: the milestone :

If I had a nickel for every post I’ve written in the last eight and half months, I’d have $4.95. I know, it’s not a lot of money, is it? But it is a lot of posts. Ninety-nine of them, I’ll have an even hundred after I publish this. Wow, one hundred posts — I should do something spectacular here, inspiring even.

Yeah, spectacular, that’s something I can do. Especially now, with my nose running like a marathoner. Who knew one head could hold this much fluid? Or two pockets could harbor so many damp, soggy tissues. I won’t stick my hands in there anymore; seriously, it’s the Okefenokee.

Be glad you’re out there and I’m in here, because I am a petri dish, teeming with germs. All I do is sneeze, sniff, blow, wipe, honk, and wheeze. My eyes are glassy, my skin is blotchy, and my nose is chapped. I’m surprised it’s not picture day.

Instead it’s the biggest day (thus far) in the history of publikworks and the best I can come up with is a head cold? Well, I guess it’s better than what I had — I had nothing. Squat. Bupkis. I briefly considered doing a retrospective of my old posts or charting my growth as a blogger, but I spared you that. More importantly, I spared me that.

I decided to celebrate this, my 100th post, with a shot of NyQuilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: on the books or movies question :

The Academy Awards are this weekend, you know. And I bet you’ve seen most of the nominees, haven’t you? Well, I haven’t. I didn’t even know what movies were nominated or who was in them until I googled the list. Turns out I’m hopelessly unhip and unaware. Some might say I’m un-American for this indifference to movies and celebrity, but that’s not true.

Of the nine movies nominated, I’ve heard of four: The Artist, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Descendants, and The Help. Two of them were hugely popular books first, which is the reason I know of them. I heard about the third movie when it was discussed on a talk show and I saw television ads for the fourth. None of them got me atwitter, even though Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close has Tom Hanks in it. I love him.

The sad, awful truth is I like books better. Going to the movies is a lot of work, you have to take a shower, wear grown up clothes, drive to the movie theater, stand in line, spend $20 for popcorn and a Coke, then realize your shoes are stuck to the floor. Ew.

Books, well, they’re low maintenance entertainment, they go where you go. Anywhere from a bathtub to prison. Showtime is any time. And shoes are optional; heck, so are pants if you’re so inclined. If those aren’t reasons enough, you also get to cast all the parts when you read a book — you’re the director and the producer. Not some dude in a beret and goatee.

As a rule, Hollywood can’t compete with your imagination. Okay, To Kill A Mockingbird was an exception. It was equally outstanding as a movie and a book. Gone With the Wind came pretty close, as well, but the book was just too good.

Oh, and another thing: when’s the last time you got stuck watching an awards show for the publishing industry? With dancing authors swanning around in celebration of Helvetica type? Never, that’s when. They’re too shy for such gregarious behavior. I like that about them.

Even so, I’ll be among the billions watching the broadcast Sunday night. I’ll be completely lost, blinded by all the glittering jewels and cutting edge fashions on people I don’t know or recognize, but I’ll be there.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: the doctor visit :

I spent Monday afternoon at the doctor. Is there anyone who enjoys doing this? Visiting a doctor? I don’t, I’d rather go to prison or wrestle alligators, anything.

So what happened there? Nothing. Well, not nothing, but nothing new. I learned my heart rate was back up to 140 and my blood pressure was high. So they doubled the dosage on the beta blockers.

Plus I found out the endocrinologist they’re supposed to be consulting with isn’t returning phone calls, which means I’m still at square one. Then they drained another quart of blood from my arm and told me to come back in two weeks. (What are they doing with all the blood? Have I stumbled into a secret nest of vampires? I’ve got bruises on top of bruises on top of bruises from the needles.)

Later, at the pharmacy, the pharmacist asked if I’d noticed any changes yet from the thyroid medicine. The only thing I’ve noticed is the way I walk — it’s a more natural, easier gait these days — does my thyroid impact the way I walk? She said the thyroid affects everything — hair, eyes, fingernails, skin, metabolism, energy, moods, memory, the whole shebang.

This news interested me, so I investigated. And I discovered stuff I’d blamed on getting older was really Graves’ disease or hyperthyroidism: it causes fatigue and forgetfulness and muscle weakness, depression, the racing heart, all kinds of weird things. I don’t have every symptom, like panic attacks and skin anomalies, but I have a bunch.

I can’t imagine it all going away and feeling like I used to, but I guess it’s a good possibility. Oh my gosh, that would be a miracle, wouldn’t it? And if the endocrinologist would get off his fat, lazy bum and make a couple phone calls, why, that’d be super, too, really.

: what should I give up? :

Do you realize Lent starts Wednesday, the day after tomorrow? I didn’t, the news came as a surprise, and I’m not prepared. I mean, I know I have to give up something, something I love eating or doing or having, but what? And how much do I have to love it? A lot or a little or not at all, really?

Last year I gave up my beloved Leibniz Butter Biscuits. Cold turkey. I endured six long, miserable weeks without so much as the sight of one. No kitchen cupboard harbored the happy yellow box with the blue and red type. In its absence I tried to fill the void with graham crackers, but it wasn’t the same. I was jonesin’ for the Leibniz, man. Every day, I was jonesin’ for the Leibniz.

One year I gave up smoking. Okay, it was in June, so technically it wasn’t Lent, but I quit smoking, anyway. Again, cold turkey. I don’t remember enjoying myself then, either. In fact, I don’t recall one amusing anecdote from those days. None.

Another year I gave up candy. All kinds, candy bars and Starburst and Twizzlers and Milk Duds  — everything. Then I forgot and ate a Mars bar. The guilt, when I remembered, was huge. Big huge, I tell you.

Do I have to keep doing this to myself? There are so many things I’m willing to give up, forever if I have to. I just can’t decide which one to choose. Wait, I know. How about I make a list and you pick for me. Does that work? Yes? Great, here’s the list of possibilities:

What Should I Give Up for Lent?

1. Shaving my legs
It’s vain and narcissistic, yes?
2. Flipping off chucklehead drivers
I won’t lift a finger for 46 days.
3. Beets
I’m willing to share.
4. Paying bills
A two-digit credit score will be plenty.
5. My Facebook page
I’ll close it down if I remember the name I used.
6. Leibniz Butter Biscuits
I ate a box today, just in case.
7. Smoking
I quit once, I can do it again (since I remain non-smoking).

See how hard it is? Each choice has its own unique merits, wouldn’t you say? I suppose I could go for martyrdom and give up all seven, but that seems like showing off. Well, I’ll leave you to decide. Thank you and good luck.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012.

: the black cloud :

Like a billion other people in the world, I did laundry last week. Of those billion, I was one of, maybe, three who screwed it up. Laundry isn’t difficult, you know, a sensible 8-year old can do it. But me? I get outsmarted by a washing machine.

Somehow, when I transferred a load of clothes from the washer to the dryer, I overlooked a light gray cotton turtleneck. It was squashed against the front of the wash tub. Being oblivious to this lurking garment, I went ahead and added bleach for the upcoming load of whites. And that’s when I noticed the turtleneck, just as the bleach splashed into the wash tub.

I snatched the shirt out of there, examined it thoroughly, and saw no evidence of bleach spots. Until I pulled it out of the dryer. My once light gray shirt had a spray of ivory spots dotting the left sleeve, body, and right shoulder. It’s a whole new look, sort of a Jackson Pollock thing. A look that says, ‘I need a keeper.’

On Sunday, the earpiece of my glasses broke off. Now both of them are taped and I look like every other nerd in the world. Heavy eyeglasses bound together with white adhesive tape sitting slightly awry on a bewildered face above a bleach-splattered turtleneck. It’s a pretty picture, isn’t it?

But it doesn’t end there. No. Tonight my desk chair, which I was sitting on, listed heavily to the right and collapsed. There was no warning, no screech of metal, no shudder signaling imminent danger. It just quietly dumped me on the floor and I write this sitting on a plastic storage container. At some point I expect the lid to give way and trap me inside the thing, so if this post ends abruptly, that’s why.

Folks, I’m in the midst of a protracted bad luck streak. Seven and a half years, if you must know. That’s not as bad as Job, he of the boils and Biblical suffering, but it’s plenty bad enough. With all candor, I’m beginning to fear for my safety. I’m afraid to use my car or the sharp scissors or even take a shower. Heck, the bathroom is a death trap, it’s where most accidents happen.

So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m just going to sit here quie

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: a game of tag, you’re it :

I was tagged by mild-mannered Lenore Diane — sweet, thoughtful Lenore. What does getting tagged mean? I’m not entirely sure, I’m new to this kind of thing. But from what I can gather, when a person gets tagged, they have to answer the eleven questions posed by the tagger.  Then make up eleven new questions and tag eleven new people. In other words, an online chain letter.

I’m not much for rules, so I’ve decided to tag everyone who stumbles into this post unaware. You’re all it!

Ready? Here are my answers to Lenore Diane’s questions:

1. What is your favorite color, and what do you think it would taste like?
That would be Pantone Orange 021 and it would taste like Froot Loops.
2.  Do you sleep on your left side, right side, back or stomach?
All of the above, thank you. I’m a very active and indiscriminate sleeper.
3.  Do you floss your teeth?
I do, with kite string. Sometimes fishing line.
4.  Do you close the lid before flushing the toilet?
Wait, there’s a lid?
5.  How many times a day do you brush your teeth?
Nine, ten if a dessert is served.
6.  How many times have you brushed your hair today? If you are follicle-challenged, how many times have you rubbed your bald head?
Let’s see, this is Wednesday, so once.
7.   Do your feet smell? (Go ahead and check, we’ll wait.)
How dare you!
8.   Do you have any Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in your freezer? May I have it?
I do not. This is February,
9.  If you notice food stuck between someone’s teeth – do you make an effort to tell him/her? If not, why are you so cruel?
I don’t bother with telling them, no, I just go in after it.
10.  What feature do you most like about me?
Hmm, that’s a toss-up between your sparkling wit and your dimples.
11.  Don’t you think I should be discovered, while I sit doing nothing, and become famous for my writing?
I do and I bet you’d be discovered faster if you sat doing nothing in a bikini on the porch. 

——————————————————————————————————————-

And here are my eleven questions for all of you:

1. What’s the last thing you do before going to bed?

2. When, in your life, were you the happiest?

3. What was your college major?

4. What person, living or dead, do you think had the biggest impact on the world?

5. Have you ever said no to a marriage proposal?

6. What brand of shoes are you wearing right now?

7. Where in the world would you like to work? (Personally I’d like to work at the Louvre in Paris or at Pixar Studios)

8. Do you have a favorite time of day?

9. If you could give yourself a nickname, what would it be?

10. Who is your favorite author?

11. Which one of the Seven Dwarfs is your favorite?

Good luck, everyone.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012.

: what’s wrong with me :

I have Graves’ disease — there, the cat’s out of the bag. It’s an autoimmune disorder that leads to overactivity of the thyroid. Frankly, I don’t like the sound of Graves’ disease. It sounds grim and menacing and hopeless.

It is none of those things, of course, but it does throw a mighty big wrench in the works. A racing, erratic heartbeat was just the tip of the iceberg, Graves’ also causes anxiety, fatigue, depression, insomnia, irritability, trouble concentrating, and, my favorites, pop eyes and goiters. Think Barbara Bush, who suffers from Graves’ disease.

These days, I’m on thyroid medication, beta blockers for my heart, two kinds of antibiotics, and aspirin therapy. I have a delicate ecosystem here and it’s under heavy assault. Who knows what the fallout’s going to be. The rapid heartbeat doesn’t worry me nearly as much as the irritability and trouble concentrating, I think they caused my chronic blunk (blog funk). Damn thyroid.

Gone are the days when I could focus like a laser. My mind is now afflicted with wanderlust, happy feet. And it’s adios to my good-humored nature, hello, cranky scatterbrain. I don’t like the upheaval of illness nor do I like knowing something  in my body has betrayed me. It seems like a warning, like a shot across my bow. In plain English, I’m completely unnerved.

Is this a harbinger of things to come? What’s next, my gall bladder? See, I like to think I’m made of hollow plastic, like a Barbie doll. No messy organs, no veiny circulatory system, just hollow plastic. This thyroid thing blows that little theory right out of the water. It’s back to the drawing board for an all-new delusion.

Yesterday I had yet another blood test, they’ll use the results to decide how best to proceed in my treatment. They’re deciding between removing my thyroid surgically or destroying it medically or controlling it. That’s my choice, controlling it. Surgery is out, too dangerous. Destroying it seems kind of extreme. It’s a gland, not Osama Bin Laden.

In a way, I feel sorry for my thyroid. My whole life it’s been hard at work, doing whatever thankless job a thyroid does. It never once asked for a vacation or a lunch hour or even a bathroom break. Who wouldn’t go a little nuts, right? I think it deserves some slack.

In other developments, my heart rate was 103, which is down from 110 last week. So things are going in the right direction, that’s promising. I’m also told it could take months to notice any significant improvement. Well, fine, I’m in no hurry. I’ve gone without coherent thinking this long, a few more months won’t matter much.

Look at that, I need to trim my nails.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012.