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10.31.05
Julian said, "I'm . . . choking."
"Drink some water," I said.
But he didn't drink any water. He just kept on coughing, and was obviously no longer listening to my story. "I told you to drink some water!" I said.
Julian then turned away from the table, but kept coughing. Until finally, he vomited into his hand.
"That was gross," I said. "Are you okay?"
"I told you I was choking."
"I thought you were just coughing."
"No I was choking. But you were too busy trying to finish your story to listen."
I am a very very very bad friend.
A while back, I was cyber-approached by the fine fellows at jest.com (they had rejected me before) to write a short saucy humor piece. I came up with a real zinger about Halloween costumes for women. I felt it was both topical and humorous. In fact, it was so good, that the person I sent it to never bothered to email me back. Even after I sent that sad-puppy-dog "did you ever get that email I sent you" message. Because after midnight tonight, this piece will no longer be topical, and because sometimes the worse things look in ones life, the more severely one needs to laugh (at ones own jokes), here it is:
It's Halloween. You’re Female. What Are You Going to Wear?
Let’s begin with the standard approach: Choose any costume idea, than simply add the word "sexy." This will yield such classics as the "sexy cat," the "sexy nurse," and the "sexy lady-vampire."
In addition, you can substitute in the word "French" — and emerge as a "French maid," or a "French ambassador’s oversexed wife." But be careful: "French whore" suggests V.D. and "French fry" equals formless yellow sheath. No matter how much punch you drink, neither of these costumes will get you laid.
No time to shop? Then look to your closet. Combine a short skirt, cleavage-displaying blouse, and pigtails for the "sexy Catholic school girl." Throw on a nighty and slippers: now you’re a "sexy sleep-walker." Sandals and a sheet make for a "sexy Roman toga." You haven’t spent a dime, but will still have plenty of opportunities to give up the goods.
Best of all, Halloween can be the night when you transform your handicap into your best costume feature. Prosthetic leg? Try "sexy pirate." Crippling rheumatoid arthritis? No! Tonight you are a "sexy old crone." And the alcoholic’s bloated belly easily becomes a "sexy pregnant stomach". Your disfiguring feature can shine, shine, shine.
The most important thing to remember is to be safe and have fun. And nothing says "safe fun" like a bottle of Jack and a pair of exposed nips.
10.29.05
Brian's mother's health has declined significantly. My stomach has been in knots for almost two months now. And then my grandmother kept talking about how my uncle had achieved the next stage in his work towards release from the insane asylum: escorted visits to the clinic on 125th Street. But, allofasudden, there is talk of him making escorted visits home every other weekend.
If you refer to this nifty little chart I had made up some time ago, you will see that presently as he moves into the first stage in the "yellow zone," he would also simultaneously jump into the first stage of the "red--GET THE HELL OUT OF THE APARTMENT BECAUSE THE CRAZY MAN WHO OWNS IT IS COMING BACK TO VISIT!!!--zone." I don't understand how or when god let this happen, but it looks like it is upon us. My uncle has a court date on November 19th, but my grandmother thinks it is just a formality. With December, we should except to see a substantial increase in PARANOID SCHIZOPHRENIC MAN POKING AROUND OUR HOME LOOKING FOR HIS COLLECTION OF BLACK TAIL MAGAZINES.
About halfway through the meal and I was experiencing an increase in abdominal pain. My grandmother asked what the problem was. I leaned over the table and said, "I have IBS and the stress is getting to me."
"WHAT!?!" she said. "WHAT'S ICS?"
"IBS," I said.
"OH!" she said. "IRRITABLE BOWWWELLL SYNDROME! YOU GOT A LOT OF GAS ROLLING AROUND IN YOUR STOMACH!?!"
"Not so much," I said. "Mostly, I just feel nauseated."
"WHAT?"
"I feel sick to my stomach."
"WHAAATTT??!!!"
"I FEEL LIKE I'M GOING TO PUKE, NONNA!
"OH. WELL, THAT'S TOO BAD. WHENEVER I FEEL MY STOMACH IS UNEASY, I ALWAYS SUCK ON A PEPPERMINT CANDY AND THAT SEEMS TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER. DO YOU WANT A PEPPERMINT CANDY?!?"
I told no thanks, maybe later. My grandmother suddenly became distracted, because she noticed the people at the tables next to us were receiving a plate of seasoned cannellini beans with their bread. My grandmother noted that we had received our bread three quarters of an hour earlier (we were now working on our entrees), but we had not been offered any beans. She promised to inquire into this when she next saw the waiter.
She finally caught his attention and asked to have our leftovers packed up in two separate doggy bags. Then she grabbed him by the sleeve and said, "WHY HAVE YOU DISCRIMINATED AGAINST MY GRANDDAUGHTER AND ME?"
He looked confused, so she repeated the question, than pointed to the small plate on our neighbor's table. "YOU NEVER GAVE US OUR BEANS. I SEE THAT EVERYONE ELSE AROUND HERE RECEIVED A PLATE OF BEANS WITH THEIR BREAD. BUT WE NEVER GOT OURS."
The waiter apologized for the oversight. My grandmother said, "WELL, WHAT ABOUT OUR BEANS?"
He said, "But they usually come with the bread. They come before the appetizer. But you've already finished your main course." My grandmother just sat there making a sour face until he said, "I will pack up some beans for you to take with you in your doggy bags."
The waiter turned and was helping one of our neighbors when my grandmother leaned over to me and in her best stage whisper said, "IF THAT WAITER WANTS ANY TIP, HE'LL MAKE SURE TO GIVE US OUR BEANS. HEH-HEH!"
By now I was doubled-over. I felt like a ferret trapped in a tiny cage. A ferret with insane abdominal cramping. My grandmother could see I was turning green, so she said, "DO YOU HAVE TO GO TO THE TOILET? BECAUSE IF YOU DO, I DON'T MIND WAITING."
"I think I just need some fresh air."
My grandmother promised that the meal would be over any moment, but I guess the beans took longer to pack up than she had imagined. Then we had dessert, and my grandmother stood over a neighbors' table and read their dessert menu. She ordered profiterroles, and proceeded to drop her spoon on the floor several times. Each time, she would pick it back up, clink it around in her ever-foggier water glass, then begin eating with it once more. When the waiter tried to take her plate away, she waved her finger at him. When he suggested that there was nothing left on the plate but a thin layer of ice cream, she announced, "AND I'M GOING TO LICK IT UP WITH MY TONGUE! HEH-HEH!" Then she spilled some of the chocolate ice cream on her blouse, and spent five minutes blotting the stain with her napkin and the foggy ice cream water.
When I thought we were finally ready to go, she tricked me again and spent another three minutes zipping and unzipping the various pockets of her purse, which any sane person might mistake for a sizable piece of carry-on luggage.
As we were walking out of the restaurant, my grandmother devised a million differently little plans on how we could walk several blocks out of our way in order to catch a series of infrequently running buses home. I started to get very angry. I insisted that I just needed to get out of the restaurant, and that I felt much better now.
"HERE!" she said. "THIS WILL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER." She shoved an shriveled old peppermint candy that she had dug up from the bottom of her cavernous old woman purse. I took it, but said I would it eat it later."
"EAT IT NOW GODDAMNIT! IT'LL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER."
So I did. But it didn't.
10.26.05
Hi, Deb-- Here is when I can leave campus: MWF 2, TTh 3. See you Saturday.
Love.....
Sounds like he works at a university, no? And then I got this one . . .
HI-- I assume you're back from Seattle. Your birthday's coming up--any suggestions for me about what you'd like?
By the way, Deborah would like to have you & Hap over for dinner--when is the next time he'll be down this way?
Love....
This is where Detective Debbie (aka "The Diminutive Pinky") springs into action. Dr. Schwartz appears to be a professor of linguistics in the German, Slavic, and Semitic Studies Department at UC Santa Barbara. I was even able to find a picture of him. This doesn't solve any larger mystery, but at least I know my google skills are still up to par.
Oh, and here is another excerpt from Little Brian Geller's 1984 journal. This piece, the first in the journal, is called "All About Me". Enjoy!
10.22.05
So last week was business as usual (you know how it is working with psychotic patients -- you never know what to expect). The first skill that we went over was "How to get your point across." In general, the steps of the skill encourage the patient to be relatively straightforward and brief in their interactions, and the role-plays are superficial in nature. Two male patients who are active participants in the group role played a scene where one patient told another patient where to buy a pair of shoes. They did a fantastic job and were met with applause when finished. After they sat down, we were discussing their great performance when a female patient stepped into the middle of the room and stood next to me. We'll call her "Jane" for confidentiality reasons. To give you a little background about this patient, this is not her first hospital stay since I have been an intern, and my recollection of Jane was that she was an patient who actively participated in group and was a positive contributor to the discussion in the past. She had been recently re-admitted to the hospital, however, and on this particular day, she was sleeping during the whole group. Needless to say, I was surprised to see her up and standing in the middle of the room. I said, "Hi Jane." She gave me her hand as if to shake it and said, "My name is Rose, I am the manager of the bank. Are you here to apply for the job?" At that moment, I was so overcome with shock, confusion, and the thought, "What IS this woman thinking??" I, for better or worse, started laughing, but was able to control myself. I attempted to redirect her by saying, "Jane, can you take a seat please?" She followed with, "I understand you would like an interview today." Meanwhile, she had my hand and would not let it go! I became really concerned that this woman was off in her delusion that her name is Rose and that she is the manager of some bank, and she has detracted the group from its purpose. I then explained to her "We were just finished doing a role play and giving some of the patients feedback on it." Much to my surprise she said, "I know! I was doing a role play too!" That is really great, except it was a completely inappropriate time and context. Hence the need for social skills training with these patients. I told her that she could role-play the next skill, but by the time we got around to it, she was sleeping once again and, despite efforts on my part, I was unable to wake her up.
The next day I saw Jane in the medication room. I said, "Hi Jane." She looked at me and said, "I'm not on speaking terms with you!" Ok.
Two days later in the Diagnosis and Symptom Management group, I was calling role. When I called her name, Jane said "You mean Rose!" She slept through most of the group, except for a couple of occasions where she got up and said, "People are talking about me in my sleep!" At another point during the group, she was attempting to give a pencil (unsolicited) to an Asian patient (or as they say here in these parts, "An Oriental woman", it is so wrong, so wrong). Her intentions were unclear, so eventually she just gave up.
This afternoon I saw her right before lunch in the hall of the treatment ward. I said, as usual, "Hi Jane." Apparently, she was just delighted to see me and asked what I thought about her hair. I told her it looked nice, and she told me that she did her hair so that it would look like mine. Then she told me that she looks like me now. She started rambling something else, and then said, "I have two daughters!" Attempting to elicit more appropriate information, I asked, "And how old are your daughters?" She responded, "And they look just like you. And they look like me. And I look like you." At that point, I excused myself and left, knowing I look NOTHING like this woman. But at least she was on speaking terms with me. Maybe, though, that's not such a good thing!
"Hey," I said, "you guys, what's going on there?"
"Shhh!" my mother said. "You're on speakerphone. She might hear you."
"Who might hear me?"
"The girl whose tush is showing."
"What are you guys talking about?"
"And the kicker is that she isn't wearing any underwear."
I gathered from my father's tone that he very much disapproved of this young woman's attire -- so much so that he couldn't focus on what I was trying to tell him. I finally gave up, wished them goodnight, and hung up the phone.
This morning I logged onto my email account to discover that my mother had emailed me a picture of said tush. It looked like this.
The email's subject line was as follows: "Marty made me take this picture -- he was horrified that she has no underwear!!" The email with the image was sent to myself, my sister, my husband, and my father (Marty) at both his work and his home email address.
Soon after, my sister wrote back: "That's really an awful scene. Cover up a little for goodness sakes! Her butt seems really high to me for some reason!"
So I (always the optimist) wrote: "Is it possible that the exposed flesh is of her back, but that her back is all folded and weird? How incredibly odd."
My father, from his work account, replied: "look at her hips. The pants are below her hips"
My mother soon added: "No, this was no trick photography -- it was her tush!"
Several hours later, I received a forwarded email exchange from my mother to someone named Michael Schwartz. It went something like this:
BTW, Marty's address is "MAschwartz, and his office address is mschwartz - thus the mixup. I hope you are not disturbed much and hope it stops.
Viva la Undies!
10.09.05
About that air vent thing: Our bathroom is the flip side of what I believe to be the trash shoot or the back of the elevator shaft. These places are often dark and filled with cruddy recesses--things little roachies just love. I have never witnessed any roach exiting from this space, but I have observed that when big burly people were working on the ducts in the trash room, many more roaches happened to find themselves in our tub.
You might now be asking yourself what these roaches look like? Well, then. Let me produce an image I took of several of these fellows congregating in our tub. Ooo! Looks like fun. After I snapped this picture, I swooped up the little fuckers with a tissue and flushed them down the toilet.
In other news: So, you knew that even as a young one, Little Debbie was a poet. The example given is from April of 1988. But did you know that Little Brian was writing poems years before that. When we were in Clearwater recently, Brian and I discovered a composition notebook from 1985. In April of 1985 (Exactly three years before Debbie), Brian "published" his first poem. The fever-dream like stream-of-consciousness piece The Seashell is written in the shaky unsure hand of an eight year old. Though Mr. Geller's handwriting hasn't changed much in the two or so decades since the poem was written, his writing style has improved dramatically. I would go as far as to say that his writing is "no bore to me".
I plan in the future to continue photographing the roaches in our tub, as well as scanning in pages from Brian's third grade notebook with the purpose of humiliating him and amusing myself.
10.04.05 |
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