I've decided I really like the tiny, tiny town, and it's for precisely the reasons that I originally thought I would hate it.
Take the trains, for example. Long, rattling, rusty traffic obstructions have turned out to be rolling art galleries with their own compelling musical accompaniment. I've seen all different kinds of tags and graffiti from all over the country rolling by-- not just the angular, near-illegible stack lettering, but also vivid stencils, cartoon monsters, Tim Burton-esque meadow scenes dotted with crooked headstones, and massive, cryptic logos. Lying in bed at night I try to isolate the individual notes that form the chord of the train's warning horn. It starts out as a minor chord with at least five notes, two of them wedged too close together and forming an edge of dissonance. But then as the train passes, the Doplar effect flattens the chord into something almost major, and nowhere near as pretty.
The town itself seems to be suffering from that same flattening effect. Apparently revenue from the railroad and the oil companies peaked sometime in the late sixties and then took a steady, graceful swan dive. Most home improvement and construction projects followed the same trajectory, so in many ways driving into town feels like sinking slowly backwards into quicksand. Few places take credit cards and fewer take checks, scrub grass sprouts up from the cracks in parking lots, and even the good restaurants never seem to fill up on weekend nights.
I can't explain why, but this isn't as depressing as it sounds. It's a graceful decay. There are still stained glass sunsets and thunderstorms. Cactus plants and bouganvillias and giant shuddering honeysuckle bushes fill in the empty lots and shake petals and sweet scents loose. There's a creaky little old man who lives alone across the street from me, and he comes out to get his paper every morning. He walks with two canes and has to rest at the beginning, middle, and end of his ten foot journey. The whole thing takes him about ten minutes. Sometimes he sits by his front window and dozes off, and when I try to come up with a way to describe this town, I think of him, napping with the paper folded in his lap as the world goes by outside.
I also thought the podunk-edness of this place would get to me, but I have to admit to getting a bit of thrill when I see something as bizarre as a the fuzzy-haired man riding his rickety scooter down a darkened street last night, using a flashlight as a headlight and balancing a half-naked baby on one knee. Or the town drunk, a woman whose name everyone seems to know even though she refers to everyone, male or female, as "Babe," and spends her weekend nights doing saucy karaoke renditions of sixties folk songs in the pub by the tracks.
From one side, this could all look pretty bad-- a town in advanced economic decline whose residents are declining with it. But from another side, it could be a place in a rich, natural state of flux with the edges of nature closing in, a minor chord with a touch of dissonance.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Grows roses, relieves constipation, kills evil
That title reflects the three major achievements of epsom salts. I'm adding it to my list of lesser-known miracles of Jesus, right next to synthetic motor oil.
Here's how the toe scenario went down: I booked a same day appointment at the tiny, tiny town's military clinic, which turned out to be about the size of your average preschool (my own personal prejudice: buildings where you can potentially be cut or burned by strangers should be at least the size of a good grocery store, giving you ample running room in case you change your mind about the procedure), and limped in to see my new Primary Care Provider.
At all the military hospitals I've been to so far, you must first brave a gauntlet of young, virile enlisted men, rosy-cheeked innocents who are the very picture of health, and with whom you must EXPLICITLY discuss the details of your ailment. In my case, the young men were idle and bored, and, detecting my sky-rocketing anxiety, insisted that I prop my foot on the desk so that they could tease me about being out of anesthesia and how my toenail definitely needed to be "yanked." Maybe it was the color draining from my face, or the appraising way I gauged the distance to my car through the exit door, but they switched gears after a minute or two and assured me there were ample supplies of drugs in the building.
As it happened, God turned his broad sunny face on me and smiled-- my new doctor, all humorless West Texas twang and fierce competence (i.e. the polar opposite of my previous doctor), granted the toenail a reprieve on the grounds that partially removing it would only cause further wonky regrowth (the same wonky regrowth that got me into this situation in the first place), and I'd be in the same predicament six months from now. Instead, I was prescribed massive doses of an antibiotic and what the husband calls Vitamin M, as in Motrin, the military's magic cure-all, and finally, advised to soak my toe in epsom salts twice daily.
I've read several hilarious accounts of the tendency of families to ascribe mythic powers of restorative healing to particular products, far beyond the scope of what's promised on the label. My dad worships at the altar of Desitin, a diaper rash cream. My husband's grandmother recommends alka seltzer for ailments clearly unrelated to the stomach or digestive tract in any way. Chris Rock has a great bit about generic Robitussin, and the grandfather in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" swoons for Windex.
The United States military believes in Motrin, and I now take an oath of fealty to epsom salts. My toe is shockingly close to normal. Bedsheets can wisp over the top of it without producing searing pain, the grotesque bouquet of colors it was sporting has all but faded completely, and the cartoonish swelling and throbbing have greatly lessened. Plus, according to the helpful pharmascist at the grocery store, epsom salts help grow healthy rose bushes. (She thought that's why I was asking for them, and looked slightly embarrassed and disappointed when I said, "No, I just have a nasty toe to soak.") Further perusal of the product label revealed that the wonders of epsom salts go even further-- they're also a powerful laxative!
So the next time I find myself internally backed up and limping around on an infected toe AND needing to spruce up my garden, I'll rest assured that epsom salts have me covered.
Here's how the toe scenario went down: I booked a same day appointment at the tiny, tiny town's military clinic, which turned out to be about the size of your average preschool (my own personal prejudice: buildings where you can potentially be cut or burned by strangers should be at least the size of a good grocery store, giving you ample running room in case you change your mind about the procedure), and limped in to see my new Primary Care Provider.
At all the military hospitals I've been to so far, you must first brave a gauntlet of young, virile enlisted men, rosy-cheeked innocents who are the very picture of health, and with whom you must EXPLICITLY discuss the details of your ailment. In my case, the young men were idle and bored, and, detecting my sky-rocketing anxiety, insisted that I prop my foot on the desk so that they could tease me about being out of anesthesia and how my toenail definitely needed to be "yanked." Maybe it was the color draining from my face, or the appraising way I gauged the distance to my car through the exit door, but they switched gears after a minute or two and assured me there were ample supplies of drugs in the building.
As it happened, God turned his broad sunny face on me and smiled-- my new doctor, all humorless West Texas twang and fierce competence (i.e. the polar opposite of my previous doctor), granted the toenail a reprieve on the grounds that partially removing it would only cause further wonky regrowth (the same wonky regrowth that got me into this situation in the first place), and I'd be in the same predicament six months from now. Instead, I was prescribed massive doses of an antibiotic and what the husband calls Vitamin M, as in Motrin, the military's magic cure-all, and finally, advised to soak my toe in epsom salts twice daily.
I've read several hilarious accounts of the tendency of families to ascribe mythic powers of restorative healing to particular products, far beyond the scope of what's promised on the label. My dad worships at the altar of Desitin, a diaper rash cream. My husband's grandmother recommends alka seltzer for ailments clearly unrelated to the stomach or digestive tract in any way. Chris Rock has a great bit about generic Robitussin, and the grandfather in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" swoons for Windex.
The United States military believes in Motrin, and I now take an oath of fealty to epsom salts. My toe is shockingly close to normal. Bedsheets can wisp over the top of it without producing searing pain, the grotesque bouquet of colors it was sporting has all but faded completely, and the cartoonish swelling and throbbing have greatly lessened. Plus, according to the helpful pharmascist at the grocery store, epsom salts help grow healthy rose bushes. (She thought that's why I was asking for them, and looked slightly embarrassed and disappointed when I said, "No, I just have a nasty toe to soak.") Further perusal of the product label revealed that the wonders of epsom salts go even further-- they're also a powerful laxative!
So the next time I find myself internally backed up and limping around on an infected toe AND needing to spruce up my garden, I'll rest assured that epsom salts have me covered.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Nightmare Toe, or Why a Working Knowledge of Medical Terminology Can Be a Bad Thing
Something is Wrong with my big toe, Bad Wrong. I'm wasting no time with literary adornments or questions of relevancy because it hurts that bad. Internet, my toe is badly infected from a saga of injuries and various good-idea-at-the-time home remedies, and it has taken this-- nightmarish swelling, festive discoloration, and all-encompassing, whimper-inducing pain-- to erode my resistance to calling the doctor.
I am terrified of the doctor. It was not always this way. There was a time when I toyed with the idea of going to medical school, if not to become a practicing physician then to create sweeping, full-color, multilayered illustrations of the saddle joint or the free fall of neurotransmitters as they brave the synaptic gap. I love biology, I love anatomy, I love zoology. I love the epic stories of immune system battles and the mundane heroics of the excretory system. Algebra put an end to all that. X = a big fat fucking wall. So instead I write and I draw and I find gainful employment by other means.
Part of the reason I understood biology so well was that I could turn it into a story with characters and goals and birth and death and drama, and it all made sense. I was still interested in what goes on in the body and how problems are fixed, so I asked questions and read textbooks and pestered my doctors. BUT-- and this is one of those horrible over-arching themes I struggle with in almost every area of my life-- Imagination Must Have Limits.
For instance, Imagination is no longer helpful when it:
1) Renders one incapable of any degree of detachment when it comes to submitting to painful procedures (especially when Imagination insists that pain incurred under anesthesia is just pain delayed with nausea factored in as interest, and therefore, no procedure is ever "painless.")
2) Sparks a lurid fascination with any and all surgical procedures on television from breast implants to liposuction (which looks like someone fencing an unseen foe under the skin) to hip replacement (buzz saws, God help us) to removing a 2-inch-thick tree branch from a motorcyclist's neck.
3) Finds some sadistic pleasure in skipping straight to the worst case scenarios on self diagnostic tools like Web MD, and then constructing a detailed narrative around what life would be like as an amputee.
Just so my imagination doesn't take all the blame, I can also point to several significant instances of Bad Medical Care-- like the two eye doctors who have insisted on repeatedly testing my fainting reaction to a particular numbing drop. Or my shady auctioneer gyno. Or any of the surly rent-a-docs I saw at the Student Health Center in college.
And now I'm supposed to go and look up my third Primary Care Provider in two years, a person I will likely never see again, and show this stranger my horrific toe, knowing that the recommended treatment for infections at this stage involves knives and needles and, if I'm really lucky, LASER DEBRIDEMENT.
I've been working really hard to change my perception of this small town from barren, wind-swept outpost to quaint, opportunity-rich learning environment, but the prospect of offering up my throbbing nightmare toe to a stranger with a knife is really freaking me out.
I am terrified of the doctor. It was not always this way. There was a time when I toyed with the idea of going to medical school, if not to become a practicing physician then to create sweeping, full-color, multilayered illustrations of the saddle joint or the free fall of neurotransmitters as they brave the synaptic gap. I love biology, I love anatomy, I love zoology. I love the epic stories of immune system battles and the mundane heroics of the excretory system. Algebra put an end to all that. X = a big fat fucking wall. So instead I write and I draw and I find gainful employment by other means.
Part of the reason I understood biology so well was that I could turn it into a story with characters and goals and birth and death and drama, and it all made sense. I was still interested in what goes on in the body and how problems are fixed, so I asked questions and read textbooks and pestered my doctors. BUT-- and this is one of those horrible over-arching themes I struggle with in almost every area of my life-- Imagination Must Have Limits.
For instance, Imagination is no longer helpful when it:
1) Renders one incapable of any degree of detachment when it comes to submitting to painful procedures (especially when Imagination insists that pain incurred under anesthesia is just pain delayed with nausea factored in as interest, and therefore, no procedure is ever "painless.")
2) Sparks a lurid fascination with any and all surgical procedures on television from breast implants to liposuction (which looks like someone fencing an unseen foe under the skin) to hip replacement (buzz saws, God help us) to removing a 2-inch-thick tree branch from a motorcyclist's neck.
3) Finds some sadistic pleasure in skipping straight to the worst case scenarios on self diagnostic tools like Web MD, and then constructing a detailed narrative around what life would be like as an amputee.
Just so my imagination doesn't take all the blame, I can also point to several significant instances of Bad Medical Care-- like the two eye doctors who have insisted on repeatedly testing my fainting reaction to a particular numbing drop. Or my shady auctioneer gyno. Or any of the surly rent-a-docs I saw at the Student Health Center in college.
And now I'm supposed to go and look up my third Primary Care Provider in two years, a person I will likely never see again, and show this stranger my horrific toe, knowing that the recommended treatment for infections at this stage involves knives and needles and, if I'm really lucky, LASER DEBRIDEMENT.
I've been working really hard to change my perception of this small town from barren, wind-swept outpost to quaint, opportunity-rich learning environment, but the prospect of offering up my throbbing nightmare toe to a stranger with a knife is really freaking me out.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
So a rabbi walks into a bridge club meeting...
One of the interesting things about being married to the military is how often and how explicitly you are required to fill out various forms. For instance, (Dad, skip this sentence), during my "Well Woman" exam I was asked in the most professional way possible if I had engaged in any designated risk behaviors, up to and including paying for sex from a stranger, engaging in group sex, and/or allowing someone to insert their entire fist into my lady parts. From the robotic and bland-faced delivery of the enlisted nurse, I can only assume that everyone-- from the 21-year-old stationed in Bangkok, to the pregnant dependent, to the frail retiree-- is asked the same set of questions. Apparently not everyone laughs hysterically, though.
Today's form was a bit more disturbing. Apparently the military needs to know, in detail, *exactly* how you would like to be informed of your spouse's untimely death in a horrific accident. Cultural sensitivity abounds: are there any elderly relatives living with you, and could they be of help? "Granddad-- quick, fetch ice!" Would you like a chaplain present, and if so, what denomination? Considering that I don't go to church, it'd just be another stranger I'd have to introduce myself to, so no. Is there anyone you would NOT want there? Dick Cheney. Do you have any medical conditions that would require the presence of a physician in the event that you must be notified of an accident? Just that one where I love my husband and would collapse in spasms of colossal grief.
And man, are they thorough. I filled out an account of my daily schedule and phone numbers to reach me at any place I might possibly go (helpful prompt suggestions were "bowling, bridge, dancing, Service Clubs"). In one way, I suppose this is comforting-- there's a chain of command established now between the military and me and our extended family, and a set of considerations we've agreed upon that will minimize the possibility of confusion. But in another way, it's exceedingly bizarre to choreograph, in advance, the most tragic moment of one's life. I almost wanted to make it as weird as possible, just so that when a Hasidic Rabbi, a pizza deliveryman, and a military representative hunt me down at my bridge club, I'll know exactly what the score is.
What if every profession did this? What if accounting firms had action plans in place for reporting the tragic malfunction of a paper shredder to a distraught spouse?
I'm trying to imagine funny scenarios because the reality of filling out this paperwork has me deeply freaked out. Obviously these questions are born from experience, just like the emergency procedures I help my husband memorize for his training. Somebody actually had the World's Most Inappropriate Acquaintance show up with the group breaking the bad news. Someone else's trick lung started acting up in reaction to the shock and wouldn't you know it? No ventilator.
I'm still working on grasping the reality of my husband's job, and most days it seems like my hands are too small. I can either pick up and hold the part where he's passionately excited about what he's about to do and isn't it cool that he's been able to follow his dream-- OR -- I get to lug around the big tangly slimy part where I'm worried about his safety, resentful about another move, and often completely in the dark about what's coming next. Even more fun is trying to balance the tiny breakable part where I try to figure out how the hell I fit into all of this, how I continue to be me. So far I have not been able to master holding all three at once and getting a global picture of what's going on. I imagine that when I finally accomplish it, the feeling will be so calming, so completely zen, that it'll be like being a milk cow on heroin.
Today's form was a bit more disturbing. Apparently the military needs to know, in detail, *exactly* how you would like to be informed of your spouse's untimely death in a horrific accident. Cultural sensitivity abounds: are there any elderly relatives living with you, and could they be of help? "Granddad-- quick, fetch ice!" Would you like a chaplain present, and if so, what denomination? Considering that I don't go to church, it'd just be another stranger I'd have to introduce myself to, so no. Is there anyone you would NOT want there? Dick Cheney. Do you have any medical conditions that would require the presence of a physician in the event that you must be notified of an accident? Just that one where I love my husband and would collapse in spasms of colossal grief.
And man, are they thorough. I filled out an account of my daily schedule and phone numbers to reach me at any place I might possibly go (helpful prompt suggestions were "bowling, bridge, dancing, Service Clubs"). In one way, I suppose this is comforting-- there's a chain of command established now between the military and me and our extended family, and a set of considerations we've agreed upon that will minimize the possibility of confusion. But in another way, it's exceedingly bizarre to choreograph, in advance, the most tragic moment of one's life. I almost wanted to make it as weird as possible, just so that when a Hasidic Rabbi, a pizza deliveryman, and a military representative hunt me down at my bridge club, I'll know exactly what the score is.
What if every profession did this? What if accounting firms had action plans in place for reporting the tragic malfunction of a paper shredder to a distraught spouse?
I'm trying to imagine funny scenarios because the reality of filling out this paperwork has me deeply freaked out. Obviously these questions are born from experience, just like the emergency procedures I help my husband memorize for his training. Somebody actually had the World's Most Inappropriate Acquaintance show up with the group breaking the bad news. Someone else's trick lung started acting up in reaction to the shock and wouldn't you know it? No ventilator.
I'm still working on grasping the reality of my husband's job, and most days it seems like my hands are too small. I can either pick up and hold the part where he's passionately excited about what he's about to do and isn't it cool that he's been able to follow his dream-- OR -- I get to lug around the big tangly slimy part where I'm worried about his safety, resentful about another move, and often completely in the dark about what's coming next. Even more fun is trying to balance the tiny breakable part where I try to figure out how the hell I fit into all of this, how I continue to be me. So far I have not been able to master holding all three at once and getting a global picture of what's going on. I imagine that when I finally accomplish it, the feeling will be so calming, so completely zen, that it'll be like being a milk cow on heroin.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Guess who's retarded at posting pictures?
OK, you're going to have to bear with me here with the image posting. I'm new at this.
Here's a shot from this weekend that proves that even crystallized dirt appreciates a nice set of knockers.
And one of me making my parents proud.
And then this one, called "Soldier in the Hands of God" done by a guy whose brother is in Iraq. Did you see the incredible detail of the ribbon lying loosely around the base of the whole thing? Look again.
Here's a shot from this weekend that proves that even crystallized dirt appreciates a nice set of knockers.
And one of me making my parents proud.
And then this one, called "Soldier in the Hands of God" done by a guy whose brother is in Iraq. Did you see the incredible detail of the ribbon lying loosely around the base of the whole thing? Look again.
More gawking at dirt
So this is how it's going to be-- some shots will be forced upon you and others you can choose to view by clicking on them. I have decided to impose my artsy farsty shot of a rainbow kite on you. Just in case you're getting the impression that the event was at all gay friendly, let me point out that there were also plenty of Shameful Anachronisms--oops!--Confederate Flags riding the breeze and saying nothing and everything at the same time.
Meat on a stick is a more impressive feat.
Check it out: ARCHES bigger than CHILDREN. I couldn't believe how unimpressed this kid was. His dad kept pointing out the arches and saying, "Look, they actually got the sand to arch! See how there's nothing under it? Isn't that amazing?" And the kid just looked at him and said, "Yeah, but aren't we getting corn dogs?" Note to self: go to the Taj Mahal alone.
Oh my Goth!
Speaking of unimpressed kids, did you know that angst goes to the beach too? These two lovely tortured souls strained to illustrate dramatic contrast by scowling at the sun-leathered crowd, no doubt pitying us for the shallowness of exclaiming over sand at a beach. God!
Sandfest 2006
This past weekend, the husband and I went to the beach to watch people flaunt the laws of physics and laugh in the face of God as they sculpted fantastic things out of sand. Let me just be clear on that last part: all of this stuff you're about to see was made out of SAND. The most sophisticated thing I've done with this stuff is manage to wedge it deep into my ass crack after a weekend of camping.
And now, photographic evidence of my weekend (which has been so incredibly taxing to download that I'm copping out on all but the barest of commentary).
The ass crack sculptress stands next to a far superior creation.
This was part of a centerpiece for the competition which was over 20 feet tall. Vendors and sponsors had cleverly carved their names into every other facet, but because they far outnumbered the sculptures and because they actually sold THESE, I refuse to post their names.
This one actually kind of reminded me of a Rodin sculpture, if Rodin maybe moonlighted for Hallmark now and then.
And this one just looked edible for some reason, like those chocolate Easter bricks that you feel compelled to eat simply because it's huge and chocolate and not because it takes any good.
And now, photographic evidence of my weekend (which has been so incredibly taxing to download that I'm copping out on all but the barest of commentary).
The ass crack sculptress stands next to a far superior creation.
This was part of a centerpiece for the competition which was over 20 feet tall. Vendors and sponsors had cleverly carved their names into every other facet, but because they far outnumbered the sculptures and because they actually sold THESE, I refuse to post their names.
This one actually kind of reminded me of a Rodin sculpture, if Rodin maybe moonlighted for Hallmark now and then.
And this one just looked edible for some reason, like those chocolate Easter bricks that you feel compelled to eat simply because it's huge and chocolate and not because it takes any good.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Paradigm Shi(f)t
There's saying I like that goes, "When all you've got is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail." I've been hunting for the crappy things about this move just for the sheer joy of hammering them flat with my caustic wit, but then all this good stuff happened out of nowhere and I was left shuffling my feet, ashamed to admit that maybe I kind of like this place.
I had fun this weekend. We had people over and our initial suspicion that the house had a good social vibe and party layout proved accurate. In fact, the weekend had such a nice vibe that I actually got to hang out with my mother, my grandfather, my brother-, mother-, father-, and sister-in-law and the two-year-old nephew, and three guys my husband knows from the base, all at the same time without the universe collapsing in on itself in complete multi-generational chaos. White people just don't do this, hang out with different generations of multiple families, except maybe deep in Appalachia where they have no choice. But it was great and I felt really lucky to be there.
And we got a new-to-us bed. Carl Jung be damned, I will not dwell on the symbolism that this is my parents' old bed that my husband and I have inherited-- I'm just ecstatic that I can lie in one position for over an hour and not awaken to discover new and shocking muscles in deep spasm. The fact that I have to army crawl almost two feet to reach my husband's side of the bed is the smallest of inconveniences.
Even the dobermans are on their way out. Our neighbor, who I so thoroughly eviscerated in my last two entries, turns out to be the son of the true occupant, and in some epic biblical battle for supremacy, the rebel son has been cast out. With him go the giant broken down truck (towed away with little fanfare by a far lesser, sissy little foreign truck), the chopper, and the dogs. I don't know what fate awaits two attack dogs used to pacing around a tiny patch of mud in their own feces, but soon they won't howl and bay outside my bedroom window.
Hooray for paradigm shifts!
I had fun this weekend. We had people over and our initial suspicion that the house had a good social vibe and party layout proved accurate. In fact, the weekend had such a nice vibe that I actually got to hang out with my mother, my grandfather, my brother-, mother-, father-, and sister-in-law and the two-year-old nephew, and three guys my husband knows from the base, all at the same time without the universe collapsing in on itself in complete multi-generational chaos. White people just don't do this, hang out with different generations of multiple families, except maybe deep in Appalachia where they have no choice. But it was great and I felt really lucky to be there.
And we got a new-to-us bed. Carl Jung be damned, I will not dwell on the symbolism that this is my parents' old bed that my husband and I have inherited-- I'm just ecstatic that I can lie in one position for over an hour and not awaken to discover new and shocking muscles in deep spasm. The fact that I have to army crawl almost two feet to reach my husband's side of the bed is the smallest of inconveniences.
Even the dobermans are on their way out. Our neighbor, who I so thoroughly eviscerated in my last two entries, turns out to be the son of the true occupant, and in some epic biblical battle for supremacy, the rebel son has been cast out. With him go the giant broken down truck (towed away with little fanfare by a far lesser, sissy little foreign truck), the chopper, and the dogs. I don't know what fate awaits two attack dogs used to pacing around a tiny patch of mud in their own feces, but soon they won't howl and bay outside my bedroom window.
Hooray for paradigm shifts!
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