Dear person or persons whom I have irrevocably failed and/or disappointed,

Facebook is evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.
I really did try to sign up. I really did. My very best. You won't hate me forever, will you?
See, it just rejected me. I think it's because I'm a confessed member of Autodidacts Anonymous. They just hate homeschoolers. The System is trying to bring me down!...In fact, it's succeeding!
Facebook is evil. That is just all there is to it.

With too many apologies,

Me

The Summer has come.

It has come up to terrorize our gardens. It has bred many thunderstorms, but not nearly enough. It has evaporated our pools, fogged our glasses. It has dried up our reservours, killed our chickens, and gunned down many a resolution for Summer Fitness with its tempting array of cold and frozen sugary treats.

And the Summer has gone.

And with it, every friend I have over the age of 18.

I wish every one good luck for the coming year. And the nicest and most understanding of roommates, and very good cafeteria food, and very nice dorm rooms and fridges and professors and classrooms and whatever else you need.
Till next time...

Where's the Big Big Man?

Ever since I was a little girl, the Big Big Man has been in that field on 401 (or capitol blvd, or whatever). You know the one I'm talking about. Blue overalls, black beard, seasonally changes his shirt. I used to beg my parents to go out of their way so I could say 'Hi' to the Big Big Man. At Christmas, the people who owned the farm where he stood would rig up a star over their house, so high up I thought it was part of the sky. During Independence day week, an American flag would be clenched in the Big Big Man's hand.
He was a landmark. No matter where I was, I would think to myself, Okay, the Big Big Man's over there, so I must be...?
He's always been there, the unsung fiberglass watchdog of the capitol.

SO WHERE'D HE GO???
Is it normal for ten-foot-tall men to suddenly dissapear? I mean, he was an innanimate object, for crying out loud.
Or am I just overreacting? Was it 'his time'? Am I going crazy for missing some over-large portrayal of a farmer?

Does anyone have the faintest idea of what I am talking about?

I adore eggs. Almost as much as I adore mayonnaise. Or chocolate. Or Butter.

When we got our first five hens a few weeks ago, I was more than very, very happy. I was ecstatic. I was beside myself with uncontained glee. I was ready to burst with the idea that we were going to have more eggs! Yes! I had just been told that the meaning of life was in my back yard!

But alas, no. Not nearly. Aparently, chickens are slaves to routine, one of their routines being that they go on strike every summer, without warning (maybe there Italian?).

Estimated total egg consumption per week: Let seven eggs be assigned to french toast, three to toad-in-the-holes, six to scrambling/frying, six for hard-boiling, and twelve for baking and ice cream. Total: Thirty-four/Three dozen, at least five per day (and each one of those conclusions came to a completely different number, but whatever).

Actual laying amount per day: Two.

Apparently, our chickens do not share my family's love of eggs. There is a very distinct +/- thing going on here.

(Perhaps I shouldn't write this at lunchtime.)

And it is August.

Is it just me, or is really, really hot?

Alas.
Here's what happens: Harry is horribly disfigured and almost dies but his watch face saves his life, Voldemort gets blue contact lenses and becomes Minister of Magic, and Hermione and Neville get plastic surgery and Bellatrix adopts them. And Ron is blown up on the London subway.
So ends the turmoil and strife of the greatest series this decade.

I had a fabulous time at the Smith's pool today. We stayed all day, and ate cheese and crackers and had flourless chocolate cake, and got very wet. It was drizzly the first half of the day, but dad showed and it all cleared up and was very nice and sunny and the tops of my feet got tan. But the rest of me is lobster pink. How did I manage this?

Today is my Sixteenth Birthday

...And that's about it.
I'm opening a whole lot of cards, and eating a little cake (hopefully), and going to the Smiths' pool, and maybe maybe maybe watching the new Harry Potter movie, if my brothers and I can actually stay in the theatre to see them mangle another one for three hours.

...The Capitol Steps have their 4th of July radio broadcast up! All hail the deranged mocksters!

After Rome, it was a simple matter of our plane from JFK being delayed thirteen hours and an overpriced Starbucks meal to get home.
The limo was not nearly as much fun the second time around. Although that might have been because we spent the night in a deserted terminal under the florescent lights of the seventh level of hell.

And now our fabulous trip is over, and the boys are away at Summer camp, and when we pick them up, we will all go up to the mountains for a week of CFO. (Yes, the many reports you are hearing are true, mum will be camping. All week. In a tent. Without Laura Ashely.)

First thing tomorrow morning, we head out to get my guys, go to the nearest Laundro-Mat to wash a week's worth of boy camping laundry, then go to CFO, where they will just get stinky all over again, but this time with parental supervision.

See you when I get back (again)!

Sunday, June 10, 2007 8:23
The Hotel Osimar
Rome, Italy

This was a horrid hotel that hardened cab drivers drove over hell's half acre to find, on the outskirts of a horrid city.
When we got to Rome, we were all tired and rather unhappy and very hot, and to make things worse, the cab driver didn't know where our hotel was.
He made a few calls, and before we knew it, we were at a hotel in the middle of nowhere.
The best that can be said about it, was that it had a bidet.
We decided that no matter how hot it was, we couldn't just stay in our hotel rooms all day, so we ventured forth into the sticky, smelly, dirty crowded hordes of tourists to see what we could see.
Our first stop was the Colosseum, which I assume would be very appealing in the off-season.
It was...very...big? And hard. And old.
And on that particular day, hot, crowded, dirty and smelly.
Second was the Mouth of Truth, which was my absolute favorite, because the basilica that it was connected to was all stone with one or two windows, and very dark and cool.
From there, we went over to the Palaza de Spanga, to see the the overcrowded Spanish Steppes, and then to the Trevie Fountain, where we only threw coins in so we could ensure our safe return to a major airport next year.
After that, we got some gelato, and took an other taxi to the hotel Osimar.
We got dinner at a tiny place two minutes from our hotel, had a long dinner under the stars, and vowed never to return to Rome again.
Rome sucks.

Let me just say right now, that the Smiths throw the best parties in the known universe.
That's all.

Friday, June 8, 2007, 22:20
Hotel Atlantic Palace
Florence, Italy

After an obnoxiously long train ride, we got to Florence.
After oo-ing and ah-ing over mum and dad's room, we were informed by the concierge that not only was our room not ready yet, it was still vibrantly inhabited.
We could have told him that (he gave us the key).

Upon gaining entrance to our room, we promptly fell on the bed and turned on MTV, which is the only cable show in Italy that speaks English sometimes. The commercials were awesome, because they were all in a language we couldn't understand, so we didn't feel compelled to buy stuff.

Sunday, June 9, 2007 22:00
Hotel Atlantic Palace
Florence, Italy

Today was packed and exhausting and exhilarating and filled with old rocks and gelato.
First thing in the morning, we went to the Academia, where, amongst the old, the antique, and the Prisoners, we saw Michelangelo's David (YES! I SAW DAVID), which was about the only thing worth looking at.

On our way back to the Hotel, we were caught up in a big market, where we bought mounds of silk and linen and Pashmina scarves.
I fell asleep while dad went in search of a post office to mail out our billion and one post cards (if we didn't get one to you, it wasn't for lack of trying), and mum went back to the market in search of more bargains.
When I woke up, it was time to go to the Uffizi Galleria, but dad (who had gone in search of mum when she didn't come back from the market), was not with us.
We were outside the Uffizi for about half an hour (quite a while when you're on 24-hour time) waiting for our tour before dad turned up.
The tour guide was great. He had a bit of a lithp, and said, "believe me," and "by the way," a lot. We saw the Birth of Venus, and the Three Graces, and loads of Pieta, and a couple Adoration of the Magi. Afterwards, we had dinner at il Fratelini, a tiny sandwich stand across the piazza from the Duomo, and walked down to the Ponte Veccio.
It was crowded. Everybody was either watching the Harri Krishna parade that was noisily cavorting down the street, or hanging over the bridge, watching the sun sink into the Arno.
Mum disappeared on a mission of mystery, and the boys and I leaned out over the Arno while dad took pictures.
After about twenty minutes of this, mum reappeared, only to shang-hi me into one of the jewelry shops along the ponte, and after many tears, after much arm-twisting, and after hitting up my dad for a hundred fifty euro, we got a perfect cameo from a Russian lady who spoke English with an Italian accent.
We went back to the Hotel, and the boys went to the gelateria across the street from our hotel to get the Italian equivalent of ice cream take-out.

Day three of Italy
Thursday, June 7, 2007, 10:00
MY Hotels La Spezia

1. Riomaggiore
Riomaggiore is the first town in the Cinque Terre. It was there that we got our first tastes of mountain vineyards, brightly-colored Mediterranean houses, and clear, blue water. We started with a very exciting elevator ride up the mountain, so we could save ourselves for the long climb down.
We solicited sandwiches at the nearest grocery, and ate them overlooking the beach as it started to rain. An American woman had been teaching there for two weeks, and decided that as long as she was over there for the summer, she might as well stay there. Her mother was born in one of the five villages, and she and her sister were going to hike and explore her mothers' homeland.
We lost her in the hike through via Dell'amore, a meeting place for several hundred Romeo and Juliets over the years, decorated with creative graffiti and lots of padlocks.

2. Manarolo
We came through the via Dell'amore into Manarolo, the second village in the Cinque Terre, and immediately sought out fortification in the form of gelato.
Once obtained, it was a simple matter of walking through the village and trying to sight-see in the pouring rain, until the cold pound became too much for up and we ducked into a handy-dandy Basilica to wait it out.

We emerged after fifteen minutes into the sunlight, shaking out raincoats and starting back down the mountain to the station.

3. Corniglia
In Corniglia, we experienced the beautiful views and tastes and smells that I am sure make European adults so irresponsible.
Halfway up the village, mum and dad stepped over to take in a wine tasting, while the boys and I navigated the treacherous waters of a foreign language and got several enormous gelato cones to eat in the hot sun spilling over the buildings.

4. Vernazza
If the Cinque Terre has a village that can be described as more picturesque than all the others, this is it, as it has the best easily accessible beach on the coastline.
We walked through piazzas, past vias, and around endless fountains, slipping on the rain-slicked cobblestones and marble down to the waterfront.
A dog was gleefully ignoring the 'No Dogs' sign, and splashing in the water around a boat that was launching.
At mum and dad's insistence, I put my toes in the freezing cold Mediterranean sea (which turned out to be the Legurian sea) and then skipped over to the bench with mum and ate many yummy sandwiches.

5. Monterosso
Monteroso was a fancy, resort-y village, entirely populated by the rich, the old, and the tourist.
It kind of looked like the Florida keys, except there were gelato stands instead of ice cream trucks, and there were cigarettes on the beach.

Tomorrow at 13:00, we take the train to Florence.

Day two in Italy
Wednesday, June 6, 2007 12:24
The intercity train to La Spezia

This morning, my brother and I went with dad to cash the traveler's cheques that NOBODY USES ANYMORE.
The metro we took was noisy and crowded, and when we finally got to Piazza Missuri it took us 12 blocks of of eternity to find an American Express on via Lago, because the streets change names at every driveway, the map was wrong, and the policemen didn't speak English.
Yeah, I can be an ugly American tourist. So what?

Later on Wednesday
La Spezia, Italy
MY Hotels La Spetzia

16 minutes before we were due to arrive in La Spezia, the train was forced to stop, due to a rather large rock slide. We (and our luggage) were shepherded (with a trainful of other passengers) to a bus, then to an OTHER train on the OTHER side of the rock slide.
When we finally get to La Spezia, my brothers and I (having not eaten all day) are famished (understandably), so we raid the mini-bar (it was free in the last hotel!), and consequently find that this is about twice the street price.
Hmm.

We head over to a restaurant that the concierge recommends, the Trattoria La Nuova Spezia, and upon arriving, are treated to jokes in Italian, swordfish steaks, nyoki with pesto, pasta with cheese sauce and bacon, the house wine, a tray of desserts, a cognac, a cafe corretto, and some very delicious sea-something, which turned out not to be so delicious when we learned it was Squid.
After four hours of this, we had to pay up and go to our pseudo-home, or else risk exhaustion's wrath. It was rather dark, and after about ten minutes of walking this way, we realized we had no idea of where we were.

And that was when it started to rain.

We traipsed over deserted piazzas to deserted streets for another fifteen minutes, finally bumping in to a group of streetlamp-lit teenagers who had a very bad case of the giggles, but did show us to our hotel.

We fell into bed with nary a care.
Only as I was falling asleep did I remember that we needed to get up the next morning...

I'm back. Miss me?

I'm trying to figure out how to do this, since I actually did quite a lot in a week, and even though my life is not very exciting, I'd like to reserve the right to have a good rant every now and then.
Maybe I'll add those later?

Day one of Italy
Tuesday, June 5, 2007, 19:50
Milano, Italy
The Hotel Michelangelo

We just arrived in Milano this morning. We checked in to the hotel, and immediately went over to the train station (across the square!) to buy tickets to Bergamo (about 2 hours from Milano). Bergamo is important because it is where mum and dad had their Montessori training and lived for a year.
We take the funicular to the middle city (Bergamo being on a verrry steep hill).
Once we get there, we are all famished, so we get a lot of sandwiches and eat them on the steps of the bibliotecha, facing the Piazza Vechia, and watch an old man in a purple shirt walk up and down the street with an umbrella, singing to himself.
We took the funicular to the upper city, where the Montessori school was (a Montessori learning and a Montessori teaching school) and along the way, we meet a family of Liverpudlians on their last day. Soon after that, it begins to pour. We skip off in the rain for about 15 minutes, decide that caching a chill would not be a smart thing to do on our first day, and take the funicular back down.
Once it stops raining, we go buy gelato (our first of many), and look at the view (also our first of many).

Tomorrow, we take a train to La Spezia.
And right now, I will indulge my jet-lag, and sleep until dad makes me get up.

Hannah had her graduation party today. Her dad made this toast-speech about doors closing and it kind of made me wonder if I was a closed door, or if I was still open. And it also made me get really teary, so I gulped down my champagne so I'd have something to cry about and got some cake.

Tomorow morning, I shall head off to Italy.
I promise to bring back a camera full of pictures.
And tales of cute Italians in picturesque landscapes.

Ciao!

OHIO:

Packing (I have always hated packing).
Driving (TEN HOURS!).
Nana (words cannot express).
Diana exhibit (very very pretty).
Cheryl's graduation party (Ali's was better).
Seeing the cousins (rambunctious) and the aunts (women) and the uncle (SO man).
Visiting Penny and Jaffe (Yay!).
Packing (I really HATE packing!).
Driving (TEN HOURS!)


Home.

Long, long exhale.

I would like to publicly apologize for:
a) not writing since the first and, alas, keeping my adoring public in the dark (there was nothing to write about! I cannot always make dullness sound exciting, sue me. Any complaints, I take calls Mon-Fri, normal work hours.)
b) not going on my second official Venture Crew outing (a fishing trip. Red necks. Need I elaborate?)


On Friday I went to the Relay for Life kick-off, saw a bunch of people I knew, laughed, and walked a lot.
On Saturday, we dropped my Nana off at Peace college for her 50th High school/college reunion, and I decided I am SO going to Peace until I find an alternative, because the campus is the best.
On Sunday, we went to Mellow Mushroom and I found yet another good reason to attend Peace: there's a Starbucks not five blocks away!

Tomorrow I shall rest and recuperate and pull weeds.

On Thursday, I am going to Cleveland for my mums' best friends' second daughters' High school graduation, see my cousin's cute not-puppy, and eat a bunch of stuff I don't want to know about.

I will see your adoring faces when I get back!

I sat out on the deck today in the Silk-Road-esque heat, slowly eating the topping off four pieces of pizza, while the sun first baked my still-bald scalp, and then made my upper lip break out in moisture so profuse, I was under the impression (for a little while) that I had bitten in to a hot pepper.
Afterwards, I crunched down the last of the ice cream we had for my baby's FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY GOD HELP US, and thought about meaningful things like the fact that my baby brother will never be thirteen any more (thank God for small favors), and this ice cream would be really good with coffee flavor, and meaningful things like that.

I love an Ordinary Summer Day.

Especially in Spring.

Hmmm...

My mum is 'rendering fatback'.

This is rather off-putting, because on the one hand, it looks like a side of Lamb, only it's fat, and on the other...it...SMELLS really really really GOOD.

Like bacon.

But not smokey.

Just to let people know, mum and I sang Mozart's Requiem with the NC Master Chorale yesterday at Meymandi.
Yes, I know I didn't say anything, but the ticket prices were atrocious ($24.00 bucks! Who do they think they are!?)
It was SO MUCH FUN, and also rather too warm, and now my Little-little brother is going around singing Dies Ire, only with lyrics like, "cum se-dasy-dasy-meela".

My little-little brother, One Who Has Ultra-Low Pain Threshold, just got back from the dentist after having two baby molars extracted.
He hath been talking like thith ever thinth he goth home, because of two gauze pads in his mouth. But unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. I'm betting two hours till that novocane runs out.

Plus, dad gave him a hair cut last night, so his misery is quite complete.

Awaking from my Easter afternoon stupor, I came upon a revelation: I never get the sugar high. I skip straight to the low.

Boy, wouldn't I be a riot on recreational drugs.

To complicate matters, the Blue Screen of Death was in reruns on our computer.
Or the desktop just took a holiday. Which is probably more likely.

Good news, though. We got more M*A*S*H, so at least we are entertained through our Sugar Blues.
Happy Easter...

I arose yesterday morning and was on the point of making breakfast, when I opened the fridge, and--!!!!!


Tragedy! Disaster! O, woe! O, misfortune! O, despair! What exigency!

NO BUTTER!!!

I hadn't really considered my dependence on butter. To me, it seemed rather nonexistant. I mean, no butter? Please! I can so deal, people! It isn't like I've never been deprived before, wretched child that I am.
But little did I know: no butter = No french toast, no scrambled eggs, no fried-egg sandwich, no toad-in-the-hole, no grilled cheese... I know I sound like I'm whining, but NO BUTTER! O, calamity! REALLY.

It's like running out of Coffee or Hot Water--You don't do a thing like that.

But we all had this enourmous breakfast this morning, and a long walk, and it is a gorgeous day, and maybe this whole unnatural-daylight-savings-time thing is working...

My mind seems to be rather Skewed today.
That's a great word. I love that word. Isn't that a great word?
But I just wanted that to go on record for posterity.

Why is it already in the 80's? It's MARCH. I love changing all my winter clothes out for my summer ones, but I like doing it until mid-to-late April.
My friend's pool doesn't even open till June!

Global warming might have sent a calling card, at least...

I have reached a quandary: I am undoubtedly Irish, right? With my last name, family heritage, inexplicable desire for corned beef three hundred and sixty-five days a year and general hatred of the color orange, how could I be anything else? (The fact that mum's reliatives are all German is immaterial).
So why do I have such a deep-founded lack of interest when it comes to the potato?

I really do feel sympathy for the sufferers of the potato famine--a whole infostructure based on a root!--but I must be chanelling Queen Anne or Elizabeth or whoever it was that outlawed the potato in England, because I just do not see the attraction.

Maybe I'm English.

Or worse! Scottish!

Either way, I resign myself to being doused with whiskey and/or Porter and carried to the nearest Catholic confessional in an wool Aran playing "The Yoodil Is On Me Now" on a Bodhran.

Happy St. Patricks day.

Why is Daylight Savings time FOUR WEEKS longer?

Has the President taken leave of his remaining senses?
Why are we asked to abandon a tradition that our forefathers long upheld? A tradition that was invented by Ben Franklin? WHY MUST WE AWAKEN IN DARKNESS???

Because, as we all are perfectly aware, four weeks will help boost the floundering economy to such a level that even (a certain person who is in office who will remain nameless at the present time) won't be able to rip it down.

Of course, those with seasonal depression are in a lurch. But hey! We figure that the economy will be booming along so nicely, we won't notice the insurance agency's shares plummet.

What makes French Vanilla french?

Well, I was going to tell you all about the fabulous Lunar eclipse I saw last night, but that was driven clean out of my mind by the fact that Google has taken over Blogger!
No, maybe this isn't newsworthy, but I am very annoyed when I try to write on my blog and find I can't even LOG ON because the stupid COMPANY sold out to GOOGLE.
So what if they've updated their system? Could they LET ME KNOW? Give me fair warning? Not make me get a Google account?
Ugh, I hate Empires.

And I was singing all day yesterday, and I'm still really, really tired, and I just finnished a serise, so I have that melencholy, let-down feeling.
All that to say, take whatever I say with a grain of salt.
Or maybe the whole Ocean.
But Ocean is masculine, so take whatever I say with a little Sea instead...

Disclaimer: If any of the words in the below post, previous posts, or posts as yet to be realized are spelled or used incorectly, TOUGH TOENAILS.
Go kiss a dictionary.

Why do these things always happen on Saturdays?

Today is a momentus occasion. A celebration of aging. Out-with-the-Old, In-with-the New. The ONLY TIME this will EVER HAPPEN, darn it.

My youngest brother bridging over to Boy Scouts, walking across a flimsy peice of rope suspended two feet off the ground, receiving the red epaulets that symbolize countless Pinewood Derbys, banned Hazing, Sleepless nights on frozen ground, and go oh-so-becomingly with his complexion.

This Arrow of Light Cerimony will be attended by the Cub Master, Den Leaders, younger Cubscouts, Den mates, and most important, our friendly neigbourhood Plumber.
That's right, folks, you heard it here first: Our Water Heater has officially bitten the dust, I repeat, has OFFICIALLY bitten the dust.

A tragedy that will soon be overcome by the wonders of Home Depot Instillation and the IRS Tax (Return) Agency.

Until then, I will be living out of the our immaculate 1/2 butt kitchen, musing about the many ways in which my life revolves around Hot Water.

By the way, a typical Happy-Bridging-Over present is a 47 gallon Water Heater. Electric. Any color, brand or style okay. WE DO NOT DISCRIMINATE.

When I first went to the Post Office to get my passport, I thought I was going to Austria with my choir.
Slight change of plans:
1. Destination: Italy
2. Entourage: Family
3. Head exploded--Just a tad worrisome
4. No Singing--Bonus?

10 Things You Really, Really Need

10. Bonfires. Unfortunately, none of you is likely to lie on your deathbed and moan "Why didn't I go to more bonfires?!" You ought to. Everyone loves glowing embers, and good things come to those who sing Kumbayah.

9. Flowers. Go out and buy flowers. Even if you're deathly allergic. Even if your face swells up and your lips puff out (Angelina Jolie is fuming) and your eyes turn red. Buy flowers, and know that the days of darkness and cold are soon to be over. Smile.
Then take an Antihistanine and lie down for a few months.

8. Coffee. What more can be said? I ought to just stop writing here.

7. Tissues. Can you beleive that sane people traveled with small squares of linen? And this was in the days before allergy medicine!
It should be noted however, that a) you can't sleep with a guy's tissue under your pillow, and b)Kleenex boxes positively RUIN an dashing image.

6. A rainy, stay-at-home day. Fire, good book, tea and Chinchilla-fur hot water bottle cover included. Extra for Snow, Sleet, blanket and Digestive Biscut.

5. The Peterman Catalog. You will NEVER have enough money for ANY of it, not even the 1903 Cologne and Aftershave set, but it's worth getting the catalog. You can look at gorgeous stuff for free.

4. A friendly IRS agent. A couple thousand could come in real handy sometime.

3. A baseball bat. Please, don't be so quick to dismiss it. Use to attack rowdy boyfriends, deface mailboxes, in self-defense, as a paddle if your car gets stuck in a downpour, or as a cat-trainig device. Or you could always use it to kill the opposing team's catcher.

2. A Gin-Sue. For use on anything from a Tomato to a cinderblock.

1. An Ostritch egg. It won't really do a lot, and it'll be pretty quiet most of the time (Warning: talking eggs not good.) But it's...Big. And a good conversation starter. And really, really round.

My eye lashes are growing back in!
They're about 1/8 of an inch long, and very thick and blonde at the tips.

YAY!

...Of course, NOW my attention is drawn to the final two lashes on my right eye, which are long, and close together, and dark, and spindly and they look like spiders' legs.
I know they'll have company soon enough (give me six weeks and my eyelids will be so heavy as to render weight-lifting obslete), but why do good things come to those who wait?

If you're willing to wait, you don't want it bad enough.

GROW, my velcro, GROW.

Is it at all fair that we had a 60-degree IN JANUARY?

It's okay in Florida. It's okay in South Carolina. It's okay in places where nobody has a Down Jacket to their name.
But please. My brother has a snowball in the freezer, he's so desperate.

Shall the Snow Gods smile down upon us?

Oh, and no more Dam jokes.

Last night, I was sitting quietly on the couch, minding my own busines, when out of the blue, my family hit me with six 6-ml saline saringes.
Salt water. In those little needle jobbies that you get shots in, but without the needle.
Have I not suffered enough???

Although, I must remember that...

Oh, and my brother gets his final four braces out today!

Hey... Guess what I just got? No, c'mon guess. I really want you to guess.

Okay, here: A perfect 20's silhouette.

Because guess what just came out at 9:10 this morning?
HA!! YES yes YES yes YES!!!

Now I have a hardcore Buggs Bunny Band-Aid over a little quarter-inch scab, and I can shower and put my arms over my head and turn 60's rebel and not wear a bra and be happy. HA!

I did ask if I could take my bloody, used Catheter home to show you guys and watch you ooh, aah and be violently ill, but evilsome Dr. Skinner put the kabosh on that one. His high on the humor reader is -52, not that he'd admit to it.

But I did try for you guys. I made an effort. Honest.

And now all I have to do is two months of PT (I hope) and I shall make you throw a Ridiculously Large Party for me.

Or I could take a really long shower...

Yes! Yes! YES! Yesyesyes!
My Catheter comes out on the 22!

...For those of you who are not as divinely blessed with the knowledge of The Catheter as I am, let me elaborate: Ick.
It is a peice of plastic that sticks out of the right side of your chest (and it has to be in a blood vessle or it won't work), enabling the Vampire Nurses to painlessly draw blood and preventing you, the Long-Suffering but Silent Wearer, from taking a shower.
Wondering why I haven't been smelling as rosy as usual? Wonder no more.

I plan to take a very long, hot bubble bath when I come around from all the knock-out meds, so please, no letters till half-past February.

There is a cooler on our back deck, stuffed with all the things that won't fit in our fridge.

"Honey? HONEY? Shrimp, Safer Soap and brandy...Tails on or off, mom?"

My brothers are in a vaccuming frenzy. Can a straight guy be in a vaccuming frenzy?

"Are your ears burning yet?"

My Nana is helping with the millions of dishes that have to be cooked or prepared.

"No, I have enough of that...NUTS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON FIRE!!"

I take this opportunity to say, if no one shows up tomorow, heads will roll and heaven will tremble.

...And really quick while I'm thinking of it, drop by our house on January 7 between 1 and 6 for cheese and crackers and hugs and all kinds of fun stuff.

So I'm finally back! We're all glad and happy. We're so overjoyed and boisterous, we don't even care about redundancies (or misspellings?).

I'm so glad the holidays are over, though. This means I shall stop all this Chemo-induced writing and revert back to my usual self.
Consider yourselves warned.

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.