Debbie Does Drivel

Today, a very large metal alarm clock fell on my head.
If I first don't develop a subarachnoid hematoma, I suppose I will need to look for the symbolism.
Like, "Debbie! Time to wake up! Do all those things you've been saying you're gonna do, like become a famous writer and stuff!"
Or, "Debbie! This is God! Do I need to throw something even BIGGER down from the sky to wake you up and get you to do something with that potential I gave you?"
Maybe it's Darwin. "Debbie! This is natural selection calling. I'm trying to evolve you out of the mix so your laziness and lack of motivation don't get too entwined with the world population. I tried to get you, but your damn head is too thick!"
(That Darwin thing was a joke, God. And, by the way, I'm still waiting on you to bring down my stomach mass. Thanks.)

Well, this past weekend was again an exercise in futility when it came to writing, but I saw a good movie.
"Black Hawk Down" portrayed the U.S. 1993 incursion in Mogadishu and it was good, albeit not my thing (overly violent movies). I liked the way Ridley Scott did not show the Somalians to be worthy of death and adequately represented them as victims of powerful and greedy warlords. The movie was directed is such a way that you were able to completely get the fact that the whole raid went wrong as a result of a small series of events. Domino effect symbolized masterfully.
Sad thing is, I never even knew this happened. I lived in Chicago at the time and was apparently clueless as to world affairs.
24-yr.-old partying in Chicago = global current events idiot.

Last night, Kevin was unexpectantly overtly husbandly.
("Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, Get Your Adverbs Here!"*)

A friend on his asked him to join his group for the Desert Olympics (basically lots of guys get together and shoot the local dune-dwelling fauna). Since the event fell over May 5, Kev informed NRA-crazy friend that he could not go. Why? May 5 is our wedding anniversary.
When Kev told me why he wasn't going, I had to choke back laughter, yet sweetly gaze at him too. He is the most unsentimental chap I know (except when a well-loved sports hero's number is retired...then he cries like a baby), yet he chose to pass up Rifle-O-Rama because of our wedding anniversary. He's a goodie.

........except when he refuses to take my ailments seriously.
As noted yesterday, a large, probably 5-lb. steel alarm clock fell on my head. As many (crazy people and medical professionals) know, a blow to the head can result in an epidural hematoma, aneurysm, or other life-threatening brain blood clot. I was not convinced that this would not happen to me. Heavy would be the word to describe the object that fell on my skull. It also reached terminal velocity before it made contact with my head, since it fell from a height of about 10 inches. Plus, after a moderate amount of research, I did discover that a depression fracture (as I surely have judging from the soft indentation in my head where the clock made contact), can develop into clot conditions hours, even days after the blow. This means I'm on death watch for a few more days. I didn't even work out last night because I didn't want to shake the clot loose with exertion. Kevin does not share my concern, even after I pretended to be in a mild coma this morning when he tried to wake me up.

I'm hoping that the diet I am currently on has sufficiently rejuvenated my body tissue so it rebounds quicker from trauma.
This diet better be doing something: I can't eat wheat, gluten (meaning pasta and bread), dairy (meaning cheese, damn them), meat or fish or even beans, strawberries, oranges, lemons, corn, tomatoes, soy in any form, and most oils. Worst is there is no caffeine and no alcohol on this diet. These are my coping mechanisms. Damn them again.
This diet is the brainchild of a holistic doctor I decided to consult for the heck of it. He suggested I cleanse on this detox diet for three weeks and take a supplement two-three times a day. I'm on week two (meat/fish/beans can be re-introduced week three), and I'm cheating just a bit: I am allowing myself peas (technically a bean). The diet is intended to remove any known food allergens from your diet (apparently lots of people are allergic to wheat and corn and don't even know it), and I know for a fact I'm not allergic to peas. I know I'm not allergic to any food (thanks to allergy test results** last week), but the diet still is helping to give my liver a rest. Which it needs. Desperately. ("What about me?!" said the brain to the liver.)

I'm also receiving acupuncture. So far, so good. I'm awaiting an energy transformation after my chakras re-ignite.

*Courtesy "School House Rock," creators of "Conjunction Junction, What's Your Function?" and "I'm Just a Bill, Only a Bill, Hanging Out Here on Capitol Hill" and many more catchy educational jingles. Thank you, School House Rock, for teaching me the preamble to the United States Constitution, which I can still sing off-key by heart.

*Turns out I'm allergic to mold, dust, and mesquite (the tree, not the BBQ). I'm using the first two against Kev and am coercing my allergist to write me a prescription for a maid.

I had acupuncture yesterday. Lots of needles in lots of places. When the doctor tried to insert one in my heart meridian, I experienced mild-to-severe discomfort. The heart meridian is on the inside of your wrist, right below the right heel of your hand. It is very sensitive there. I was so uncomfortable with the needle there, the doctor took it out. In acupuncture philosophy, you can experience discomfort in areas where your chi is deficient. So I guess I have a low-energy heart. Maybe that is why my blood pressure is so low? But I'm so emotional....hmmm....wouldn't that be your heart? (..thinking out loud here...)

The doctor did tell me the tip of my tongue is red, meaning there is lots of activity going on in my head, and the energy releases through the tongue...so if it's red, you've got head heat...in my case, this means I worry a lot.
(For this, he tells me to repeat my worries out loud in a weird, Donald Duck-type voice...which would be fine if you were my Dad who has the Donald Duck voice down, but not if you're me, who can't even mimic an English accent properly). To illustrate, the doctor did his Donald Duck imitation in all seriousness, which made me laugh, which made him turn red, which made me thank him for making a fool out of himself because now, even if I can't do the Donald Duck voice when worrying, I will forever after remember him doing it which will help.

Then, we worked on a mantra: "I am at peace and free of worry." He even printed it on a piece of paper so I can take it with me everywhere.
I feel like Ally McBeal.

And speaking of shows, thank God for Buffy. She makes me laugh and for an hour (or two, if you watch back-to-back episodes on the F/X channel), all is right with my worrying world. A guilty pleasure, indeed.

The most enormous, mottled, asymetric bruise lives on my instep and feels like a million pain worms burrowing beneath my skin.
Dry as a bone is my left eye
Chest muscle spasms so racking this morning I couldn't breathe.
Bloatado Estomacho: A Profile in Gordo.

This public annoucement has been brought to you by "Oy! My Goiter Hurts" Productions.

I unceremoniously dumped my detox diet last night. I had six days to go and I gave in to pasta. However, I really felt it was time to let go of the gluten-free. I remained hungry all the time on this thing and because there wasn't much I could eat, I either ate nothing at all or a whole bag of sweet potato chips, then a whole bag of Taro chips, then a pint of Rice Dream.
Last night, I made chicken herb pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread and steamed zucchini since my brother, his wife and son are staying with us for a few days, and I couldn't bring myself to eat just the zucchini. Plus, since I'm going to San Francisco this weekend, a dairy-free, wheat-free, caffeine-free, alcohol-free regimen just isn't in the cards, so why not blow it now.

In other news, it's been confirmed that my nephew Luke likes me the best out of all the Andersons, including my own father. It's already obvious that he shares my savvy intelligence and that we understand each other on a level most can't comprehend. Also, he sneezed right in my face a few times, this sealing our bond with saliva.

I just read this article on how to write better blogs. Let me tell you that according to this treatise, I am a blazing failure. First of all, I overindulge in the personal pronoun "I." Unless it's necessary, "I" should be understood. Also, I over-explain. Apparently, good writers say such as "Blogger is magnificent in the Spring." Amateur writers say, "This wonderful online diary tool is sure loads of fun to use during March, April and May."
Yet, in this same article, the author advised to not just tell readers you are depressed or went to a great party, but explain why you are depressed or why the party was great.
I think that this writer is a over-postured blowbag in the late winter.

**********

Well, two packets of oatmeal, one cup split pea soup, two Taco Bell bean burritos, and an ice cream toffee bar later, I think it's safe to say my hormones are in flux.
This means that tonight I will probably cry at "Everybody Loves Raymond," then whammity bam fly into a rage seconds later when the remote has the unmitigated gall to be a thing, made of plastic and metal, and not an extension of my flesh responsive to mind commands like "Quick! To Ally McBeal! Now to Behind the Music! Wait! What's on MSNBC Investigates?!" Moving your finger effortfully when a powerful chemical broth is brewing in your blood is just too much work.

Am *just a little* ashamed of myself for the trite, superficial blog of earlier today, but decided that to edit would be akin to slicing the warts off a frog. I can only hope that my soul's Dark Continent has terrain familiar to everyone at one time or another...even if they have the class to not put it into words!
Am certainly banking on the thought that my newfound volunteerism puts me on a philanthropic, substantial, and grounded path.

I'm going to do it.
I'm going to do it!
I'M GOING TO DO IT!
I will, I will, I will, I will enter a short story into a contest by its March 15 deadline.
Said story has not yet been written. I have no ideas, no story structures percolating.
But even if the story is crap, I can still enter it, right? I'm sure the judges have seen a lot of crap prose in their judging days, no?
And, at least I wrote it and entered it and that would be a milestone...
3,000 words, 3,000 words, 3,000 Miles to Graceland, 3,000 Warts on a Frog, Chicken Pot, Chicken Pot, Chicken Pot Pie.
Hmmm...no ideas there in that free association exercise.
Exercise, Legs, Arms, Faces, People, Staplers, Papers, Parties, Exercising Staplers Feed on the Arms and Legs of Partying Peoples with Paper Faces...
Mmmm...no...that's not quite right.
Grasshoppers, Greed, Grinches, Grapple, Snapple, Sneer, Snot, Silly, Spooky, Weird, Wonderful, Wacky, Wizard. Boy Wizard. England. Castles. Cast of characters that include a brainy girl, goofy red-haired boy and large giant-like man.
Have I got it?
Will I make a lot of money?
No! That's not important. Commercial success does not a good writer make. Must do for own satisfaction.
Think! Think!
Idiots. Space. Monkeys. Zoo. Bum. Hallway. House. Boy Wizard Grapples with Bum Partying Stapler and Idiotic Space Monkey in a Chicken Pot Pie.
No!
Dammit!
Abercrombie and Fitch! Sugar! Steps! Jump! Scab! Schmoos! Crustacean! Arthropod! Spider! Flower! Desk! Eleanor! Doppleganger! Baseball! 67832B2!
Meaningless Facts! Abound! Mind! Dry! Bone! Wellspring! Clogged! Blocked!

If you've ever wondered why our culture associates success with material growth, why we all seem to need someone to tell us how to live, or why we so often treat the planet as our possession, when we know that treatment creates consequences we can’t control (i.e. that our planet can't in the longterm sustain what we take from it (and do to it)), then I suggest you read "Ishmael" by Daniel Quinn.

This book is fiction, but it can change your world view (or even your life, dare I say), if you let it. It completely reframes our reason for existing and our origins. It explains where we're headed if we don't start living more responsibly and respectfully.

I really don't think everyone will respond to it or are ready to read it. Maybe you have to be older, more disillusioned, or more sensitive than you are now, though I don't think that's it. I think you have to strongly feel as though something needs changing in your life or in the world. I think you have to feel that politicians and those who run the world don't really get it. Or, feel as those there is a larger "something" at play in our culture that we're all not getting...

Either way, read a chapter or two and see if it's for you.

Oh, and it helps if you like gorillas....