A Few of My Favorite Things

Nothing happening between these ears, so I set myself the task of wandering our private quarters this morning and snapping a record of "favorite things."

I forgot to turn on the camera half the time, something in the order of "Ooh, shiny!" -- mouth agape.  And so you missed my collection of stones and crystals stored in my grandmother's cut glass bowl.

My earrings from Tehran.  They're red, gold, and beautiful.

The world's most incredible twig basket ($1.05 at the Thrift Store).

The soup tureen (with mismatched lid) I inherited from my (multi-millionaire) aunt.

One of Fred's guitars, in the process of being lovingly refinished.

The double chocolate prune cake I whipped up at 4 AM.  Don't let the "prune" fool you, it ain't in no way health food.

My closet full of slings, casts, braces, walkers, spare wheelchair parts, and -- inexplicably -- seventeen empty coffee cans.

Ah, but I did manage to get pictures of some things quite dear to the old coeur!


One to Count Cadence by James Crumley.  It's been a long, slow read about a part of the world and a time that was all too quick, all too real, and much too... moist.  (That's for those of you who have passed a monsoon season in the P.I.)  It's pretty rare for this Sister-Unit to wonder whether the Brother-Units have read something.  Anyway, it's the first favorite thing by virtue of being the first "currently in favor" thing captured with the video camera ON.  Oh, and that long metal thingy is -- verily! -- a most appreciated item: one of my five reacher-grabber thingies.  Gimp gold!

Yeah, then there's Buddy the Kitten, some guy whose sweet goodness outshines the sun [It's Fred!], and my humongous bottle of bear repellent.  Special dispensation from Captain Haddock and Tante Louise permits me to attach the UDAP Bear 911 canister to my wheelchair so that I may render impotent any intruder into the peace of Marlinspike Hall.  In reality, of course, I keep it in a cluttered carry-all stashed under my jewelry tree.

Shoot.  The jewelry tree!  That *is* one of my favorite things.  Drat. Oh, well, next go round.  I wonder how many times Scorsese has felt the sting of remorse over a lost shot?

My Pléiades cigar box!  You can pick one up at eBay for under ten bucks, but the love of the thing here depicted comes from the guy who gave it -- one of the world's most invested poseurs -- for whom I was a mannerism he briefly affected.  He thought I'd like it, and I did.  {shiver :: ick :: ewww}

Beyond that, the water-stained warped box is cherished as an adequate container for the things contained -- a tough category that includes granules of fine (Parisian) pastels in its corners, and, in its most recently incarnated use, an absorbent receptacle for the blood stains from glucose testing.

Unintended, but correct, is the inclusion of my flowery cane.  It's a great way for people who are uncomfortable around disability to disassociate.  With that cane as a prop, such folk can exclaim, "If you have to have a cane, why not get a pretty one, right?"  If things are particularly squirrel-y, this $12 cane can sustain a monologue until the ambulance arrives.


My Tracy Porter tea cup and saucer.  It's not a favorite thing... It's more a sometimes perfect note, when perfect means facile.  I was aiming at the stuff in it!  Fred went through a Winnie the Pooh figurine stage a decade or so back, and would bring home gift ensembles featuring the bear or maybe -- my favorite -- Eeyore.  It was reminiscent of Barbie stylings, somehow -- Teacher Barbie or Barbie Collector Twilight Saga Bella Doll.


[We used to enjoy making Alternative Crèches, and Winnie the Pooh + Friends were terrific in the Underwater Nativity before we moved our considerable talents on to Stonehenge Parodies [shout out to @HengeClub ].


Nestled under the cup is an Iranian prayer rosary, or tasbih, given to me by a woman who uses them as worry beads.  I use them as bracelets.  I hope she's grown less worried with age;  I might profit from her serenity with more wrist adornments.  


Then there's a brief interlude with My Boys:  Grandfather, TW and his charming grin, Adrean, Grader Boob as a Young Man, Some Dood with a Goo-Goo Eyed Woman Draped on his Shoulder, and then a seamless and meaningful segue into a shot of My Favorite Hair Bands.


Wow, I should be issuing a blanket apology.  Whatever.  I like textiles!


Mon bel oranger by José Mauro de Vasconcelos only made the director's cut because I ran across it by accident a few days back.  The felines dislodged it from a bookcase and my hand crossed it like a live wire while restoring order.  I decided to read it aloud and have been enjoying that.  Very much, in fact.


Disturbing trend:  the Iranian Worry-Bead Woman?  She also introduced me to Mon bel oranger.  A few years later, I had a wonderfully blue neon light constructed to form Zézé, the personnage principal that she somehow brings to mind.


So it's My Sweet Orange Tree in English... but very few USAmericans know of it.  Have you read it?  It's a children's classic that adults have come to mostly via translation.  Of course, according to Amazon, you need to shell out $250 for an English copy, which might explain a few things.  It needs to be back in print!  It's one of those books to cherish, to force into a loved one's hands.  Good going, felines.  I wonder what they've in store for me next.  Probably Tolkien.


Clearly losing my hold on reality, this videographer next centers her food processor in the frame, delightfully accented by some juicy red bells, followed by a candid shot of favorite flavors:  ginger, cayenne, rosemary, cumin, balsamic vinegar.  Wasabi?  What the heck is wasabi doing in this shot?  Am I queen of sushi?  No, I am not.  In sauces, dressings, toppings, fine -- but do I gravitate to wasabi, first off, first thing, as first choice in a flavor profile?  No, I do not.  Harrumph. 


Knives.  Okay, so we have a few knives.  I confess that the paring knife collection is over the top, and I cannot see why we have more than two boning knives, but heck, we just do.  


Should you ever hear that I've met my demise in some sort of violent domestic conflict?  Check the kitchen, count the knives.  Look between my shoulder blades.  Is that a Chinese cleaver parting my tresses?  [Psst!  I would check into Sven Feingold's whereabouts and his alibi.  I hate to insinuate, but if La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore serves as his witness, or even Cabana Boy (recently found to be Sven's biological son)?  Someone may well be getting away with murder...]


Finally... my favorite triptych, our Laughing Buddha, plus a beloved detail of that old cliched Klimt and his golden kisses.  The cat condo keeps getting shoved in front of it, and so it's fitting that Buddy the Kitten should languidly drape himself into the last shot.


Pray for sleep, because in the queue of things-that-might-pass-as-interesting should my brain not rest a bit are such pressing topics as:  


The Linen Closets:  A Retrospective; 
Fred's Flashlights; and...
Dobby's Secret Stash of Tiny Top Hats.

Sadly, A Repost: I. Need. A. Laxative.

I wish I had something more fascinating with which to entertain the remains of ERP's visitors, stopping by to gape at a Challenging Patient, but life is what it is, and today, that means a repost about constipation and sappy commentary about a cat-friend. I must say I was surprised when, checking back on his comment thread, I discovered myself to be a drug-seeker and a kook. Y'all be sure to shut the drawbridge -- and try not to fall in the moat on your way out.


I don't imagine there are many people out there who will be able to understand my frustration. That's why I like to call it My Frustration.

When I ask other people to help me, I relinquish most of my control over the way in which I want to be helped. In addition to lowering my exhaustive and incomparable standards, I give up control in ways never considered before the onset of Life as a Gimp.

Privacy. I have none! Influence? Fading, a mere effervescence.

I need a laxative. I mean, I have a laxative, but it isn't working. The situation is kind of dire. My mobility has been non-existent these past few weeks, and my narcotic doses are destined to be the stuff of legends. The only things I have going for me in the Poo Department are my Stellar Eating Habits (just ignore all the Diet Cola and popcorn). I mean, if an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then I cover the bases by eating two.

Still, hoping against hope that I can ask for what I want, get what I want, and all that, in a timely fashion, I presented myself to Fred, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

"Sweetie, I hate to interrupt you, but I need you to do something for me."

Fred heaved a sigh full of put-upon soul. I'm not exactly sure what he was doing, just that it had something to do with capacitors, as he had before him the famous Leyden Jar. One of them. It's a small obsession. (Some people make origami peace doves.)

When I want to get The Fredster a little something... special? I order one of those mysterious little plain brown paper package numbers -- you know, the ones full of "600 Capacitors: 20 each of 30 values."

Ceramic capacitors. Axial-Leaded Solid Tantalum Capacitors. Silver Micas. Yer Aluminum Electrolytic. Boy toys.

He was wearing his headlamp thingy, redundant multimeters spread round him in a semicircle, a god in his created world.

"Yeah? What do you need?" He asked, pleasantly.

"I need a laxative. I want to try that Miralax stuff that Dr. Go-To-Guy from MDVIP recommended a few weeks back. I don't care what it costs."

"But, Retired Educator, my love, you have a laxative. I just got you a bottle of 100 Senna Laxative, Sennosides 8.6 milligram tablets, comparable to Senokot, the Natural Vegetable Laxative, when was it... yeah, yeah... it was 12 days ago. The price? Hmm. An amazing $5.50! That was a great buy."

"Fred? Please, I really need your help. It will take you, what? 15 minutes, max?"


"That stuff can take a while to work, you know. Maybe you just need to give it a little more time? Have you had any bran cereal?"

"Darling," said I, enunciating with care, "I have had 24 Senokot over the last 3 days, tripled the amount of stool softener I take, and had 4 enemas. I have had bran cereal and prunes, apple after everlovin' apple, plus at least 96 ounces of water every day."

"Wow, that's impressive!"

"Thank you. Will you go to the store, please? Soon? I'm pretty miserable."

"Sure, no problem. I just need to finish this up, take a quick shower, then I'll get right on it. I should be back by one... We can watch that bad vampire movie, if you want. Have a cozy, lazy day?" Yes, Fred is manly enough that he can pull off "cozy." About once a week, he even comes out in support of "whimsy."

"Okay, thanks, Fred." I turned the wheelchair and started to speed back to the cozy confines of our bed, which is the only place my bloated, whimsical self wanted to be.

"Hey! Have you tried hot water? Some people drink hot water... With lemon."

The preceding conversation, so faithfully transcribed, took place around noon.

As mentioned a few posts ago, Fred was diagnosed with ADHD in 2001.

I just thought I would throw that into the present narrative for your consideration. Also, because it is now after 4 pm. I watched the movie: it was, indeed, about vampires, and was pretty bad -- the kind of bad movie that it is fun to watch with someone else. There is now a fresh bad movie on, but it is not nearly as good as the first one.

Fred seems to have knocked out a few more Jars of Leyden. He also appears to be entering with great glee into one of the Twitter fads: HengeClub. Yes, little groupings of capacitors on circuit boards, an Ode to Power, I suppose. HengeClub naturally appeals to him, as Fred is a druid, a neo-druid. In the same vein, he also makes Alternative Crèches -- the Nativity Under Water, Winnie the Pooh does Baby Jesus, and so on.

Yes, a neo-druid of the Reformed Druids of North America, or RDNA, with ADHD -- and unfortunately very fazed by the vastness of nature.

For what it is worth, DiscoJimbo has submitted our favorite Henge, called StonedHenge:

I was on the cusp of that sarcasm born of misanthropy when Fred stuck his head in to say: "I'm so sorry. I got distracted. I'm going now -- be right back."

And just like that, he was gone.

Guilt and gratitude, together, are quite potent. I am familiar with "I'll be right back," when used in conjunction with the grocery store in question, and expected his return in roughly 45 minutes, longer if he stopped to check new used book arrivals at the neighboring thrift shop.

Time enough to whip up a "vegetable plate" dinner, our bi-weekly tribute to diner food and something that my colon also appreciates. Scoping out the offerings of the veggie drawer, it looked to be a meal born of carrots, cabbage, and brocolli. I tossed the rotten cuke, and put on some brown rice, wasabi peanuts,and onions.

Enough roughage to blow out Fort Knox.

So I end up with a lovely carrot and lentil soup, nicely warmed with fresh ginger, and finished with just a scosh of coconut milk, served with a raw brocolli and cabbage slaw, and the rice. I don't much like brown rice but in hopes of restoring the gut? I am ready to do anything. More importantly, The Fredster loves it.

Round things out with some nice flatbread and hummus, and poof! A lovely meal. And as if on cue, I hear the drawbridge descending, and the dulcet tones of Ruby, the Honda CR-V, happy to be home.

Surely, given this meal and the soon to be had Miralax, surely, surely, my agony will end soon.

His arms full of groceries, an unexpected boon, Fred comes storming into the Medieval Kitchen common area -- that we have basically turned into a Breakfast Nook, with the help of judicious wallpaper, featuring mad trellises, peppered with lemons, of all things.

Fred frequently returns in a huff from shopping, as he seems to be an Idiot Magnet, encountering people whom he subsequently names numbered "twats," as in "Twat Number One," "Twat Number Two," and so on. (Gender, oddly enough, is irrelevant.)

I have protested the use of the word, but frankly? It doesn't bother me all that much. I guess I apologize to you, on his behalf, should it offend... but honestly, I don't think he even reflects on its meaning.

I ask, "What happened?" and turn to stir the soup, my heart sinking, my gut déçu.

"Well, I talked to that Twat of a Pharmacist over there, asking him what would be the best laxative for someone like you...

"For someone like me? How exactly does that work again? I keep forgetting..."

"You know what I mean -- you're in a chair, you take narcotics, there's a compelling history of small bowel obstructions..."

"What about the Miralax, did you get the Miralax?"

"Well, no. That Twat of a Pharmacist gave me this stuff, which he swears will work and be easier on you. It costs about a third as much -- plus you get a heck of a lot more. 50 for $3.39! I can always go back and get the MiraLax later, okay? It's ten bucks for just ten doses."

It chaps my ass. If I could just go to the store myself, by myself, on behalf of myself. I feel about three years old, I feel frustrated, manipulated. But more than anything, I feel constipated, and in a serious way that looks never, ever to be relieved.

With amazing calm, resigned now to a fate of death by constipation, I ask my sweet Fred what purgative the pharmacist has sent, my voice suddenly gone all sing-songy.

I don't even inquire anymore why purchasing the items I request is always such a freaking impossibility.

Fun times at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé!

I think I'll put out some candles, use the tureen Aunt Nancy gave me, and some of the Haddock Family's finest china.

After we eat, there will be time enough to put up the bottles of white balsamic vinegar ("On sale! I got all they had!") -- the sesame oil, the teff flour, carefully measured.