my jaundiced eye

the absurdities of life

Month: July, 2015

X$&? #@

X$?!@$&%

The last post was dedicated to MJE’s current state of hairlessness, which at press time seemed to be a fairly significant side-effect of the chemo treatments. But this week I have careened into the fine print in the drug pamphlet. Those side effects that are on about page 40 and are described as “possible, but very unlikely.” Mind you my surgeon said the chance of infection in an IV port is “less than 3%” and guess what readers. I have always aspired to be in the top percentile but I was mostly thinking about SAT scores or net worth.

Continuing with my tale of woe, I started to notice red spots on my arms last week. Like army ants, they slowly but surely advanced and now cover the entire front half of by body. I can’t be sure whether they got as far as my face because I have also developed rosacea. It frankly doesn’t seem fair to give the appearance of a red-faced drunk without the accompanying joy of having habitually consumed too much alcohol. Well, I’ve done that too but I really don’t think that’s relevant here.

Hold on, I am not done yet. I also now have plantar fasciitis or whatever that’s called when the heel and instep of your foot hurt like hell. The FDA did a study on the incidence of this condition as a result of chemotherapy and only 26 of the 4525 patients in the study got it, that’s only .574%. Once again MJE lands a spot in the top percentile!

The good news is I haven’t lost my toenails or fingernails and my eyes haven’t turned yellow. Yet.

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the human thumb

the human thumb

 MJE continues to be plagued with various unwanted consequences of a few too many cocktails, and no I don’t mean waking up and finding the dog wearing her underpants or discovering the bird feeder on the kitchen counter filled with mixed nuts and surrounded by bloated house mice. Those are the result of an overindulgence in delectable ethyl alcohol-based cocktails. No, I refer here to the vexing aftereffects of cocktails based on a mixture of far less congenial drugs, the sort that are literally designed to kill you. In MJE’s experience, consumption of even way too much of the enjoyable variety won’t off you, at least not right away, although you may wish you were dead.

Chemo cocktails are designed to attack fast growing cells like hair follicles and fingernails. And cancer. So like a fish, MJE started to rot from the top and the first thing to go was the hair on my head. Eyebrows and lashes, kaput. And then suddenly, just at the point where I could really use it, the molting stopped. My moustache and hag hairs seemed to be totally resistant, ditto leg and armpit hair. Now, I’m not sure if chemotherapy also induces paranoia but I strongly suspect a male correlation to this phenomenon. Any woman drug researcher worth her sodium chloride would conjure up an emulsion that would work from the bottom up and generate leg, armpit, upper lip, bikini line and hag hair loss from the very first drop. She’d put off the buzz killers until the very last.

MJE looks like a 5’3” thumb.

interiors for idiots

Interiors for Idiots

You can imagine MJE’s surprise upon opening this week’s Sunday NYT Magazine and finding  the house where MJE and the OB&C got married! Back in the day, it belonged to my stepfather Monsieur Zero whom my mother had married in the vain hope that he would provide her with a carefree existence of travel and easy living. Sadly she neglected to conduct an adequately thorough due diligence prior to the I Do’s or she would have discovered that M. Z still had his third grade lunch money and his idea of travel was a drive downriver in his Dodge Valiant for a weekend of fishing at his moth eaten camp on Bay Roquette.

The house had not been renovated since the beginning of time when we moved in. The spirit of the old south lived on in the kitchen which was the only room in the house without benefit of air conditioning. It was a glorious architectural treasure of 14’ cypress doors and windows,  elegantly proportioned rooms, interesting nooks and crannies and an attic that Anne Frank would die for. When me ole muddah used to get a snootful, which was pretty much all the time, she would flounder through the house slamming those big ass doors one after another making the huge windows rattle like a CAT 5 was blowing in.

But now some aging groovsters from New York have taken possession of the manse and tricked it out as some sort of post modern magnum opus. The beautiful rooms have been chopped up, the small drawing room where we used to enjoy countless cocktails has been converted to a bathroom and the industrial kitchen would be right at home in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. The swimming pool now resembles a dark swamp and the dining room is furnished with nothing more than a red ping pong table. The family members enjoy a “gentle chaos” which somehow translates into the children wearing nothing but their underpants throughout. The family portrait is a picture of solipsistic chic although the madam coyly declines to show her face. Perhaps she’s in a witness protection program. Maybe that’s why they decamped NY.

It surely makes my head ache to think how hard those people worked to establish their obvious innate hipster bonafides.

http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/07/15/paul-sara-ruffin-costello-home-new-orleans/

solar pope

solar pope

MJE doesn’t like to beat a dead horse vis a vis religion, but a friend sent me a solar powered pope today in honor of his holiest’s visit to South America and just couldn’t resist. First, a wise geographic move il papa, since there are only two continents worth your time, the one you’re on and Africa. They’re the last places on earth that still get ginned up by roman catholicism. Good thing they’ve got short memories about colonization and entire indigenous populations wiped out by the missionaries’ bible borne diseases. And they probably also aren’t totally up to speed on all the whole priest abuse thing, which of course wasn’t your fault, but just saying. MJE would place molto blamo at the red prada shod feet of your predecessor Benny, who turned a blind eye and definitely looked like a nazi. Even I, who doesn’t believe in the supernatural (ghosts maybe, but holy ghosts, no) and therefore doesn’t have a dog in this hunt was still glad to see the back side of that mitre. But it was sort of chicken shit of him to creep off to retirement (on the pesos of those peasants you’ve been proselytizing to in the Andes) when the going got tough. I thought popes were in it for life, but leave it to a german to make up his own rules.

But back to my personal pope. He looks like Frank and does the pope wave (which coincidentally is a lot like QE II’s royal hand swivel, both of which seem to require the bare minimum exertion) but only when he’s in bright sunlight. When he’s in the dark I don’t know what he does, but he doesn’t wave. But even if he did, it’s a whole lot better than what a heap of other Vatican-validated guys did where the sun don’t shine.

Frank does seem like a solid guy, working hard trying to drag the first estate over to thinking with the left sides of their brains in order to get to the right side of some important issues. It takes a lot of guts to tell your flock that they, god’s signature creation, the one he made in his own image, is primarily responsible for dangerously fouling its planetary nest and putting all of god’s handiwork at risk.

God, we all understand that it’s a total bitch to have to go back and fix what many believe was your best work, and which was totally finished 6000 years ago, but you might want to take a quick look, if you have a sec.

god talk

god talk

MJE was listening to the radio this morning and happened upon a panel discussion among evangelical churchers regarding the recent supreme court decision legalizing same sex marriage. Frankly I don’t get the whole flap. Most married heterosexual couples I know want to kill each other on a pretty regular basis, and if same sex sex is what’s making everyone crazy I can tell you that the visual of any of my heterosexual marrieds doing the nasty would scar me for life.

So if you can round up two people who actually care enough about each other to be shackled for life well then have at it. I may have missed something when I ducked out of confirmation class, but I thought the whole point of Jesus and his merry band of brothers was love, love, love. Whoa nelly, not so fast according to Franklin Graham whose head I could see explode through the radio when he talked about the decision. According to Franklin, who’s only on the radio because his dear old dad has really long coattails and continues to amaze people not with his sermons but with the fact that he’s still above ground, the supremes just “legalized sin.” Head’s up Frank, sin’s been legal pretty much since the beginning of time.

Anywho, one of these blathering churchers used the term ”god talk.” As in “during god talk”… What does that even mean? Whilst having a theological discussion? If so then say that. A “teachable moment” was hot on its heels, which about threw me into a diabetic coma. I was just waiting for someone to “reach out” to put the last nail in my coffin. Now I have no idea how that mealy mouthed expression wormed its way into the vernacular but it needs to worm its way right back out. I guess I can understand a bunch of navel gazers using a verbal marshmallow like that amongst themselves, but I’ve seen it used in professional correspondence for god’s sake. I can tell you what, years ago my boss was not what I’d call reaching out to me when he screamed “you’re fired” from across the office.

But that was a teachable moment.