Looks like I’m going to be in the hospital and offline some of Monday and much of Tuesday; I have a wonderful procedure scheduled for Tuesday in which they dope me to the gills but leave me loopily conscious, then stick a fiberoptic cable down my throat and up my bile duct, and when they find the obstruction which is causing my liver to poison itself they will laser that fucker into oblivion. Sadly, they would not hear of installing high-speed internet, even though it’s just one more cable. Whatever.
In the meantime, here is some vintage raincoaster for your enjoyment and eddificationizationism.
ManoloFood, because if there’s one thing Vancouver needs, it’s another food and beverage blog.
Paypal donation. Because eventually the hospital will cut me off morphine and then I’ll need LOTS of Hendrick’s and Bombay Sapphire.
and as a reward and bloggy sort of stocking-stuffer, here is seven minutes and thirty-some-odd seconds of Severus Snape‘s most marvelously malevolent moments:
So, those of you who’ve been following this blog closely or Facebook closely, or Twitter even half-assedly will know that I’ve lately spent five days lolling around the luxurious surroundings of St. Paul’s Hospital, enjoying the luxurious fare provided by IV. Once I got switched to real food, the so-called “real food” was so awful it played a significant role in encouraging me to get out as soon as it was practical. This little time-out came courtesy of a gallbladder attack and serious infection, and resulted in me having the better part of a week without the internet and, consequently, the internet having a week without me.
It did not appear to notice.
Obviously, however unwell I may have been, the internet was in even worse shape!
In any case, once they discharged me with prescriptions for enough antibiotics to cure the rot in the Chinese government, I was told to eat low-fat, make an appointment with a surgeon (they gave me her name and number, nicely enough, and the meds have me so loopy I promptly left it behind) for an examination preliminary to the surgery which would undoubtedly happen within the next three months, and avoid alcohol, as one of the meds has the side-effect of acting as a sort of Antabuse, causing projectile vomiting if you so much as sniff too deeply at a passing cork. So, no onion rings, no fries, no cream, no booze.
and this does not take me to my happy place.
I mean, if you can’t self-medicate your “nobody visited me” sulks with premium frozen dairy products and alcohol, what’s the frickin’ point?
Which is to say, in a typically roundabout way, that I’m still sulking, and that, furthermore, I have excellent reasons for sulking, as today I had another proper gallstone attack, although one of nowhere near the severity of the last. Hospitals were avoided, but doctors were phoned and appointments were made. And, when i stupidly forgot to write them down, my friends found them for me on Facebook, so hey, social media DOES work sometimes!
But all this is nothing, really, in the larger scheme of things, and there are few things that can cause me to say my own sufferings are nothing, really, and I mean REALLy there are very, very few such things but this is one of them, this being, in this case, the brilliant if I do say so myself and if I learned one thing from being stuck in the hospital that long it’s that if I don’t say it nobody will idea of making jewelry out of gallstones and selling it to the gullible, tasteless masses that bought, and that very expensively, into the idea of yellow diamonds, formerly known as industrial-grade rocks.
Yes, once these pesky little gallstones are removed like pearls from an oyster, they will be lovingly polished and set within a luxurious 10k gold-plated setting with real Swarovski crystal accents, and sold to ostentatious suckers across this fine land.With my celebrity connections, we’re looking at offering a premium line of celebodyparts, at a significant profit.
BioRecyclables Unlimited: Our motto: You Want A Piece Of Me?
Right now I’m sitting at a friend’s house, cat-sitting, while under doctor’s orders to avoid cats. I have just discovered that one of them has peed on every fabric-covered surface he can reach, OTHER than the cat bed and the cat platform, of course. Well, I haven’t just discovered that: I discovered it a while ago, immediately prior to chasing the cat down, rubbing his face in it, giving him what used to be called “what for” and bouncing him off the wall when I tossed him out of the room. And after stripping off the bed and throwing the sheets into the washing machine. And after coming back upstairs to find he’d also peed on the fitted sheet and it had of course seeped through to the mattress pad as well, and stripping both of them off and taking them downstairs to wait their turn with the Heavy Duty cycle. Oh, right, AND after I had to waste 15 minutes chasing the offending varmint out of the other bedroom (broomsticks under beds work really well with cats who aren’t used to physical violence). I’m here because the owners don’t want the cats to be lonely. They’ve already got enough food to last till the Commies come, and their litter was changed this morning, but god forbid cats should be lonely.
Did I mention I’m immune-compromised and allergic to cats? Look, I know there are bigger problems in the world. I could be dying of cancer, like my friend Derek. I could be in intensive care for the second time in a month, like the fellow for whom I’m cat-sitting. I could have gone to American schools.
But I just got out of the hospital, I’m facing surgery that friends can’t help but tell me their friend died TWICE during, thanks so much, I’m on some serious meds with major side-effects, I’m not allowed a single heartening beverage until Friday of next week, thanks to the medicine I’m hallucinating, having chest pains, and sprained my foot yesterday, I have no heat or lights at home, there’s a ONE FOOT LONG HOLE IN THE WALL of my living room where the mildew ate right through, I’m poor, every time I pick a date on which to have an event there’s someone in town who immediately chooses the same fucking day (six times in ten months UPDATE: aw heck, according to his count, which I’ll accept, it’s only been exactly 33 and 1/3rd% of times, or three of nine, UPDATE UPDATED: actually, it’s four in ten or forty percent of the time, is no accident, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed, my dear), and the friend I relied on to let people know I was in the hospital only told my sister about it a few days after I was admitted, and tagged me in a Facebook note, which of course only shows up on MY page as “someone tagged you in a note” and not “hey everybody, raincoaster’s in the hospital.” So there I sat for days and days, saying hi to all the people who came into the room to visit other people. But at least the cats aren’t lonely, so, you know, that’s something. Also, why in god’s name would someone DM “hope you’re okay”? So nobody would catch them at it?
And you know, I probably like you just fine but for now, no, I am not going to take out your garbage. I am not going to help you move. I am not going to check on something for you. I am not going to pass along your messages. I am not going to wash your dishes, or sit your cats, or run to the store for you, or return emails that start with “I need some social media help” and do not end in cheques.
UPDATED: and, if you add me to your newsletter list without my permission even though you personally attended the class where I actually made people raise their right hands and swear not to do that, in all likelihood yes, I AM going to mock you on Twitter in front of thousands of people. That little internal editor that keeps me demure and polite? Has taken a little “time out” and won’t be back till I’m feeling better, so it’s not advisable to piss me off just at the moment.
…then again, it could be appendicitis. So there won’t be a whole snootful of online activity for you to follow; mostly just low-impact activities like reblogging on Tumblr and bitching on Twitter.
So it’s a little later than Wednesday this week; still, you can always use a good unicorn chaser, can you not? And what could be perkier, happier, or more charming than the B-52’s singing the theme song of every blogger I know, Deadbeat Club?
I once had a Facebook group called that, for the purpose of hosting FNFF, short for Friday Night Fuck Fest, but consisting of people who generally have nothing better to do on a Friday night than sit at the computer, drinking, and commenting on other people’s websites. Which actually isn’t a bad way to spend a Friday night, if you have half a bottle of something decent, a good connection, and time on your hands. Now that I don’t have an office, even a home office, anymore, those days are behind me. I swear, I’m paying so damn much for inferior coffee every damn day that I might as well just rent an office; it’d be cheaper.
It should also be noted that, after several years’ quest, I finally have that leopard coat. I do not, however, have the huge ’60’s eyes, but it’s on my wish list for the next life.
raincoaster 