12/26

Uuuugh.
I just spent ALL DAY at Duke (10:00-6:00 counts as all day, right?) and only just got home.
And now, I shall treat you all to a rant. Aren't you lucky.

So my dad and I went today, got there a little before 10:00, the place was a tomb.
We check in, the nurse does all her fun stuff, and then we wait.
For four hours.
Now I don't mean to complain (yeah, like hell I don't), but really people. Get it together.
So by this time, the place is hopping, because everyone wants blood right after Christmas.

So here's a bit of a complication: I am still very Neutropenic. This means I wear a teal mask that does NOT COME OFF in public.

So guess what?
It's lunchtime. I am in a chair in a big room with a bunch of other similarly filled chairs. I can't eat, because I can't take my mask off. I. Am. Hungry.

So after we finally get home, I spike a 103 degree fever, and we're back to Duke.

12/29
So now I'm at Duke, with something resembling a fever (at times), and an infection in my line that is apparently vigorously evil, and the same room I had ten days ago.
Oh, and by the way, I probably won't be home for New Years.
Ick.

Done. Donedonedone. Done. Finito, finis, finished, the end of the blasted era. Ha!

And that's just Chemo. Imagine how I'll react to the end of the year.

But yeah, I am done. Ha! I'm done! I'm...done.

My list of No's (as I see it, my immediate family would probably have quite a few things to add on):
No Fevers (or even a temperature over 99.0)
No 3 AM blood draws
No paper-towel dispensers
No trains of Little White Ducks (the doctor's pet projects in long, white lab coats who ask you odd questions at innoportune moments. Like during your 3 AM blood draw, maybe.)

Wow. I am done with Chemo...

Last round, folks.

Wish me luck.

I'm Mad About Chemo

1. Being sick.
2. Being tired.
3. Easily scandalized doctors. (And their little white ducks, trooping into your room at 7:30 in the morning.) There are a lot of those in my ward.
4. Paper towel dispensers.
5. Blood draws. 4:30?? In the morning?? These people have seriously screwy internal clocks.
6. Beeping heart monitors. Those things are seriously messing with my night life.
7. Screaming babies. Thank God they're not mine, and could we please get a couple ml's of benadryl?

13-19 is my last one though, and then I'm home free.
That is, assuming I don't get any fevers and they don't have to put me on TPN.

Tomorrow should be fun. I get my breathing checked, my ears checked, my ovaries checked, my heart checked (twice! They just can't get enough of my heart), and then see my one last doctor who can tell us that I'm fit for reluctant duty and she'll call us when there's a room.

But looking on the Bright Side...
The Bright Side...
The Bright Side...is currently indisposed...

Hey, adoring fans, guess who's back?

My boredom has been taken to a new low. Or a new high, depending on how you look at it. (You may now hail me as The Fearsom Lady Clemintine Carver.)

The most interesting thing that has happened is we got a Christmas tree.
Apparently, these health profesionals at Duke really hold something against fresh flowers when I'm Neutropenic, but trees? In the house? Plus Neutropenia? Why should that be a problem?
Even if you don't celebrate Christmas, you should get a tree.
I think it's mostly the smell. Having that fresh, warm smell permiating the house. And the precence. It's a tree! In your living room! Tell me that doesn't count for something!
And also bragging rights. "I have a tree in my house, what have you got?"

What isn't there to love?

So, yeah. Trees.

(My brother is punching his forehead, yelling "F7! F7! It's not working!" That was totally random, but too good to pass up)

Oh my God.
An argument about chocolate?
This is seriously the best.

Lindt or Godiva?

Thanks for weired stuff. For misspelled stuff. For stuff I don't even like.

For unprocessed, well-cooked food and raw milk.
Olives, boyscouts and Ninjas.
Magaritas. Martinis. Mimosas. Daquaries.
Stem cells, modeling jobs and paintbrushes.
For perennials, British Hip-Hop, and Home Brew.
Cloudy, stay-at-home days, for oxygen, for shark oils.
For turkey bacon and scrambled eggs.
Below-freezing days when the thermometer reads 42.
Good movies, good actors, good dogs. Good presidents (we haven't had many of those lately) and good phone service.
Music, good and otherwise.
Pencils, and for newspapers, and for chocolate and Duct Tape.
Camping trips.
My guys. My dads. Acting. Marylin Monroe. Hot Cider. Trees. French toast.
For fires and for guitars and campfire songs. Supplements and iTunes and Paris.
Oranges, rum, The Beatles, the 20's, and the Ocean.
Eagle Scout license plates, headphones, four distinct seasons, distractions.
My parents, who like my music, even when they don't understand it. And hey, be fair, who understands Portugeese?
The Theater People, the sweetest visionaries out of Happy Vally Nut House.
For bing undersood, for being accepted, for Edgar Allen Poe.
For Ali.
Balsamic vinnegar, pumpkins and for water. Ice. Shovels. Red wool. Harmonicas. People who play drums really well. Bamboo swords.
For things that make less and less sense the more you read/listen/hear/write/see/taste/smell them.

This is the best Thanksgiving so far. My brothers are headed to Kinston with my grandmother (who is getting lost a bit, and asking my brother, the boy who got lost on the way to his orenteering class, for directions), my dad is asking me to google How to Cook a Turkey (My favorite was "How to Safely Cook a Turkey Without Swearing the Whole Time or Getting Unreasonably Intoxicated". He wasn't amused.), my mum is reading the newspaper, I'm DJing with the help of a icemaker full of champagne and Luna, the Cat Who Likes Rock, World, and Jazz.

Have a good time guys.

I am ONE CHEMO ROUND away from finishing! La lalalalala, lalala tra lalalaaaaaaaaaa! And now, a delightful aria for you...
Maybe not.
But Hey! Guess what? It's raining! It's cold! My dad is getting a new truck! I! Am! Happy!

You know what else? It's almost Thanksgiving. Time to see all your crazy relatives, all the nutcases out of the family woodwork, and for God's sake, don't talk about the big white elephant in the living room.
What really drives me nuts is all my Southern reliatives. Babtist tea-totalers. I don't have anything concrete against Babtist tea-totalers exactly, but when thyr're related and you shove 'em all together...Oh, God, you'd be amazed how bad you need a shot of something strong.
Or better yet, a mini bar.

Of course, I won't be anywhere near Kinston this year. I shall be staying home and depriving everyone of my glorious company because I will be Neutropenic. Ha.
Certian people aren't too darn happy about this, but another year and I'll be back on the rounds. Be happy for me! Do not be bitter! Patience is a virtue, dern it!

Now, don't laugh, but I am not used to a dead bird for Thanksgiving. Pig, sweet potateoes loaded with marshmallows, and Cole Slaw are the norm, with a side of hush puppies and some Sweet Tay. We don't do sweet tea.

I'm going back to Duke tomorrow for some lovely blood, platelets and benadryl, and then I shall be home for the holidays.

Ask for me during normal work hours.

I really do have an excellent reason for not posting in a while. Just wait, you're going to love this:

Tuesday, 12:30 PM: Run to Duke with mum, because I had a temperature that was all over the place and on the high end of the 100's. When I'm neutropenic, this is a Bad Thing, so in I troup.
Got blood drawn, found I needed platelets, no problem, there ALL BLASTED DAY getting antibiotics anyway, go home.

10:00 PM: Nice little surprise--fever again!

10:20-11:00 PM: At Wakemed getting MORE antibiotics. (Note: This was supposed to be faster than driving for an hour to get to Duke, but it took them an hour to get the antibiotics IN THE ROOM, and when they did, they barely knew what a Ferises Catheter was. I'm pretty sure you should know more than your patient, even if it is the ER, no offense, Dr. Citron.)

12:00 PM: Finally at Duke. In a Taj Mahal of a room. I'm serious. This is one of three big rooms in this ward, and it is ENORMOUS.

Wednesday: Nothing more exciting than MORE ANTIBIOTICS happened until around 10:00 PM, when I became seriously engaged with a prolific nosebleed, a bag of platelets, and muchos benadryl. I proceeded to sleep through the platelets and half the subsequent red blood until 4:00 AM or so, when I awoke, and the floodgates opened forth again (...Okay, so maybe it wasn't quite floodgates, but you get it, right?).
So I get more Blood'n'Benadryl, happiness overtakes me, and the blood is outa there before you know it.

Thursday: I am completely, totally (very much reversibly, however) unattached fom my constant companion, The Pole for most of the day, so my mum and I take a walk over to Duke Gardens a little after lunch. We find an nice sunny hill and lay there for a while just looking at the ducks and the pond and the blue heron and the trees and the sky and...Almost falling asleep too, but I won't mention that.
Gorgeous day. Whole year should be like that day. Could deal with it being about 7 degrees warmer, but apart from that, it was perfect. And Duke Gardens is a really nice place to spend a perfect day, too. I mean, at the risk of repeating my self waaaay to often...It's perfect.

Today: No fever in over 48 hours. No bleeding in over 24. Blood counts are trending upwards. Chance of getting the heck out of there by two: 100%, babe. If it wasn't, I would require a thorzine drip and several rolls of Duct Tape.

Ugh. Fever is NOT HAPPENING AGAIN, do you HEAR me??? Not. No. Never. I don't care if I get a closet for my next Chemo. NO. MORE. FEVERS.

So did you love that or what?

Aaaah!!
Kill me quickly...

My brother looks so good in eyeliner. Darn it, he looks better than I do. Hmmm...

Maybe death would not be preferable.
Have to think on this.
He's going to a boyscout Hallowe'en party tonight, with all my guys and dads...
I wish him luck. Mum says he looks like a drag queen. Which, as soon as he's out of boyscouts, might work.

Okaaaay...
MORE reactionary platelets, after they pre- and post-meded the heck out of me.
WILL THEY NEVER LEARN????
My parent's insurance company is paying through the teeth (not that I give a darn about the fuchening insurance companies). I think I deserve to at least GET SOMETHING OUT OF THIS!

Whoo, okay, breeeeathe...

Meanwhile, back at the ranch:

Nutropenic

Anemic

Corybantic? (That's just a great word)

I am full of ick.

We get a whole hour back!

...Why I am so excited about this, I couldn't tell you. Heck, it's probably something wacked out, but being excited about the sun going around the earth is exciting, right?

But it's October, there's hot cocoa on the stove, and life ought to be enjoyed.
Please, for me, don't think about the fact that tomorrow's Monday. Be happy! I am...

Well.

I feel good.

On the low end of the scale, there was the Hospital Mother Bear Story, which had a happy end, because hysterics are good for you. And crying detoxes.
(If you don't know what I'm talking about, visit Caringbridge.com and look for me.)

High end, I just got Hungry Eyes, which isn't very high I guess, but it's one of those songs that just makes me feel happy. Like Trees.

And I also stabbed myself with a Heperin needle, which is not nearly as exciting as it sounds, because it was only on my thumb and it had just come out of the wrapper and it was completely sanitary. It was just deep enough to draw blood and hurt and make me feel dumb.

Life does have it's high points...

Yay! An other week in the Hospital, where not only will two people live in a room the size of a Hamster's cage, not only will I be taking a pill the approximate size and shape of one of the Dakotas (Lord knows, I don't care, I guess they can't tell me from a horse, which is not the most reassuring ting in the world), not only will I be hooked up to several bleeping monitors day and night, but hey! I'm also going to be feeling VERY CRAPPY for most of my stay! Rejoice with me, peoples!!

Fixing me is obviously their top priority right now, not making me better.

Okay.
Breathing deeply (still).

Twelve Hours.

Twelvehours.

TWELVE HOURS!!! AT DUKE!!!

1. Blood Draw
2. Blood
3. Washed platelets
4. Ferises (if that's really how you spell it, getting my stem cells taken out of me now, so they can be put back in to me later)
5. Unwashed platelets (for which the pre-medicated the heck out of me)
6. Lupron shot

Home awaited us. Of course, little did we know that it would await us at 9:30 PM.
8-8 at Duke.

God, I feel like an unpaid employee.

The Chemo Diet! Look at the weight AND inches I've lost! I'm so sure it'll work for you!

How many ways can you spell EVIL??? (That was a rhetorical question, by the way).

Ooh, but on the up side, I'm very un-Nutropenic now! Minions! Be happy for me!

Okay, picture this: over my temple, a black widow, with a spider web blosoming out from it.

In face paints, naturally.

Please. Did you honestly think I'd get a tattoo? Been there, people. SO not getting a tattoo anywhere NEAR my face.
My spine was bad enough.

But the platelets went over a dream today. Literally. I slept right through it. Benadryl, benadryl, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

Okay, so maybe it isn't so great. I mean, I thought Tylenol was THE BEST until mum told me all about that stuff it does to you liver. Or maybe it's your kidneys... Whatever.

...And, after an OTHER reaction yesterday ( and not to the blood, to the PLATELETS, which they decided I needed after I could not hold the ones I received on Monday), it has been decided that I will not only be receiving massive doses of benadryl (Stuff of Gods, man), but also "washed" platelets.
I have decided I really do not need to know what exactly these are, knowing generally will suffice.
In the mean time, I will be happy to chew out any nurse who comes within a mile of me with unwashed platelets.

Ha.

So yesterday, I got a platelets transfusion and had an Anafalactic Reaction. I mean, I felt like I couldn't breathe when I was lying down, my nose got all stuffy, my ears felt like they were filling up, I got this rash on the back of my head, and my throat felt like it was burning. Oh, and mum says that my lips were puffing up and my eyes got rather red.
So I got benadryl, which nocked me out till a few hours after I got back from Duke.

Now all this anaflactic stuff would be terrifying if I knew what it was. I mean seriously. Terrifying. There were three doctors, two nurses and my mum in my room, watching me eat (it was, like, one or so, so I reserve that right).

And Duke will once again be graced with my presence today. I'll be getting a red cell infusion for FOUR HOURS today, so...

Fun.

Alright, so I am now growing this very dark, low hairline, that dad says makes me look like Eddie Munster (but mum thinks it makes me look more like Curious George).
And my eyebrows are coming in darkdarkdark, which gives me hope that my hair will grow back black. Or, at the very least, dark brown like my dad's was before he shaved it.
My hair was very thick and BLACK when I was born, but it lightened considerably, and I am rather disappointed.

Oh, and I saw Monty Python and the Holy Grail! I can see why that movie has such an ENOURMOUS cult following, but really, I kind of like And Now for Something Completely Different better.

Okay, I am typing in hospital gloves and they are making my hands very sweaty and they are also waaaay too big for me so I can not see the keys sometimes and that is annoying.

Where can I buy a few Commas?

And now I am back from Duke, and my Amazing Grandmother has sterilized EV-ER-Y THING. There is not a surface in this house that has not known the touch of a Lysol wipe.
Even the mouse has been sterilized. The keyboard was sterilized, while I was in the middle of writing a long email to one of my friends, and I think it was deleted.

No, actually I am positive it was deleted.

Being immuno-compromised is not in any way fun.

(On the plus side, this is the home keyboard and the home computer, and these keys do not stick or drive me completely BONKERS.)

...And now thanks to dad's pop-up blocker and sticky keyboard, I don't know if leterary is spelled with one or two t's! Just don't read that last post. In the long run, it will most likely do you no good and be hazardous to your health in the meantime.

And really, I don't see what dad's sticky keyboard has to do with it, except that the space bar sticking is really annoying me.

Well, what can I say? Chemo pretty much sucks. I know that isn't very literary of me, but my food intake and urine ouput are being monitered at the moment, and I am sorrry to gross you out, but I don't have time to waste being literary.

So, yeah...

Doing...okaaay.

I just had my dressing ripped off by one of my many nurses. At around 11, my own stem cells wll be implanted into my body, from whence they were harvested painstakigly several months previously. How is your morning going?

There, now you can't say that wasn't literary.

Ways I Am Like a Pregnant Woman:

1. Cravings.
2. Morning Sickness.
3. This nausea medication for pregnant women to prevent morning sickness.
4. Pregnancy tests with my blood (like I am so going to run out and have promiscuous sex in the middle of my cancer treatments, people).
5. An Ultrasound (but don't worry, it was one of my heart, so that's okay).

By brother is OUT IN THE WOODS AGAIN, so my other brother and my dad are out looking for him. At night. After Five. In the woods.
Not only did my darling go out without a walkie-talkie again, not only has he been out since lunch, but he also left his water bottle.
Is my brother a genius or what?

Well, okay, not completely irredeemable.
The photographer I told you about took a bunch of pictures of me for the Joan of Ark thing, and he and his wife were really nice, and the fact that he bought me a box of Godiva that I was FORBIDDEN to share more than once didn't hurt, either.

I have learned that professional photographers are crazy, though, just like professional actors. They all share a love of the human form, then ignore it completely when it's time to eat.

And did you know that you can cook Sushi in a dishwasher? You wrap the Sushi in question in foil so it doesn't get soggy, put on the top wrack of a loaded dishwasher, start it, and Voila! For instant Japanese, just add soapy water!

This day has rendered itself completely irredeemable.

So this place called Yanceyville (I think that's how you spell it) is about, oh, an hour and a half from where I live. It's kind of fun, if you have a reason for being there, but there's basically nothing. They have a couple schools, a Fire Department or two, a couple farms, and innumerable houses.
It's in the middle of nowhere, really.

So we know these people with a farm and stuff, and they are having their annual Plow Day, with pony rides, looks at farm equipment and cows (I love cows! I had a cow birthday once!), Free Food, and bunches of people.

We get there.

It is canceled.

Not really, just rain-checked, but still.

The weather is PERFECT, by the way.

They aren't even freaking outside. They won't even answer the freaking phone.
GOD.
One and a half hours. With current gas prices.

So then, just to see if there was any way to make our day just a tiny bit WORSE, we stop in at Ben and Jerry's, because we all need something sweet after such a horrendous morning (it isn't yet 11, and already the day sucks eggs).

Get this, though--B&J's doesn't open till noon.

May I ask what kind of joint does not open till noon? What sadistic creep dictated that Ben and Jerry's would not open till noon?! People need sustenance before then! I sure do, anyway.

So then we got to our downtown farmer's market to see if the Garlic people are there so we can get Chipolate Dip, and--surprise, surprise--the Garlic people have already packed up and left.

I would ask some one to shoot me, but my parents are paying waaaaaaay to much for doctors and stuff for me to die...

My eyes are so bleary right now, I can hardly read to save my life.
Now, you may wonder why I can see the letters on the keyboard and type and all that. I often do myself.
I guess I'm just special that way.

During dinner tonight, I was telling mom how I didn't mind the patented Guys Stubble on my head. "I honestly really truly without a doubt don't mind it," I said, "but fuchen, no amount of conditioner will soften it."
For some reason, this sent mum into gales of hysterical laughter, but I can't figure out why. Perhaps that wine was more potent than we realized.

And right after dinner, my youngest brother came down from his shower wearing a navy-blue bathrobe, a Darth Vader voice-changer mask (rather tilted), and carrying Yoda's lightsaber: Midget Darth Vader Home from cocktail Party.
"Loooke, baby, believe me, I am totally-HIC!-you father."

...Oh, yeah, and I'm also going to be Joan of Ark in a photo project in September. Apparently, the English shaved her head before leading her to the stake.
Did I forget to mention that?

And nobody wanted to take my picture before The Dreaded C Word. Maybe I'll just keep my head shaved when my hair starts growing back, I seem to be more popular as a model without it, although all my friends go about with permanently worried expressions...

On Monday, I received my first Flowers From Some One Who Will Not Reveal His/Her Name.
Having a life-threatening illness is definitely not without it's perks.

And I got to see all my guys (a.k.a. Boyscouts) Monday night, after I had my first choir thingymadohickey, and everything is very glowy.
You know, the irony of the world being glowy while I'm on Chemo's doorstep is sickening, but lo! even I shall endure...

I just made my first Legal MP3 Download!!! Be proud of me!

...And other breaking news stories. Hard facts, people. Not. A. Slow. News day.

Well, maybe. Perhaps...

Last night, around, oh, say, 9:30, while watching Fiddler on the Roof, a car pulls in to our driveway.
We're all thinking, Okay, they can't prove anything, we're innocent, and anyway, that whole Salamander Incident was all cleared up, right?
So then this midget (hey, it was dark out, 'K? Cut us some slack. My apologies to Laura, by the way...) comes running up our front stoop stairs, and we open the door, and are immediately assaulted by a huge display of FIREWORKS in our Cul-de-sack. I mean, it's completely fabulous, not only because it wasn't the authorities, but hey! Someone I Know (and Her/His/Their Kids) came and shot off Fireworks!
And then the neighbors came out, and they clapped, and we clapped, and The People I Know clapped, and we laughed and cried and made merry and had a grand old time.

It was seriously the best way to finish Radiation FOREVAH!!!

I am done!!!

...Somehow I imagined it would involve more firework displays and people running through the streets proclaiming my greatness...

Ah, well. I am going to be having Mimosas and chocolate and staying up late because I CAN, and also getting up LATE on a WEEK DAY like I haven't been able to do for SIX BLASTED WEEKS just because I like getting up late--My preferred hours are 9-5, so who can blame me?

Anywho...
There's nothing very exciting going on. I got a cut on my thumb pad while I was taking a Detox bath, but that is excessively dull...

Done! I am so happy...

TWO! MORE DAYS! OF MY ACCURSED RADIATION!

GO ME! GO ME! I LOVE THE CAPS-LOCK KEY!

Okay, I totally didn't mean for that to rhyme...
Also, you must remember that the Radiologists did absolutely nothing. The thrice-accursed Chuck Norris and I generated our own Radiation. We also went to Pluto. It was way cool.

My mum just got back from having an hour-long massage.
She came home smelling like oils and fresh sheets and stuff.
She immediately proceeded to draw herself a very deep, very hot, very bubblicious bath, light some candles, and have an enormous glass of very dry white.
Now, she is so relaxed that she is about to fall over on the couch and murmur for a blanket.

Five more days of Radiation.

Oh, and Carson moved to Wisconsin today, after drawing Chinese characters on my bald head with face paint.
I wrote him scads of letters with titles like, "To be opened when you miss me, if there ever is such an instance" and "To be opened when you need to scream, or, To be opened when you get to your house".

I admit, writing these letters was loads of fun.

Having Carson move...

Not so fun.

My friend is moving to WICONSINFORTHELOVEOFGOD tomorrow.
I am therefore going into mourning. Curling up my bed and never, ever coming out again.

Of course, I have Radiation tomorrow, so that might prove difficult.
Black is in order.

On the up-side, 6 more days of Radiation, and one of the patients there used to work with Lou Sedaris.

Oh.


My God.


You will never, ever, ever guess what I got on my birthday. I didn't even guess. Which is unusual for me. Usually, I get two things:
1. Chocolate (always worth the extra million pounds afterward)
2. Books.

So it's pretty repetitive, except that bar of lime chocolate I got from Dagoba last year, and that copy of Trickster's Queen. Those, I must admit, were utterly fabulous.

But back to my story, see...

You will never, ever guess what I got on my birthday.

Nope, it's not that.

Not that, either.

Eeeeew, definitely not that.

No, it's an

iPod Nano.

Which means it's really, really small.

Now, I DID NOT ASK FOR ANYTHING REMOTELY LIKE THIS, THIS EXPENSIVE, OR TO HAVE ANYTHING THAT TAKES UP THIS MUCH BATTERY POWER. I AM EXPENSIVE ENOUGH ALREADY.

I have seen those bills from Duke, and just be glad you're not getting them, because they are Not At All Pretty. Honestly. Really. Truly.

But I would not trade this for cheap bills.

Nope. My beloved Greggory stays with me. Oh, yeah.

Life is so, so good...

Alrighty, now.
I got off the computer after checking my email, and read some (this really great mystery by Rita Mae Brown, Full Cry. I tell you, I am learning so many foxhunting terms, they are coming out my ears.)
Okay, and my Parental Unit #1, otherwise known as my mum, said, and I quote, "That's it?? Aren't you going to get on the web? Aren't you going to blog something? Even if it's just a sentence, it'll be worth it."
And I suggested this: "Tired: the new me."
And to this, she said: "How about 'what a bitch my mum is. She's making me take a thousand supplements a day that make me gag, and this awful fish oil that makes me feel like throwing up, and whenever I am nauseated, she foists ginger tea or water on me, whichever is closest.' How about that?"

Well, yeah, she does make me take a thousand supplements a day, and she does make me take fish oil (awful, terrible, horrible stuff), and, true, she does make me take ginger tea, because it is good for nausea, but she is also making mac'n'cheese, and milkshakes, and choco-coco treats, and peppermint tea, and bacon, and Oatmeal, and stuff.

What can I say? My mum truly is the man.

I AM GOING TO HAVE THIS DARNED CATHETER OUT ON THE TENTH!!!!!


I think that pretty much speaks for its self.


Let's see, this weekend we are going up to the Mountains and first rescuing my Absolute Favorite Boyscout in the Universe from the horrors of Summer Camp Food, and then we are going to CFO (Camps Farthest Out), where I will make everyone hug me because I am surviving Radiation.


And that

Is all.

Ha.

List of Most Exciting Things That Happened To Me This Week

Radiation.
Radiation.
More Radiation.
Radiation (although I hardly consider that exiting now).
Nosila calling me from the top of the Empire State Building (one quick note on this: last time I was in New York, I was all of six and very asleep. So, you know, being called from the top of the Empire State Building was very, very...Very.).
Going to the park with all those Homeschoolers!!!
Carson saying he's moving to WISCONSIN OF ALL PLACES within four weeks (I tell you, my heart almost stopped beating. Wish *AHEM* would move...)

...And...That's it. I plan to do a lot of sleeping this weekend. Just to let you know.

Okay. Here's how I am feeling right now:

Wonderful.

Marvelous.

Fabulous.

Just fine.

Not really, but you can imagine. I actually have a slight headache and some nausea, but you didn't need to know that.

Here's how I'll be feeling Monday:

Dreadful.

C'mon, I just had brain surgery. What did you expect?

I'll be starting Radiation Monday. Twelve weeks from that, I'll be doing Chemo, and then I'll be FREEEE!!!!!!!! Yay!


You people should see my dominant hand shake. (In case you were wondering, it's my right.) It's terrible. Honesly. I can barely hold a pen. I can barely write.

God.

On the up side, I just got a Pixie cut. For those of you who don't know, I used (emphasis on used, please) to have hair down to my hips. And I got it all cut off to give to Locks of Love, so some lucky stiff can have it as a wig.
Right now, it's up in a scarf. Paisely silk, for anyone who wants to know...

Ya know, not everything is very fair...

Okay...good things.

Thinking. Good things.

Nothing.

Bad things.

Lots.

1. Head busted open last day of Oliver.
2. Don't know it till five days after, when
3. I wake up.
4. Can't type straight.
5. Ten days after surgery.
6. Nana, Mr. Smith, and Eamon are doing my room.
7. Green. Bright green. This is good.
8. Are also doing my floor.
9. This is just as good. If not better.
10. Forgot to mention:
A. Kelly sent (and is sending) cards every day. This is very sweet of her. How she got my many, many addresses, I'll never know...
B. Willem is staying over.

I'll let you know when I have more...

I love P.G. Wodehouse. I Love him. Passionately. Gloriously. Perfectly. Yes, he's dead, but what do I care? All the best authors seem to be dead these days.
Take Noel Coward, for instance. He wrote songs, plays, poems, novels, played piano, sang, danced, and acted. And he was friends with Gertrude Lawrence.

Wodehouse and Noel Coward had the same brand of humor, though. Dry, subtle, and very, very British. The only real difference between them was that Wodehouse was straight and he didn't write plays.

How could you not like Wodehouse?
Yes, I will admit that every story line is the same: Boy #1 meets Only Girl in the World #1. They fall in love. Boy #2 meets Only Girl in the World #2. They fall in love. As it turns out, Boys #1 and #2 are friends and they get together to compare lovers. There is a scuffle involving a cow creamer, a blue-and-pink Alpine hat, and several dogs, and when the dust settles, Boy #2 loves Only Girl in the World #1, and Boy #1 loves Only Girl in the World #2, and the butler comes in to serve dry martinis and tea. (Please note: Only Girls in the World's feelings do, in fact have some bearing in what goes on in their love lives, but you don't really read about it. Alpine hats are much more interesting.) End of story. But this leaves room for the writer to flourish his pen extravagantly. Things like this:
"...So now, instead of being cold and distant and aloof, as a lesser man would have been, he (Jeeves) showed the utmost agitation and concern. That is to say, he allowed one eyebrow to rise perhaps an eighth of an inch, which is as far as he ever goes in the way of expressing emotion."
See? How could you not love that?

Okay, I have just realized that my last five posts have been about Oliver. Just Oliver. Nothing but that darned Oliver. It is taking over my life! I have had four dreams about Oliver during the course of this production. I can't remember two of them, but that's beside the point.
Oliver is taking me over. I am being consumed. Yes, I love theatre, but I don't love it THAT MUCH.
Is this normal? Are all young thespians swamped with thespianity their first production? Or is it just me??
Okay, Now that I have gotten that soulful, questioning rant out of my system, here is something Anti-Oliver. Non-Oliver. Un-Oliver-esque.

...God help me, I'm drawing a blank. Just white noise. Absolutely nothing. See, without things to complain about, my life is rather dull. (I have come to realize that at the end of this week, my social life will be, effectively, nil. Isn't that sad?) There must be something wrong with me. I must be totally out of whack. This is not unusual, mind you, but it is rather sudden...

I am so, so glad that we have a few days off before the next Oliver performance. We have all got The Gink (sore throats, stuffy noses, lots of drainage, sleep deprivation).
I went to Choir tonight, the last rehearsal we have before going to Saltsburg. It was so nice to be with people who could count beats and knew what an eighth rest is. You know, people who know what they are doing. Non-musically-challenged people. I like people like that.
I am so, so tired. I feel like...like I haven't slept since...hmmm...last night? That sounds right. I think. If it's not right, then don't bother getting me out of hibernation, I'd probably kill you...

Welllllll... Last night was better than opening night...
I didn't get to bed until 1:07 AM, because the play didn't end until 10:00, and we had a little cast party shindig at a pizza joint until 11:00 (at least, that's when I left), and on the way home, my little brother asked if we could watch Return of the King, so we did, and that's why I went to bed at 1:07 AM.
That kid who plays Oliver is becoming a holy terror. Oliver is supposed to be scarred and submissive, and he's just being...Snotty. Like when the doctor comes to see him at Mr. Brownlowe's house, and is all "Is he hungry? Boy, are you hungry? No, he's not hungry, I knew it! Are you tired? I bet he's tired. Boy, are you tired? No? Ha! I knew it. How about thirsty? If he's thirsty, I'll eat my head! You are? I knew it!" Evil Oliver says stuff like, "Well, you'll just have to eat your head!" While nice, submissive, scarred, script Oliver says, "May I get up now, Sir? May I stay here always, sir? May I have Mrs. Bedwin as my mummy, Sir? May I buy those sweet red roses, Sir? They're only a penny for two blooms!" (Okay, he doesn't say that, but you get the picture).

We just have one more performance, and then off for the rest of the week, just a couple pick-up rehearsals and them three more shows, and that's it.
By the way, auditions for Romeo and Juliet are in June.

I survived, but I am wounded possibly beyond healing.
1. A whole verse left out of "That's Your Funeral" ("I don't think this song is funny/That's your funeral/that's your funeral" etc.) so instead of that we had "If you're fond of overeating" twice.
2. A little glitch with Oliver's cold bits: there was too much. Not to worry, not to worry, we have FIVE MORE RUNS to perfect it.
3. While we're on the subject of the Sowerberry's, the darned COFFIN was too darned HEAVY to carry off the darned STAGE with darned Mrs. SOWERBERRY inside.
4. Old Sally's death scene went really well, only...Well, the lights stayed up, so she had to resurrect herself from the dead and drag herself offstage so Bumble and Brownlowe (God, that sounds like a law firm) could enter Brownlowe's parlor without tripping over a dead body and therefore leading to a pretty awkward scene.
5. Entrance to "Who Will Buy" was five beats off. Five beats. FIVE BEATS!!! If I was so much as ONE beat off, my choir director would probably do something violent and unspeakable to me.
6. Oh, yeah, and our audience (yup, all twelve of them) was dead. Completely dead. No laughing, no gasping, nothing. Except for when my brother got killed, they laughed for that.

Tonight better be better. Or else I'll...Well...I don't know exactly what I'll do, but it won't be pretty, and it will probably contain some language that a few people would consider offensive.

Guess what I got off the needles last night, though? My halter top! I'm so excited, it's the only top I've ever knit (and I've knit a few) that looks good on me. It's purple ladder yarn (I think it's called "Matrix") and it's completely backless. It's so much fun.

Well, it's Opening Night.
The Big One.
The next apocalypse.
Disaster.
Whatever you want to call it, it's not going to be pretty, it's probably going to drag, and it's going to be one heck of an initiation for me and my brothers.
Wish me luck.
If I survive, then I shall probably curl up in a dark hole for the rest of my days. P)lease do not disturb me there.
If I am to be murdered by an angry audience or the evil stares of theatre critics, then I would like red roses and lavender at my funeral, and I would like to be buried with something alcoholic in the coffin.
These are my last wishes.

Oh. My. God.
What more can possibly go wrong with this production of Oliver? Every conceivable problem has arisen. EVERY SINGLE ONE.
1. We were kicked out of our performance and rehearsal space (the Dubois Center) because of some debate about the direction they wanted to take, costing us two weeks of lost rehearsals.
2. We lost 50% of out cast those two weeks we were stagnant, so we had to scrounge talent so local, we sleep in the same house (but not really).
3. Queen Taifa and Ron, our accompanist, don't get along at all. By no stretch of the imagination could they ever exchange remarks other than the most tepid.
4. Our Oliver is slightly tone-deaf, and cannot read music to save his life. (Actually, Taifa and Ron aren't too hot on that front either).
5. Our Dodger just quit, with FIVE FREAKING DAYS TO GO BEFORE OPENING NIGHT, so we now have someone else, who is very good, and picking up the blocking very fast, and actually taking the part seriously, but still.
6. Everyone has colds. EV-ER-Y ONE.
7. Okay, who has their lines memorized? Just the teens? No adults except the narrator? Really? Would you like to sign your own death warrant? What time do you want the press to hang you?
But oh, god, it's fun.
I still haven't written about the harem massage incident, have I?
Former Dodger walked in about a million hours late last Saturday, and when we asked him why, the only coherent things he could manage were "party" "tired" and "one bleeping hour of bleeping sleep".
So we dragged him out and all the girls (orphans and Fagin's gang kids, too) and gave him a backrub for forty-five minutes straight.
I swear, the boy has no qualms whatsoever about a tribe of underage girls handing him paradise on a linoleum floor for that long.
And then he didn't come back, and we were all heartsick. Except for me, of course, I have learned (not from personal experience, mind you) that it never works out to date a guy you're working with. Especially if you're an actress, I mean, how can you flirt meaninglessly on stage then?
So that's pretty much it for now...

Sooooo...Tired...Sleeep....
Nope, nope, nope, I must wake up...Well, maybe not...
NO! AWAKE! Think AWAKE thoughts...God, I'm so tired I can't type straight...I keep missing the space bar and all those punctuation marks...
Okay, thinking of being AWAKE...Analyzing the dangers...Aaaaand...It's not worth it. I should go back to sleep...
But guess what? I'm NOT going to. NOT. NO. I cannot make me.
Woah... that sounded wiered...I mean, weired...Oh, forget it.
No, I am going to work on a farm until 4:00 in the afternoon, and then come home long enough to change and then go to an Oliver rehearsal until 9:00. So yes, my day is packed, and I only just remembered last night to call the lady I was supposed to be babysitting for and tell her that I wouldn't be able to make it...
Aaaaa! Falling asleep!!!!
Something to keep me awake...Hmmm...Well, last night at the gas station, I saw what looked like the semi-annual meeting of United Pedifiles and their Hoochie-Mamma Girlfriends Annonymous...No, eeew, that'll just give me really weired dreams...

WOW is it humid today.
Seriously. It is evily (evilly? evilie?) humid, which is worse than it being too hot, because when it is humid you get all sticky and crabby.

I was at an old Winn-Dixie (depressing) from 8:00-10:00 helping to sell old library books.
The Winn-Dixie in question has been abandoned since I was eight, and therefore does not have power. Which means that there were no lights, and it was HUMID.

Also, for those of you who remember the Dreaded Love Hexagon, Kelly and Carson were there, together, being quite friendly and whatnot.
Honestly.
My brother on the other hand, who bears grudges quite beautifully (no, really, they look great on him), spoke not a word to Kelly and remained sullen and brooding the entire time she was there. He says that he hasn't spoken a word to her since The Event, and plans to keep it so. He's not going to break his track record.

I have a rehearsal today, and one tomorrow, and one on Monday, and I think...Heck, I think I have them all week.

And you know what else I think? I think it's going to fall flat.

Opening night is the 18th, right? So we should be coasting along merrily, right?
Well, could someone please explain to me WHY
1) We STILL do not have cosumes for the adult cast.
2) Widow Corney and Mr. Bumble had their first-ever rehearsal of their songs "Oliver", "I Shall Scream" and "Boy For Sale" ON THURSDAY EVENING.
3) No one (exceptions Bill, Dodger, Nancy, Fagin, Mr. Brownlow, Charlotte, Noah and the kids) is off book yet.
4) The set still isn't built.
Et cetera ad nauseum. I have never been in a production outside my living room, so don't trust my assesment, but we are going to crash and burn if we don't really take care of some of this stuff!

Yesterday evening, my mom and I went camping with my brothers, my dad, and 150-odd boy scouts in the FREEZING cold.
30 degree weather, and get this: no campfires. None. Not allowed. Please just shoot me.
Camporees are always, always, ALWAYS orginazational disasters, but this--Please, people. NO CAMPFIRES?? GOD.

I was in shock all day.

Campfires are social experiences. You have not camped until you have sung American Pie around a campfire with fifty or so boys and their dads.

A campfire is where you go in the morning. You get nice and warm after being cold all night long. You toast some bread on a stick, and by the time you get back to your tent, the Alpha adult has made hot cocoa and eggs and you're all set.

A campfire is where you go for lunch. All the pyromaniacs gather around the smouldering remains of the breakfst fire and try to rekindle it during their free time, with moderate success: they use more than three matches, but it's big enough to satisfy their heat lust. Note: These guys mean well, but they like to kid around and insult you. They like to practice knot-tying in your hair. They like to set fire to your knitting. DO NOT TOUCH THEIR FIRES, OR EVEN LOOK AT THEM FUNNY. You will be immediately escorted from the premises, which is probably a good thing.

A campfire is where you go at the end of the day. You start to gather around during dinner, scrounging Hotdogs off your favorite families. You're there while everyone gets into their Class A's for flag lowering, and you get the best spot right before they all come flooding back for S'mores and singing. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown, Down By the Bay, Sweet Home Alabama, There Is a Bad Moon on the Rise, Help, Margarita Ville, all these have an equal place around a campfire. All you need is a guitar and someone who can play, and you're in business.

But take away the campfire and DISASTER.

We were sitting around a turkey roaster at 40 degrees, in our tents at 38, and in each other's tents at 32.
Reduced to a turkey roaster.
Unbeleiveable.

And you know that the only reason I even go camping is because I love my guys. I do. I love them. Really. That is why I sat shivering in my jeans, jacket, and sleeping bag trying to sleep last night on the rocky ground.

And when I got up, it was still freezing.

I went from Pack 500's campsite to Troop 5's (or, from my little-little brother's to my big-little brother's) to congratulate my absolute favorite Boyscout on getting tapped out for the Order of the Arrow, and to possibly find some deserving boys to keep me warm (wishful thinking--there are none, at least, that's what dad thinks.)
Someone needs to cut that grass; I walked across the field and soaked my shoes, socks, and jeans (only nine inches or so, so that's okay).

No campfires. GOD.

The organizers are obviously either really, really dumb, or cruel, sadistic fiends who are trying to kill me.

This article sums up all the weather we have had lately in my part of the world:

And the Forecast is...
By Michael Rubiner
New York Times, August 5, 2003

Wednesday: Rain. Heavy at times. Folowed by periods of percipitation.

Thursday: Lingering showers throught the day. Chance of rain 800%.

Friday: Moist. Damp. Sodden.

Saturday: Rainish. Shower. Precipitacious.

Sunday: Light rain followed by heavy rain followed by pouring.

Monday: Unseasonably rainy in the afternoon. Uncharitably rainy in the Afternoon. Unconsiably rainy in the evening.

Tuesday: Endless showers broken by occasional flooding.

Wednesday: Remember "Water World"? Like that, only with more rain.

Tuesday: Not sunny. The opposite of sunny. Just forget about sunny, okay??

Friday: Clearing just long enough for you to make weekend plans. Followed by obscene amounts of rain.

Saturday: Take a wild guess.

Sunday: Incessent, spirit-crushing rain. The kind of rain that makes it futile to get out of bed in the morning. The kind of rain that seems as though it will never end. And guess what? It never will. Ever. Do you understand?

Monday: Please go away.

Tuesday: Ample, brilliant sunshine throught the day--Wait, did i say sunshine? I meant rain. Really hard rain.

I feel like I live in flipping Seattle!

...AND I SHALL POST!

Wow, nothing has been hapening. Seriously. Unless you count five Oliver rehearsals a week. This play is taking over my life. I am going to be burried under a pile of choreographers and costumes and scripts and scores and pianists and directors and generally everything that happens to fall on me.
Oh, and I just found out that one of my friends is moving to WISCONSIN.
Why?
His dad got a job there. God. What's so great about Wisconsin, anyway? I mean, no offense to all the Wisconsiners out there, but I prefer here, right? I'm sure you guys say the same kinds of things about North Carolinians. But really, all that's in Wisconsin is cheese and some seriously frigid weather. Why would they leave me to go to Wisconsin? His mom hates being cold!

But anyway, that's pretty much what's new with me.
Yeah.
Life is good, except for a few little twists that aren't really supposed to be there.

What is it with people an giving out free candy?? You would think we got enough of it at Hallowe'en, but no. Parents who spend their spare time complaining about how obese society is getting fill their kid's baskets once again to mark the rising of Jesus. Can't we find a better way to do that than hunting for plastic eggs filled with enough sugar, hydroginated oils, preservatives, dyes and artificial flavorings to kill off our entire nation? But no.
The definition of tradition: It was like that last year. Complete with clogged arteries.

For mainstream America, Easter is like a christian Hallowe'en, complete with dressing up and baskets of candy. The only real difference is, Easter is pastel, and christians don't beleive that you go to hell for celebrating it. Depressing.
Candy is candy is candy, right? It doesn't matter if it's sold in orange and black and purple, or if it's sold with little pink bunnies all over it. IT'S STILL SUGAR, PEOPLE!! Guess what? It doesn't matter! Easter candy kills you as fast as Hallowe'en candy. Really. Pastel bunnies not withstanding.

Happy Easter, by the way!
(Had to end on a cheery note)

Why is it never easy to get to a foriegn country? Could someone please explain that to me? And why do all of those trip-counselor ladies sound so premenstural when they tell you something's wrong? Do they get paid to be nasty? No (well, maybe). Do they get paid to help us? No. Do they get paid to help the airline fill seats? Bingo.
Bunch of jerks.
I mean, God forbid that it should be easy for me to get to Austria with my choir, mother, grandmother and brother, and then go back with just my mother, grandmother and brother. Ohh, no. Easy is not allowed. That model is SO outdated. No.
Expensive is allowed.
Difficult is allowed.
Complicated? We got that one covered.

Yeah.

Okay, done venting. Have a nice day, please come next time!

Well, let's just say that the first Oliver music rehearsal was...It made me apreciate my director and my accompanist. Choir is so much easier when you have a director who knows what they're doing, and an accompanist who can PLAY THE FLIPPING PIANO.
DP and Ferny, if you ever read this...I love you guys. You are awesome. And why? BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING, FOR PETE'S SAKE!!!
Now, our music director, let's call him Joey, is great. He has a marvelous tennor voice. He is very patient and understanding. He also has whopping zero experience with directing, and totally can not control a crowd. He also has some continuity issues. For instance, he sings a note, and then has us come up three steps above. Why not just give us the stupid note?!!? PLEASE. I BEG you. We need someone who can play at least chords. Just chords. We can get by from there.

Well, I finally got my bio up on the Road Less Traveled web site (www.roadlesstraveledtheatre.com).
For those of you who have not kept up with my exploits into the world of theatre, the Road Less Traveled is a theatre company that is setting up a branch where I live. And we are very excited. Verrrrrrrrrry excited. Oh, yes, we are.
Oliver is going brilliantly, by the way. No body is completely off-book yet, but dad and my brother are the closest.
I don't know why, but I am very happy today. Maybe because it's Saurday.
Happy Saturday, people!

Life+Mine+Now(2)=BORING. And I think I speak for all who have something to look forward to, but also have a great big patch of NOTHING on their social callendar between imminent Joy and/or intrigue, and now.
One of my friends is turning Sixteen. SIX. TEEN. Only two more years till college SIXTEEN. Driving after 9:00 legally SIXTEEN. Becoming even more adolecent than she already is SIXTEEN.
And I only have untill Sunday to get used to it.
Why do people insist upon growing up?? It's outrageous. Really. They should have been brought up beter or something.
Have the common courtesy to let us get used to it at least, for Petes sake!

Well, Oliver is shaping up to be the most disturbingly incestual production out of West Virginia. Seriously:
I am Charlotte. Noah, the guy I am supposed to be flirting outrageously with, is played by my brother.
Bill Sykes and Nancy are siblings offset.
In the Oom-pah-pah bar scene, my dad is squashed between me and a sixteen-year-old Bet, who is flirting up storm (WITH MY DAD), my mom is right in front of us being Old Sally, and I can't remember the lyrics to the song but I can remember how to spell incest. Insest. Inceste. Whatever.
I can also spell disturbing...
But no! I am an actress! I am lots of different people! I will rise above it!

Unfortunately, the newlyweds have split. We are all heartbroken, but so glad to have our respective Cult Followings back!
It would never have worked out, anyway. We're all much happier now. Really. I prefer Mugglenet.com and Mugglecom.net to any Leakymug.
We're still just as delusional as before!

I must congratulate Mr. Emerson Spartz-Anelli (formerly Mr. Emerson Spartz of Mugglenet.com) and Mrs. Melissa Anelli-Spartz (formerly Melissa Anelli of Leakynews.com) on their marrige and the union of their Harry Potter websites. Together, they are a perfect couple, and their new super-site, www.leakymug.com, is a fabulous contribution to the world of Harry Potter.
Congratulations, Memerson! The shippers are happy at last, and I know you will be, too.

Five gallons of Coconut Oil. Five GALLONS of VIRGIN COCONUT OIL. FIVE GALLONS. Virgin. Coconut. Oil. Oganic. Coconut. Oil.
I am in shock, but I shouldn't be. I mean, after the cheese, I should be prepared for anything, right? Five gallons of Organic virgin Coconut oil can't compare to ten pounds of organic unpasturized cheese from grass-fed cows, right?
But I am amazed. We use a lot of coconut oil, but we've never had FIVE GALLONS AT ONE TIME. We usually just buy it in smaller plastic jars, even though plastic is evil and we're trying not to use it.
Five gallons. I've finally seen it all.

My brothers and my mom and I all went out to work on a farm today. It was actually sort of fun. First we weeded the Lettuces and Cabbages and Broccolis, then we cleand and sorted enough eggs to feed the American army for several years, and then we planted some mixed greens and Onions, and would you beleive it, that took all day. Apart from sorting eggs until I swore that I would never eat another (but of course, I'll break my life long vow tomorrow) and getting a little bit of a sun burn (I NEED MORE COCONUT OIL!!), it was really nice.
It was so nice and warm outside, and sunny, and there was a nice breeze... But enough about the quintisential Spring/Summer day. I'm sure we will have many, many more perfect days, and I hope that they are all on Wednesdays because that's when we'll be working.
Oh, Lady Spring, thou temptress, bestow upon us poor mortals many, many perfect Wednesdays!

Well, this is just my luck. I don't know if I was born under a nasty little star, or if I am just careless.
I have choir on Monday night. Every Monday night. From 6:00 to 8:00 in the evening. I am VERY commited to this choir.
I love scouts. Scouts rock. Both of my little brothers are in scouts, their friends are like second cousins to me, and the fathers and leaders are like the uncles that I never get to see.
Even if this weren't the case, I would love BSA, because it's not girl scouts (I had a bad experince, okay? Leave me in peace.).
The Venture Crew that I just joined meets (and here's where it gets good) on MONDAY NIGHTS. See? Every other Monday night. From 7:00 to 8:00. On the other side of town.
Incidentally, THE SAME NIGHT I HAVE CHOIR.

I have been looking forward to tonight for weeks. It's maybe the only night that I have off from choir, so I will finally be going to a meeting, right?
WRONG!! Evil stars and their alignments! It's a conspiracy, I tell you!
Venture Crew is every other night. Get it? Tonight wasn't an every night or an other night.
Tonight is Black Monday. Tonight, the fates have it in for me. That is why tonight, I am going with my dad to my little little brother's Cub Scout meeting, and not to my nonexistant Venture Crew meeting.
I love my little little brother's pack. They are adorable, noisy, funny, cute, eager to please, and completely loony.
But they aren't my guys. I've never been as close to them as my little brother's friends. They're just not the same.

I got on and realized that mom had just popped a Nora Jones CD into the computer, so I can't blow my eardrums listening to heavy metal (forget for a second that I swore off it the first time I was in a car with a newly licenced teenager, darn it!! But that's another looooong story...) but instead maybe do some actual WRITING because Fresno and Green Day and all the rest are more condusive to head-banging and wrist-slitting (not that I do that, mind you, my wrists are perfectly lotus-blossom white and unblemished, thankyouverymuch) than to any creative writing. It's kind of ironic, for some reason...

Boredome today reached an all-time high. Seriously, I think I might have broken my previous record for boredome. You can tell that you're really, really bored when you start misspelling words just so you can hear the little ding! of the spell-checker. Yeah. That is hardcore boredome at it's best. That and randomly flipping through the pages of novels you haven't read in FOREVER and peicing together your own frankinstein-esque tale by melding different lines from different books...
But on the up side, I get to have a six-hour rehearsal for Oliver tomorow. From noon to...Well, six. PM. I can totally do that. I've done that kind of all-day-er in choir bunches of times. There's a rehearsal coming up that is from ten to nine (AM to PM). I am showing up for that one in my PJ's, just you see if I don't.
But yeah. Boredome...

Okay, Oliver is back on! Finally. We had a little meeting last night at a coffee shop, and we were to ld by the director that 1) We have lost Fagin, 2) We have lost a bunch of our orphans and some of Fagin's gang, 3) we are gonna kick this bad boy by rehearsing in an 18,000 sq. ft. warehouse three or four times a week.
Oh yeah! We rock! Sorta...
The really bad thing is that the performances are the first two weekends in May, so crunch time is now upon us, more's the pity.
I can hardly wait! I get to bat my eyelashes and sigh, "Oh, Noah," a lot, and then suffer from a servere split-personality disorder (I go from, "You little wretch, work'us!" to "Noah, come sit by me," in less than a minute. If that's not clinically insane, I don't know what is).
But YAY! It's my first-ever production, so I might be just a tad overexcited...

WHERE IS EVERYBODY?????
I swear, I never hear from my friends anymore! Are you ill? Are you on vacation? Are you DEAD??? Have you been captured by anti-American terrorists?
That last one really wasn't likely, as most of my friends are either Democrat or very mild-mannered, but hey. I just thought I'd covor all the bases.
Where, oh where has ev'ry one gone?
Where oh where can they be?
I have searched high and low,
But where can they go?
Oh, where, oh where can they be?

St. Patricks Day, the day that all men are Irish and all beer is served warm, is now officially over. Unless you happen to be a barhopper, in which case it is still going strong, with kegs tapped and glasses in hand.
I don't even get this full on Thanksgiving day, but here it is St. Patricks day and I am stuffed to my nonexsistant gills. This is my favorite meal of the year. I look forward to this all year long, waiting to behold rye bread and Corned Beef. Yum.
But I have to get off the computor now, because tomorow happens to be the day of the Pinewood Derby for a certian Pack 500, and my dad is officiating. GO TEAM or whoever you root for in one of these things, Lord knows I've only seen four or five, I don't know what goes on...

I just finished re-Hennaing my hair. Again. It's still wetwetwet, but it's going to be redredred when it dries! It's in honor of St. Patrick's Day (at least, that's my current excuse!), so while I'm on, Happy St. Patricks Day! My mom is throwing a shindig tomorrow night, so I will probably not be able not get on the lovely beige box that I like to call a computor, but instead spend the day cleaning the house with her and setting out decorations and cleaning my room because it is a Mess with a capital 'M'.

Two of my godsister's friends died this month in a car crash. She's feeling awful, I assume, because I haven't spoken with her since last Summer when we went to New York, and she's 10- hours away at college right now, so...Yeah.
Life really sucks sometimes.

On Raw Baby Swiss

Religeous experiences are overrated. As a general rule, I don't have time for them outside music. Food=religeous experience is not an equasion that I frequently use.
Four words: Raw. Milk. Baby. Swiss.
Even though it is considered illegal for humans to drink raw milk or to buy it for anything other than pet consumption, raw cheese is considered perfectly acceptable. This is a good thing, because without raw cheese, I would not be dancing for joy every time I opened up the refrigerator.
My mom is really into the whole raw thing, so I guess I shouldn't have been suprised when I walked downstairs to find ten to sixteen pounds of raw cheese on our dining room table. But I admit, I was suprised. I screamed. I wondered if my personal Mater Dei was going to be carted off to the Happy Valley Nut House.
When I tasted that cheese, I forgave her for startling me. I think I would have forgiven anybody anything just then. I had a religeous experience. The stuff is so creamy, so melt-in-your-mouth, so rich and velvety and lucious, that for a split second after you taste it, you think it cannot possible be cheese. It's got to be something other-worldly. Human hands and cows cannot possibly make any food so glorious.
Amazing, beautiful food.

How males of any age, shape, form, or nature have survived this long is a complete and utter mystery to me. Take my brothers and their friend, for example. Let's call my oldest brother Larry, and my younger brother Moe, and Moe's friend, let's call him Curly. Just for the purpouses of this descussion.
Here it is, a beautiful spring day. Larry and I are going outside to spend a productful day washing the van--Let's call the van Moby Dick--when suddenly, out of nowhere, Moe and Curly come with water guns and the hose, and commence to KILL Larry. Well, Curly started by KILLING Moe, and then Moe and Curly started KILLING Larry, but whatever. So there we all are, the Three Sooges KILLING each other and ol' Moby and me washing up.
Once the washing of Moby (who hasn't seen the ocean in a while, poor fellow) is complete, Larry attempts to roll up the hose while I get the bucket and sponges. As you might have guessed, he encounters some dificulties. Curly, it seems, does not wish to relinquish the hose. He seems quite *ahem* attatched to the hose. In fact, he seems not to be able to let go, leaving Larry to drag him and the hose across the yard, leaving a trail of upturned scruff that my dad likes to call 'grass'.
But this is not the end. Oh, no. For after Larry gets the hose back in place (after shouting a great deal about the 'hooligans' and 'aqua terrorists' that are--well, terrorizing him), he runs into the house, while Moe and Curly position themselves conveniently outside the front door armed with fully loaded water cannons, a damp football, and the hose. "Come out and play!" they shout, waiving their destructive impliments around (I tell you, how they ever survived).
Dad goes to the open window, and very seriously says, "I don't suppose you two know that Larry is in in here crying, do you?" Larry comes around behind him. "We'll see about that!" he yells, and then goes into a tirade about fearing the ultimate wetness weapon, the all-powerful water baloon. Weirdo.
And there he stands inside the door. "I am armed," he yells triumphantly, "with FOUR water baloons, while you have only--a GARDEN HOSE!! I shall prevail!!" and instead of saying, "oh yes, that seems very reasonable, we'll just go bug someone else, then," like someone with half a brain and some sense would do, they hit him with a good, long spray from the hose. Not that he wasn't asking for it, but you know how parents are picky about how the house looks and feels, they don't want the stairway damp--and combine that with mad-as-a-wet-dog Larry, well, let's just say it wasn't the brightest thing to do. Larry dissapears to get more water baloons, while Moe and Curly yell out, "Come out, you scruffy self-made water baloon boy!"
While Larry is getting more water baloons, Moe and Curly spray the upstairs window screen, knocking it off the window and down onto the bushes below. Larry retreived it and put it back up in a huff, and now that the water fight is over, I have nothing to write about.
Well, except for the fact that NOSILAISGOINGTOCOLLEGEYAY but you know...
But there it is, how do males survive in the wild? the dangers of Wild Suburbia seem strange enough, I don't know what they would do without us.
"Without women, men would be mighty scarce,"

Congatulations to Nosila, who is THE COOLEST GIRL IN THE WORLD, for being accepted to college! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, my little baby's growing up sooo fast.
You will have to write to me very often. Promiso?

It is said that the Sweet Sound of Spring is that of birds chirping, rabitts rustling through the underbrush, or perhaps even the soft patter of fat, warm, pre-Summer raindrops.
Nay, I say. The Sweet Sound of Spring is none of these shallow items.
It is, rather, the chirping of mall-goers getting a jump-start on the latest fashions, the rustle of unspoiled flip-flops being broken in for the long season ahead, and the soft pattering of premature divers jumping into 30-degree water.
I challenge you this year; listen for the true Sweet Sound of Spring, and soon thy warm-weather fantasies will be fulfilled.

Confessions of a Band-Wagon-er

The band Green Day has a special place in my heart. From the first time I swiched on my radio and heard Boulevard of Broken Dreams to the day I learned that it was they who played it, I knew that this was one heck of a band.
When I heard Jesus of Suburbia, I thought that this was merely one more fabulous result of a late-night law-breaking smoke.
Then I heard the unedited version.
I immedeately commenced to have a religeous experince.
I love this song because it requires persistence. Nine minutes and eight seconds of music is a commitment, especially for a pop-culture that enjoys instant gratification and waits too long for it.The song is a saga, the movements as clearly defined as any Mozart or Rutter. It is as much an epic ballad as Bohemian Rhapsody, and has as much of an impact as American Pie did. It is longer than Alice's Restaraunt, and it has just as much of a cult following.
There's at least one "great" every decade.
Green Day might not be it, but this song is something else.
Parental descresion adviseable, dad.

IT'S HARD OUT HERE FOR A PIMP????? Wha??
SO not. It's America, pimps are flourishing, flaunting their ostentacious vehicles and sparkly bow ties. Darn them!
But seriously, that's all. All the controversy and excitement of the Oscars, and that was the most interesting thing that happened. Minimal politics. Minimal speeches. Not one Swan on the premesis (although many Vegans are probably still recovering from that abominable shock in 2001, thanks, Bjork).
What's the point??
I could have been wasting my time with something entertaining like...The Capitol Steps! (www.capsteps.com, for anybody that's interested).
Aaaarrgh, and now I'm going to be humming "it's hard out here for a pimp" all day!!

Our former pastor's oldest son Tim was killed in a car crash at 11:00 last night on the beltline.
How much bad news can a person handle before they go insane?
Loosing a kid (I say kid, he was 19 or 20) would probably put you over the edge.
Tim was with three other people. They were all killed, too. The car was going roughly 100 miles an hour, and it crashed and burned.

There are never easy answers, but why can't there be easy questions?

One of my friends (She's in college) just got the news that two friends of hers were injured in a car crash, and a third died.
So for what it's worth, I'm hoping her friends get better, and that life is good for them.

I now officially HATE the weather. It's just teasing me. (And it stood me up this morning, but I won't go in to all of that).
Is it even the least bit fair that yesterday was a gorgeous 80 degrees, and breezy, and I could FINALLY wear a tank top without freezing within an inch of my life, and today it's supposed to be all of 50. Dang. The weather sucks, plain and simple. It's only calling is to keep us from being bored, but it really doesn't do that good a job...
ARRRRGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay. Deep breath. Rant over. Thank you for listening, come again next time. Hope you enjoyed the show.

Yesterday, my dad and some of his coworkers were teasing a newlywed with stories of my brothers *ahem* questionable exploits.
"Stop!" she said to my dad, "You always tell me about the weird things your sons do. Tell me about your daughter." (I would like to interject at this time that the reason my dad never brings horror stories to work about my exploits is because I am a perfect little angel who adores everyone she meets. I'm modest about it, too.)
So my dad directed her to my blog.
This is to you, Newlywed-whom-my-dad-horrified: we're not ALL like that. Some of us young kids, impressionable teenagers, and screwy post-adolecents are loveable and cute.
At least, that's the impression we like to cultivate.

I just started my EOG's or whatever the heck they are, and I'm halfway through! Hah! Take that, thou public- and Private-schooloed miscreants!

Oh, and Flamenco music is now THE BEST THING EVER. Seriously. My favorite is Ioannis Anastassakis. Anything he does is awesome.
This music makes me want to run over to Goodwill and buy a red petticoat or circle skirt and dance with my brother...

Okay, after sitting for half an hour in traffic on a road that is usually barren, we found out that the rehearsal had been cancled.
This was due to some political mess, who's doing what to whom, blabitty blabitty blah, at the comunity center that we were supposed to be rehearsing at (I mean, 'at which we were supposed to be rehearsing'. Bad, bad girl for dangling your preciples, or whatever they are.).
We now do not have a place to rehearse. Or to preform. Hear me, cyberland, and give me ideas! I would like for them to be close to the area, but I know that you're not totally God.

And while dad and I were out that way, we went poking around the scource of the unrest, as it were. The road was pretty much cleaned up, but I'm sure there had been something big, ugly, and/or violent, because there were some news vans parked there...
But it was fun. My morbid curiosity might have rubbed off on dad, or maybe the other way 'round.
Morbid little fun fact: When shot between the eyes, you will bleed through your ears. When shot anywhere in the chest or stomach, the blood will come out your mouth.
Don't ask me how I know this, as the answer will be very boring. I have never actually SEEN these things happen, and I'm not sure if I would stay concious if I did...

Oksy-day, I am now on my way to an Oliver rehearsal with my family. It is my first one, since I couldn't go to the blocking (Choir clinic) and the Sowerberry's blocking was cancled. The reason that one is significate is that I'm playing Charlotte. I do not know my lines half as well as I think I should, which is pretty sad, considering that I have all of ten...I never was very good at the whole memorizing my lines on time, was I, Nosila? *Ahem* Think 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'...
I am going to now go thank the gods that I am not playing Nancy.

I just got back from babysitting THE CUTEST four-year-old EVER. Seriously. He's got these huge brown eyes, and sandy blonde hair. He's one of those little boys that you just want to scoop up and take home with you, except that you can't tell the parents because they would be like, "Never again, child,"

And now I am on my way to the Pack 500 bridging over cerimony, which I am having shaken, not stirred, feelings about: on the one hand, my little brother and his den are going from first-year Webelos to second-year Webelos, which means that they'll have aproximately one year to get ready for Boyscouts. On the other hand, I've kind of bonded with the current second-year Webelos, who are bridging over to Boyscouts. This means that I will never see my guys again. EVER. Except maybe for camporees.
I don't know why I always fall in like with these dens; it's like I'm just setting myself up for heartbreak. Maybe I should get a therapist. Or maybe just some smarts.
I love these guys. Although, I have liked other dens more in the past...Like the Monster den, perhaps. And of course, Den 4. And there's Rob the Former Cubmaster.
But really, are a bunch of campouts and being called alternately 'Trouble' or 'The Girl' worth it?
I answer myself: Totally.
I love these guys.

At about 3:45 this afternoon, I remembered that I was supposed to be babysitting at 4:00.
Thank the Lord for my fast genes, from whichever side of the family they come from. I was ready to go in aproximately four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, and that includes the fries.

I hope that everybody watches the Olympics. You must got to Johnny Weir online because he is beautiful and a very good skater, even though he came in fifth. And then stormed from the building.
Can anybody spell 'Prima donna'?
Puh-leeze, pretty boy. Although I will admit, it does take a very brave man to wear a skating costume that flutters...

ORCHIDS!!!

I love Orchids. They always sort of look like they're sticking their tounges out...

Okay, it's freezing cold outside, more so than yesterday if that is possible this side of the mason-dixon line.
The doors on the van were frozen shut, and the ground was frozen, and I beleive that we will shortly be seeing some frozen percipitation.
Joy.
The sun is out, though, so that is a plus...
You people who live in beautiful, warm places know nothing of the dangers of frozen non-suburbia.
Again, I say, blasted Groundhog!!

Had a brainwave:
The "Bloggers" are the eleitists in the world of Online journaling. The Anti-consumerists and Microsoft users are more likely to get a livejournal than, say, the Mac people.
The Preps, Jocks, well-paid, or the border-line bohemians are on Blogger.
The Punks, Emos, or the misunderstood artists (so basically all artists) get Myspace.
The suffering college students, the bored middle-class, and the working youth get Livejournals.
The Hippies, granola-heads, and underpaid migrant workers still don't have computors, and Cheerleaders keep their thoughts locked inside locked pink notebooks that never fill up.
Occasionally, though, they do get Xangas. (That's pronounced Z-anga, not Xs-anga. Get it right.)

I love headphones. They are a marvelous invention. I put them on, double-click that little wndows Media Player button, and I go into my own little world...
Now, mom and dad are suddenly very predjudiced against headphones for some reason. I am sure that they are bad for my ears, but that's better than annoying the whole house with some punk-or-emo stuff I just got off Pitchfork.com, right?
That's not really their favorite genra...

I think it's raining. Yesterday was such a tease. It was so warm and sunny. I could wear a short sleeved shirt without a jacket!
But alas, it was not to be. Winter is as yet still upon us. Blasted Groundhog!

Whoever first said, "Life is screwy," was a genius. Honest-to-God brilliant. Not that it really takes a lot of brains to state something so obvious, but he (or she) was possibly the most outspoken and least insightful person of his (or her) time. Whoever they were.
And I wonder why they said this?
Was it their life that was screwy, or did they just pick up the newspaper one day and look at the front page and proclaim, "You know what, guys? People everywhere are dying for innexplicable reasons, we've burned a hole in the ozone layer that is slowly frying the planet, Nuclear waste is piling up without any safe way to get rid of it, and we're poluting our rescources! Life is so screwy!"
Or was it possibly just one of those not-so-insightful things that hits you in the night, when you're in bed listening to the wind going through the trees, and you suddenly sit up as if possessed, and whisper, "life is screwy," over and over and over. It becomes your mantra, and all hope of sleep is lost until 8:45 the next morning, when you find out that you have an unscheduled test on something useless, like the major imports and exports of Hawaii (Tourists).