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Becky's Journal
Sometimes I look at my body, and it feels like... not quite a roadmap, because the symbols don't tell anyone where to go, but more of a storybook. Each little mark is a reminder, the key to a story, a series of memories. The commas around my mouth, mostly hidden when I smile, from the Saint Bernard who tried to eat my face. The pale diagonal line across my sternum from the cat who got his hind foot stuck in the V-neck of my scrub top, before I finally started having my mother-in-law custom-make my scrubs to better fit a skinny, flat-chested girl. The tiny L-shaped scar at the base of my left index finger, dating back to when I was four years old and my neighbor's dog decided to try to share my bread and jam, starting me on a lifelong road of getting marked up by animals. I know them all, and even when I hate them, I love them, because they're part of me and part of my story.
And I look at the red, burned skin on the palms of my hands, and the blisters on my fingertips, and maybe it's just the Ultram talking - without it, I wouldn't be able to type right now, God knows - but I can't help but wonder what these scars will look like, and think about how, someday, they'll be proud badges of this story, too.
( Hidden, because this is a long one..... )
Current mood:
thoughtful.Current music: 'Buffet Night,' Paul and Storm.
So, how's your weekend been so far?
Me, I've been kind of busy, I guess. Rehearsed at home for a show that'll be happening in a couple of weeks, went out dancing, had lunch with a friend, went for a pretty car ride up a long corridor of trees with gorgeous leaves, went skydiving....
Yep.
Skydiving.
It was amazing.
Words can't describe the feeling of excitement and awe and spendor and delight and just sheer amazingness of it. I'd never done anything like it before, and so it was a tandem jump - me strapped to a much more experienced skydiver. Getting ready was the worst part; not in that it was scary at all, but in that the waiting was long and dull, and when we were finally getting geared up, there was much teasing by my jump partner about the fact that I was, in fact, almost too small to fit into the jump harness. But when we finally got jumpsuited and harnessed and helmeted and goggled and stuffed into the plane....
Wow. Just wow.
I kept thinking that I would be afraid, but I never quite made it there. I thought that when the door of the plane opened, I'd be afraid - but I wasn't. It felt like any other door. I thought that when we stood on the threshhold, ready to jump, I'd be afraid - but it was too fast, and too exciting. I thought that when we were plummeting in free fall I'd be afraid, but... all it was was awesome. (Did I mention that, since we weren't being videotaped, my jump partner let us do a triple flip on the way out of the plane? Awesome.) The rushing air and the utter freedom and the power and the air all around you.... I can understand how it can be utterly addictive.
And then the parachute opened, and suddenly we were just floating, and drifting gently through the sky. We played around a little, zooming in circles and then swinging lazily back and forth, just delighting in being up so high.
It ended way the heck too soon. And I'll admit it wasn't entirely perfect - as much as I tried to get my feet up for the landing, something went a little funny and I twisted my ankle, so I'm on sofa rest today trying to get it back in good shape before rehearsal tomorrow. But even with that, it was still one of the most fabulous experiences of my life.
I can't wait to do it again.....
Current mood:
excited.Current music: bacon sizzling in the kitchen.
I had a client lay some serious smackdown on me the other day....
It was, overall, a fairly normal appointment. The owner brought in their dog, for some standard concern that I can't remember, and isn't really relevant to the story. They also brought their adorable little daughter, who looked to be around 3 1/2-4 years old. Said daughter was adorable in every way, and had, in turn, brought a little toy carrier with a little stuffed dog inside.
I love little kids, and I love having them in the exam room, especially when they're sweet and well-behaved, and this one was. I commented on her bringing her puppy just like her parent, and she smiled at me, and proceeded to pay very close attention as I did my exam and talked to the owner and went over diagnostic options and made a plan.
As I turned away from the exam table she did too, and hurried over to her little plastic carrier, taking out the stuffed dog. While I'd had a fairly busy morning, I had a few extra minutes before my next appointment, so I asked her if her puppy needed a checkup, too.
And this adorable, dimpled, pre-preschool-aged toddler looked up at me with an expression of surprise and long-suffering patience the likes of which I've never seen on someone under forty and said, slowly and clearly, 'It's not a real dog.....'
I thank all the powers that be that I was already heading out of the room, because it meant that I was able to bite my lip and hold my laughter until the door was shut behind me.....
Current mood:
amused.Current music: 'Let Nothing Come Between You,' Warren Zevon.
There is... a hell of a lot going on in my life right now. Stuff that I should be writing about, mostly to remind myself when I look back at this four years from now, but at the same time, stuff that I feel silly writing about because it's so mundane and insignificant that I can't imagine that anyone would want to read it.
I've got a refrigerator full of apples, that are slowly being turned into pie and applesauce and cake and, if I get ambitious, turnovers and half a dozen other things. I'm rehearsing for a show with the Boston Babydolls, and realizing that I love performing with my new snake - he's a much more active partner than Orpheus ever was, bless his dear departed scaly self. We've been in the new house for a year, and finally got a couple more boxes unpacked and a few pieces of art on the walls. I'm working on screwing my head on straight, and planning for holidays, and stuff like that.
Most of all, though, when I think about sitting down and actually recording stuff here, the one thing that sticks in my mind the most is just how gorgeous this time of year is, and how lucky I am to live where I do. This is the season where not only do I not mind my typical hour-long commutes, I kind of look forward to them. Driving along the highway in the early morning, with the sun fresh over the horizon, the trees glow like fire and gemstones and life and magic, and watching them change day by day, watching the waves of color wash over them, feels like my reward for waking up and getting out the door and going to work.
Before too long they'll all be bare, and I'll be sighing sadly at the stark black branches poking the sky, and not too long after that it'll be too dark on my morning drive to really notice much of any details. But for the next few weeks, New England really is the most glorious place in the world to be....
Current mood:
calm.Current music: 'I Put A Spell On You,' Nina Simone.
The Original Party Trolley Of Boston is parked just across the street from my house. Apparently my neighbor is turning 40, and has decided to celebrate in the shiniest way possible.
The entire street is flashing blue and red. There are disco balls, bubble machines, smoke machines, swirling lights, flashing lights, bouncing lights, and a DJ in a silver holographic jacket. My windows are closed, and I can still hear the 80's music blaring.
My husband and I went outside to investigate, and were greeted by the cheeriest horde of overage drunken celebrators I have ever encountered, and invited to join the party. I think my entertainment for the night has been established.....
Current mood:
amused.Current music: 'Get Down On It,' Kool & The Gang.
The leaves are turning pretty colors, I'm contemplating swapping out my lightweight summer quilt (made for me by a dear friend) for my heavy winter quilt (made for me by yet another dear friend - have I mentioned that I have the best friends in the world?), and my refrigerator is full of apples. The holiday season is sneaking ever closer.
This year, my better half and I are contemplating going away for the holidays. Our families are scattered to the four winds, and we'll be getting together with my mom (the only immediate family member even vaguely nearby) for Thanksgiving, so we don't have any major obligations to meet for Xmas time. And between my extremely poor tolerance for dark and cold and the fact that we haven't had an actual go-away-and-relax vacation in years, this sounds like a good chance to escape, at least briefly.
There's just one problem - I know nothing about going away on vacation. When I grew up, a big-deal family vacation was a few hours' drive to Pennsylvania, to go to the zoo and the museum, for a day or two at the most. We didn't really *go* anywhere, and I've never been anywhere, so I don't have much experience to base decisions on.
So. We have a week, give or take. We're not wealthy, but we've got enough funds saved up for a modestly nice trip (Hawaii no; Disney maybe). I just want to go somewhere warm - not necessarily tropical, but nicer than Boston in December.
I bow to those with more varied experience - where should we go? Any suggestions?
Edited to add: honestly, I have no interest in going to Disney World right now. I've been there fairly recently, and while it's fun, I'd rather get some actual variety in my travel. I was just using it as an example of the amount of vacation we can afford....
Current mood:
curious.Current music: gossip in the staff room.
In among the many events of my past busy weekend of busy-ness was a trip to see Cirque du Soleil. To be specific, this was my first trip to see them.
In the past, I'll admit that I've avoided Cirque. The few bits and pieces of their performances that I'd caught during PBS pledge drives had looked like overly-stylized, slow-paced acrobatics and pretentious sad clowns. (I despise sad clowns. They just... irk me, for some reason I can't quite describe.) Between that and the fact that so many of my friends seemed just *TOO* enthusiastic about them, I just did my best to stay the heck away. To borrow a turn of phrase from a friend, they'd been browncoated for me.
But last week I got an email from a good friend asking me if I'd care to join her and see them, since she had a spare ticket. And mostly because I wanted to spend an evening with the friend, and partly because she's a fellow dancer and if she thought they were worth watching I trusted her opinion, I decided to go.
I am hooked. Hooked, lined, sinkered, and as many other words as you can think of to describe being well and truly in love with this performance. From the moment the first performer stepped out onto the stage, through the inhumanly expressive body language of the Lead Player and the creepy, unnatural contortionists and the incredibly crass (and not sad) clowns until the last light went out, they stole my heart. I have not been this.... delighted by something in a long, long time.
Days later, now, I'm still smiling when I think about it. So I owe a giant thank-you to my friend, without whom I never would have had this chance to fall in love, and an apology to Cirque du Soleil and all its fans for not giving it a chance sooner. And, likely, an apology to my bank account, since I foresee many ticket purchases in my future....
Current mood:
good.
I have, in my hot little hands, what is quite possibly the worst book ever written. It is an atrocity against God and man, and it is all mine, mine, mine.
A few days ago I was scheduled to work a fairly long shift at a clinic I haven't had much experience with, and when I arrived there I was informed that I had a grand total of three appointments to fill my entire day. I tried to be good. I helped take care of the hospital cat, looked for charts to call back, and offered to help in any way possible. Then I read the medical journal I had brought with me. Then I played with their parrot for a while.
Eventually, I broke down and took out the novel I carry with me to read on my rare lunch breaks - only to realize that I had less than 40 pages left to read. I can, when I'm utterly engrossed in an author's wordsmithing, linger over a good story - read it slowly, savoring every phrase. But I cannot, even under the best circumstances, stretch 40 pages of Christopher Moore to fill seven hours. In this case, I couldn't even stretch it until lunch.
Luckily, there was a CVS next door to the clinic, and I was given permission to go out and kill time offsite. No problem, I thought. CVS has a book section; while it's mostly best-seller junk I should be able to find something by Stephen King or Laurel K. Hamilton that'll at least carry me through until the end of the day.
You'd think so, right?
You'd be wrong. What I found was row after row of imitation Tom Clancy, interspersed with atrocious romance novels with titles like 'Passion's Pirate' and 'Love's Torrid Tapestry,' everything Jude Devereaux ever wrote, and.... IT.
IT happens to be 'Rhett Butler's People,' the authorized companion to 'Gone With the Wind' that retells the whole story from Rhett's point of view. Including the story of his harsh, misunderstood father, his rebellious and independent sister, and his best friend, the son of freed slaves, who (in the author's own words) "understood young Rhett like noone else."
Yes, true friends and readers, I am now the proud owner of what promises to be 687 pages of 'Gone With the Wind' slashfic. My horror at the mere existence of this book was matched only by my horror at the realization that I absolutely had to buy it, and read it, if only to know just what the heck the author was doing to my beloved characters.
It's almost as bad as I had feared. True, the levels of suckitude that it *could* achieve are much greater than what it has reached so far (given that I'm only halfway through), but... it's bad. Maybe even worse than 'Scarlett' (the authorized sequel, which I am ashamed to admit that I also read, for about the same reasons). There's a gratuitous sister, a gratuitous love trapezoid with the sister and her best friend that is a cheap knockoff of the Melanie-Ashley-Scarlett love plot, and several manufactured scenes between Rhett and Scarlett that NEVER HAPPENED, DAMNIT!
But worst of all is the author's need to explain and justify Rhett Butler, to convince the reader that Rhett is, in fact, deep down inside, a sensitive, caring, kind man who loves birdwatching and long walks in the sunset and who is truly just seeking to nurture the little boy inside him who never got the love he wanted from his father. Emo Rhett is saaaad.
This is so wrong that reading those sections almost made my eyes bleed. Rhett Butler needs no explanation, and he does not need a damaged inner child. Part of what makes him such a wonderful character is that he is an unabashed scoundrel. He is strong and passionate and self-aware and the vast and overwhelming majority of his appeal comes from those traits, and the thought of him crying into his best friend's shoulder about how he only ever wanted to be loved just.... bleah. It's almost enough to keep me from noticing the author's subtle attempts to make over Scarlett as a witty, intellectual yet demure gentlewoman.
Atrocity. Slander. And I can't stop reading it....
I think I may need to call in sick to work tomorrow, just so I can finish it, and then watch the One True Movie to get the taste out of my mouth. I just pray to all the Powers That Be that they never feel the need to remake that.....
Edited to add: Page 355 - gratuitous appearance of Frank and Jesse James. This book may well be the death of me. It is bad, and I must punish it.
Current mood:
discontent.Current music: DDR music in the background.
For the past few months, I've been working the 12pm-8pm shift on Mondays at one particular clinic.
This is, quite possibly, the platonic ideal of the Bad Shift. Coming in at noon means I'm getting there right as the morning rush is coming to a peak. Surgeries are still going on, any sick animal that was seen during the morning is starting to get worked up, and the morning doctor's office visits are usually still in progress as my afternoon appointments start.
And because it's Monday, it's busy. Everything that went wrong over the weekend needs to be seen RIGHT NOW. As the day goes on, it just gets worse, peaking around 5-7pm. As soon as everyone gets home from work, they want to be seen. And since Monday is also our only late night, the schedule fills up in advance. On top of this, most of the staff goes home at 5pm, leaving me with a skeleton crew to handle the onrush of sick animals, people picking up medicine or taking home animals that were here for surgery, and phone calls.
However, because the staff here is amazing, and because apparently the universe has decided that I need a little bit of a break every once in a while, there is a Monday Night Blessing to go with the Monday Night Curse, for those of us who soldier through to the end of the night. For the past 5 or 6 weeks, my last appointment on Mondays has always managed to be New Puppy Vaccines.
New puppies are, as far as I can tell, the best thing about being a veterinarian. They're always cute and happy and sweet and fun, and the clients are almost always delighted to have such a wonderful little bundle of love in their lives, and it's a chance to teach, and help - appointments like that are always delightful. But coming at the end of a long, hectic, busy, awkward, frustrating day.... it's the light at the end of the tunnel that reminds me why I do this.
No matter how bad it may get sometimes, I really do love my job....
Current mood:
good.Current music: 'Come On A My House,' Rosemary Clooney.
...or, 'Thank God We're Married To Each Other, Because I'm Pretty Sure Either One Of Us Would Drive Anyone Normal Insane.'
(Setting: Our kitchen, this morning. I'm puttering around making breakfast while my husband, bless his heart, is making sandwiches for lunch. Our cat is dancing around him, yowling and trying to paw at the counter.)
Him: Go away, kitty. It's bologna. Not cat food.
Me: I dunno - I think bologna might be a cat's natural prey.
Him: Oh, certainly. Stalking the wild bologna across the American prairie, where the deer and the antelope play.
Me: Well, it's a moot point, anyway - I think they're extinct in the wild. All you can get is farm-raised bologna, anymore.
Him: That's okay, though. The wild stuff was incredibly gamey and tough, and the things you had to do to it to make it edible were pretty unspeakable.
Me: Though I think there are one or two herds still out there - only Native Americans are allowed to hunt them, though.
Him: It's part of their cultural heritage, I suppose.
Me: The only problem is that it's easy to mistake them for feral herds of pimento loaf.
Him: Ooh, yeah, that's just bad for everyone involved....
Current mood:
amused.Current music: beagles barking in the kennel.