The sheer volume of catching up that would be required between the Paula Deen no-longer-an-announcement-anyone-is-talking-about thing and now will require some editing--not that I've been doing all sort of exciting things lately and don't have the room, but just because...meh, you'd be bored.
What? You're already bored? Oh....OK...
Here's the briefest of brief versions:
Dear Daughter #1 got a boyfriend. He's hot and dangerous. Well, probably not actually "dangerous" but he likes to portray that persona where, if someone told you he was in an Asian street gang, you'd find it plausible. Which makes him hot. He drives a BMW. Normally, I don't care much what kind of car a guy drives, but if you're all, I-could-be-in-an-Asian-street-gang, it's appropriate that you drive something stylishly sort of expensive.
Dear Daughter #2, got a job. Not to worry, she already had a boyfriend. Boyfriend also has a job, at the same place. Everyone but me warned her away from working with her boyfriend. I dunno...I tend to like my work people more than I like my home people. It's all business, very few tears shed. Just...work. Makes you mind clean, and if you're doing it right, makes your body dirty.
Which reminds me, I really need to check into getting a gig digging ditches. My work? I could use the distraction of a boyfriend, is all I can say about that. BTW? The lovely Vikki at uppoppedfox.com
thought she'd like to join me in the ditch digging biz, and she even thought up a company name: Bitchez Diggin' Ditches.
I like it.
One of my friends from college passed away last weekend. When I say "friend" I do want to qualify that by saying that I hadn't spoken to him in a long, time--could be as long as 20 years--so I'm not going to go all, "I lost my (sob!) friend!" on you or anything. He was an extremely memorable person, Stan. We met at the college radio station, where I suppose he was our version of Dr. Johnny Fever. He was ten years older than me, and I thought him very wicked, mostly in a good way. He was also a serious alcoholic who would occasionally show up at my house, wanting to talk, and he would end up talking to me about how wrong I was about everything, but mostly about abstract things, like, God and Heaven. After he became sober, which he was for over 20 years, all the way through the rest of his life, he still managed to be right about everything, so, you know...he was obnoxious.
But, he was cuddly obnoxious, if there is such a thing.
Stan, I know you're up there, wherever the hell "up there" is, and I bet I'm more right about where "up there" is than you were, you bastard. Besides, my "up there" is way nicer than any "up there" you ever imagined, so ha! Suck it! And...enjoy a little peace of mind, for once in your life--take a fucking vacation before you come back to Earth as another difficult person, sent here to teach me how to be tolerant of difficult people.
Yeah, I said it! Reincarnation!
I bet now that you're there, you're glad I was right, aren't you, Stan?
Love you, man.
The rest of what I have to say is about the cancer.
Not my cancer, my father's cancer.
My father, 74 years old, has been diagnosed with lung cancer. He has a two-inch mass in his left lung.
I firmly believe that it is not the cancer that will kill my father. If he should die any time soon, the ones I will blame are the craptacular doctors dragging their feet and telling him that he's "no spring chicken" as if they're not going to bother doing a fucking thing about the cancer. I'd like to just take this opportunity to tell those doctors to fuck off. No pussy footing around this one. Get off your fucking asses and treat him. Don't say, oh, you need an MRI and then tell him that the soonest he can get one is April 30th. Fuck you. 74 is old, but it's not that fucking old. He could do another 10 years, easy, if you'd all stop being such a bunch of bitches.
Here's the thing...although my father has a fair amount of skepticism toward these oncologists and surgeons telling him "it's serious" while simultaneously telling him to cool his jets, he's of a generation that still thinks doctors are some kind of gods.
I'm not. I talk to doctors as a part of my work, and although most of them are great, really care and bust their asses, some of them are lazy, period. They're just like you and me--in your job, you have the one guy who sort of sucks a little, right? Maybe they're not quite as good at it as some of the other people at work? (If you don't have one, then maybe it's you...) Well, doctors have the same thing. Most of them? Great? Some? Well, the reason they are accepting new patients is close to the same reason the Phillip Morris company is accepting new smokers.
Problem is...exactly how does one insert themselves into this situation? Or, does one insert themselves into this situation at all? I mean, yes, my impulse is to say, "Dad, I'll be driving you to your next doctor appointment," but his doctor appointment is 400 miles away from my house. So...I'm a little frustrated and pissed off.
Well, obviously, I'm more than just a little pissed off.
But I wonder if I'm pissed off because I'm thinking what I'm normally thinking, which is, "oh for the love of gawd, just LET ME DO THE TALKING!" , a statement usually followed by my stomping in and living my motto, If You Want Something Done Right, Do It Yourself.
Should I just....let them handle it without making a scene? I mean...it's fucking cancer. Not some dumb shit that will go away if you ignore it, but quite the opposite of that. Cancer. It could be the very worst time in my life for me to suddenly develop self control. I'm going to have to meditate on this one, although, I know that's not what Stan would have done...