftans of yore, but usually look like a cute sundress on top, instead, so you don't look you're hiding a cow under all that fabric. Understandably, pregger chicks think these ideal maternity wear, but normal sized women are wearing them as well. Which leads us to our random question of the day. Ahem.

Do you wear underwear when sporting a maxi dress?

Because, you have to think, with all that fabric, no one's going to know if you aren't.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:38 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 110 words, total size 1 kb.

"Eat, You Bitches! EAT!"

Devoted Cake Eater reader, Russ from Winterset, points moi to this post, where his final pre-diabetic eating experience is recorded for all the world to see.

See if you can spot him.

I know Russ recapped his experiences over at Ace's, but damned if I can find the post. Maybe Russ can help out here because, ahem, it's not like he doesn't have Cake Eater access, ya dig?

Posted by: Kathy at 09:24 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 76 words, total size 1 kb.

May 13, 2008

Teh Funny

The husband frequents certain gamer boards and on one of them, a friend, who, in turn, has some confused colleagues in Denmark, posted the following from his Danish colleagues.

“We in Denmark cannot figure out why you are even bothering to hold an election.

On one side, you have a witch who is a lawyer, married to a lawyer, and a lawyer who is married to a witch who is a lawyer.

On the other side, you have a true war hero married to a woman with a shapely body who owns a beer distributorship.

IS THERE A CONTEST HERE?!”

Heh.

Posted by: Kathy at 02:16 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 105 words, total size 1 kb.

May 10, 2008

Random Question of the Day

So, as I might have mentioned once or twice, I'm an auntie twenty-some-odd times over. I've lost count, completely, particularly since my brother re-married last year and gained four step-kids. I think that puts me at twenty-seven nieces and nephews, and one grandniece, but I might be doing the math wrong. Yes, we are your typical Catholic family: everyone has gone forth and started with the "begat" business. While it's nice to have a variety of nieces and nephews, with their various personalities and interests to keep things lively, it presents something of a problem having this many. I can't send everyone a birthday card, otherwise our household GDP would fund Hallmark exclusively, and dammit, if I'm going to give that much money to a company, I'd just as soon have stock, ya dig? There are just too many of them.

But special occasions are another story, and this year we have four---count 'em---grandkids graduating from various institutions. (Perhaps it might be five, but I'm not sure if one nephew is receiving his joint MBA/MS in Mechanical Engineering this semester or not.) As such, I have received three graduation announcements in the mail, and I'm sure the final one will be winging its way here once that particular nephew puts down his pipe long enough to listen to his parents' nagging to send them out. (Sigh. But if you knew this particular nephew, you'd know he's a good kid at heart, but is going through his rebellious phase.) The thing that's killing me, however, is that only one of these kids has actually addressed his announcement. The other two have their mothers' handwriting on the envelopes. They're the ones who have, undoubtedly, ordered the announcements, have put the various pieces of the puzzle into the envelopes, addressed them, and mailed them off---not the children who are graduating, and who, it must be said, are soliciting graduation presents/cash donations with said announcements. I know the kids are all busy, but that's no excuse. It's their event; their achievement;their announcement. And I am proud of them and their achievements, and want to reward them, even if I'm limited by budget constraints to doing it in a smallish-way, but, damnit, it just seems like laziness in the extreme that they would foist this job on their parents. And that is something I won't reward, particularly when I know how hard my sibs work to get their kids through school, and, in one instance, how much they pay to put one daughter through my old high school, where tuition, it must be said, ain't on the cheaper side of things.

So, the random question of the day is this: do I send the kids the cash I would normally send them, or do I send it to their mothers, to go out and buy themselves a round of drinks, because they did the hard work of sending out the announcements?

After all, if the kids can't be bothered to send out the stupid things, how do I know they actually should be congratulated for graduating? While I know their parents didn't do their coursework for them, this act kind of screams that they did. Perhaps I'm congratulating the wrong people?

I'm not even going to go into the fact that I KNOW several of them won't bother sending out a 'thank you' note. That's another story entirely.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:06 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 573 words, total size 3 kb.

May 09, 2008

Presented With Minimal Commentary

Because If I actually vent my spleen on this one, I'll wind up in a hospital bed in a catatonic state for a good long while.

You'll understand after you watch it.

{ht: WWTDD}

Posted by: Kathy at 04:10 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 42 words, total size 1 kb.

Spare Me

Hey Jerkweed, weren't you supposed to leave the country in 2000 if Bush was elected?

According to many travel sites, there are still loads of flights available. Why don't you GET ON ONE and spare us your sanctimonious bullshit, eh?

The fat head you save could be your own.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:40 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 53 words, total size 1 kb.

May 07, 2008

I Kinda Feel Like I Should Update the Hair Story

So, one year ago today, I went bald.

On said night, after we'd finished dinner, the husband made me undress and took me into the bathtub. While I sat there, on the edge of the tub, naked as a jaybird, he buzzed me with the clippers, taking any and all excess length off my head, of which, it must be said, there wasn't much. After a quickie shower, which washed my hair down the drain and off my neck, I got dressed again, and he then sat me down, on one of the dining room chairs he'd placed in front of the kitchen sink, lathered up my head with shaving cream and took a razor to whatever was left.

When he was finished (it took a while, because my scalp had never been shaved before and it proved somewhat reticent. Also, the husband, new to the task of shaving heads, didn't want to cut me, as well), we went into the bathroom to take a peek in the mirror, and that's when I started to cry in the husband's arms. I felt like Samson---completely vulnerable to attack. After a while, I wiped my eyes, put on the hat my sister had knit for me, and went out to the living room to be distracted by the tee vee. The husband, upset because I was upset, again made the offer to cut all of his hair off, so I wouldn't feel alone. I refused, mainly because I wanted to be able to play with his hair whenever I wanted to, and extracted that promise from him. (Bless him, he kept that promise, too.) While I was entirely horrified that I'd lost my crowning glory, I couldn't stop myself from feeling up my smooth head. It was weird, and it wasn't something I ever got over doing the five months I was without hair. If I was just sitting around, watching tee vee, it was guaranteed that that's where my hand was, feeling up my skull. It was normal for me to do this, I suppose, considering how much I played with my hair, when I had hair. I'd just substituted running my hand along my scalp, feeling the bone, trying to memorize all the bumps and curves, for making braids and twirling the locks.

Also, as it turns out, going bald brought back a second grade memory that I'd completely forgotten: one day, in the middle of winter, coming home from school, I decided to take a "shortcut" between two garages and sliced open the top of my head on a low hanging gutter. At the time, I hadn't realized that I'd done anything to myself, but by the time I'd reached home, I realized there was all this red stuff on my hooded green ski jacket. I couldn't figure out what it was. My memories of the event are foggy, but I must have freaked the ever living hell out of my mother when I walked in the back door. As it turns out, I'd cut open my scalp, through the hood of my coat, and had bled like a stuck pig from the inch-long gash. After a phone call to the doctor, the decision to not get stitches was cemented, because it wasn't bad enough to merit them, I was cleaned up and I went into the family room to watch cartoons. I remember eating an awful lot for dinner that evening, but I was fine overall, and the incident was soon forgotten.

Until I went bald, that is. While he was shaving my head, the husband wanted to know why I had a small scar on my scalp, and I was puzzled for a few moments until I remembered this incident. I was amazed and had to tell my mother and sister all about it. Ironically, a few weeks later, my niece, Maggie, cut open her head while she was horsing around at one of her brothers' baseball games, and despite all the blood (because, as I found out from a nurse friend that scalp wounds bleed like crazy) everyone comforted my sister, saying at least it was under her hair, so no one would notice. Christi told me she'd laughed and said, "Well, you never know about that. My sister just lost her hair from chemo, and she found..."

About every week and a half, the husband would get to shave me again, because white fuzz grew in small amounts on my head and, when it got to a certain length, it would start to catch on the scarves I wore. He got pretty good at this, and had it down to a routine before long. Every time a chair from the dining room would make it's way in front of the kitchen sink, where the husband would lather me up and would go to town, while I tried to watch the little tee vee we have installed in there without the benefit of my glasses. As you might have guessed, I wound up listening more than watching.

Fortunately, in the middle of August, one month after my last Taxol treatment, the hair started to grow back. It was earlier than I'd thought it would be, but it was just fine with me.

One year later, here's the progress report:

nowwithhair!.jpg

Yeah, I fully realize I look like a complete and utter spaz in this picture. All I can say is you try to take a decent picture of yourself, by yourself and see what you can come up with.

But, let's face it, I'm a complete and utter spaz...with hair. Which is good.

Yes, it came back in curly. That's par for the course, but it's not any curlier than what it was beforehand. Thank Goodness it didn't come back in as a fro. What I wasn't expecting is that the texture is now completely different. My hair used to be somewhat coarse, now it's fine. Unfortunately, that doesn't help in the frizz department, because it still erupts whenever it's wet. Sigh. I was hoping God was going to throw me a bone on this one, alas, however, He apparently has better things to do with his time than focus on my battle with frizz.

I hope I never have to go bald again because of chemo, because that would mean baaaaaad things regarding my future, but if it happens, I know I'll live. I won't be happy about it, but I doubt I'd be as traumatized as I was last time. And, if it happens, well, I won't have to spend a load of money on scarves and hats because I have a whole drawer full of them. If I had one thing to do over, I would get a wig. Not for vanity purposes, but simply because there were days when I would have enjoyed some privacy regarding my condition. That's all. A wig will only do so much to make you look normal if you already look ill. I just would have appreciated a few days where everyone wasn't privy to my business and a wig would have enabled that.

So, that's the hair update. I suspect that this might be the last one, my devoted Cake Eater readers. For which, I'm sure, more than a few of you might be grateful beyond all belief.

Posted by: Kathy at 01:13 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
Post contains 1241 words, total size 7 kb.

Damn Steve McQueen to Hell (Redux)

Per rabid commenter, Russ from Winterset's, recommendation we watched The Great Escape last night. Again. For, like, the fiftieth time.

All I can say really is, again, damn Steve McQueen to hell for making me CONSTANTLY believe he's going to make it over the fence. Grrrrrrr. I'm really getting tired of being suckered by him.

Oh, and another thing I noticed last night: whomever was in charge of continuity on that film really needed to pay more attention to Donald Pleasence's (Colin, the Forger, and the character who strikes a blow for blind guys everywhere to escape from Nazi POW camps) socks. They're white when he gets on the trolley to go down the tunnel, then they're gray when he's helped off the trolley by Richard Attenborough's Roger, then they're white again as he's getting into the plane with Hendley. Someone wasn't paying attention, ya dig?

Granted, however, it took me fifty viewings to notice this, so, perhaps, I'm being a little too picky.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:36 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 176 words, total size 1 kb.

Lighten Up, Francis

Yes, my devoted Cake Eater readers, it's time to lighten things up a bit around here.

I present for your edification on this fine Wednesday morning....The Muppets.

If, perhaps, that was a bit too blowsy for you, well, then I shall give you a bit of depth. But the Muppet theme still rules, so it won't get too deep, hence negating the whole lightening of things.

Feel better? I do.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:23 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 76 words, total size 1 kb.

Ok, That's It

When the Minneapolis Police Department decides that it's time to bring out the freakin' chariots as a crime fighting initiative, it's time to move.

What I really want to know is where are the broom helmets? Eh? You know what I'm referring to, right? If you don't, let Marvin the Martian enter your mind and you'll know of what I speak. You can't drive a chariot without a freakin' broom helmet. There's some law that dates back to Roman times that decrees each and every chariot driver should have a big armored helmet with a broom on top. So they can sweep up after they rape and pillage the population. It's mandatory. And since the Mpls Police Department is all about following rules and regulations, they should get with the damn program already.

I can't wait to hear from the husband, who has to traverse through downtown daily, how these neo-chariots help the cops cut down on all the drug dealing at Block E. Or even the chronic spitters, who regularly drive the husband up the wall with their disgusting habit of hocking lugeys every five seconds, in competition with their fellow thugs. I suspect they'll be able to hop the curb from Hennepin Avenue in impressive fashion, but will the cops actually be able to hop down from their motorized chariots in time to, you know, actually arrest the drug dealers? I suspect not. I have a feeling that by the time they park the stupid things, the drug dealers will be long gone.

Because, after all, how are the cops going to haul someone in with one of those things?

Stick a fork in me. I'm so done with this place.

{ht: Lileks, without whom I'd have absolutely no idea of what was going on in this place I call home...for the time being.)

Posted by: Kathy at 08:41 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 312 words, total size 2 kb.

May 05, 2008

Street Sweeping Away the Winter Detritus of My Life

Spring, it appears, has finally arrived here in the Twin Cities. Lately, I've been wondering where this phenomenon has been, because it sure as hell hasn't been here. I've found myself fascinated by tee vee news reports coming out of Indiana, where it appears the entire media has decamped for tomorrow's primary, and wondering at all the luscious green I see in the background behind the talking head of the moment. Why do they have leaves on their trees? How'd they get so lucky? Wait a sec...it actually looks like that lawn needs to be mowed! Fuckers! It's not fair! I haven't given a rat's ass about what the reporter was actually reporting on. Who cares about Obama or Clinton or McCain. I want to know why there's this inequity in the arrival of spring. That's the real injustice going on here, not sky high gas prices! Why, there ought to be an investigation!

But, as I wrote up there, it appears spring has finally arrived here in the Cities, and I've got the sunburn to prove it. Yesterday, I had coffee with Mr. H., per usual, and instead of sitting inside our usual haunt, we moved to our summer location, on the other side of the building, where the sun shines most brightly at that stage of the day. Even though we were stretched out on hard concrete, and had to keep shifting every few moments to remain comfortable, the sun felt so good we didn't even contemplate a move to more dignified seating arrangements, which would have better suited our aging bones. We looked like a pair of college students, flopped out wherever we could find the space, rather than a pair of people in their mid-thirties. We didn't care. We loved it.

After I left Mr. H., the husband and I decided a walk around the lake was in order. The husband raided his humidor and snagged one of the largest Churchills he had in residence, to complete the maximum pissing-off-of-overly-healthy-runners effect, and set off for Lake Harriet. It was nice to be over there, because the last time I was over there, the lake was still covered with ice. Fortunately, all the ice had indeed melted and the water looked dark, clear and cold. We made our way around, and while it was lovely, I became a. very sunburned and b. exhausted. It appears I have very little stamina going on. All these infections (and, yes, there's a new infection that I'm not going to talk about, but which I shall simply say is a result of the antibiotics and certain members of the female Cake Eater readership will say, "Ohhhhh," in an understanding way, while the men shall remain clueless.) have robbed me of my energy. I've been fighting crap off for so long that I'm expending all my energy on that, it seems, and there's not much left over for other things. By the time we got back to the Cake Eater pad, I was pooped. I put on my nightshirt, crawled into bed, and promptly fell asleep for a few hours. That's not really all that great, in the scheme of things. Yes, I should feel some mild exertion after walking five miles. No, I should not collapse into bed, utterly exhausted, after walking five miles. Neither should the husband have had to gently encourage me to keep pushing on until we reached home. It was pathetic.

This morning, it appears that it will be yet another nice day, and the street sweepers are out and about, taking advantage of it. It's time to wash the streets clear of all the sand and salt they used to keep people from careering off the roads during the winter storms. It's time for all that nasty, icky, wintry stuff to go down the sewers, to wind up God only knows where. I wish there was such a thing as personal street sweepers, which could come into your life and wash away the nasty winterized streets of your life. My streets could use a good wash. There's too much detritus left over from the winter. I need to get the left over salt off my roads before they start deteriorating.

Add to this that I don't think the next week or so is going to be much fun in that Mother's Day is this coming Sunday. Sigh. Now, to be clear, I don't begrudge the mothers of the world a day to celebrate the fact they've brought offspring into the world. I really don't. Motherhood is a hard job; the moms of the world deserve a day to sleep in and have breakfast in bed. I'm not knocking anyone. It's just a very hard day for us infertile myrtles, and I really don't think that people who have kids get that. Mother's day is not designed to remind us of what we don't have, but desperately want, but that's what it turns out to be. Every sappy commercial for reasonably priced jewelry bought by toddlers "who took out their mom's car without permission to go to the mall" turns me to mush...and reminds me of what I don't have. These commercials instantly bring to mind the horrible price I've had to pay to be cancer-free; of the price I've had to pay to survive. I can live with the grand bargain I've made, but only if it's not shoved in my face every three minutes. I don't want to think about it. That's the way I deal with it. It's there, yes, but if I can avoid thinking about it, all the better. This time of year, however, with the incessant ad bombardment, it's hard to avoid thinking about it. Last year, I finally broke down in tears after viewing, of all things, a Lowe's commercial, advertising, of all things, paint, that was tailored around Mother's Day. I wonder what's going to make the dam burst this year? Ads for reasonably priced jewelry? Will Hallmark send the flood flowing? Or will it be an ad for Teleflora? We'll just have to see, I suppose, because something will start it off. I just know it. I've got an uncomfortable lump in my throat as I write this screed, so God only knows what kind of run on the kleenex box will occur when I really decide to let loose.

Even if the weather's nice, I will avoid the lake next Sunday, because it will be chock-a-block full of families, celebrating Mother's Day with a nice walk around the lake on a sunny spring Sunday. Walking around the lake is a family friendly activity, after all; a picture-perfect example of what families should do on Sundays, if only there was enough time every Sunday, between soccer and baseball practices to accomplish such a thing. There will be loads of kiddies in wagons, on scooters, bikes, and their number will undoubtedly include some overly-padded kids who desperately wanted to rollerblade around the lake, the little plastic wheels on their faux-skates deteriorating with every push, but who are having trouble making it. The trails will be clogged with such people, and it will be intolerable to me, who would like nothing more than to be carting my own child around in a stroller or a wagon, enjoying the day like everyone else. We will also avoid any restaurant in town, the mall, movie theaters, etc. Everyone will be out celebrating Mother's Day, in all these locations. Of course, this means our Sunday will probably be spent at home, but by then, at least, the airwaves will be free of Mother's Day ads by that point so I should be able to watch tee vee without being reminded of what I don't have.

Hope will only get you so far in a situation like this. I can hope that one day we'll be able to adopt a baby, but that is so far off in the future, and such a crapshoot in the first place, that I can't really think about it right now. I can't delude myself with the hope that it might happen. It feels like when you're dead broke and you wish on a star to win the lottery. Sure, it might happen. But will it? Probably not. You can't organize your life around a wish that might never be granted. If it's not, then I'll forever be destined to be everyone's favorite auntie. The cool aunt who they can relate to. But will those nieces and nephews who love me so much now bury me when I die if the husband's not around? Would I have made enough of an impact in their lives to even warrant them showing up for my funeral? Or would they skip it, because they have something going on in their lives that prevents them from dropping all and attending, working on the assumption that, "Aunt Kathy would understand." This is the kind of crap you're forced to think about when you don't have kids. The childless of the world do not have the same givens in solving life's theorems that those with children do. Is it fair? No, but when is life ever fair? This is the bargain I've made, and I'll have to live with it. This week, however, it's on my mind a little more than most.

Forgive all the maudlin Monday morning ramblings, my devoted Cake Eater readers. Suffice it to say, I'll just be happy when Mother's Day is over with, and I can get back to comfortably ignoring all of this stuff.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:54 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1614 words, total size 9 kb.

April 30, 2008

I Suppose I Should Write Something

Even though I don't really feel like it.

A couple of things, though, in the ever handy bullet format.

  • I'm feeling much better, thanks for asking. But the infection and the subsequent yuckiness really took the wind out of my sails. I keep waiting to get my energy back, and it does come back in short bursts, but then I crash. Again, I guess this is just yet another lesson in how fragile our bodies can be and while they can take a substantial amount of abuse, it does take some time to get back up and running.
  • As far as where we stand on the pain in the ass lymphocele, well, that's a long story. Last week, once I'd recovered from the infection, I called in to Dr. Academic's office, to see where we went from there. The nurses jointly decided they wanted to see me, to check out my still-weeping wound (yes, the lymphocele was actually draining out of the incision they'd made when they'd inserted the dreaded catheter). The nurse practitioner, a nice lady who I had met before, decided that they wanted me to keep the wound open for at least three weeks, and while I was in the shower every day, to press down on it, to get more fluid out, the theory behind this being that it would reduce the inflammation. The rest of the time, I needed to keep it clean and covered with gauze. To put it bluntly: yeeeeuch! I was skeptical it would work, but I went along with it, because, after the first try, it actually did seem to reduce the inflammation and the pain. I was to check back with them in three weeks, whence I'd probably have another scan to see where we were at.

    Unfortunately, however, the wound decided it, indeed, had a mind of its own and decided to close up the other day. It happened in about four hours, and there really wasn't much to do about it, other than call in and inform the nurses of what had happened. It was then decided that since the lympocele had, in actuality, shrunk up dramatically, according to the cat scan I had when I was in the ER, that they wanted to see if it would continue along that path. I was to report in if it became more painful or the pressure increased, but for the time being, we be on our own, kids.

    So, pretty much, we're right back where we started. The lymphocele is actually smaller. I can tell as much by feeling it, but there's been so much intervention that the scar tissue has become quite tough and it feels like there's a medium sized nugget in my lower left pelvis. It's rough. It's bumpy. And it shouldn't be there. The original pain that led me to go through all this nonsense is back, as is the numbness in my thigh. Sigh. Fortunately, they put me on a new, non-narcotic pain killer that actually works better than over the counter pain relievers. It's called Tramadol, and it's actually fairly decent and doesn't leave me loopy. I highly recommend it for anyone who doesn't want to go the Percocet/Vicodin route for any number of reasons.

    As far as surgery is concerned, the nurse practitioner is very much against it, because, mainly, it could just bring me right back to square one in the future, as in I might get another lymphocele because they went in and took this one out. Apparently, according to her, these things form, partly, because of the retractors they use during surgery, to hold the area open so the surgeons can work on the innards. It didn't make much sense to her to put me in the same situation, with the same tools in use, to solve the problem. I got the feeling that surgery wasn't off the table entirely, but that it would be a fairly drastic measure that they're not at all sure would work. It's sort of a Hail Mary, I gathered.

  • I went to a luncheon yesterday at one of the local country clubs (you can't swing a dead cat in this neighborhood without hitting a country club. Or a spa, for that matter.) to "celebrate" the volunteers at the hospital. I think I'll skip going next year because, dear God in heaven, was it incredibly boring. Oy vey. We had to sit through two speeches, one from the president of the hospital, thanking us for all our hard work, and one from the customer service chief at the hospital, who, according to one of my table mates, had appropriated her speech from one of Oprah's latest online self-improvement seminars. Then we had a storyteller for "entertainment" purposes, and I had the "pleasure" of hearing "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" in Finnish. Woohoo! By the time the food arrived, we'd been sitting there for two and a half hours already and I was about ready to go, so I lied to my table mates and told them I hadn't expected this thing to go so long, and I had an appointment to go to, so I scooted out before dessert was served. My bad, but it allowed me to leave before I became absolutely exhausted, so I don't feel too badly about it, on the whole.

    Another weird thing was that they "honored" me for working 300 volunteer hours. I don't quite see how that's possible since I've only been volunteering since January. At four hours per week, that puts me at sixteen hours per month. Three months x 16= 48 hours. I know I picked up some extra shifts along the way, so the number is actually higher than that, but someone didn't do the math correctly.

  • If you've got some extra room on your prayer list, throw one out there for one of my brothers, would ya? I'm not getting into it, because, honestly, that would be the last thing he needs at this point in time, suffice it to say, however, he's going through a very rough time right now and could use any happy thoughts/good vibes/prayers anyone would be willing to send his way.
  • I would really appreciate it if spring would show up sometime soon. We had snow on Saturday. I shit you not. It's been freezing here, and I can't hardly believe that the first of May is tomorrow. This is just bullshit, and the husband and I are seriously considering moving south of the Mason-Dixon line. We're tired of it.
  • The husband and I have a book launch party to go to tomorrow night and, as I've never been to a launch before, I haven't the foggiest idea of what to wear. If anyone has any clues, drop them in the comments section.

Hopefully, that will do you for a time, my devoted, yet neglected, Cake Eater readers.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:16 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 1162 words, total size 7 kb.

April 24, 2008

Effin' California

Probably the only good thing to ever come out of California (besides In-n-Out), the bacon wrapped hot dog, is a doomed foodstuff.

You can read more about this here.

Just fall off into the Pacific already. We don't need you in this country.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:10 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 47 words, total size 1 kb.

WTF Is Wrong With Some People?

This boggles the mind.

A man heckling First Lady Laura Bush and daughter Jenna outside the 92nd Street Y was arrested after he punched a wheelchair-bound girl whose parents had told him to shut up, authorities said yesterday. German Talis, 22, was shouting obscenities at the Bushes, who were leaving the building Tuesday, when he crossed paths with Wendy and John Lovetro and their daughter Maureen, 18, who has cerebral palsy.

They had been in the audience to hear the Bushes talk about their children's book, "Read All About It."

"He began yelling about Iraq and Iran at Jenna Bush. She was waving at the crowd. I told the guy, 'What are you doing? Shut up. This is about a child and books,' " said John Lovetro. "He was unperturbed. I said, 'Get out of here! You're being a moron!' "

The next thing he knew, Talis was allegedly punching Maureen - a fan of the first lady since meeting her in 2004.

"I heard my daughter hysterical yelling, 'He's hitting me!' " said Wendy Lovetro.

"He punched her on the shoulder blades, but that wasn't enough," she said.

"My husband pushed the wheelchair away from him and he reached beyond my husband and began pounding my daughter in the thigh." {...}

Pardon the language, but WHAT THE FUCK?

Apparently it's all right to start punching a young lady who's been put in a wheelchair by cerebral palsy when her family tells you to stop heckling the First Lady and her daughter? Oh, yeah, you're the big man, aren't you? Striking a blow for Free Speech by putting the smackdown on a crippled young woman? This is the best way to get your point about the "atrocities" in Iraq across? What are you doing? Trading brutality for brutality?

What the fuck?

There are days when I want eugenics and I want them now, simply because idiots like this one would be the first ones to go.

{ht: Laura W. over at Ace's)

Posted by: Kathy at 08:51 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 344 words, total size 2 kb.

April 21, 2008

Alexander Fleming, I am Your Humble Servant

Blessed antibiotics. Verily, if we didn't have them in this day and age, I think it could be said that I might very well have been a goner this past week. But we do have them, so I can keep on bugging you, my devoted Cake Eater readers.

Yes, I am better. I'm still not pumping on all four cylinders, but am doing ok on about two and a half.

It's been such an eventful past week and a half, that I don't really know where to begin, so I shall try and sum things up in bullet format, because, honestly, I don't have the energy to put this thing in essay format. Here's the story:

  • Went in to the hospital on Friday, the eleventh, to have another go with the sclerosis. They put the kaibosh on that once it became obvious that I was feeling the 98% pure alcohol they were pumping in---which I shouldn't have been. Down the hall to the X-Ray machine they go, they pump in some contrast, take some pictures, and ascertain that there's a hole in the lymphocele, dear Henry, because the contrast is leaking out of it and into my peritoneal cavity. Furthermore, the radiologist informs me that the fluid that's draining into my neato bag looks more like peritoneal cavity fluid than it does like lymphatic fluid this hole might explain it. I've got some cool photos of this procedure, but as they're not of the digital variety, I won't be posting them. Suffice it to say, they decided to send me home while they consulted with Dr. Academic to see what he wanted to do.
  • We trudge home, only to find out four hours later that Dr. Academic is out of town and his main nurse has decided to take the day off in celebration. The question of what to do gets thrown to the nurse practitioner, who is fairly decent but whom I don't know at all, and she punts: she says, "Let's wait and see if the lymphocele doesn't close up so we can have another go with the sclerosis." Greeeeaaaaat.
  • The drainage tube gets clogged (yeah, I know, bleech) on Sunday, which involves another trip down to the hospital. The pain is also a lot worse, and I can't really figure out why. There's been pain associated with this thing, but since the installation, it's wheedled its way down. Now it's back at full, nerve rending force. It feels like it's going away after the de-clogging, but it doesn't. It gets worse. By the wee hours of Monday morning, I'm in such pain that I'm telling the husband we need to go back down to the hospital. He's exhausted, however, and is in no mood to coordinate an early hours ER trip---with all that entails for us, who have no car---so I suck it up, take some pain meds, and go to bed, hoping it will be better in the morning.

  • It's not better in the morning. In fact, I scream not once, not twice, but three times as I tried to get out of bed. Excruciating, I believe, would be the word to describe it. We call Dr. Academic's off-hours answering service and announce that we're heading to the hospital. We do the same with the interventional radiology department. We get checked into the ER, and after a wait, are introduced to the nice people who will be handling my case. One nice nurse and one nice doctor, who, between the two of them, manage to hook me up to some IV morphine (oh, the lovely morphine) and get me set up for another CT scan. I'm wheeled down to the CT scanner, they run me through, shoot me up with some contrast, and they declare all looks fine, and they can't understand why I'd be in such pain. I even get a new radiologist, who wants me to actually keep the thing in so I can undergo more sclerosis procedures in a few weeks. Bite me. I tell him the thing's coming out.
  • I actually felt sorry for the ER doctor, who really was a very nice guy, trying to coordinate everything. Seems as if Dr. Academic decided this would be a good week to take a vacation, so he's not around. My original radiologist isn't around either. I'm getting second-stringers all the way around. Distinguished second-stringers, but second-stringers nonetheless. Yet, we all agree on the plan to remove the catheter, and, after a few hours of waiting, which went fine for me, because I was high as a kite, but was somewhat more trying for the husband, the very nice nurse who'd been handling my drain all along came down and removed the thing, and I was finally released. I felt better and had hopes everything would get better entirely in time.
  • It didn't. The pain was still there that night, and when I awoke at about four in the morning, completely drenched, I was tempted to put it off as a night sweat, but took my temperature anyway. Good thing I did, too, because it was 102. The good times just keep coming!
  • Next morning, we call into Dr. Academic's office first thing, and the husband, who has HAD IT with being shunted around, stays on-hold and when the main nurse finally picks up the line, shoots so much information about what's happened over the past couple of days that I think the poor woman's ears must be smoking. When he's done with his laundry list, he hands the phone over to me. She asks, "What's going on?" "I think it's infected. I'm running a fever and I'm in pain. It's red in a few spots." "Chills?" "Yep." "Ok, let me talk to the other nurse and we'll get a prescription for some antibiotics called in for you." A half hour later, I've got the actual prescription in my hot little hands and am ingesting a Levanquin tablet. It helps. Immediately. The pain isn't a whole lot better, but it's easing. The fevers haven't gone away, but I feel as if we're getting a handle on things. This is when it becomes clear that my bedroom is going to be the extent of my world for the next few days.
  • I sleep a lot. I manage to lose my appetite entirely, but somehow manage to subsist on lifesavers and sprite alone (and I'm thinking the fact I've got a couple of good sized hamhocks on my ass had something to do with it.). The husband is caregiver extraordinaire. He takes temperatures, tries to get me to eat, keeps the drugs at hand, helps me up and down, and is just in general a good egg. By Friday, which is when the main nurse told me I would be feeling better, I am actually feeling a bit better. I'm very fond of drugs which do precisely what they say they're going to do. Alexander Fleming: I am your bitch. Whatever you might need from the hereafter, I'm your girl. Just say the word.
  • Yesterday, I was able to walk around the neighborhood a bit, which was nice because it was GORGEOUS outside yesterday. Woohoo. Spring has finally arrived, it seems. Only question is, will Kathy get to enjoy it this year? The verdict's still out on that one. The problem of the infection may have been solved, but the lymphocele's still there, throbbing away, and I haven't the foggiest on what we're going to do about it. I suspect surgery. We'll just have to see, though.
  • And, now, my devoted Cake Eater readers, I'm off to take a nap, because this recapping business is tiring. Particularly when you're on percocet.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:20 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 1299 words, total size 7 kb.

April 16, 2008

Cake Eater Update

This afternoon I had the pleasure of speaking briefly with our beloved Kathy. While she is toughing it out in true dignified Cake Eater fashion, she is not feeling that well at the moment. The catheter that was inserted last week has developed an infection. She is presently on antibiotics and hopes to resume regular posting as soon as she is able.

Take care of yourself, Kathy.

You are loved.

Posted by: Christina at 05:40 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 76 words, total size 1 kb.

April 10, 2008

Oooh, Oooh, Oooh!

{insert voice of creepy little girl from Poltergeist here}

She's Baaaaack

{/Poltergeist voice}

And thank God, too. I've been missing her.

Posted by: Kathy at 04:17 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 27 words, total size 1 kb.

<< Page 3 of 151 >>
165kb generated in CPU 0.7156, elapsed 0.7385 seconds.
63 queries taking 0.5875 seconds, 219 records returned.
Powered by Minx 1.1.6c-pink.