Stone, stone, ferry me down there

Good news: Dr. thinks that the Jupiter-sized piece of me he kept as a souveneir was enough, if not plenty.
Bad news: Feeling like I am being stabbed with a hot poker in the guts every time I cough, laugh, sit down, stand up, or breathe (which is unfortunately all too often). "Mild discomfort" my ass. What does he know, anyhow?

I slept too well on painkillers last night, but had to drive today, and find that Tylenol is no substitute for decent barbituates.

Sorry, nothing cheerful about today whatsoever. Oh, except Softball! Wish us luck.

F.I.N.E., thanks.

I'm on my second cup of coffee and things are going swimmingly. It's sunny today and almost balmy, and I spent a long while contemplating the surf before heading down to work this morning. The day seems full of opportunity, and in my stomach is a pit of worry. I have a surgery scheduled today, and I am frightened of it. It's going to be uncomfortable, sure, but they make things to take care of that. It's more about what it means, not what it is, that is the rub. That, and I'd really like to go out in life with all the parts I came in with. At this point, I'm down by two tonsils and some scar tissue; I'd really meant to hold the line with those three things but have failed again. Is it because I am broken, or because I was never broken?

Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer, but wish we didn't.

Thought of the Day, Confidential to Newt: We don't have to become our parents, but we have to accept having made ourselves in their image before we can reject them and remake ourselves. They're good people, and happy in their own way; they had the best of intentions. We're not failing them by failing to become them. It is our job as children to surpass them, and that is the challenge.

Letters I Could Never Send - 1

Dearest L:
You once bought me a gift for 'putting up with your son.' I've never concluded if it was hopeful or despairing, but I've never forgotten the air of camraderie. Like all the advice you gave me, and the example you set, and the child of your heart, I think upon this gift every day. I cannot thank you enough for all of these, and cannot help but feel that I've failed them all.

I am sorry that I can't spend more time with you anymore, and I'm sorry that I can't extend the same generous nature to everyone I meet, and I'm sorry that I angered your son so by caring too much. You asked me to watch out for him, and I tried my hardest; trying my hardest just wasn't going to ever be the right thing. These are boys who idolize apathy.

Your gift I treasure every day. Not meaning that I dust and polish and cherish it, but rather that like you, it was not only beautiful but practical. Thank you for that.

I miss your friendship. I miss all the moms, as a unit and singly. Seeming to have an air for pleasing mothers, I am despondant that I cannot come and visit you in Shangri La any more.

I'm in the mood for missing, and I am missing you.

Best,
Me.

Cost of Leaving

Price of living in a small town: I'm restless. We don't get a summer here, just a 6-month-long spring which segues right on into fall. Being emotionally driven by light and weather, summer feels like endless possibilities that just don't pan out. I'm uneasy, and desperately want a new life.

Driving over Bald Hills today with W, I am reminded at how delicious life is, and that if it's Town that's getting to me, I could just as well leave. If only I hadn't felt the need to put down roots. The cost of staying is high, but the cost of leaving seems higher. To transition from this known to either a completely new unknown or trying to reinsert myself into an old skin seems much more painful than just staying, for once, and trying to make the here just where I want to be.

If I could change it all, would I? New face, new id, less ego, more tolerance. More girl, less stability. They all seem like unsavory tradeoffs, so maybe I'm better off staying as is and waiting for the world to either figure out what to do with me or to catch up with me.

Waiting makes me restless.

Summertime in a small town is exactly why I knit. I can't sit still, and yarn is cheaper than drugs.

Failer

In the spirit of Crescent City Sucks, here's my rant about town:
My Town is a town of small pleasures. It is a town for the long-suffering. Months and months of bad weather, and a little sunshine feels like heaven. Populated by assholes, so a little niceness goes a long way. Sort of a strip-mall of a town, which makes the surroundings seem that much more of a blessing. This is a town of low expectations. It is exactly this that makes My Town a town of permissiveness. It's OK to fail to follow through, it's OK to reneg on promises made, it's OK to fail to live up to your potential. All of these things are forgivable here, and few seem to understand why I can't cotton to it.

I want to refuse to accept these disappointments, I want to refuse to sacrifice my integrity, but what would it change? It seems foolish to rail against something so pervasive. It seems a waste of energy to get upset about it. In refusing to get upset, though, am I becoming part of the permissiveness problem? Am I allowing people to fail me? Today, My Town seems like a bastard town, and all of us are complicit.

Everyone at LAX is a fashion "don't"

Honestly. I don't read girly magazines much. I do get an inordinate thrill out of making fun of people, however. And everyone at the gate in LAX was an honest-to-god fashion don't. It was fabulous - every genera was represented: acid wash jeans...check. Giant belts...check. Ill fitting drapey shirt making skinny girl look preggers...check. Dude wearing a turquoise terrycloth track suit...with...wait for it...matching shoes...check. Oh - and this giant gaggle of the most horse-faced, yet self-absorbed mormon chicks I've ever seen. Inbreeding at its best? Something has to be responsible for their flagrant disregard for orthodontia, so we'll blame the fact that they were wearing BYU sweatshirts.

For whatever reason, the airport in Elko, Nevada, is the spitting image of that in Sitka, Alaska. Right down to the tunnel just outside. Having just woken up from napping on the flight over, it was extremely disorienting. Oh, and it's raining. In the desert. And it's 80 degrees. At midnight. I'm in hell.