Balls and Walnuts
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Doing my bit
It’s a google bomb extravaganza. This explains it (kinda sorta).
Review of Helix SF, Issue #2
Here’s my review. If you’re feeling particularly lazy, my favorites were the stories by Jay Lake, Vera Nazarian, and Jennifer Pelland. Enjoy.
D.
The Five Truths Meme
This meme comes from Pat, to whom I say: five truths? Only five? Hey, this is like a Thirteen, only 62% easier. Or something like that.
Before I give ya five, don’t forget: the Blogwhorgy is still going hot and heavy, and the sperm-swallowing contest is open, too. Just scroll down the page.
List five truths. Five things that are on your mind. Good, bad, it matters not. Lift some weight off.
1. In one form or another, love is the most important thing in my life.
2. To all those geezes who complain to me, “The Golden Years? Meh. They’re not so golden,” I say this: being alive to bitch about it sure beats the alternative.
(I think I’ve blogged this conversation before, but it’s worth repeating.
Me: So, how are you doing today?
My 80-something-year-old patient: I woke up on this side of the dirt, so I’d say I’m doing pretty damned good.)3. There’s only one form of afterlife that’s guaranteed: the bits of ourselves we leave behind in others. And no, I’m not talking about STDs or unwanted pregnancies.
4. You know that injunction, primum non nocere? I realize that no matter how hard I try, I’m going to hurt a few people in my life — strangers, patients, loved ones. I might know this but I still try my damnedest to avoid it.
I’ve built it up into a neurosis, I think.
5. Here’s what blogging means to me: some of my best friends are people whom I’ve never met in person.
Damn, that was tougher than it looked. If I had to do thirteen, I’d plotz.
Then pick five people to do the same.
Aw. You would have to make me tag people.
How about Michelle, Dean (or SxKitten, I’ll let you two fight about it), Corn Dog, noxcat, and Kate.
D.
Blogwhorgy. Right here, right now.
Karen thinks I should try not be so heavy for a change. This is a humor blog, after all. Kind of. Sort of. Mostly.
“So, I shouldn’t edit that long piece I wrote last week on my patient who died when I was a resident?”
“No.”
And I suppose those ruminations over the Jewish concept of an afterlife should stay ruminations. And Karen’s thoughts about getting through chemotherapy, well, maybe turning that into a Thursday Thirteen wouldn’t be such a hot idea.
Stop. Just stop. Or as we say in (now, what country is this?), DUR.
(Thought I’d sneak some Random Flickr Blogging in on y’all. This comes from eclipse watch.)
Instead, how about this idea: in the comments, please hype a post of yours you have written recently (I’ll let you define ‘recently’), one you’re proud of, one you would like to see read far and wide. Blogwhore away, my friends! I’ll also put up links below this paragraph, just like I do for the Thirteen. And, of course, I’ll be sure to read your posts and comment, too, if I can manage to say anything that isn’t, well, DUR.
Have at it! Hope you brought your own condoms.
I’m going to kick things off with a shout for Shelbi’s surefire orgasm machine. It doesn’t get much more blogwhorgicological than that.
The ever-fascinating Suisan gives us Tiger Lily! Poignancy! And demanding moms!
Pat gives us five truths (and one great viddy link).
If you haven’t seen Renee’s stuff yet, go see, and make her shiver with XXXXXO while you’re at it. And her friend Carla? Just gimme some hot chocolate and maraschino cherries. I’ll bring my own whipcream.
(Um, was that too gross?)
Dean’s post about the pleasures of older women. I’ve hyped it before, and I’ll hype it again.
Here’s Generik on Staying the Course.
D.
Okay, who got sperm on the ferret cage?
I couldn’t help it. Sometimes, it . . . you know. It gets away from me.
Overheard at Chez Walnut
The TV sound is muted. Zombies stream across the screen, arms extended, running after a car.
Doug: What’s that?
Karen: Some new remake of Dawn of the Dead.
Doug: Have we seen it?
Karen: No. But I find it deeply offensive. Offensive to the core of my being.
Doug: Really? How come?
Karen: Those zombies. They were running.
That’s my wife. A zombie purist.
I think I’ll keep her.
D.
Rat tale, part deux
When last we spoke, the rat had taken refuge beneath our baby blue bidet.
A word of explanation: why do we even have a bidet? It’s not really our bidet; for the love of God, no. Sure, we own it, inasmuch as we own our house (or the bank does), but — like the baby blue tile, baby blue carpeting, baby blue jacuzzi (which we use only to bathe our ferret), and gaudy gold bathroom fixtures — we would really rather not claim ownership of these things. No, they belong to the previous owner of our house, The Imelda Marcos of Brookings.
She married into the local royalty (a family wealthy from dairy ranches and lumber), breaking up a marriage in the process, and thus earning considerable animosity from the masses. All of the more heinous style choices in our house were hers, like the Brady Bunch kitchen, the magenta shag carpet in her shoe room, and the baby blue tilework around the fireplace. And have I mentioned her paranoia? The master bedroom has an escape hatch. The stairs in back have a built-in drawbridge.
No, no, no. The bidet is hers.
Back to the rat hiding under the bidet . . .
Looks like jelly, but it’s snot!
Snot, glorious snot.
But before I give you snot, go over to Michelle’s blog and sign up for her giveaway of Ellen Klages’ debut novel, The Green Glass Sea.
Ah, yes. What were we talking about? Snot.
Hang on. Snot’s good enough to wait for.
A while ago, Karen pointed to the bed and cried out, “Take me! Now!” Actually, she cried out, “There’s a degu and it just raced under the bed!”
Jake saw nothing. I saw nothing. I went downstairs to check the degu cage and Jake called after me, “We have four.”
Yeah, thanks. So I counted four degus.
“We must have five degus,” I told Karen. “Or else you saw a rat.”
Now our cat is prowling around the bedroom, searching for the rodent Karen hallucinated not one hour ago.
Snot below the fold.
Don’t worry, be happy
Last night, Karen and I spent a good bit of time reading Corn Dog’s blog. She writes intelligently and poignantly about illness and healthcare, and her non-medical posts are entertaining, too. Consider this a big shout. Corn Dog deserves a bigger audience.
Patients with serious illnesses have to deal with a lot of emotional garbage. ‘Garbage’ excludes the important work: coming to terms with what your illness means to yourself, to your friends, to your family. ‘Garbage’ is garbage, a huge and largely unnecessary manure pile of guilt.
Anyone who has been ill — life-threatening ill, I’m not talking about broken bones here — knows what I’m about to say, or will recognize it soon enough. You see, the patient’s family and friends expect her to cheer them up. They want the patient to say to them, I’m okay. Really! I’m going to be okay, too. Nothing wrong here, oh no.
They want to hear these things because they’re scared and threatened by the patient’s illness. This fear breeds many odd behaviors, none of which help the patient. I’ll mention briefly the blame the patient shtick: “You have cancer? Oh, my. I’m so sorry. Did you smoke?” The healthy person searches desperately for reasons why it cannot happen to him. Doctors, friends, family members — everyone wants to blame the patient for her illness, for her “failure to respond” to treatment, for her “bad attitude.” The unstated assertion: If it’s your fault, I feel much better.