Archive for the ‘depression’ Category

When finding a head in the recycling bin is the highlight of your month

March 28, 2010

What’s really embarrassing about this whole mannikin head in the recycling bin thing is the fact that after walking by it during daylight hours, I felt the need…the absolute crushing desire to drive back after dark because I really  wanted to steal the head and bring it back to a tiny apartment  where approximately 300,000 drawings and pieces of art are stored. I mean, what made me think, oh goodie, a head. I need that! I really need that…I mean I wanted it  so much so that I was willing to get in my car, drive stealthily over two blocks to the recycling bin of a second rate beauty salon after dark, only to find that some other freakishly weird person had already beat me to the stealing of a mannikin head.

Damn! Life just ain’t fair. Truly. What? You don’t believe me? Oh I’ve got stories. Stories of other freakish events. Freakish events involving hanging babies upside down with masking tape. See! I told you!  Do I have your attention now, you non-believing heathens?  It all has to do with that art teacher. She’s making me be weird. Okay, perhaps I was already 90% there. But in an attempt to please her, I have been digging deep. Digging deep into my apparent well of weirdness. You know like where Elvis and Tim Burton hang out.

Anyways, in an attempt to be liked by my art teacher, who as you might remember held me up as an example of what not to do, I have tried to do the honorable thing,  like ignore my fellow student Latasha, who talks endlessly and makes me want to grab an exacto knife and carve my census information into her forehead.

Her: “Are you Wiccan?”

Me: “No”

Her: “Well you’re showing.”

And I’m like going WTF. I’m showing? What? Where?

“You’re showing your pentacle. Its supposed to be covered.”

Oh dear, flashing your jewels again….honestly witty!

Of course I was somewhat aware of my jewelry related transgression, since I had already had a similar conversation with the Wiccan cashier at the yuppie grocery store. She asked me which coven I belonged to. And I’m like coven? Well its probably the one that allows Democrats. I mean what else could I say?

Anyways, it seems that Latasha not only knows about pentacles, but virtually every subject in the universe. Why? Because she literally never stops talking. I know that she lost her virginity at 13 with her current boyfriend. She has a baby. She has won every art contest that she has ever entered. She works in a bar. She’s met the Pope. I mean everything!

And what did she tell me at the Coke Machine down by the gallery? Oh yes, that she was  bringing a bottle of wine to our art teacher, because the teacher had mentioned being open for bribes in an early class and Latasha hadn’t finished her homework. And so she did. And it worked! The teacher took the bottle of wine.

WTF! And I’m trying to please her, how???? Good work??!!! Why didn’t I think of wine? A little Chianti with her fava beans. Sheesh!

So I have dug even deeper. Down past the evil nuns of Catholic School beating me with rulers. Down past being forced to listen to the Mitch Miller Singers as a kid. This is war!

Example #1:

Yep! We like to strap babies to walls in our art class.  Of course, quite a few kids were rather terrorized by this assignment. A babydoll entangled in ropes and masking tape and perhaps even sporting a little junior baby whip.  Oh my. This is scary. We are in community college after all. Not many expectations. You know how I know? Because the teacher brought in drawings from her “other” class, you know, the ones she teaches at the  nationally known college across town. You know, the one whose students are required to present a portfolio just to get into the class. Not like community college of course. Oh no. No expectations here. Learning bycomparison. That’s how its done it seems.

But guess what? The teacher totally liked my serial killer scarebaby drawing. Squee!  How did I find a style that suited her? I Googled her. The internet is awesome. And I got to see all her kinda creepy drawings of…well I don’t want YOU Googling her fercrissakes. Please don’t, since Googling works both ways…if you get my drift.

My next drawing was even more pleasing to her. Who knew that teddy bears stabbed with a butcher knife could elevate your level of coolness with such swiftness and decisiveness.

Example #2:

Oh witty, we always knew you had a dark side. I already have this one framed for my Goth/Big boob/serial killer art show in April!

But as I sit here this evening, perhaps a little tweaked out on pain pills, maybe its less about her and more about me than I realize. The dark stuff. I guess when you get diagnosed for the third time in 14 months with cancer, you start to feel a little picked on.  Unlike my other cancers, this one has been particularly painful. Its in my chin and neck. Will I be able to finish school? I’m not sure. I’m not a quitter that’s for damn sure.  I definitely want to continue to be able to do art, you know, since I’m finally learning how…

On my own terms. And with no bribes.

fifty two chances to be awesome

February 21, 2010

365.4/21 AlohaThursday

I turned fifty two last week. Its such a dull number. I mean there’s no movies named after it like -“Ten” or musicals  like “Nine” or even TV shows like ’24’.  And its not even like 50, which was one big fucking deal. I had three birthday parties that year and I’m not even popular.

Nope, it was just boring little 52. Yawn. What? You want us to notice you? You better at least lift your shirt or something.  Okay, I was pretty damn popular on Facebook. I think I had close to 40 birthday greetings. They didn’t know about the boring number part though. I just pretended it was something fabulous like 46, which is what my neighbor guessed I was. Of course I do live at the Crazy Hilton and she might have just needed a medication adjustment. I also had some nice gifties from my awesome diaryland buddies (yes, diaryland still exists…I think)…the sexy cast of “Nine” all rolled into one… Ms. HissandTell, my secret penpal AnnaNotBob, the hilarious Poolagirl, who shares my birthday and the lovely Bluey from Canada.

Life has been crazy if not stressful lately though. The birthday thing included my yearly birthday party at my aunt’s house. She makes pretty little cakes and my mom sits and talks about herself endlessly.  Hey! Sorta like the last 52 years. She forgets that I’m the guest of honor. I usually eventually wander into my aunt’s living room and play Broadway musicals on the piano, you know, briefly living out that fantasy I had of being in show business many years ago. My first few jobs were actually  in the theatre field…playing the piano for musical productions. The last one was playing the piano in a whorehouse…for a show of course (heh!)  and getting fired. Can you imagine? Me getting fired from a whorehouse! It was a travesty!

But I got my revenge, dearies! I became a theatre critic for newspapers. Ha ha ha! Off with their heads. Slash, slash, slash! If there was one thing I learned from my mother was how to criticize people!  🙂

After cake and some Broadway musicals, it was off to see “A”. I haven’t seen him as my therapist for a really long time. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, you see. Cancer. School. Mothers. Did I mention Cancer? Oh, and 300 days in a row of snow and gray skies which tend to cause depression. We had a good session though. I didn’t make “A” guess my age or anything. He wasn’t overtly medicated like the lady at my apartment complex. And I didn’t want him guessing 57 or something.

Anyways, last Friday was my actual birthday. It was pretty low-key. I had freaked out “A” when I told him I had a massage scheduled the next day. He immediately thought I had hired Married Guy. Would I do that? Well, almost. I’m not perfect, ya know. I’m wittykitty. I had written Married Guy a lengthy emotional e-mail the weekend before and nearly hit “send”. What can I say? When I was sitting here feeling lonely, thinking about how good his hands used to feel on my ass, I guess you can say, I experienced a 45 minute lapse of nearly regrettable behavior.

Fortunately there were no blizzards the next day (sending love and kisses  down to Washington DC for taking all our BIG blizzards this year. Thanks, guys!!!), so I drove over to my cute little Eye-talian masseuse. This was our second session. He talked a little more this time and he’s definitely from Jersey. It was so nice getting a no strings attached massage from an Eye-talian.

 The rest of my birthday was pretty uneventful. Didn’t I just mention how boring 52 is? Are you listening?

School has been limping along. Evidently I have something called Chemotherapy-Brain, which is making it difficult for me to remember much of anything, which is like totally perfect for going back to school. Yay!  I’ve yet to do any of my homework correctly yet. Every week I either forget some sketchpad with my homework in it or I can’t comprehend what I’m reading  in one of my textbooks or I paint something completely wrong.

Our first assignment was to paint a “virus”. I might have mentioned this. Anyways, the day we were supposed to pin them all up on the wall to critique them I almost fainted. Everyone’s work was in black, white and gray. Mine? Mine looked like some freaking multi-colored Mardi Gras cat vomit. After the first week’s comment from the teacher about how my work was not something  anyone wanted to copy,  I really didn’t want to put it up. I mean really. But there it was…looking like Liberace in the middle of a bunch of nuns. Eeep!

Homework #2

The teacher just looked at it and said, “You’ll have to do it over, but don’t destroy it.”  Which I think in Teacher Talk, at least this Teacher, might have possibly been a vague compliment. And like duh! Like I would destroy any of my artwork. I like my Mardi Gras cat vomit virus. Wouldn’t you want that on a birthday card? Maybe by my 53rd birthday, it will be.

Its sorta like “Grease” except there’s no musical numbers and I’m really old

February 6, 2010

Okay, apparently people care about me sometime. Weird huh? Like what’s up with that? Stop it!  You’ll ruin my record of feeling totally ignored like some child reality star from the 70’s and than I won’t be able to whine anymore and then what will I talk about? “Glee”? Jessica Simpson?

Three weeks ago, a mere four days before registration for college would be ending, I hauled my lazy ass up off the couch…..LIKE FINALLY…..its not easy in the winter, since its at the height of my depression and I’d much rather hibernate amid the thick layers of fur dispensed by my very furry room mate Guardcat. Anyways, I drove up to the college. It was like the first time the sun had been out in like 376 days and I was like, OMG, its a sign from Yahweh. I must leave my house, although let’s be honest, I also had to detach my hands from my computer keyboard and stop looking at Facebook updates from the entire universe including people who were mean to me in high school. Why did I say yes to their friend requests? Why??? Because suddenly it was 1976 again and they were  being nice to witty and not making snotty remarks about her blue checkered polyester pantsuit she wore to Disneyland on Graduation Night.  

(Hey, I wasn’t always cool and I may not be now. Delusions still abound in this thing I call my head).

Anyways, I walked up to the registration counter at the community college thinking it would be easy like on my new favorite TV show “Community College” , but instead I hit an instant brick wall.

First they said registration had already ended. I knew that wasn’t true, because I had looked it up on their website. I did a little pouty lip thing. That made them send me to another person down the mile long counter. She was a lot nicer. She looked up my account. As you might remember I was a registered student back in September until that little fucker called Cancer decided to make his unwelcome pitstop. So I was still officially on the books, as was my funding. So Nice Girl sent me back to the Registration Nazis and what do you think? They were unhelpful again. I mean I had already gone to the art department secretary who had sort of blown me off. All I was trying to do was get  the frickin’ class numbers for a certain teacher’s class, since their names are not listed in the catalogue. But since I was so annoying, having interrupted a personal phone call, she gave me the info really fast and all I had was a post-it note to write 300 numbers on.  And then back at the Registration Nazi’s counter, I was told I would not be “allowed” to take any of those classes because they were “ADVANCED” art classes and I’d have to take like “How to draw a circle” class first.

I very rarely Diva myself up in real life, but I sort of huffed out my chin slightly and might have said something kinda snarky like, “I probably don’t really need the “How to draw a circle class” since I’m already an artist.” And then the guy behind the counter, probably thinking, “Oh, one of those…” (rhymes with itch), started typing really furiously into his computer and then announced rather triumphantly  “ALL ART CLASSES ARE FILLED, M’aam. Sorry.  Next….”

Since its winter and I’m depressed, I pretty much backed down immediately. Diva-Girl too deflated immediately and I just sort of backed away, whispering thank you. Truth is I cried all the way home in my car.  Not exactly being in cheerleader mode, I guess, I  figured, that was it.

When I went to my drawing group the following Wednesday I told JS about my adventures at the Community College. He’s the one who drove me to the cancer center and had all the car trouble and was totally even-tempered about the whole thing. Most of my friends are wing-nuts (but it an entertaining way, mostly), so its nice to have at least one go-to guy when you’re needing help. I actually wasn’t asking for help that night. I was just recounting what happened.

Anyways, the next morning the phone rings. Its JS. He says, “You’re registered for your art class on Tuesday. And I just happened to bump into WP (the art teacher I wanted) on campus and she said she will let you in her second class. No problem!”

Me: “Gulp!”

Guess I can’t use cancer to get out of this.

I was a little unnerved by what  he did, since, in a way, I had settled in my head that school was perhaps, not meant to be. That’s my depression speaking however and since depression is an idiot, not to mention pretty lazy, not liking its minions to succeed, we”ll just ignore it or better yet, let it drive off a cliff and crash like Charlie Sheen’s Mercedes.  

So I had to call the organization that is funding me and say “Surprise! I’m back! And yes, I know school starts in only 6 days, but can we get this thing rolling!” My counselor, I don’t think believed me nor wanted to make things easy, so the next week was pretty hellish and slow moving and stressful. Nothing got ok’d. I was without books or school supplies. I finally bought at least one sketch pad so I wouldn’t be doing tons of homework the night before the second week of classes.

So yeah, lets just say I’m almost old enough to be everyone’s grandmother in class. And so far no one  has recognized me as a cool, older person who they might entrust their secrets with and ask 1970’s movie trivia questions of. I’m pretty much ignored. Hey! Kinda like real life!

I’m taking two classes. A basic drawing class and then some other more  exotic class which really defies description. Our first assignment? Draw five viruses. Huh? Like Republicans? The other class just had us doing a basic still life. We also had to paint a color wheel of black fading to white.

I had done that assignment first.  Painted as asked, a kind of avant guardcat style, Watercolory. Slop. Slop. Slop color wheel that would have made Van Gogh want to chop off his other ear. Definitely. That’s just how I roll.  So as the teacher was walking around the class, she stopped and picked up my sketch pad and said, “Class…this is an example of what NOT to do.”

OMG….Mom????

 Sorry, just having a flashback to everything I ever showed my Mom growing up. I felt terrible, as in lets melt under the table. I told her I would re-do it. She said, “Yes, I know” or something equally encouraging.

(Editor’s note: At the age of 81, my mother has finally realized that when I ask her to look at my artwork, I’m not asking for her to look for its faults. Just to, hopefully see its beauty. Its been a real breakthrough).

Anyways, after that wondrous first encounter with the teacher I had pursued so relentlessly because of a previous good encounter at my art group’s conference, I suddenly felt like I wanted to go home.

Dear Brain: That is your depression speaking. It was just a stupid comment. You know you’re a good artist. Hang in there, witty. Love, witty’s angst department.

There was a brief 15 minute break between the two classes, so I ran over to the bookstore and fortunately the funding was finally ok’d for my two textbooks. My second class was the beginning drawing class. The one I supposedly couldn’t get in because I had to take something called like “How to draw a circle” first.

Ha, I say! Ha!

It was pretty obvious within seconds that I was  over qualified for the class when the same teacher had us all put our work up on a wall. This was a still life I had drawn over the weekend.

Drawing homework 1

I mean, its not a Rembrandt or anything, but it certainly wasn’t like most of the other one dimensional drawings of Nutella jars and football jerseys. And also for the first time, the teacher finally saw in me what she didn’t see in the first class…potential.

And I have to remember that too.

a very special fairy princess

January 15, 2010

So how has 2010 been treating you, so far? I’ve been having to practice writing the  2010 part. Why? Because, I still haven’t figured out how the numbers are situated yet. I keep writing 2100, in which case I’d be about 250 years old.  But look on the bright side. I could say that I survived chemotherapy!!

It sure didn’t seem like I would this past weekend. I had my second round, starting last Monday. Everything was all fine and groovy, other than the tired thing, until Friday when I started scratching. By Saturday I had a large splotchy, itchy rash all over my body and for some reason I thought Married Guy would know what to do, you know, since he touches skin all day. So I called him, since the Cancer Center was closed. Sunday the itching was so intensive I almost went to the emergency room. He finally called back on Sunday night and said one word:  Benadryl. Duh! Okay, maybe I just also needed to hear a comforting voice behind the word “Benadryl” having been locked up in my snowbound apartment all week and only talking to my mom about her cat and furniture we had in 1963.

I did go to my cancer center the next day and talked to Dr. Really-Nice Brian and his evil assistant Nurse Makes You Feel Like and Idiot Even Though You Have Cancer. Ever since I “yelled” at her back in September after she sent me to a surgeon for no reason, she’s always ready with all her super efficient answers for all my apparently fake ailments.

Like before I had my radiation and was deathly tired, pale and feverish, I asked about all the fevers I was getting. Her: “Oh, it must be menopause.” Me: “That was four years ago, bitch dear”. And then this week when I went in, she looked at me, obviously still traumatized by the memories of my severe and horrific tongue lashing from September, because everyone who knows me personally knows how totally terrifying and scary I am, right Guardcat? (she’s pointing and laughing at me).

Anyways, I go in and have to pull down my pants for Dr. Really-Nice Brian (gladly, you said you were married, right?) and Nurse Ratched to display the rash between my thighs and she says, “Oh, must have been some dry skin from winter”  and then evil smile.

WTF…Bitch?

Anyways, it WAS an allergic reaction to my chemotherapy and only 5-7% of the people taking my medication get it.

Fortunately by Wednesday, it was about 85% gone, so I was able to go back to my drawing class which I had missed the week before. Missing my class anytime is difficult , but particularly in the winter when my yearly depression descends.  So after eating a little Chinese food at the yuppie grocery store, I drove to my drawing class. I was fairly certain I was co-hosting with Charlemagne, but he hadn’t hosted last month, so I wasn’t sure.

But walking up the stairs I heard that familiar voice and it sounded way better than it usually did, I guess because I hadn’t been out socially for a while and of course, because I knew there was a hug waiting at the end of it.

It was a smaller class than usual with my least favorite model. The one who, a couple of months ago confessed his genitals might be kinda red because he was getting so much sex. Thanks, Mr. TMI.

My main problem with him, I mean besides him, is the fact that our reserve of models has fallen so dangerously low,  he is like the  substitute teacher the female staff is uncomfortable around. He’s there anyways to draw, so if a model doesn’t show up, he’ll just tear off his clothes, including his gaudy Simpsons underwear and whip it out, so to speak and we’ll be forced to sit through basically the same poses he’s done week after week after week and its like being forced to watch endless reruns of “Joanie Loves Chachie”, except naked.

And I feel bad. Because I had gotten sick of other frequent models from the past. Like the Nazi Model, who would do this particularly terrifying bending over pose, where if you were at the receiving end, pretty much looked like page 36 in “Pap Smears for Dummies”. Ick! I mean I got so sick of her I started doing really mean drawings of her, like with horns and holding pitch fork with flames coming out of her mouth. Oh dear. No wonder I was still in therapy at that point.  

Fortunately, I sat next to Charlemagne, who had his usual humorous running commentary throughout the night. Unlike any of the other hosts, he likes to run contests and give away prizes. I’m not eligible since I’m a board member which is totally unfair…do you hear me, Charlemagne?? I mean, its true he was only giving away some used  watercolor pencils, but still. How many places do you go where you can win a prize by imitating a “Celebrity” laugh?

A couple of people did give it a go, just doing boring normal people laughs and pretending to be like Fergie’s pilate instructor or something. I was just sitting there looking at Mr. TMI, feeling totally uninspired. It wasn’t until I was in the shower this morning, that I realized how I could have totally won that contest. You want a celebrity laugh?

Woody Woodpecker!!!!

And how appropriate for a male model. Of course Mr. “TMI” would think it was about him, if you had said pecker.  

Naturally during the break, after showing Charlemagne my carrot unicorn (you had to be there) , I got trapped, ensnared cornered by Zue, who still thinks we’re like BFF’s, even though I get that stricken look  everytime she walks towards me. We always have announcements at the break and when we finish the official ones,  she’ll keep going and going because she so needs to be heard. 

Like for instance, next week(!!!!) she will be demonstrating lighting for cameras to take photos of models to make paintings from. OMG, no way! Yes way, witty! So of course she felt the need to come over to me and explain what an incredibly complex and difficult this task is (holding a piece of white cardboard up to bounce the flash).

Realllllly??????

She really does corner you physically too. It makes me uncomfortable. So she’s going on and on and on about cardboard and flashes and I finally had to stop her.

“Zue, I’m a photographer. I used to work at a newspaper. We had a photo studio. I’ve been photographed in a studio. I’ve had photos published. I’ve had my photos in museums. Thanks for the information, now can I get a cup of juice, please?”

I guess since I’m so knowledgeable, I will instead be her model. But she has assured me I shall remain clothed. Oh goodie. And of course, I probably won’t really need a flash, since I’m whiter than Antarctica and would probably create an instantaneous, if not slightly erotic Aurora Borealis if she tried to use one.

Charlemagne cleared out a little early so I finished cleaning up with JS and Tall Skinny Guy. JS had asked me about school. I still haven’t signed up for classes starting in a mere two weeks. My problem? Mostly depression. Not sure how things will go with my health. So suddenly Tall Skinny Guy looks at me and says, “Well then, we’ll just give you a big party….we’ll give you a big BIG party and….and…we’ll make you a very special fairy princess!!”

I stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say. A 51-year old very special fairy princess? Well dang! That sounds pretty darn good! I mean, I think he was trying to cheer me up. Right? 

Incidently, I won a photo contest this last week in a local alternative newspaper. Some of you already know about this, but I thought I would share the photo with the rest of you. 

 365.4/6 Walking away 2010

I guess the wings in this photo  prove the fairy princess thing.

why do most of my doctors look like michael j fox?

October 3, 2009

In the last three weeks I’ve been to so many doctor appointments in so many places, with so many nurses and so many waiting rooms with so many crappy magazines (except for the last two which had the New Yorker) with so many people asking me for blood and to stand on scales and to lay quietly and  giving me bad news (yes, I do have cancer again) and making me feeling all tired and handing me large folders full of information about cyber knives and them wanting to send me to a cancer center in Buffalo even though my car looked at me and sarcastically said, “Buffalo….you’re kidding, right?”

The fact that my car talks should be scary enough.

And then there was that huge fight with “L” the Hippy Chick two days before my lung cancer biopsy. I was a wreck waiting to go to the hospital, so I had been trying to fill my days with fun, relaxing activities so I wouldn’t think about the upcoming medical “event”.

For instance, I went to my favorite artsy/hippie festival the weekend before.  My art group had a tent set up and I mostly hung out there since  I had been feeling really tired lately. But I did walk around a little to see all the lovely whack-a-doos  in my town. Artists. Belly dancers. Musicians. Hippies. Flower Children…

And even Republicans trying to shake our hands, like they liked us.

For me, the argument had actually  briefly started the day before. I had parked quite a ways from the center of activity mainly because, well shit, there were no parking places any closer. Do you think I would park a half mile away if I could park 20 feet away?  So I offered “L” and her grandson a ride home like I always do. I have no problem giving people rides. None. I do it all the time.  If I’m lucky enough to have a working car, why not help people out….right?

 So “L” was spouting off angrily about something. I had sort of tuned it out for the first time ever. Why? Because I was still  grooving off the good vibes of the happy hippy day. Then she says, “Well, if I had known your car was this far, I would have just walked home!”

I bit my tongue on that one, but decided to take the high road. So I offered to go get the car and pick her up, but no, no, no, she said,  I’ll make it…somehow (groan).

Anyways, the next day I went to an art event up at the university in their lovely  art gallery. It was very relaxing and pleasant and quiet. We didn’t have a huge turn out, but we were sitting amongst a very famous painter’s artwork  drawing a model and I was incredibly relaxed. Which was good. And also the reason I went.

And then “L” shows up with her grandson who’s 7. And suddenly she was chatting loudly. Joking with the model. Her grandson was running amuck around the galleries. “D”, who was running the session, tried to give him some paper to draw on, but after about 5 minutes, he was running around once again. “L” wasn’t doing anything about it, as usual.

At the time, instead of drawing the model, I was actually attempting to draw one of the famous paintings. Silly me. Anyways, suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I see the grandson walking around with what looked like a pencil. He looked at me coyly and then turned around and started making a stabbing motion at the painting. I totally freaked out. This painting is probably worth about $80,000. So I leaned over and whispered, “Please don’t do that!” So he runs back over to “L” and I could hear some loud whispering and then some whimpering. Great. I made the kid cry.

We finally finished up around 3 and went outside. I offer her and her grandson a ride home but warned that it was about 5 blocks to my car since I couldn’t park on campus. “L” suddenly got absolutely  livid and started doing this loud mock talking to “D”, as if I wasn’t there and then stalked off. WTF? Ok, fine. Whatever. 

So “D” and I started walking to our cars and I’m blowing off a little steam about how weird she was acting and and then suddenly at the first red light she jumps in front of us and sarcastically wishes “D” a “Good Day” and just glares at me. I told her I hope she had a good day too. It was just getting too weird. Then she disappeared again. “D” and I walked together another 2 blocks and he went up that street to his car and then suddenly there was “L” again…yelling at me at the top of her lungs in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.  I just kept walking.

I’m really pretty innocuous in real life. Very quiet. Not someone to pick fights. And here is this woman, who I’ve been friends with for 5 years screaming all this crap at me. I finally yelled, “I’m going in for a cancer biopsy tomorrow. I went today so I could relax. Can you please stop yelling at me?” And then there was a brief silence and then she yelled something to the effect that “We all have to go sometime. That’s just how life is.” By then I started crying. How could anyone say that to someone going in for a cancer biopsy?

She then yelled after me 3 times…”What time?” I yelled back 7 a.m.” but evidently she couldn’t hear me because by time I got to the street where my car was,  she screamed at me that I was just like her last friend she just lost. That was I abandoning her. Needless to say, I cried all the way home.

Fortunately, not ALL my art friends are lunatics because on Tuesday, my dear friend Charlemagne did pick me up (I think Guardcat told you that) for my hospital visit.  And he does give good hug. You know you do, you cute little Frenchman!

And then in some weird stroke of fate or synchronicity, I was shopping at Target the next week and who do I run into AGAIN? Married Guy. Yup. Right there in the pet food aisle. Something keeps throwing us together. When he saw me the first words out of his mouth were, “You look really pale.” Oh wait, no, he first said, “How come everytime I see you, you’re shopping?” and I said, “Because I’m a rich housewife in *********” Ha, ha, ha. Irony. Love it. Both the rich part and the wife part. So anyways once we both bought our stuff we went outside and I told him about my lung cancer and he looked pretty stricken.  And then he offered help. And then I stupidly went to his wifie’s art show that Friday night. Do I want to see him again? Yes. Absolutely. I’m going through some really rough times  right now and I really need some people to lean on.  He gave me his cell phone and said to call him anytime. Whether I’ll actually be able to, remains to be seen.

Anyways, back to the doctor part,  evidently doctors don’t necessarily talk to each other. I now have about 4 or 5 of them. And except for the hottie oncologist, they all look like Michael J. Fox, especially the one I saw today who told me I’ll be getting something called Cyberknife, which is some kind of high intensity radiation in 3 or 4  lengthy sessions.  I’ve been worried because October is my busiest art month, but it looks like I’ll be able to get most of my events in, before I collapse into a pile of glowing radioactive wittykitty goo towards the end of the month. That is way better than the original suggestion of a serious, big ass surgery though, and I’m happy about that. Of course, ask me about that when I’m sleeping 23 hours a day around October 23rd.

Oh, by the way, “L” the Hippie Chick didn’t talk to me last week in my art group, but she did this week. Pretty much everyone in my art group now knows I have cancer. And for some reason as Sci-Fi Guy and “L” were walking me out Wednesday, she started asking me if the doctors had given me a length of time I was expected to live. She just kept asking me that over and over.  It was really starting to upset me.  When you’re dealing with this kind of stuff  you really don’t want to think about that, you’re supposed to think about your survival. I finally practically yelled I didn’t know and just asked her to pray for me. And then she mentioned she knew of a prayerline- on the phone with the numbers 666 in it.

WTF? Am I really that bad? I know one thing, I’m never correcting anyone’s kids ever again!

This is me right before my biopsy on September 15th. I’m so 666, dont’cha think?

Guardcat writes another note for witty’s ambivilent blog behavior

September 13, 2009

Dear Ms. Blogenstein:

Guardcat here again. I turned my back on her for one minute and then witty skips out on her blog for yet another 26 days, cheating on you with I believe,  facebook since, well, you know, she has a very short attention span these days and prefers writing only one sentence updates instead of lengthy whine-fests, since funny can only go so far when your life  makes the movie “Titanic” look like a Seth Rogan Sex Romp (witty made me put that in there. I didn’t think it was particularly funny, but what do I know, I  sleep 23 hours a day and chase imaginary pieces of lint). So the minute I decided to take a nap, witty was off doing stuff like trying to get an inspection sticker for her rusty old pile of crap car which she bought on 6/6/06, (no mistake on what that means I tell ya), because she brought it out to this garage by a lake to this mechanic who looks like a bad-ass Billy Joel with tattoos all over his body and what do you think happened? Well, we are talking about witty and her crap car….the car failed the inspection of course, but the guy said, well, if you go drive it 50 miles maybe the emissions (garbled word) will reset itself and then I can give you the sticker, so witty got in her car and started driving around this lake, like  la la la, I’m on vacation in my piece of crap car, la la la, and then she even stopped at this old antique store with scary clown dolls and NASCAR tee-shirts and really wanted to do one of her weird self portraits amidst the antiques, looking all wacky like she does in her photos until she realized there were video cameras everywhere and all the old people up by the front door were watching her on their panel of TV cams, snickering saying things like, “Ewww, she’s weird, she must be an artist or something”, probably because witty was also crawling around on the floor looking for frames because she’s like totally obsessed with buying every single frame in New York state, you know, in case she paints a painting that size and can buy it for $1.50 in some crazy antique store with Stephen King clown dolls, but unfortunately now she has so many frames in OUR apartment, its starting to look like that TV show, “Messiest Home in America” where that gay guy and his crew makes you throw out everything including that piece of material you sucked on when you were three and then they  re-design your whole house in two days while you stay at a really nice hotel and get a massage, I mean, I really think she has an ulterior motive with this escalating frame problem, but now I actually forgot what I was talking about, oh yes, witty having to drive 50 miles to reset the emissions thingie, so she did do that and came back to the gas station where Mr. Bad Ass Billy Joel Jr. clamped his machine to witty’s little box (the most action she’ll probably evah see–heh heh) and guess what happened? Go ahead guess!  It flunked again and then again and then again and then again and then again…No, not all on the same day.. she had to drive the 20 mile round trip 5 more times trying to reset that goddamn emissions thing and nothing was happening so now her car inspection sticker has expired, so she’s trying to be invisible to the cops, which she’s really good at, since she actually thinks she’s invisible….no really….like she’ll think she’s hiding from me in the kitchen  when she should be feeding me and then I’ll bite her ankle. Heh heh.  Silly girl. Anyhoo, witty has had lots of other stuff going on, like the stalker chick showing up at her art class and wanting to hug her for no real reason other than re-enact a scene from “Fatal Attraction”  or some weird thing.  And then some guy worked on her computer and decided to switch her computer tower for another one and then pretend he didn’t, so she ended up going to the police but since the computer was a gift from her brother and she had no proof of what brand it was, not much happened, although she did feel somewhat vindicated when the cop totally tore the thieving asshole a new arse during his interrogation on the phone, since the computer he returned to witty was totally wiped clean of over 1200 photos, including those, well, you know pseudo-Playboy ones witty likes to do (Officially called Identity Theft in legaleeze). And then for the grand finale nee: witty summer ’09 wallapalooza  just when things were going especially groovy, fate decided to give witty yet another ride on the cancer merry-go-round it seems. Of course witty was momentarily horrified all excited when her hot oncologist called last week, that is until he actually started talking and she knew it wasn’t good since he usually  has his physician’s assistant call. Sure I was in sleeping on witty’s bed, but I think I heard something like: “The nodes in your lung have doubled in size since your last scan in May. I’m going to be sending you to a Thoracic Surgeon in the next few days. He’ll talk to you about what we’ll be doing” I let her rub my belly a few extra times that night, since she seemed pretty upset about everything. So witty went to meet yet another new doctor on the Tuesday after labor day and they got to watch the video scans on his computer, kinda like DEATH WII. He told witty about the node doubling in size and the two options that were available. If its minor they’ll do something called razor radiation. If its major it’ll be a full fledged surgery which would keep her in the hospital for 7-8 days and out of commission for 6-8 weeks. Yeeks! Who is gonna buy me cat food? So witty of course wrote to “A” and told him and he was very concerned and then on Wednesday, when she co-hosted with Charlemagne at her art class, he was very upset too, especially when she suggested that she put off the possible upcoming surgery because she has a bunch of art shows  in October including one in which one of her paintings just got published in a book and she really wanted to go to the opening, but Charlemagne was aghast and said he would not allow his friend to die because she wanted to go to a….now what did he say? I think it was something like “a fucking art show”, yeah, something like that. He also offered to drive witty to the hospital on Tuesday for the lung needle biopsy. She had hoped “A” could do it like last time, but he had another commitment, although strangely right after she hung up from “A”, Charlemagne called witty up  saying he was taking her to the hospital but they’d have to talk Sunday or Monday about times and directions. Naturally she was worried because he is perpetually late, so she said, “Are you sure?” and then he handed the phone to his girlfriend who is in charge of him and she said she’d make sure he’d be there, which is good because witty had sat for about 2 hours the night before looking at Married Guy’s photo in Facebook trying to get up the courage to write him a note asking for a ride to the hospital which of course would have been really stupid but what’s that saying? “Desperate times call for desperate measures“,  but then Charlemange called, probably because “A” got my subconscious ESP message that witty was considering calling Married Guy. So she is really scared and really tired, but she’s been trying to keep busy, in fact tomorrow she is going to her favorite artsy/hippie festival to cavort with like souls and then on Monday, she’ll be joining some of her art friends at the local university to draw in their art gallery….an event she was originally going to miss because, well, she was going to go back to school, but that is all off, unfortunately. With all these unknown factors, medical procedures, and possible major surgeries all falling in the first three weeks of school and possibly affecting a large postion of the semester, witty figured she better just drop out of school and NOT lose  the government funding she worked so hard to procure. That however, made her very, very, very sad. It was the first thing she had really looked forward to in many years. In fact she’s been like a five year old looking forward to the first day of kindergarten for like the last two weeks. I may have to let her scratch my belly again.

Sincerely, Guardcat.

the british guy in the park

August 2, 2009

It all started with this tree to be honest….

British Men Like Trees by you.

I had just spent the last couple of hours with my mother.  I had dreaded the day. She was bringing back a cat, aka the Scourge from Hell, she had adopted from the humane society back in June. I had had to listen to the daily horror stories of broken dishes and lamps and bites to the head and how she was jumping on top of the refrigerator knocking things over as well as constantly running between her feet as she walked. Now my mom is 81 and not very stable as it is and I was literally waiting for the “witty (sob, sob), I just fell and broke my hip” call. As it was, she had already wrenched her back trying to avoid stepping on the cat in her bedroom a couple of weeks ago. So this last week, she finally wisely decided to take the cat back. Oh the guilt! But I told her, perhaps a little too snappishly, that this one was just too active for someone of her age.

So I brought Guardcat’s cat cage over to her house since the cardboard one they had given her back in June had only contained “Psycho”  for only about 1 minute and then she had escaped, as in she had jumped up on the dash board and was running around the vehicle at about 250 mph  in traffic. Its truly amazing my mom didn’t crash her car.

So the day was rough. My mom was crying…that is until we went to the humane society and she was able to play with about 45 cats in two large rooms for about an hour and a half. She kept saying she wanted “pretty cats” instead of  the “compatible” cats. Isn’t that what dudes say, Mom? Anyways, she eventually went home empty handed, but hopefully she’ll come to her senses and get one of the older cats who will sit and watch “American Idol” with her.

Anyways, after all the emotional turmoil in the afternoon with my mom and jumping over cats of every size and shape at the humane society (and yes, of course I totally love cats and played with lots of them), I really needed to take some time to regroup.

I’ve been very very very stressed out about losing my disability recently. “A”, after one appointment after a year on Tuesday, said I’m all better mentally evidently and said if asked by the government, he will tell them accordingly. If I lose my disability, I will also lose my health insurance and when you have cancer, or  at least the possibility of it and have to go get $3300 x-rays every 3 months (along with a myriad of other appointments), the thought of losing your insurance is pretty fucking  scary. So I’ve been crying ever since he sent me an e-mail to that effect Wednesday afternoon. Thanks “A”.  

So I went to our nearby lake for a walk. It was really busy because it was a beautiful summer day. Naturally I had my camera with me. Its like permanently attached to my hand, kinda like you yuppies and your cell phones.

Anyways, I saw this tree (see above). Recently when I was in my nekkid drawing class I had been bored drawing this certain model who was standing there with her arms raised above her head. Sometimes witty is naughty. She’ll do things like draw horns or spikes on models or write something like “I wonder if I have a spine” down the back of a male model. Anyways, with this particular model I had drawn her arms raised upwards and then started adding branches growing out of her body, kinda like a naked model tree!

And I wasn’t even stoned!

I actually liked the idea so much I’ve been thinking of doing a painting. Anyways this tree looked a lot like that particular drawing. The shape was almost identical. So I was standing there shooting the photo when suddenly I hear this male voice with an English accent say, “Why are you photographing a tree?” It startled me 1) because, as you know if you’ve read me for a while, I think that I’m invisible, so when somebody acknowledges that I’m there, I’m usually pretty startled 2) He was way closer than I realized, as in standing right next to me.  3) What a strange question to ask. I’m just photographing a tree.

And before I knew it, this tall British guy, who I had actually seen sitting on a bench when I sat down just five minutes earlier,  was standing RIGHT THERE and he was incredibly verbose, telling me he was a writer, and then breaking out into this  lengthy hilarious “Roses are read, violets are green…” poem about a shopkeeper breaking dishes and cats jumping over taxis. Who knows. He even managed to interject the word “genitalia” in there, although I can’t remember in what context. I was just standing there with my camera nervously clutched in my hand, looking at him, wondering what part I was playing in  all this. He then  wanted to guess what astrology sign I was and actually nailed it. Aquarius. WTF! I said I thought he was probably a Gemini because he talked so much. He said I was close He was on the cusp of Gemini and Cancer. He asked what I did. My stock answer now is “artist”. I don’t actually make my living at it, but its my vocation. And he asked about that. How can you make a living at art?

Pretty cheeky there, Brit Boy! How do you know I’m not like some famous woman tree photographer or Picasso’s great step-grand niece.

He was talking so fast and fluidly and leaping from subject to subject, I was having a bit of a problem keeping up. There was a brief jaunt into psychotherapy. My quote: “Therapists are paid friends”. He didn’t agree. He wondered how hard it would be to find an illustrator for his children’s book.  Are you trying to pick me up, dude? I mean, professionally? And then we were talking about biorhythms. I wondered aloud why mine were always below the line instead of  above the line. He didn’t know.  And then he asked me what I was doing with my life.

Yikes? Do I even know? True I just got a letter which has given me a full grant for 2 classes a semester through Spring of 2010 towards my long awaited Bachelor’s degree in art. But instead I chose to remain mysterious. I told him I was walking. Just walking. I think he was perplexed. Or maybe that I was really deep or something. Or was possibly that I was just avoiding the real question since I didn’t know who the hell this British Guy was or why  he was asking me all these probing questions.

He then asked me to sit down. The blissful, we-just-met-and-this-is-going-well did slow down noticeably when we sat. In fact, there was like a full moment of silence. I could feel the breeze blowing off the lake through my hair. Fortunately he finally started chatting again about the boats out in the lake. I told him I liked kayaking. He said his kids “liked to fucking jet ski since it was better than talking to each other. ”

I then noticed he started patting the pocket in his shirt intermittently. I knew what that meant. Pat, pat, pat. We chatted a little more. Pat, pat, pat. And then he said, “Do you smoke?” and I said, “No.” and he said, “I better go.”

Just.like.that. A whole relationship played out in a matter of 15 minutes. The blush of first love. Intense interest in what each other has to say. Sitting down, as familiarity takes hold, talking like an old married couple. And then the one thing we always knew we never had in common, suddenly hits our “relationship” like a meteor and it was over!

He never even asked me my name.

In other news, I had some guy with a blue painted face come up to me at an art’s festival last weekend. He asked if I wanted to come paint a man in this certain art gallery. I know the gallery. The woman who runs it had actually expressed some interest in my work last November and was going to come to my house to look at my work but then I got the cancer and we never connected. Naturally I said yes. I always want to paint men. 🙂

So I went up to the gallery. Little did I know that I was going to…well you’ll see…

365.3/125 Man-paint Bokah 

actually paint a man.  See, if the damn British Guy had played his cards right….

a note for my teacher

July 22, 2009

Dear Mrs. Blogenstein:

Please excuse wittykitty from her blog for the last 25 days. She’s been a little under the weather and yet suddenly overwhelmed by popularity, but also depressed, and yet hanging solo art shows, registering for school, acting like a poser while standing in the line at the yuppie grocery store (ha, ha, I just added that one), not to mention exhibiting an extreme addiction to home makeover shows since she got cable in June, bumping into people she’d rather not see,  exhibiting extreme road rage thereafter, eating far too much chocolate, still nursing a sore knee, taking naked photos of herself and then deleting them from her digital camera, running into her shrink and making an appointment with him after almost a year (all I have to say about that witty is OY!), spending way to much time Twittering and Facebooking, staring at her male neighbor across the complex who walks around naked in his apartment, celebrating the fact that Garden Hacker is gone, being so manic that she painted three paintings in one week, talking to strangers, joining a women’s writing group, going to nearby nearly abandoned carnival and riding on a ride called Laffland which she accidentally thought was a new diagnosis for her mental condition, drinking vast quantities of caffeine, not sleeping, plotting the murder of her next door neighbor who leaves her loud bathroom fan on for hours and hours and hours including 3 a.m. in the morning which makes witty so angry she wants to take an exacto knife and carve “redrum” into her  planter, listening to my mom’s endless stories about her new kitten who she named after witty’s deceased cat which makes her really sad, like why did she have to name it that, and who cares if her cat jumps up on top of the refrigerator 12 times a day, there are worst things happening like all the government offices witty had to go to this last week whilst dealing with the 1,020th sinusitis infection in the last six months, like wtf, no wonder she’s all grumpy and depressed all the time, sniffling AND seeing former people she was in love with and logically knowing it would be stupid to go to their house, and yet having that stupid tweaking emotional gland near the chocolate intake gland which is obviously malfunctioning saying hey, remember all the fun you had “being part of the family” and all the good massages he gave you, but then all my real life people are saying, you idiot, you’re such a fucking idiot, and I’m like back off, I just had to  buy my 300th package of M&Ms as a way to console myself, but of course I also had to go to my cousin’s wedding this weekend, which is exactly the place witty would want to go, given her state…a wedding…like whee, two people in love, two loving parents there to see their beautiful blonde daughter joined in happy matrimony and she absolutely didn’t hold anything against them, but having to sit there for four hours looking at all these happy people in the name of love just seemed to hold a giant magnifying glass up to witty’s miserably solitary life even though, my god, people have been absolutely flocking to her, but she just doesn’t see that, you know, or understand why people are trying to be her new friends and offering her help and the head of a local arts organization actually coming to her little eentsy apartment and looking at all her artwork and acting all bubbly and excited like she had just found a lost Michelangelo or in witty’s case maybe an Andy Warhol and then coming a week later and taking them to a fancy beauty salon to hang, although naturally witty forgot one, since her brain has gone on strike indefinitely its seems (which is exactly why she’s going back to school! Yay!), so then the poor lady had to come back to her eentsy apartment and pick up the missing painting and discovered another painting of Johnny Depp which totally demanded to be hung in a beauty shop full of women and gay men, so off he went, and yet the demure and extremely insecure witty is still nervously waiting for the opening but what does she expect, this woman is important and witty is just someone who dabbles and has little self esteem and thinks going to college will really help her and she even had to lie to the government agency helping her, because they kept asking and asking, like what could YOU ever do with an art degree you silly 51 year old woman with cancer and low self esteem and a funny looking chin and she then blurted out, almost like a brave person, “Well, since I’ve been mentally ill since 19 and I can suuuuure paint perty pictures, i wanna be an art therapist!! Ha! Ha! You know instead of working at McDonalds like you suggested last year, since I can’t stand the smell of rancid meat, but I do love me some snorting of pastel dust.” but the woman just looked at me like she always does, like I’m a statue of a transvestite hamster with a disco ball, you know, since she doesn’t realize that almost every single thing you look at in the universe was probably created by an artist including a stop sign. So Shut the hell up. Right?

Despite everything, including witty’s rather low mental health state at the moment, you really can’t keep her down. She did all her paperwork for college. Got all her damn shots including mumps, fercrissakes. She’s going back to her shrink for the first time in almost exactly a year. Will it be good? I’m not sure. I just think she needs someone who knows her, to say its ok.

Sincerely, Guardcat

(s)he’s just not that into you

March 4, 2009

I’ve now been 51 years old for a little over 3 weeks and its been…

fabulous

better than sex with Johnny Depp

…so fucking boring that I haven’t had neither the strength nor inclination to write a blog entry about it, so shut the fuck up….

Oh sure, I have left Casa de wittykittyon a few occasions, like taking my mom to the ER on Sunday night thus missing “Celebrity Apprentice”, a show I was going to review for my first column at the newspaper. But our E.R. has this little problem, ya see. You go in at 6:30 p.m. and you tend to not leave until 3 a.m., you know, since the  staff is out in the hallway laughing and talking to each other and there wasn’t  exactly anything ER-worthy wrong with the patient.  So I missed the TV show, the time to write the brief 150 word newspaper article and the deadline. I figure they probably think I don’t want to write for them since I was MIA on the very first week of publication. Yay me!

The previous week had been far more exciting. I actually went on a date. You know, I always am required to go on at least 1 to 2 dates a year or  my Vagina License is revoked. And you know how hard it is to renew the damn thing. The long throbbing masses slamming against the single window at the DMV. Its hideous. I basically just have a photo ID, so I don’t have to act like I’m interested when the guy at the window asks me questions like “Where do you live” (wink, wink) and “Is this your correct address?” (wink, wink).

Dude, you’re bald and you’re wearing polyester. Back off!

Oh! My date! So like the day after my surgery I had gotten a note from a guy on sMatch.com. I think we already went over this. He said he’d  wait until I healed up from my surgery. I thought that was pretty decent of him. We wrote back and forth about every 3-4 days. He called me on my birthday on February 12th. I think we talked about 35 minutes. He was going to be picking up his daughter at the airport in my city and said, “Oh, I should have taken you out to dinner for your birthday.”

Indeed! So many missed opportunities! Free meals are always heartily accepted by starving artists, but it was already like 6:45 and he lived about 45 minutes south of here. So he asked me out the following Friday, the 20th. I said fine. He said fine. I think we even possibly saluted the Beatles somehow, since that was something we had in common, because we were both really old and remember seeing the Beatles on something besides YouTube.

The Wednesday before my date I started feeling a little angsty about it.

WHAT????? WITTYKITTY ANGSTY?????? omg…CALL CNN!!!!!!!

Yeah, I know, its hard to believe. So when I went to my art class I was hoping to see “L” the Hippy Chick because she’s my only real female friend I can talk to. Unfortunately she wasn’t there and instead I made a really huge mistake. I talked to Zue….the biggest expert in the history of the universe on absolutely nothing everything, but especially on sMatch.com things. Why? Because before she found her current boyfriend she probably dated every dude in a 800 mile radius. For a while she was even attempting to toss me her leftovers (criminals, child molesters, banks robbers, Bernie Maddoff). I, of course, never took any of them.  I mean, I don’t want to ruin my 1-2 dates a year thing and I especially am not going to date Zue rejects.  That would be like eating what raccoons won’t eat out of  garbage cans.

So I told her about my impending date and she asked who he was and I stupidly said three words: his first name, the fact that he was Jewish and his city and she’s like “I dated him!” And I cringed inside. Ugh! Zue cooties! And then she did a true disservice to both me and him. She said some things that weren’t very becoming about him. They weren’t terrible, but just discouraging to someone who only dates minimally and always hopes for the best (I bet you didn’t know that about me, huh!!! Neener!!!).

The next day I just decided to make the best of it. It was sunny and nice all day and then blam, around 5 p.m.,  a really  severe snowstorm blew in. I was worried about “M” driving 45 miles, up through the hills because there were traveler’s advisory in effect. But he arrived exactly on time. 7 p.m. He got out of his car and walked up and kissed me on the cheek.

Really? That was sure a first for a sMatch.com date. Must have been because we were in the middle of a blinding snowstorm and he thought I was Angelina Jolie or something.   

Dinner was good. Conversation was better in person than on the phone. He was not exactly my usual “type”…..dark hair, dark eyes…but he was pleasant enough. I was very well behaved. No ribald jokes about sausages or anything.

But when we walked out of the restaurant it looked like the final scene in “The Shining”. The snow was horrific. I felt somewhat stricken. What do I do? I would feel bad if he drove over 80 mile round trip for a 45 minute date in a blizzard. He asked me about the art opening I had mentioned to him earlier. But I felt stressed….what if Zue was at the art opening. She had told me she was going to see her boyfriend in a nearby city….but….here we were in the middle of a massive blizzard. And I just knew she’d be there and I didn’t want to subject him to her or me to her or anyone to her without our rabies shots.

So here we are driving around in circles in a mall parking lot and I was like, “ummm, ummm. I….ummm….well….” Can we see why I don’t date much? I finally told him to turn right at the mall exit and we finally headed out towards the art gallery. It was a pretty treacherous ride and the route I took him was really dark and twisty. Fortunately he was a good driver. So we pulled into the place and we were running pretty late, as in the opening was actually officially over. 8:30 p.m. But there were still people there of course. And who is the first person I see? Zue.

Damn! 

I don’t know how I managed it, but I introduced “M” to about 7-8 of my art friends, looked at the art and somehow got him out of there without Zue ever seeing us. And it was a small place too. I was astounded. She had her back to the door and I just worked around her.

When we finally got back to my apartment, “M” ran around to get the car door for me. I figured he was just going to say goodnight or “Hey scarface, I didn’t feel any spark, so why don’t we just save a little computer time and end it here”, but instead, suddenly he had his arms around me and was kissing me and then his tongue was darting around in my mouth.

Who are you, The Bachelor?

 Of course I almost didn’t realize it since my chin and lip are still completely numb from my surgery and you could probably hit me with an anvil and I wouldn’t feel it, but mini-ick. Our date wasn’t going THAT well.  I guess he finally realized I wasn’t returning “T-T” (The Tongue) and walked back to his car. I did tell him to call me when he got home so I knew that he was safe in the storm, which he did.

Geeze, I’m such a nice date. Slurp. Slurp.

The next morning Zue called me to see if I was “okay”. Or something. (“Hey “M” its Zue, she wanted to see if I got laid!”) I told her I was fine.  What I wanted to tell her was to “Butt the hell out”, because her pre-date “warning” had put me on alert in such a way, that hadn’t really been fair to him or me.

He did write me a brief friendly note the Monday after our date. I was expecting the “I didn’t feel any spark” thing which I usually get on every single date, but it wasn’t there. Unfortunately I got spooked and never wrote back.

sigh.

gangsta scarface chin girl

February 9, 2009

Needless to say I’m a little sensitive about the 2 large, prominent scars on my face and neck from my skin cancer surgery on January 19th.  Fortunately the pain is about 97% gone. My chin itself is still really numb though. I can’t feel anything from my bottom lip to the bottom of my chin. Its weird. I feel like I’m wrapped in duct tape and  Andy Roddick could probably hit tennis balls off my chin and I wouldn’t even feel them.

I did get my stitches out early last week. Under all the bandages, I was like totally convinced Dr. Mohammed would probably be snipping stitches for like 10 to 15 minutes, you know since I could barely open my mouth and have now lost 10 pounds (yay!). But all he did was go “snip…snip…snip“. DONE. Three fucking stitches. I was astounded because I still couldn’t open my mouth and I still felt like a rhinoceros was sitting on my face…but not in a fun way.  Yes, I realize there must be those kind of stitches that dissolve on their own, but still, I had been looking forward to some kind of instant physical relief. 

The doctor then handed me a mirror. I really wasn’t sure what to expect…A huge horror movie gash down my chin and a Zodiac Killer slash across my neck? Yeah, that was about right. Plus there was also this really odd little pea sized bump just under my chin. So I innocently asked and it really was a legitimate question: “Will this little bump ever go away?”

His reply? Well, I should probably go back and re-introduce the guy. I have never mentioned our conversation right before my surgery. Oh, it was a knee-slapper. He had come into my little cubical with his clipboard, all official and stuff. You, of course, always want the doctor to be on your side, especially if they’re about to 1) take cancer out of your body and 2) be cutting your moneymaker  stunningly adorable 50 year old face. So I rather charmingly recounted a conversation I had had with a woman who had gone to him for some plastic surgery and had been very happy with his work.  Without looking up, he said, “I pay people to say things like that” and then went back to writing. 

WTF? Now I realize you’re reading someone’s blog who’s like the biggest smart ass in the universe. But for some reason, whether it was the IV feeding me hyper sensitive feelings glucose or what, but at that particular moment, I felt very…distressed by his tart remark.

God damnit! I KNOW I’M SARCASTIC EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE….but you don’t say that to a patient who’s scared out of their gourd and doesn’t have anyone there to hold their hand.

So anyways, as I was looking at my “Friday the 13th- the Aftermath” face in the hand mirror, I simply asked him if he thought the little lump under my chin would go down in time….a legitimate question if you ask me. I wasn’t being critical. It wasn’t like I started screaming  and running around smashing bottles of Botox in his office or anything. So he slowly turns to me and says, “People pay me to have chins like that.”

Oh.

Anyways, after my appointment, my friend “J” took me out for lunch at a local foo-foo yuppie pastry shop. I was fairly successful at slurping some French Onion soup sideways off a small spoon. But then  I started noticing was how everyone (a.k.a. “The Beautiful People” as my brother used to call the people who frequented this place) were all suddenly staring at me. I’m sure there was a lot of “Who is that hideously scarred girl slurping her soup sideways and why is  she making us look at her whilst we’re typing on our cute little pink iMacs and drink lattes”. Although I’m fairly certain that maybe a few of the older women were probably going, “Gee, I haven’t been to Dr. Mohammed for a while. Maybe I better call his secretary for an appointment”.

Nevertheless, I felt very conspicuous, especially when I was not even aware that droplets of soup were streaming down my numbed chin in rivulets and I looked like Patty Duke in “The Miracle Worker.  I later went with “J” over to Target and while he shopped for clothes, I inexplicably tried on teenaged boy fedoras. “J” said I looked like a Black Irish Gangsta. For some reason that made me feel a little better about my scars. Or at least menacing enough to make a yuppie drop their iPhone and have it smash into a million pieces in the home furnishing department.

Since then, I’ve had two people ask me if I slipped and fell on the ice. And I’ve had three people look at me rather sorrowfully and ask, “Will you be able to get plastic surgery to (cringe) fix that?”

Very….

Very….

Doubtful…..but thanks! 🙂

Of course after a two week hiatus from my art class, I was finally able to return to my class this week and I have no idea what Charlemagne announced to the class. Not that I wanted anything announced, but evidently something was said since some people I know looked at me like I had a terminal disease or something . Oy!

It was just good to have some social contact. I’ve been really isolated during this whole thing and isolation=depression for me. And also thinking I look hideous=depression too.  So I’ve been struggling mightily.

And did I mention I met a guy on sMatch.com? Why not add stress to your life when you’re healing from cancer. I didn’t mean for that to come out that way. This last month really proved that I could really use a person in my life. My own person, I mean. Sure I managed to convince three friends to  help get me to appointments and surgeries up at the hospital, but the real proof of how alone I felt became quite apparent as I was lying in the O.R. cubical just before the surgery. I looked around at the other three people in the quad waiting for surgery and they all had people with them. Me?  I was just lying there alone with no one. It was really then that it hit home.

So we’ve been writing since right after the surgery. He knows about the surgery and the scars and says he’s willing to wait. He seems very bright and thoughtful. He does have a sense of humor (essential) and he’s Jewish, which is not essential, but I do like Jewish men. I did think a good first date would have been  to go see that new movie “He’s Just Not That  into You” this weekend. HA! Oh, witty, you’re such a kidder!!  But we haven’t quite got things together to go out yet. So we’ll see. There’s always this coming Thursday when I hit my 51st birthday and then I’ll be even  older and MORE scary looking. Woo hoo!

Thanks again to Stepfie for caring about my love life. And also thanks to Xat for the lovely hand-knitted hat she sent over the weekend. I lost my beloved beret about 3 weeks again and have had a cold head ever since.