OK, this post is gonna be all over the effin place, and probably won't be proofed... so 'scuse the typo's.
First things first. Cecily's blood pressure has been creeping higher and it's starting to give me the willies...even tho, by some standards, it's not that bad. But I am an abnormally anxious person...the kind who checks his mailbox for explosives. But the doc told us to call him if she had 3 consecutive diastolic pressures over 100. Which she did. Yesterday and today. So we called and he said "rest," which she did. But no visit to the PETU (Pregnancy Evaluation & Treatment Unit). We were there already TWICE last week. But for anyone with a betting pool, I'd start to laying heavy money on a 36-week delivery.
A side note: When I was drinking, my standard bp was 150/110...for FIVE YEARS. And I never gave it a second thought. Afterall, I was expendible, at least to me. As the poet Charles Bukowski once said (and I'm paraphrasing)... "I'm not trying to destroy the whole human race...just a little piece of it...me." I was pretty good at destroying me...at least a sixpack at a time.
It took another five years (in sobriety) for me to find a reason to save my own ass. Funny about alkies, we need to be coaxed and cajoled into doing the things that other people struggle and fight for. Like living. Someone says, please don't kill yourself, and I still hafta flip a coin. Pretty sick, huh? It took me those five years sober just to get my head out of the oven. Anyway, I digress. Point is, I'm more concerned about Cecily and this baby than I ever was about myself when I was loaded. This is, I s'pose, what they mean by "growth."
Am having a li'l health scare of my own...some kind of cyst under my arm...I don't really know the clinical details and I'm pretty sure you don't want to read them. Had a chat with a doc about it, and he said it's likely not cancer. I woulda been slightly more relieved if he hadn't dropped the "C-Bomb" at all. Anyway, will probably result in minor surgery...hopefully outpatient. Had one of these two years ago. What they call a "local local." I guess that means local anesthesia and local disposition. It was rather like getting a tattoo...but by four of tattooists at once. Hafta say I was pretty pleased with myself..only got queasy once...and that was because of the cautery. Something about the smell of one's own flesh burning. I think it's the idea that you KNOW it's your flesh burning that brings on that shocky, sweaty, pukey feeling. Out of context, you might think the smell was nothing worse than bad Indian food. But a li'l O2 and I was back to normal, chatting with the surgeon as she pulled something that looked like a fishing lure outa my back.
A few off-topic comments...
1. If y'all haven't already done so, read Cecily's post (05/09/06) on the unfolding Duke rape case. As for my two-cents...I went to college with enuff testosterone-fueled beerdrunk preppy douchebags to observe them in action. Alone they're chickenshits, but together they can muster some powerful evil mojo. Just honing the skills they'll need as future Enron execs, Secretaries of Defense, etc. I s'pose.
2. Why don't you ever hear the phrase: "You been to that new Swedish take-out place yet?" Just curious.
3. Why in hell are movie DVDs so fucking complicated? I mean, I just want to drop the disc into the machine and watch the effin movie. No out-takes, no video games based on the film, no details on "the making of..." Just the movie. Too much to ask? I guess so.
4. Mother's Day. All you moms have a happy one. I saw a TV commercial today for a florist, promising callers to the 800 number that they would be promptly connected to a "floral consultant." What exactly is a floral consultant? Do we really need to euphemize florists to the level of pet psychics? Ack. What will we need next..."sweatsock consultants"? (Oh I just can't DECIDE...the blue stripes or the red stripes.) We as a nation seem to have two choices...brutes or sissies. Why?
OK, you've probably stopped reading by now... so I'll stop writing.
As the late great Mr. Murrow used to say: Good night...and good luck.
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Slang of the day: goose-drownder: a heavy rainstorm.