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.