thisismydisease.com

the doorbell rings.

i think.

i’m tired, groggy, woken up by what may really be the doorbell - or may just be some sort of imaginary noise in my head.

but i’m not about to find out.

i’m alone (save for little dog) and not about to find out something imaginary is really something real, or visa versa.

tiny doggie next door barks and barks. she’s a barky girl - but not that barky. i pee, crawl into bed, get comfortable, go back to sleep.

4 AM

the doorbell rings.

i think.

i’m tired, groggy, woken up by what may really be the doorbell - or may just be some sort of imaginary noise in my head.

but i’m not about to find out.

i’m alone (save for little dog) and not about to find out something imaginary is really something real, or visa versa.

tiny doggie’s daddy next door revs his truck’s engine. he normally gets up and out early, but not this early. i reposition myself on the wedge, watch a little unwrapped, fall asleep uncomfortable and wondering if the ringing doorbells were real, or was i just imagining things.

4 pm

i ran out to do a short errand and was greeting by a very somber neighbour. he introduced himself (as he always does, for whatever reason)  and told me:

another neighbour’s house was broken into last night. around 9:30. they found what remained - one  big mess - when they got back home…and the sheriff came…and he visited the neighbours to let them know, check around… and came back if he didn’t get a response.

we don’t talk.

i wave at them when i drive past on the way from the grocery, when i walk out to the post box, but they never wave back. keep to themselves. the guy on the corner - the other one that works from home and also doesn’t pay an already inflated price for a substandard service - we wave. we say hi. the old guy across the street from him - he waves and says hi. even tiny  girl’s parents wave and say hi. the direct neighbours, we don’t even talk about them. they talk. they say hi. they visit me to make sure i’m still alive, doing as well as possible, eating as best possible. they take care of me and they take care of little dog. and they corner run-away, scared beagle puppies that are afraid of the dark and react by running in circles scared as only puppies can be scared.

i love them.

the people that got robbed don’t talk, wave or say hi. it’s not what happened, though.  something happened to one of our very small group of residents, regardless of whether or not they talk or wave and despite the fact they don’t say hi. something very extraordinary happened to them.

i’m sitting here right now holding back yawns, trying to stay awake for just a little more time. robbery, no matter who gets robbed or why, is never easy on those left not to be victims. my heart goes out to these people  - and i hope that, someday soon, they’ll talk, wave and say hi.

and as for the as**h**es from ft. lewis, the very reason why this quiet neighbourhood i moved into a year ago has gone from not needing to even lock doors or windows to needing weasons (and i’m sure it’s even worse now that the over-abundant houses have gone to auction): next time i see you drinking beer on the golf course or  doing “something” in the middle of 54th i’m going to run you down like the rat you are and teach you a few things your mama didn’t but should have.

two computers died. not one, but two. the mbp officially bit it. the imac officially bit it. i’m now the proud owner of two dead macs - and a mb - which i may or may not get reimbursed for - and which cost over $1K (unlike the original of the computer with lesser specs, which cost over $3K). the lenova, at about $400 or so, i could’t get arrroved for. at all. i never even got the monitor because it was given to me *after* my furniture left raleigh and i had no room whatsoever for it in my car. so i gave it to a colleague and now, picked out my own. per me and thanks to the dead imac. i picked an hp due to the fact it’s an incredible monitor - and the fact that it’s 1/3 the price of the equivalent apple. hell i couldn’t get an apple for under $699.  or is it $599? regardless, i got a new monitor for far less money than i should have paid because i paid too much for a computer i may or may not get reimbursed for. and truth be told, i don’t want to be. i bought 3gigs of RAM - which amounts to 2gigs more than i originally had. i bought a monitor - one worth viewing my photos on and certainly not what would have been purchased for me or given to me. that one would have cost under $100 for a major-assed square box with no colour control.

in other developments, it was only herceptin this time (and next). my skin is so naturally smooth now - and my teeth don’t hurt as much (but cannibal junior is starting to look for a dentist for me as the chemo has destroyed my mouth - and i’m still not allowed to go to the dentist without getting knocked out).  my feet still hurt - but not need-an-oxycodone-every-four-hours hurt. i can get by with six. sometimes seven. besides, they’re only 5mg each, so what do i care? hell my little nephew takes a stronger dose. my hands still ache, though. no nails worth talking about. it’s going to take 4 full months for them to grow out *if* they grow out at the normal rate. anyway…

i hope the next cocktail will be different. this past one was horrible to the 85th power. now i can eat (sort of). and bake. and did i mention eat? things are still more than a bit strange - but it feels good to *almost* taste things the way they’re supposed to taste. it’ll take about a year post-chemo to get my tastes back - but this will do for now. couple this with everything else and, well, you have what you have.

oh, my brain is still really fuzzy. really, really fuzzy.

syd likes me though. he follows me around and gives me kisses. he stinks, but he gives me kisses.

i do like his kisses, even when he stinks.

ms. a took most of what my sil sent to hand out to the folks at the shelter. i really can’t eat a lot of is due to bad teeth and having different tastes by the minute. that’s fine. good, actually. people who can use it are getting it - and that’s all that matters (especially with this economy). i appreciate having someone to go out and feed those whose eating habits are bad because of that’s transpired with them. so brava to sil and ms. a.

so now it’s sleepy time. must relax. eat pumpkin pie (with or without crust - depends on a lot of things). drink my favourite drink (sans chocolate - i crave chocolate  but cannot eat it to save my gimpy soul). sleep well. and throw small soft toys at the tv. michael symon is on - and i do want to mame him. severely. good news is robert irvine is coming back to di in march.  does that mean he gets to come back to iron chef too - or do we have to endure any amount of that creaton? and if so, can we hurt him and get away with it?

when a lot of people find out they have cancer, they go on a buying spree - and buy things they would not normally not only not buy, but not even took twice at. cars. boats. houses. designer dogs. designer kids.

i bought an ice maker.

and some plushies.

and some earrings.

i’m not sure if my mum taught me right or if she taught me wrong.  regardless, i do love that ice maker - and get great pleasure out of the plushies - and spend a good amount of time just admiring the artistry behind the earrings. but i do have to admit it might be nice to say the hell with it and put down the payment on that tiny house aw had been talking about buying.

or i could just buy more plushies. and earrings. i’m good with the ice maker.

Long day. Good day but long day. Meetings. Phone meetings. Trip to the pharmacy. Chocolate milk. Talk with Shirley. Little dog wrapped around not one, not two, but three different bushes in the garden. Dinner. Writing. Hands hurt. Feet starting to hurt again. All the while the dear deer hunter watching over me…laughing…smirking…making that scary face I’ve seen so many times on AW when he played with his cute little weapons thinking it’s OK to bandy them about despite being told “no” or “stop” or “grow up and stop being the 8 year old your parents want you to be forever, it’s not cute” - or when he discovered his new discoveries only to be hit with the reality there’s nothing new about them at all. Entertaining. Amusing. Silly.

He’ll have a name soon. Maybe Dwight.

ZZZZZZ.

Nothing says summer like rockets flying through the air.

I spend a lot of time doing research. Internet research. Web sites. I tear apart Web sites to extract the good, the bad and the heinous - then use what I learn (overtly, covertly, consciously, subliminally) to benefit those projects I’m working on. One site leads to another and another and that leads to the discovery of things previously unthought of or imagined. Things like this.

Think about this: It’s the night of July 4th and you’re outside with your kids and spouse and friends and pets and, as with every true-blue, red-blooded american, you’re ready to celebrate the independence of our good nation by lighting things on fire, shooting them up in the air and blowding them up. Fun, right? What’s not fun about that! For 5 or 10 or 15 minutes you spend your time lighting, firing and watching - over and over again. The kids love it, even though they’re not allowed to participate any further than oohing and ahhing and clapping their little hands together. The spouse enjoys it but is, all the while, thinking “crap now I’ve got to go find the garbage these things are gonna leave behind or we’re gonna get fined by our HOA”. The lame-assed friends are too drunk to care and are making those whooping sounds not out of excitement and awe but, rather, out of brain cell malfunction.

But it’s fun.

And fleeting.

Now think about the stompit rocket. You set it in its little launcher, jump on the pedal full-force and watch it fly high higher even higher than is even comprehensible. And then you go inside, grab a snack and a pop, come back out and wait for it to make landfall. It’s safe enough for even the littlest of the little ones to participate. There’s no garbage that has to be located and disposed of by the spouse. And the drunk friends might even enjoy it - especially if they happen to be standing on the exact spot landfall is made. Nothing’s more funny that one of your lame-assed drunk friends getting bopped in the head by a falling - a soft, flexible, couldn’t-hurt-a-newborn-kitten but still falling - projectile.

$30.

You can spend $30 on 15 minutes max worth of July 4th fireworks that are sure to be pretty but, overall, are a poor and quickly forgettable, non-engaging overall experience. Or you can spend $30 on a summer’s worth of fun for the whole family (lame-assed drunk friends included) that, if you play your cards right, can be sequestered away for use next year. In this day of economic uncertainty, it just makes sense.