apparently huge and alone in a field of turds

There is a doctor in my gastroenterologist's group named Dr. Terduman*. Go on, say it aloud. Yes, you're right: Someone in the world -- someone whose name involves the unfortunate syllable "Terd" -- chose from among thousands of possible professions to become a gastroenterologist. And that person is a special, special person.

I sat in the waiting room yesterday and listened to the grim front line of Russian receptionists there bark out officious "Doctor Terduman is not available!"s and "I will check with Dr. Terduman!"s for twenty minutes. My facial muscles were having trouble with control. 

I attempted to eat my Luna bar, which was my lunch and seemed important because I knew I'd be called upon to supply unknown leagues of blood in short order.

"No Luna bars in the waiting room!"

Apparently if I had brought something else, that would have been okay. 

Misogynists.

Finally one of the grim Russian receptionists led me back to be weighed. I started to take off my shoes when she stopped me.

"No," she said. "Everything stays on."

I just want to add here that "everything" included not only my shoes and all my clothes, but also a heavy winter jacket, two hoodies, and my computer bag, which contained my computer, two 600-pp. student readers, my wallet, phone, six rolls of quarters, and a 32-oz. water bottle. 

Needless to say, I had beefed up considerably since my last visit. 

"Weight gain," the receptionist muttered as she wrote down the absurd number. 

I sighed. I am growing extremely unpopular with the receptionists.

*Spelling slightly changed to avoid unpleasant Google-search hits. 

"vague and not urgent": two days without meds, or the new X-Files movie

For the past two days, The Dad has been in town on business, and it seemed as good a time as ever to finally introduce him to Michelle and Nate. As when my doppleganger Sarah L. and I meet, my San-Francisco "Parents" and my Actual Parent failed to self-destruct upon contact. This seems positive.

My battle of wills with the drugstore appears to be over for another month; this morning I received the meds they have been holding peevishly behind their counters for the past two days. Every time I go there to get the medicine they're like,

"Beep! Boop!" 

And they refuse to give them over. Something about the number of days elapsed since they last filled the prescription. 

Two days without meds is totally doable, as even the most flora delicata Crohn can tell you. But it ain't pretty. I woke up this morning covered in sweat, shaking. I'm a drug addict! I guess the privilege of having seventeen years of basically uninterrupted drug-service spoils the body. I am a lucky motherfucker. As I told Ben, I appear to be some kind of robot that can't function without my special robot food. (Beep! Boop!) When I finally got the meds this morning, I stuffed them into my mouth right there, at the counter. Ripped open the bottles and started pushing pills into my mouth in the Walgreens, breathing heavily like a shark (sure, they breathe heavily. Through their gills, friends. Through, uh, their gills). Within forty minutes I was totally okay. It felt like somebody had flipped a switch. The feeling of being so completely beholden to something makes me nervous. It is impossible to entirely forget that feeling, being, or seeming normal is completely borrowed. 

You know who else is openly living on borrowed normalcy? Fox Mulder. Oh, hold me, Fox Mulder. I know the new X-Files movie is getting panned before it's even out, but I just can't see how a few more hours of Fox Mulder in our lives could be a bad thing. My lifetime complement of television boyfriends throughout time (Data (yes, a nonsentient artificial life form; moving on); Clark Kent (the Dean Cain iteration -- it was a strange time for all of us. I aspired to Teri Hatcher's weird plasticine hair); and in more recent years, Nate Fisher (everyone's heart throbs for a creepy, sweaty murderer), Fox Mulder, Jemaine Clement, Jimmy McNulty (Jimmy, I don't care if you're bad)) needs constant supervision. Will I be at the new X-Files movie? Yes, I will be at the new X-Files movie. Now to find someone who doesn't mind going to something that has been called "vague and not urgent."

toto on loop

Today a literary magazine arrived in my mailbox and for once it had my name inside it. Not my story, but my name, after finalists included. I guess it's pretty good work to be a finalist. It's pretty awesome, too, to have one of your favorite writers, as the contest judge, read your story (despite, however, the fact that she was apparently not overwhelmed by it). When I got the letter about it in May -- congratulations, you almost won! but didn't! -- I felt pretty good about it. But seeing the issue in print, I couldn't help but swallow. 

Closer and closer, or something. 

Toto, are you out there? Because I have been holding the line for a long time. 

small prices to pay

I kept waking up throughout the night to brush cookie crumbs out of my bed. Perhaps this could be the reason eating in bed is so taboo in kindly Protestant houses. Eating in bed = food debris in bed. As one who has had a delightfully thorough K-12 Protestant education, I expected more out of myself. In case you're wondering -- no, gluten-free cookie crumbs do not more accommodating bed debris make. All night I was rolling around on unkind bits of gluten-free pastry. In the morning I awoke to find two whole, entire chocolate chips on the floor, presumably having been brushed out of my bed in the night. Whole chocolate chips that missed the mouth? Ferocious. That's all I have to say about that. Some ferocious gluten-free cookie eating took place in this closet, which may be an oxymoron.

Whether it's because of cookie crumbage, cookies and the caffeine they contain, or simply not enough cookies, I haven't been getting much sleep. As a middle ground I have spent much of the day revisiting one of my old favorite activities: sitting on the bed writing and listening to the Tallis Scholars at deafening volume. The old wisdom used to be that if the Tallis Scholars were loud enough, I wouldn't be able to hear my own voice on the page. And then something would come out that was not overly considered. (Writers Who Are More Successful Than I Am, Population: Everyone, I hear you snickering maliciously at my methods in the background, and I show you the longest of my fingers.) There has never been any other musical artist who could drown everything out so transcendently. If you are not already a fan of the Tallis Scholars, fool, I urge you to consider the Renaissance. 

friendly suggestions

One of the most annoying elements of the "eating suggestions" my doctor has given me -- to improve some recent ailments -- is its dearth of booze. Where is the booze in these "eating suggestions"? I just happened to notice that none of the breakfast suggestions include Campari. Wherefore? Why? Running instead of drinking Campari for breakfast sucks, by the way, in case you were wondering. On the plus side (I guess) I've been able to run farther every day this week. And my arthritis is minimally better, though that might be the Bayer. That's right, I'm one of those carpenter-esque dudes on the commercials who rises from his indoor woodworking project rubbing his shoulder and grimacing, then notices you-the-viewer, speaks in a square-jawed bass, furrows his brow, pops a few Bayer, and subsequently frolicks in the yard with some children who are of an inappropriate age to be either his children or his grandchildren. 

And let me tell you, the transformation absolutely becomes me. Just. Spectacular.

I was walking home from the gym today when, at a crosswalk, a cop on a bike pulled up beside me. Without even thinking (lightheaded from the running and no Campari?), I clearly and rather loudly said to him,

"Tee hee."

"Excuse me?" the cop asked.

I cringed. Sometimes I do not know what force drives my mouth to open and sound to come out of it. Did I think that the joke of him on a bike was a joke I could share with him? That he, too, might burst into uproarious laughter at the sight of himself on a bicycle doing his job, whatever that sort-of was? Unlikely, Kara. Think before you speak, Kara. As many times as I remind myself of this maxim, it never seems to sink in.

"Sorry," I said.

"Tee hee?" the cop repeated.

I cringed again.

"Something funny?" he asked. It was not clear whether he was amused or annoyed.

I simply continued to cringe. Yeah, something's funny, you're a cop on a bike, didn't seem like the best reply.

When the light turned, he pedaled away in midnight-blue disgust.

"Tee hee," I said again, delighted, once he was out of earshot.

This is the part of the Bayer commercial they don't show you.

worst ever chinese fortune to which to add "in bed," appropriately received by an alpha crohn

If you ever feel weary, there is no shame in lying down.

aero redux and semper paratus

If it weren't bad enough that my neighbor is frosty to me after our joint Aerosmith concert the other morning (both times I've seen him since, he wouldn't make eye contact with me), The Other Crohn insisted on not only doing repeated, loud -- and, I should add, impressively realistic -- Steven Tyler impressions yesterday evening through the wall ("Sh'makka makka makka yow yow yow!") but also playing maximum-volume Aerosmith YouTube videos. This was despite my persistent pleas for him to cease fire; my neighbor, I insisted, would know this was all about him and his shower sonatas. It not being in The Other Crohn's nature to cease fire, the makka wows were soon joined by Poison and Whitesnake. At top volume, Janey had a gun. Ragdolls were ripped up and thrown away:

I'm kind of hoping I never see my neighbor again. 

I won't see him this weekend, anyway, because Michelle, Shaina, and I are going camping. Michelle, at work, is on the Internet looking up pictures of poison ivy and poison oak "so we don't sit on them." Shaina has tents. Flashlights. People have packed repellent. Fleece items. Toilet paper. Me? I have been at my computer working on my story all morning. I am not packing. I do not know what I am supposed to bring. Michelle gave me her list, which included all kinds of shit I do not have, such as shorts, swimming suits, hats (hats? will there be festivities?). 

However: I have sketched a small picture of a bear to bring along, in case we need that. I have also prepared my set of Slamwich, the card game featuring carbohydrates and robbers. I think I'm set.

you got good news but you're a real good liar/'cause backstage lover set your pants on fire

Since I have apparently excused myself from the burden of being able to sleep at night, I was wide awake this morning at 5:30 when my neighbor, a gentle sort of man in his mid-50s, began a small concert of sorts. My neighbor, in an unmistakable baritone, was outright bellowing 1990s Aerosmith from his shower. The shower could be heard, the neighbor could be heard, the Aero could be heard. This was no fey, experimental birdsong. This was Braveheart-esque, they'll-never-take-our-freedom brand bellowing. This was the kind of shower-singing that might prompt hordes of Scottish Steven Tylers to set forth with spears and mangled death cries toward thousands of Mission-dwelling enemies.  ("Alba gu bra j'makka makka makka makka wow!")

"Sweet Emotion" came first, then "Amazing." No need to stand on ceremony.

So since the seal had already been broken, so to speak, I joined in. I joined in at what I hoped was an equally outrageous tenor bellow, putting extra early-morning effort into the Steven-Tyler signature shrew-cry of "Makka makka makka makka wow!" (I abstained from the alba gu bra, thinking the hour too early.)

Almost as suddenly as it had started, the next-door concert stopped. More quietly, I ventured a few more bars. ("That one last shot's... a permanent vacation?") Still nothing. I think I had frightened my neighbor away from his concert. About twenty minutes later, I heard his door open and shut; I guess he went to work. And just when I was starting to think we might have something in common. 

this is fleetfoot mcgee, warning you to beware minors in sweatguards

Although I had already run well in excess of my normal mileage yesterday morning, when Phil called to see if I would like to play tennis, I said yes. Lest I fall even deeper into one of those sinkholes about which it is so tiresome to read, I have been attempting to amass Endorphins in the hope that a) said Endorphins will stave off Closet Time (or, to Abby, temps de cabinet) -- time in which I go into the closet and lie there motionlessly; and also that b) in pursuit of these Endorphins, I will be too busy to go into the closet, where very few Endorphins are to be found anyway under the circumstances. 

Phil and I were occasional hitting partners in college. Although I had a brief stint on the college team, Phil was always far, far better than I was -- stronger, faster, with better form and more natural athleticism and agility. Still, we rallied reasonably well. Since college I've only played handful of times, however, and out-of-practice is as out-of-practice does. It does not, for the record, do so awesome. 

It does okay, although I was being a little bit of a pussy. Within twenty minutes I had blisters all over my right hand and a giant purple welt forming in the center of my palm, where I like to grip the racquet incorrectly. (I approached the net to demonstrate this phenomenon to Phil, a medical man, who could not even see the offending item. We agreed I would live.) My Leaden Foot Syndrome, which Phil knows to be my usual M.O., was also well in effect. Let's just say "Fleetfoot" was never my middle name in any athletic endeavors. "Lazy Motherfucker," however? Yeeeeah, that one sounds more familiar.

There was a kid, maybe 14 years old, sitting on the bench behind Phil and occasionally making comments. Phil approached the net.

"That kid wants to hit with us," he said. It was clear Phil did not want this. Neither did I, but I didn't see any other choice. How could we be rude to a kid? A kid, for heaven's sakes. (I can hear many of you hardhearts now, listing the ways.) 

He was wearing sweat guards on his arms and was wielding a racquet like Sampras's. 

"Don't kill me!" he cried when I hit a ball near him. "That girl is out of control!"

I said he could come on my side. 

It turned out the kid was a commentator. Comments included:

"That guy [Phil] is good!" 

"He's a whooooole lot better than you!" 

"Man, he could beat you big-time!" 

"I'm really good!"

"I'm a lot better than you!"

"It's a good thing I showed up!"

He also gave me some tips about how to follow through my swing and where to position my elbow. The tips were pretty much just wrong information, as a lot of tips in life are wont to be. I thanked him kindly.

"You ever played before?" he asked.

I would be quite the little savant if I hadn't ever played before, I thought.

"Yep," I said.

"How many times?"

"Lots of times," I said. "Kind of a while ago."

After the kid's tennis instructor (you heard that right; he was there to take lessons) showed up, the kid gave me a few more pointers on my swing, as well as attitude. My attitude, apparently, needed some subtle but important adjustments. For example, I needed to "burst" toward the ball with my mind. 

In addition, it would be best if I did not go, "Come on, Kara! &%$##$!" and hit the insides of my sneakers with the racket when I hit the ball wide. (He ain't seen nothing yet, at least in that department.) 

"Thank you. That is extremely helpful," I said. "You are probably right."

Phil was having trouble keeping it together.

The kid began to walk away.

"Good-bye, friend!" I called amiably.

But nothing. No love for Fleetfoot. 

It's a hard world out there on the hardcourts of San Francisco, let me tell you. Beware minors. 

when penguins cannot assist you, but visions of shrunken heads underfoot can

I have spent all day lamely crying while simultaneously trying to copyedit a soul-killing manual for children about how to pretend to be penguins on the Internet. (You read that correctly. The nearest rocky cliff might already be full of all the other people working on this book, but I'm sure a few spots should open up shortly.)

Isn't there a song "I Can't Cry Anymore"? Sounds familiar or something. Or maybe, "Don't Cry, For Indeed, It Is Lame To Do So"? I'm pretty sure that song is out there. I don't want to get into specifics too specific for the Internet, but on Tuesday I had a Really Bad Day. Bad days are promoted to Really Bad Days when three or more Exceptionally Bad Things, generally unrelated to one another, occur on the same day. By the time this day was over, at about 4 a.m. on Wednesday, I somehow figured I felt okay again. Being one who puts a high premium on resilience and on Always Being Okay, I proceeded as such for about thirty hours -- a-okay, cap'n! -- until I think it all finally sank in. This morning, at work at my desk, out of nowhere, someone hit the Commence Waterworks button. Thank god James Franco wasn't here to see it.

My mother, who has not been consulted in this instance, would probably say crying is a healthy way of working out one's emotions. Other things that are healthy ways of working out one's emotions, from the Lab:

-Going on a long run uphill while imagining that beneath your besneakered feet are the tiny, shrunken heads of your employers. Or former employers as the case may be, if you had a Really Bad Day on Tuesday.

-Eating a healthful meal of cornichons, High-Fiber O's out of the box, and scotch mixed with grapefruit juice. Wet O's with tears, not milk. When biting down on them, crunch snarlingly and say things that don't really pertain to your situation, like "I'm nobody's ho!" 

-Listen to the kind of music, on repeat, that you couldn't even tell your best friend you've been listening to. Amy, I haven't been listening to any music. Definitely nothing with synthesized voices that appear to be saying, at two minute intervals, "Sorrowful me! Sorrowful me! Come on now, dance!"

-If you're working on a short story, work on the short story. Accidentally get your protagonist into an unplanned fight with a girl. Get him to somehow get access to snake venom and spit it into her eye. Scuffle in the street! Breakdancing! Suddenly realize you've written six thousand words that you will now have to throw away. There were not supposed to be any fights, snakes, their venom, or breakdancing in this story. But save the file.

Things That Are NOT Healthy Ways of Working out One's Emotions:

-Copyediting guides for children about how to pretend to be penguins on the Internet.

great musicianships of the 21st century

Today on a work break in the park I asked Ben, newly returned from Mount Whitney, if he played any instruments. I know Ben pretty well but he is the sort who is likely to surprise, and barring the sort of surprises he bears when he wants to gross me out (which, alas, is often), I enjoy his factoids. 

"Only the skin flute," he said.

"Ah!" I remarked, excited. (The skin flute! Whatever was that?) "Will you play it for me?"

"Sure," he said, obviously amused.

"How come you've never played it for me before?" I demanded.

"Well, you've never expressed any interest before," he said.

"Well, I'm expressing interest now! Do you have it with you?" I asked.

He responded that he always had it with him.

"Really?" I was absolutely delighted. "Great! Will you play it for me?"

Ben was laughing.

"Please?" I asked.

"But I'm not sure this would be the best venue," he said, laughing harder now.

"Why are you laughing? Why wouldn't this be the best..." It had taken me fully forty-five seconds to catch on.

"I hate you, Ben W.," I said. Ben was uproariously pleased with himself. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."