Kitty, bunny, bear.
As my regular readers, friends, colleagues, and pretty much anyone who's ever met me knows by now, I have been taking a creative nonfiction writing class. This has been a lot of work, and I assure you that I'm behind. It made me admire folks who go to law school part-time: not only do they work all day but then they have several hours of homework/class after work each day. Frankly, I don't know how they do it. I do one hour of homework at night and I'm dead to the world and feel like I've accomplished something if I shower and brush my teeth.
Anyway.
One of the assignments is a longer piece, 10 pages or so, which gets critiqued by as many other writers as get the opportunity to do so, and by the instructor in some detail.
My longer piece was in a very early draft form. I decided not to tinker with it too much before the next draft and to wait for the feedback before launching into the inevitable major rewrite.
So far, having my work critiqued has not been particularly traumatic, so when this went up I asked folks to be honest and tell me what they thought worked, but also what they thought didn't work. The comments were very helpful, and honest, and I enjoyed the feedback as much as I had enjoyed playing around with a longer piece. How grown-up of me, I thought.
Until I read the instructor's notes. Taking me at my word, she really gave me detailed notes about what didn't work, and some suggestions of things I could do in my next draft. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't mean or rough or anything. She gave me very useful, specific feedback. But there was not much in the way of atta girl, at least not according to 12 year old Elena.
Because that's when the 12 year old took over. I was all, hey, wait, I've seen her comments on other people's stuff, she was much nicer to them than she was to me. (In all fairness, most of the other pieces had already undergone several rewrites.) I mean, I know I said be honest, but COME ON! What the heck! This means she hated it, couldn't stand it, it's garbage, I'm garbage, I can't write, who was I kidding with this? I might as well just give up right now this is so embarrassing, how could I have turned in such a bad piece of writing? Well, I'll tell you: I'm a lousy writer, that's how.
12 year old Elena has delusions of grandeur, or the typical teen fantasy of suddenly being discovered as the talent of our ages: to be recognized at last, at long last, as the shining beacon of something or other. Heck, if I can't be a beauty, I'll be a genius writer. Elizabeth Gilbert, shove over, this town ain't big enough for the two of us. But now, my childish fantasy has been dashed against the rocks of cold, hard reality. My dream is over, crushed like the delicate violet that it is, under the stomping feet of the people who don't get me, who don't understand me.
The grown-up piped up just long enough to ask, "What was this dream that has been crushed?"
12 year old Elena, whining: I just want to be good at something, anything, really good at one thing. Why can't I be really great at one thing? I wanna be the best in the world at one thing, just one, that's not asking too much, is it?
Grown-up Elena: Ok, but did you in fact have some specific goal, or dream as you say?
12 year old Elena: Yes, I was going to be the next NYT best-selling memoirist. And now I can't be because I suck. [stomps foot, crosses arms and pouts]
Grown-up Elena: Really? Because last time I checked, you were completely satisfied tinkering around on your blog, which maybe 30 people read, if that.
12 year old Elena: Yeah, but I wanted to take this writing class and be discovered as a natural talent and suddenly be catapulted into the stratosphere of writers. [ok, so a 12 year old might not use the words catapult and stratophere in the same sentence, but you get the drift]
Grown-up Elena: I hate to break it to you, but most writers who are any good have been writing diligently and honing their craft for years, probably decades. 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration, and all that.
12 year old and now grown-up Elena: Damn it.
I spent a few hours pouting and moping and saying things like "I might as well just give up now" to myself. "I'll just slink away quietly, and then if anyone asks, I'll say I got really busy at work and had trials and hearings and all kinds of city emergencies." In other words, if anyone calls me on it, I'll lie. In my defense, I have strong cowardly tendencies.
After a good night's sleep my delusions of grandeur took on their true form: delusions, period. Grown-up Elena had reasserted herself. She reminded me that the reason I took the class was not to win a Pulitzer but to be a marginally better writer, and that if I was a genius writer I would not be taking the class, I'd be teaching it. I got over myself and sent the instructor an email to ask if I can submit a new draft. I might have to switch to a grade, which would virtually guarantee me nothing higher than a C (trust me!), but I'd get more feedback. I call that a win-win.
This afternoon I was at an alumni event with Brown's Dean of Admissions, which was awesome and I will write about it later, but that's not the point of this post.
At the end, I was closing shop with the dean and another alumn whose last name sounded very familiar.
Me: So do I know your name because you're one of my interviewers or because you're the famous tv producer?
Him: Oh, that's my brother. I own the Milwakee Brewers.
Me: What sport is that?
Him: Baseball.
Me: I'm a fan of baseball. [Then, realizing how stupid that sounded, a baseball fan that doesn't know a Major League baseball team]. Well, I mean, I LIKE baseball, and have gone to some games even. I know some of the rules, sort of, I mean, I kinda get it you know. What I mean to say is that in the hierarchy of sports I watch baseball more than, say, basketball. I watch the Super Bowl, but really for the commercials. So in the hierarchy of professional sports, I like baseball the best. But obviously I'm not a brilliant fan because I didn't even know your team. I've been to a baseball game before, in fact, I try to go a few times during the season, I've even gone to minor league games.
No doubt he was impressed with my wit and sophistication. Thankfully I didn't ruin it by babbling inanities.
Today's friend duty was to drive to Beverly Hills and pick up a friend at a medical building who had a colonoscopy, and bring her home. Generally speaking, any exam that requires the insertion of any instrument into any intimate orifice is at best uncomfortable, at worst, humiliating. So, in solidarity with said friend, I give you...
The unedited, no holds barred, completely disgusting, ohmygod I can't believe you'd write about this in such detail you have clearly lost all sense of decency, retelling of my sigmoidoscopy procedure back at UCLA, during law school. That is to say, this is a TMI ALERT. If you think you might be uncomfortable about me talking in detail about my poopshoot, this is a good time to avert your eyes. Seriously. If you don't, and then you're all, oh that was waaay too much information, you know what my answer to that will be? Tough shit, asshole (scatological references intended), I warned you. And that goes double if your morbid curiosity has you read on and then you complain.
Here we go. (Last chance to leave, for real.)
While in law school, at one point I suffered from some buttular irritation. Such irritation manifested itself not in pain or discomfort, but as a tiny bit of blood that I would notice when wiping. After a few weeks, I figured I should probably get this little anomaly checked out. Off I went to my PCP (primary care physician), stuck my butt in the air (oh yes, it's even worse than a pap smear) and was told there was no visible sign of hemorrhoids. Now hemorrhoids, other than just tricky to spell, can be external or internal. This means that either you've got this bulbous fleshy, angry-looking thing sticking out of Uranus, or it is a shy thing that hides inside your butt, in the general rectal area. When the angry red monster is internal, it is best to double check to make sure it's not polips, which are often the precursor to colon cancer. What's a little humiliation compared to denial about colon cancer? Nothing.
So the doctor refers me to an assiologist, who books me for this procedure, the sigmoidoscopy. This is a mini-colonoscopy. They look up your butt, but not as far, so you get to be awake and watch the whole thing in technicolor on a monitor. Oh, goodie.
Before you get this procedure, you have to "evacuate the bowels." This is achieved through two (TWO!) enemas. I don't know if you've ever had an enema, but what I had to do was squirt warm water with some medicine up my patootie, then wait on the ground on my knees and elbows so as to keep my butt in the air and not be completely overcome by gravity, and wait for 20 minutes. And then have at it. Did I mention I had to do this twice? Well, I did. Twice. That means, 20 minutes on my knees and elbows and then the lovely (and explosive) end result, and then another 20 minutes on my elbows, and another end result. I assure you that those 20 minutes are quite painful as you resist the urge to get to the end result.
I did my thing, because I'm a good little patient, and I did it twice, because I may not have mentioned that I was instructed to do it twice, and then trotted off to UCLA Medical Center.
They put me in one of those sexy hospital gowns, which (you guessed it!) opened up in the back, and then on a little hospital bed with wheels and those side rails like you're a bowling ball and will fall off. Does anyone actually fall off those? They must. They left me there, behind my little privacy curtain. I'm not sure if they were aware of this, but I could still hear the moaning from the other beds, and it did not help. Thankfully, they came to get me soon enough and wheeled me to the procedure room. I don't understand why they don't just let you walk there, I mean, I wasn't anesthetized or drugged in any way, and really, if I was just gonna run away, do you think the little rails on the bed would stop me? I think not. But whatever.
The procedure room was maybe 15' by 12', tops. The bed and the tv monitor took up a good bit of the available space, which will become significant shortly.
The procedure itself is fairly quick. They stick a tube or two up your bee-hind, one of which has a light and a camera connected to a monitor (thankfully, no HD yet!), and the other a hose that blows air into your very low intestine. So here I am, lying on my side, and a young, attractive doctor reaches under the modesty (hah!) blanket and unceremoniously lubes me up in the back. It might surprise you to know that at this point I blushed. Oh yes, even I sometimes blush.
I mention UCLA because it is a teaching hospital. TEACHING. That means students. That means, about 7 people in the room with me while all this is going on, and I'm not even sedated for the love of Jesus Christ and all the saints. Since the room was not very large, all these people were pressed up around the bed and leaning into the railings, alternatively watching the doctor fiddle with my ass and watching said ass on the monitor, making the whole idea of a modesty sheet all the more ridiculous.
Next, up go the tubes and WHOOOSH in goes the air. For anyone who's ever had the experience of really needing to fart in the worst way but not being able to because of, say, being in a room with a judge or a guy/gal you're trying to impress -- imagine that uncomfortable, painful, how quickly can I get outside so I can fart loudly as a bus is driving by sensation, and multiply it by about 10. That's how it feels.
But then the doctor says, "Hold it in as much as you can. If you hold it, we don't have to do the WHOOOSH thing again." So here I am, holding it in cos I'll die before letting them blow air up my ass again. At least literally, I'm sure I get that metaphorically all the time, but it doesn't hurt so I don't care as much. The nurse, super helpful, says to me, "Oh let me wheel the monitor around so you can see!" And I'm all, "No, really, it's ok," but she wheels it around and oh dear god it's like when you drive by a car accident and the people are on fire and running down the street screaming: I could not look away and was too freaked out to call 9-1-1.
About 15 seconds in the doctor says to me (and the whole room) that I did not do the enema correctly and there is stool still in the colon so he's not sure if he'll be able to see enough. I'm (1) thinking that well, it's the poopshoot, there is poop, this should hardly come as a surprise to you, DOCTOR, and (2) trying to figure out the implications for me as a human being of failing Enema. I mean, there is no shame in failing Organic Chemistry, or Quantum Mechanics, but Enema? I'm making it through law school and I fail Enema? I can just imagine the conversation after: "Well, youngsters, you will encounter bad and disgusting patients in your career, who don't evacuate their bowels adequately and then you will have to look at their poop." And they all go, "Eeeewwww!" just like high school girls, and then talk about how they should just send patients home who don't shit properly. Needless to say, I am uncertain how to respond to this rebuke, and just sit there trying to look nonchalant while I'm red with shame. I mean, really, what does one say?
Fortunately the failed enema is only a minor hitch in the giddyup, and the doctor forges on. The colon looks fine, it was just a minor hemorrhoid, nothing to worry about. Except, of course, that I want the earth to open and swallow me whole. I swore I would never ever tell anyone of my total humiliation. Eh-hem. But then, I didn't have a blog, so...
Within a few minutes the procedure is over, the tubes are removed, and the doctor says, "Ok, you can let it out now." I say "Let what out now?" As if I didn't know, but hey, I failed Enema, remember? He might actually believe that I'm stupid enough not to know what he's talking about. "You can let the air out now." And I say, "You mean the air you blew up my butt?" "Yes, that air." "Ok, can you please leave the room?" He blinks and stares at me uncomprehendingly, then it dawns on him I might not want to fart loudly in front of him and all his proteges. In his best bedside manner, which is not that good by the way, this is the man whose first words to me were that I had not done the enema properly, he waves his hand in the air and says "Oh don't worry, we do these all the time, it's no problem." And I'm all, "Yeah, but this is my first one, if you don't mind."
Turns out he does mind, he simply ignores me and continues to discuss the procedure with his students, while I finally surrender to THE FART, which comes out long, and loud, and raucous, and animal, but then winds down with a high-pitched and warbly squeak like when you let the air slowly out of a balloon. Aww-kwaard! I think THE FART was a bit more than they actually expected because the conversation ceases until the squeak fades to silence and then the doctors continue talking as if nothing happened. Meanwhile, I am the uninterestingly hemorrhoidal patient who failed Enema and whose FART derailed their train of thought.
It's a damn good thing I have a sense of humor.
One of my recently reacquired high school friends, Marichu, uploaded some photos from high school. I myself really need to do a massive scanning project with the thousands of pictures I have, but it is rather daunting, I admit. Meanwhile, here are the pictures from Marichu.
These pictures were likely taken junior or senior year in high school, probably senior year. At the time, I lived in Tokyo, Japan, and attended the International School of the Sacred Heart.
In this picture you can hardly tell who I am, but I'm on the far left, looking to the right, with abnormally long bangs covering part of my face. At some point in high school I decided that I should grow my hair is what was essentially a reverse mullet: short hair, long bangs. Believe me, it was not a fashionable look even then. Marichu is 3 girls to the right, has what appears to be a headband (yup, mid-80s!) and she seems to be yelling something into a makeshift megaphone. I have no idea what we're doing or where we are, it looks like a school, but I don't think it was our school. It looks like we're rooting for something.
Here, I'm bottom right, crouched and trying to squeeze my butt into the picture. My butt was considerably larger back then, and I'm thankful that I don't fit into the clothes I wore when I was 18, because I was the size of my age. Marichu is in the back row, second from the right, and my best friend Niky is the really tall girl in the back.
Here we're on some trip, probably our senior class trip. Niky and I are in the second to last row. I'm the third girl from the right, sunglasses and hands behind my back, and Niky is on my right (left as you look at the picture), sunglasses and uneven hair. I think Marichu is two girls to the left of Niky, also wearing sunglasses.
It's hard to imagine ourselves as so young, so little. I think what's weirdest is that none of us now really feel very different from the girls we were then. I keep waiting to feel older, different, and it doesn't really happen. I notice that I need more sleep, and that I take longer to heal, and that I need to be more mindful of how I treat my body, but I still have that sense of possibility and open space and of my whole life yet to unfold in front of me. On the one hand, I think that is good, to still have that youthful anything is possible outlook, on the other hand, time goes by really fast while I sit around day-dreaming.
Anyway, it's fun to see these pictures. I can remember names, I can remember faces, but not all together. With the photos, they are coming together.
The other cool thing about this is that having lived all over the world, I have left many people behind. Finding them again, one by one, is giving me an unexpected experience of completion, of a circle being drawn to a close.
Friendship.
These were on the wall of a restaurant we went to a few days ago. Ironically, it was a sushi restaurant. I particularly like the googly eyes.
This morning's Starbucks tea stop proved to be rather more fruitful than usual. First, I parked next to this, which should be in the dictionary next to the definition of the expression "jury rigged."
And yes, those are golf tees, and yes, those are duct tape glue marks on the side of the window. I guess even duct tape (which is used to keep space crafts together in a pinch!) could not hold up this window. I usually park a little father from Starbucks than most so that I can get a tiny walk in, and I guess the karma of health rewarded me this morning with this morsel of deliciousness.
I also found a music collection by Sting called "If On A Winter's Night," a collection of carols, lullabies and songs. It's a Deutche Grammophon record, too, so you know the quality is great.
One of the things our office does is apply to courts for the appointment of a receiver when properties are in dire conditions, the type of conditions that endanger not just the occupants, but the neighborhood too.
A recent report of such a property pretty much begins with the following: "Our concern was that there was a ... complaint that there was a possible dead body in the freezer located in the basement of the location. There were two women at the location who seemed to be mentally stable. However, one of them seemed to be unkempt. She was wearing a pair of light blue socks that appeared to be imbedded [sic] into her skin, based on the length of time wearing them."
It goes downhill from there. And just as we think it couldn't possibly get any worse, it does. When the cleanup crews show up, they will be wearing hazmat suits. And it will be because of the massive amounts of shit that has accumulated at the property. And when I say shit, I'm being literal.
[Edited to add:] Once a receiver is appointed, he tries to get help for these people through family, social services, elder services, anything he can find.
Wherein I freak out because no one was responding to my Facebook updates FOR TWO DAYS!.
Last Thursday or Friday, I downloaded a photo upload Facebook app for iPhoto. If you don't really get what that means, don't worry. What's important is that I downloaded a Facebook application. I did not realize this at the time, but said application screwed something up for my Facebook account, so that no one other than me could see my updates. As far as all my friends were concerned, I'd gone stealth.
The first hint that something had gone awry was when I posted updates that I was on my way to the airport to pick up my mom, and NO ONE RESPONDED, not even a like. My first reaction was, you bastards! Not even a like? Fine. Then you don't get to come have dinner and eat my mom's delicious food. Hurrumph!
I posted a link, a couple more updates on Saturday, and again, nothing. Ummh. Ok, maybe I'm just suddenly really uninteresting and my updates are ending up at the bottom of the new news feed, which decides for you what is interesting and important. So I made myself wrong about being boring for a little while.
In desperation, I posted the following: "I sprouted wings and flew to Canada, where I learned to make goulash." That, I thought, will elicit at least ONE question, even if only something like WTF??
Again, nothing. I began to feel isolated, and ignored. I tallied all the people who I hadn't heard from in a while, trying to remember who hadn't called me back. Could this be a conspiracy? Something fishy is definitely afoot here. Then I tried to remember if I'd written something deeply offensive on my wall and this was retaliation, or the online equivalent of social ostracism, a virtual scarlet letter, if you will.
The anxiety began to creep in. What if all my friends have hidden my updates? I have hidden about half of mine, but I think that's normal, right? You keep the updates of your closer peeps, and occasionally check in with your acquaintances? But what if that is a major FB faux pas, and the word got around and now interwebby vigilante justice is unfolding?
This morning I woke up in a crappy mood and almost didn't go to yoga because I HAD TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS. Can you imagine? I'm literally going over the edge in less than 2 days.
I emailed everyone I could think of who might have had dealings with FB tech support (and figured out how to contact them, though they assured me they are not likely to respond), got tips and links from all kinds of friends and friends of friends, and finally, after breakfast and tea and while on my way to yoga I remembered that application.
And before you can say Bob's your uncle, I had removed the application and was again visible. I could have run nekked through the streets, I was so excited.
In case you hadn't figured it out from the painfully detailed account above, the whole experience left me rattled. I have only been on FB for a little over a year, but as I am a compulsive communicator, it has turned into a vital tool for me. (Drat!) I read up on what people are doing, put in my two cents, hear from them about what I'm doing, post my blog posts, look at people's pictures, make inane comments about things I find interesting, and so on. More importantly, I have reconnected with long lost friends from childhood. What a community!
In my fog of panic, I thought about the adjustment I'd have to make if for some reason my profile was hopelessly corrupt and I had to close down the account. It's like my cell phone: I'm not on it all the time, but I want to be the one to choose whether or not I'm available, and I want to be reachable in case of an emergency, whether that be a boyfriend misbehaving of someone in the hospital.
And isn't it funny how each level of technology enhances our ability to be connected with our peeps, and how addictive that is? Anyway, all's well that ends well, and you can all look forward to my insane ramblings, just as you did prior to Thursday.