Sunday, October 30, 2022

Syllabus #173


I can see clearly now, my lens is gone.

Yes, that's right.  I, an adult human woman, 37 years of age, had cataract surgery on Friday.  

I've always been advanced.  A vanguard.  Ahead of my time.  A hipster, if I may (I may not, it's fine).  So when all y'all fellow elder millennials start getting cloudy-ass lenses, I can say I replaced mine before it was cool.  Just the one, though. 

And let me tell you, it is wild.  I still can't see great because I'm so nearsighted in my non-cataract-having eye that in order to not eff up my depth perception, they gave me a -3.00 lens, but the difference already is amazing.  Before, looking out of that eye, even with glasses, was like trying to see through a fogged windshield, and colors were all desaturated.  I may as well have smeared vaseline on a contact lens and jammed it in my eye.  Now, there's a point about 30" from my face where I can see pretty clearly, and anything closer or further away is shit.  But like, there's the potential for full sight once I get an updated eyeglass prescription.  So that's something.  

The surgery itself seemed to last less than 10 minutes.  I wasn't completely knocked out, but it was like that twilight sleep they used to give birthing mothers in the 50s, which is appropriate because I'm pretty sure Andy was nervously chomping on a cigar and pacing the waiting area the whole time.  He was far and away more freaked out by the whole process than I was, which was either sweet or mega-weird.  Pero, ¿por que no los dos?  

Those were some good drugs, though.  All I remember is that they taped my head to the table so I wouldn't move.  It was real high tech - they honestly wound a roll of masking tape over my forehead and under the bed a couple times like I was a frigging Home Depot box full of tchotchkes on moving day.  Then they tucked me in all cozy under a blanket and probably covered up my good eye, I assume, and then I was treated to this Pink Floyd-ass light show inside my eyeball for a few minutes.  

Oh, and I definitely remember that before they gave me the drugs, the surgeon came in to answer any questions I had pre-surgery, and I really wanted to ask him how edibles might impact recovery but I narced out and just asked, "What if I'd like to have a glass of wine?" as if I would ever have A glass of wine like a civilized adult.  And he said, sure, tomorrow you can have a glass of wine, that would be alright.  [Ok, fine, I'm trying to sound like a borderline alcoholic chill person but honestly it would be 2 or 3 glasses, not like 7, and even then there's a non-zero chance I'm projectile vomiting the next day and my eyeball just rockets straight out of my face, so I'm not drinking at all for probably like 2 weeks, are you happy now?].  

And then he asked if it would be alright to pray with me before the surgery and inside I was screaming get me out of here but I figured anything that would help this guy feel like he's going to do a better job cutting open my eyeball is fine with me.  So I said, sure, and did the awkward thing I do every time they say grace before a staff meal at work and I just stared vacantly at my lap, dissociating from my body.  But two days post-op, I'm feeling pretty good.  Jesus take the scalpel, y'all.

---

I didn't have a lot of time for the internet this week.  I did read this review of Cormac McCarthy's new novels, and even though the review kind of panned them both, I'm intrigued.   I haven't been so jazzed about sibling incest since Flowers in the Attic!  I have them both on hold at the library.  Will report back in approximately 42 weeks.  Guess I'm not the only person with a morbid curiosity.


Analog Reading:

Finished John Darnielle's Universal Harvester.  I am left with questions, but overall it had a mood.  How do we each deal with loss and loneliness and isolation?  Some of us roll up our sleeves and get on with it...others of us never let it go, and can reach some disturbing conclusions in our quests.

Halfway through Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates.  I saw the movie when it came out, but I don't remember that much about it.  Something about taking the PATCO to see it at the Ritz at the Bourse and sneaking pony bottles of Sutter Home into the movie theater.  But that just means the book is fresh and untainted.  Even though the book came out in 1961, the idea of confronting your life's purpose at middle age (NOT at a mere freaking 30 years old, like Frank Wheeler, THANKYOUVERYMUCH, but then Hi, it's me, your gal with the surgically extracted cataract so what do I know), shuffling paper piles around at a meaningless job, all that resonates.

Sunday, October 23, 2022

Syllabus #172

Might be time to buy a rake


This past week was book fair.  I know all y'all have fond memories from Scholastic Book Fairs of yore, but have you ever RUN a book fair?  If you haven't, then simmer down and reminisce on your own time.  I've got trauma and we are going to unpack it right now.  

Can I tell you how many coins I had to touch this week?  No amount of hand washing will erase the smell of pennies.  I'm going to have to remove a layer of skin with undiluted bleach, that's all there is to it.  And the sweaty money that's been clenched in a tight little fist for an untold amount of time?  Ick.

I had to count out $18 worth of quarters that came out of a sock.  I had to make children cry because, sorry, two dimes, a nickel, and six pennies, is, in fact, $.31, not, as they called it, Nine Monies, and thus, it is insufficient to buy anything.  Never mind the fact that I created a pitifully easy reading challenge that any child could have easily completed, that would have earned them a free book from the book fair.  I'm clearly the monster here.  Just ask the kid who threw a book and kicked a display case because I wouldn't let him use his reading challenge reward to buy a toy instead of a book.

Sidenote, it's amazing how many kids asked if I was making a lot of money from this, and they all were honestly shocked when I explained that it's a fundraiser for the school, and we get only a percentage of the profits, and I'm not actually lining my own pockets with the spoils.  Then again, these are probably the same kids who think I buy books for the library with my own personal money, bless their misguided little hearts.

---

Some solid but also very predictable advice for staving off winter illness.  Bonus tip:  Stay away from children.  Those little disease vectors will cough right into your actual mouth while you're talking to them if you aren't careful.  They're in bed with big pharma, I just know it.


Have you read Gone Girl?  I haven't, but this Gone Girl-themed cruise sounds completely unhinged and wonderful.  


This article has it all:  Vulgarity, feminism, and the fascinating use (and limitations) of text-mining to determine the origins of words and phrases, such as, in this case, Barefoot and Pregnant. 


Analog Reading:

The Day the World Came to Town by Jim Defede.  It's about all the US-bound trans-Atlantic flights that had to land in Gander, Newfoundland on 9/11, and how the weird, sleepy little Canadian town jumped into action and welcomed thousands of airline refugees until US airspace reopened.  That sounds like a real big downer, but I've been reading it almost like a bedtime story.  It's a little boring, but I read a chapter or so and then fall asleep thinking about how even in the face of the worst actions man can scheme up, there are plenty of other people who are kind and compassionate.  And then I have night terrors about the book fair, so it's really a wash, but we're trying.

Universal Harvester by John Darnielle (of Mountain Goats fame).  I read his latest book, Devil House, earlier this year, and loved it.  There's something experimental about his fiction, which I appreciate.  In this one, there's a sort of 3rd person omniscient narrator who is gradually revealing him- or herself to be someone perhaps orchestrating all of the events of the story, which centers around a small-town Iowa video store in 1999/2000.  The owner and one of the clerks get sucked into a mysterious and disturbing plot when they find a bunch of their movies have been spliced with grisly home movie footage.  It's odd and I like it.

Sunday, October 16, 2022

Syllabus #171



Everybody, everybidet.  


Hot Dads in Children's Books - hilarious.  I think the dad in Alexander books, and the dad in Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing should definitely not make the cut, because they embody the type of toxic masculinity that allows dads in popular culture and real life to be aloof, irritable financial providers who have no earthly idea what goes on in the home or even where their wife keeps the damn peanut butter.  Hard agree with the hotness of the dad in Jabari Jumps, though.  Last time I read that book to a class, a little boy was overly fixated on being able to see the guy's nips.  


States with the worst winters.   I think Tennessee should have ranked closer to the top.  The only thing good about winter here is that it is mercifully short.  It still gets below freezing, and it's that damp cold that sets up camp in your bones from December to February and makes you want to eat bread until you can't feel your feelings anymore.


Watching:

We watch so little TV, and yet, we chose to give Jeffrey Q. Bezos $3.99 plus tax to watch Happy Gilmore on Friday.  Because I have now played exactly 7 holes of golf in my life, the movie truly resonated with me.  Also, his driving and putting stances were absolutely bonkers.  10/10 recommend.  Also, the grandma storyline just really tugs at the old heartstrings.

Gotta say, though, the next night we were like, is Adam Sandler the comedic voice of a generation?  Should we watch Billy Madison?  The answer was yes, but it should have been no.  That shit does not hold up.  Except for the "If peeing your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis" part.  Always and forever.


Analog Reading:

Finished The Last White Man by Mohsin Hamid.  It was an intriguing premise, speculating what would happen to society if every white person started turning black overnight, and how individuals would react to a new self-perception.  It was such a short novel, though, and I feel like Hamid could have really done more with the concept.  As it was, it seemed like it only addressed the skin-deep aspects of race, but maybe that was his point, that the color of your skin doesn't have to mean anything about who you are inside?  

Sunday, October 9, 2022

Syllabus #170

Hello audience, I hope this missive finds all 1-3 of you well.  I played hooky last week, because I reserve the right to deviate from my self-imposed editorial schedule once in a while, and also, I was otherwise occupied.

Don't talk to me until I've read my funnies


Where does the entitlement come from?  Does it grow on a tree?  Can you mine it from the earth?  Do you pan for it like gold?  Do you pull it out of your own ass?  I want to know where the entitlement comes from to have, not just an opinion about, but an outspoken desire to threaten, something that has absolutely no-fucking-thing to do with oneself.  The people in an uproar about Vanderbilt's pediatric transgender clinic are neither medical experts, nor parents of trans children, nor trans themselves, and yet here we are.  Do they also have strong opinions about pediatric oncology?  Are we doing that wrong, too?  How about juvenile diabetes?  And why limit your opinions to children?  I'm sure you have something to say about my birth control prescription, despite not being me or my doctor?


I must play trombone champ.


Dank Brandon.  


The struggle is (still) real.  


This article about the life of Loretta Lynn was interesting.  As a contemporary of Dolly Parton, a lot of Loretta's songs were so much more controversial and outspoken, but in her real life she was so much more private, and, disappointingly, conservative.  Whereas Dolly lives out loud and is clearly, remarkably, progressive, even though, lyrically, her songs don't really hammer that point home.  


Analog Reading:

Not sure if I ever reported finishing A Gentleman in Moscow, but I finally liberated myself from that one.  The latter 25% was quite good, but the beginning felt like a slog.

Then I read French Exit by Patrick deWitt.  It was short but not sweet.  A delightful, mouth-puckering salty sour treat, with a dash of the absurd.

After that, I swooped into Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird.  It was insightful about the craft of writing and the life of a writer, but so witty and conversational I'd recommend it even to a non-writer.  

I have just begin Mohsin Hamid's The Last White Man, which reads a little like Kafka's Metamorphosis but is somehow utterly realistic.