Things like this make me happy.
I realize that I am, statistically, an outlier in many respects. I’m vegan, obviously; I’m rather leftist and living in the not-really-leftist-at-all South; I’m a single person in a world awash with couples; I drive a fuel-efficient diesel subcompact in a world of gasoline-driven SUVs; I am a recycling nazi in what is still a largely throwaway society. I tend to think of myself as normal, but when pressed I have to admit that I am not really representative of the views, positions, or attitudes of most of my species-mates.
Sometimes, though, it’s hard not to gawp at how, um, different some people’s opinions are. (Aren’t you proud of me for not swearing in that sentence? If not, read on.)
Case in point: the books talked about in this article (via the always-engaging Crooked House). Disclaimer: I have not read the actual books in question. This post is based on the article and information on the author’s Web site.
Urgh. Pro-hunting propaganda for children (to counteract the “literally dozens of anti-hunting themed children’s books on the market today”; I’m not really up on kids’ lit, but “literally dozens,” even if accurate, doesn’t sound like a whole bunch o’ books to me in the whole marketplace.) One hopes, though, that the choice of victims (one of the Three Bears? Bambi’s dad?) would make kids think beyond just the words on the page and remember that there’s another side to the story.
According to the article, “Jacobs said people who fear guns — and by extension do not approve of hunting — are missing some information. ” Um, yeah — because that’s why I disapprove of hunting: I’m a big weenie who’s too ignorant to know not to be afraid of guns. It’s not the killing and maiming in the name of fun, or even “hunting with a purpose” (apparently, that would be killing one of the Bears for fur and ursine sausages), that I find disturbing; it’s the fact that guns are scaaaary.
Please excuse me for a moment. I was rolling my eyes, and I think I pulled an eye muscle. Ouch.
The Web site selling the books (link is in the article) is also scary — probably because all the cartoon guns on the book covers are unnerving me; that must be it. “Many liberal school teachers in this country are against hunting and can have a persuasive effect on youth. . . . [The books portray] realistic hunting and fishing adventures in a positive manner. These stories will have a beneficial effect on children, and they are a way to reach kids, that have never been introduced to the hunting sports.” Um, yeah. (My editorial side would like to point out the lovely unnecessary comma there in the last sentence, and the way the text refers to kids “that” rather than kids “who,” as one might say if they were people or something. Sorry. Using “that” in reference to thinking beings of whatever age just gets up my nose.)
What’s just about as alarming is the reading-level estimate of “approximate 2nd-3rd grade reading level. Recommended reading ages start at 3-4 years old (if you are willing to read to your child) to 12-13 years of age.” Okay, firstly if you are willing? As far as I’m concerned, if you have a kid and don’t read to him or her in some form or fashion practically from birth, or at least as soon as you’ve recovered from the birth and have gotten enough sleep to be able to focus on the page (which I do understand can take a considerable time), and you yourself are not illiterate, then we need to have a talk.
I say that, of course, in my august authority as Someone Who Does Not Have Kids Herself, although I am definitely Someone Who Reads to Her Dogs Quite Regularly and Is Blithely Ignored by Both of Them. What I know, in a hands-on sense, of actual parenting would not fill a thimble. However, I do believe that having kids entails the responsibility to read to them as part of the job, the same as feeding them and clothing them. It’s an important job, and worth doing properly. “Willing” shouldn’t enter into it.
Granted, that statement says something more about the books’ intended audience than about the books themselves — the books apparently grew out of the author’s story-telling tradition with his daughter, so at least he read to her — but that phrase just incensed me.
Secondly, a 12- to 13-year-old actually reading something written at a 2nd- to 3rd-grade reading level? Way to aim high, dudes; just don’t try doing a book report on something you got out of the kiddie section of the library, or your “liberal school teacher” will rake your lazy butt over the coals. Is our public educational system really such a mess that kids in — what, that’s junior high school? 7th, or 8th grade? I’m too old to remember these things — would actuallly be entertained by reading stuff written for kids in early to middle elementary school? (Again, that’s addressing the probable intended audience, not the books themselves, and in today’s economy I can’t really blame indie entrepreneurs for trying to maximize their appeal in order to survive. It just seems rather unrealistic, and a sad comment on expectations in our society. Maybe it’s just me, though.)
People are, indeed, very strange. In a Venn diagram of “normality,” my perceptions (i.e., causing pain and death for fun = bad; reading at at least your grade level = good) may not overlap at all with other people’s notions. Probably it’s good to be reminded of that every so often, and to remember those wise and calming words attributed to Voltaire.
. . . or, judging from the labels in the thrift stores, Blazerville. (Blazer? Really? Huh. That’s a little like something Wally Cleaver might’ve worn with a diagonally striped tie, but whatever.) I wound up going to two different places, and found four potential candidates, all in that slightly weird velvet they also use to upholster sofas.
Unfortunately, the color was questionable for two of them (brown, whereas the other two were either plummy wine or a vaguely Ford Prefect-y black with silver stripes [a la the 1980s TV version of HHGttG, not the more recent movie version with Stephen Fry narrating; explanatory link for Mark and other nongeeks explaining what the smeg I'm talking about is here]). And, of course, none of them fit properly: either I couldn’t raise my arms parallel to the floor, or they were so big and floppy they resembled sacks with pockets. So, no joy. We are joy-free. We are not at home to Mr. Joy, and we do not hear him knocking.
I am now toying with the notion of sewing my own gorram jacket, or blazer, or lightweight outer clothing for the upper half of my body. Unfortunately, I haven’t a clue where to find interesting fabrics I’d actually want to wear: JoAnn’s tends to have, well, mostly crap, and I start to itch shortly after I walk into one of their stores. Other crafty sources online seem to tend more toward cheerful, colorful prints, and I can’t say that I really see myself putting in the effort to make a jacket out of, say, this fabric and wearing it more than once, for the shock value. (Not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that fabric. Honestly, I think it might be kind of interesting in a strange way as a lining for a purse — just not as anything that’s constantly on display. It’s way too . . . perky.)
Of course, even if I found the proper fabric for a jacket, what I’d really want before even starting it is a dressmaker’s dummy for easier tailoring. Given that I’m not about to spend the money on a real one, and the only way I know to make your own involves mummification in duct tape and a friend to wield the Jaws of Life, that’s probably not something likely to show up in my flat any time soon.
Besides, where would I put it? I’ve cleared out some donations stuff that had been languishing for years, but I still have too much stuff and too little space. No duct-tape dummy for me until the entire flat is decluttered, organized, and cleaned thoroughly.
(I suppose I could just knit this cardie and accomplish both the layering garment and some decluttering in one fell swoop. The thing is, my track record at accomplishing sweaters is not of the best, and though I plan to make that sweater, I’d like something I can wear sometime this year, too.)
I really miss having the time during the week to cook. Getting home at 6:30 or so means that, after I play with the dogs, take them for a quick walk and airing, find wherever Nigel’s had an accident and then mop up, and prepare dinner for Moliere and Nigel (a particularly time-consuming feat now, given that there are eight different meds and supplements that need to be sprinkled, mortar-and-pestled, and/or squirted into his food), it’s easily 7:15 before I can even think of starting to prepare my own dinner. This means I eat a lot of sandwiches, or a microwaved potato with broccoli.
This weekend, at least, I managed to do a bit of advance preparation, so at least I can reheat leftovers, or simply finish off something that’s almost fully prepared. I’ve got the broccoli slaw and one remaining chickpea cutlet, uncooked; there’s a pot of mustard greens and kale going (using the collard greens recipe from the Grit Cookbook, which was recommended by Cindy and Darren); there’s probably a cup of leftover nooch gravy from the same source, which would be good on grains, or the chickpea cutlet, or just licked from a spoon. I’ve even got the ingredients for some salads, kind of. There’s marinated tofu from Trader Joe’s, and plain tofu soaking up the “breast of tofu” marinade from Nonna’s Italian Kitchen, for easy broiling later on. There’s fruit in the fridge, and even presliced cucumbers (I find that, if I leave them whole, I tend to hoard the cucumbers for a later treat, until they turn to goo).
Thus, with a bit of luck, I won’t starve this week, or have to live off too much prefab stuff. (That’s assuming I remember actually to bring food with me for lunches, which is at best a 50/50 shot.) My only other real accomplishment this weekend has been doing my taxes, but, hey, at least that’s out of the way.
Now, if I can just remember where the thrift store is in Decatur, I want to go shopping. For some reason, I’ve been craving a layering-type lightweight jacket, possibly in corduroy. (Do they even make black corduroy jackets?) I’m not sure whence this craving came, but thrifting seems like the cheapest way to satisfy the urge — and despite the tax return that should be coming in the near future, I am still in enough vet-bill-related debt that I don’t want to spend more money that necessary.
Oh, and a plane ticket to London for delivery would be a nice finishing touch to the present. . . .
Just saying.
Apparently it was a little soon to wear jeans, or anything with an inelastic waistband, because now the internal bits under my right ribcage keep poking me if I move wrong, or breathe deeply, or go down the stairs too quickly. Apparently the various bits are still getting accustomed to their suddenly roomier accommodations, or possibly the liver and pancreas etc. are lonely and searching for their lost friend, Detritus the Gallbladder. (Not that one would anthropomorphize one’s own organs, of course.) Still, it could be worse — really, it does just kind of feel as if someone’s just poked me with their elbow, but on the inside — and I continue to be generally on the mend. Happily, I seem to be avoiding the worst of the possible side effects forecast, and the fact that I simply could not stand the great wodge of Dermabond in my belly button any longer and ripped it out like a maddeningly itchy but transparent scab a couple of days ago did not lead to my wounds splitting open and hemorrhaging all over the place. So, in general, it’s a yay.
In other news, I’m plowing through the second of a pair of socks destined, if they fit, for my dad, and for my mom if they’re too small for him. They’re toe-up, which I kind of like (no picking up stitches along the heel flap!), but it still feels weird to me, doing it that way. (And am I the only one who always has tons of yarn left over after completing a pair of socks? Am I not making them long enough? Surely proper socks should go no higher up your leg than where your calf muscle begins, correct?)
Only very limited cooking has been accomplished, though I did make the chickpea cutlets from Vcon yesterday evening, and a broccoli slaw thing today off the package from Trader Joe’s. (Despite its weird-as-fork layout, I have fallen under TJ’s spell. Reasonable prices, interesting specialty items, not-awful labeling of vegan items, and, of course, cheap plonk. They could do better in labeling their own-brand items when they’re vegan — I’ve found quite a few vegan goodies that don’t have the little V, particularly the miniature pita crisps that apparently now own my very soul, if one can judge from the way I snarf them down.) Given that the broccoli slaw was prechopped, it doesn’t count much toward actual non-lazy food prep, but at least the dressing I added was homemade (Caesar’s Wife’s Dressing, from The Garden of Vegan). So . . . it’s not totally cheating, I suppose.
Still mulling over the “Dollhouse” premiere last night. I think the intro scene, particularly with the Endless Motorcyles of Eternity, could have been trimmed a bit, but so far I think my vote is an overall “yes, please; may I have some more?” Joss Whedon is, of course, one of my gods, and Eliza Dushku is great; it’s just that brand-new shows rarely bowl me over completely upon first viewing. Particularly pilots: there’s just so much back story to introduce, or so much viewer inertia to overcome. Still, I think this one has some definite potential to prod some serious buttock. (Oops, sorry: geekdom genre crossover there for a moment. Quick: I need a non-Pratchetty, pro-Whedon expression of excellence. Perhaps “salty goodness” would do?)
The only other real news is that I’ve totally caved and signed up for Twitter. This was primarily so I could get updates on posts from Stephen Fry and Neil Gaiman (because, as my prolonged episodes of hiding from the blog make clear, I’m just so social that I must communicate constantly with the entire world), but also because I have all these free texts on my phone every month that go unused, and this seemed as reasonable a use as any. I can’t promise that I’ll update as often as either SF or NG, or that my tweets will be anything like as witty, interesting, or clever, but if anyone should care to have a look in, I am (because of the stupid character number limits) preraphaeltpunk on Twitter. (Because of its portability and the draconian character limits, I may actually find it easier to tweet more often than to blog, for which I often feel that I should compose something a bit longer and more coherent than a sentence or two. Or maybe not. At this point, who knows? But I’ve trimmed my thumbnails for less awkward texting, in any event.)
So this is my first day sans gallbladder, which I have decided to call Detritus.* So far, it’s not too bad — though it does twinge pretty sharply every time I do something that involves my abdominal muscles (and you’d be surprised how many things involve your abdominal muscles). The worst thing was actually the dreadful acetone smell from the Dermabond used to seal the incisions; every time I moved yesterday, I’d get this big whiff of what smelled like industrial-strength nail polish remover, and wonder how many brain cells that had just killed off. Thankfully, though, the stink has abated, and now we’re just down to the ouch. (It’s not too bad of an ouch, though, and would be even less of an ouch if I weren’t reserving the heavy-duty painkillers for nighttime because I’m a little scared of them. The prospect of driving a manual transmission is still a little daunting, though, when armed with only some out-of-date aspirin.)
The surgeon told my dad, who had been kind enough to take the day off from work and drive four hours one-way to schlep me around (thanks, dad! you were a lifesaver), that Detritus had been inflamed when they took it out (I was going to link to a page of the Merck manual here, but apparently it doesn’t allow direct links, because three different tries all led to an error page. Bah!). I didn’t get to talk to the surgeon myself — I’ll go back for a checkup in two to three weeks, and ask him then — but it sounds as if Detritus might’ve been working up to spitting out another one of those fun, fun gallstones. Weirdly, though, I hadn’t really been having any noticeable pain — though other people who’ve had cholecystectomies have told me that they only realized after the operation how much better they felt on an ordinary day, so maybe there’s some low-grade discomfort that occurs so frequently, you just accept it as normal, the way low-grade depression sneaks up on you and distorts your perception of the way things should be?
Anyway, I’ve now got three minor incisions on my abdomen, and one rather scarier-looking one in my navel that I’m a little afraid to inspect thoroughly in the mirror. (Don’t worry; I’ll spare you photographs.) As to how all this happened in the first place, I had several risk factors, only one major one being under my control (being overweight; there was little I could do about being female or having a family history of gallstones — on one side of the family, I think four out of six of the women over the last three generations have had their gallbladders removed, counting me).
One minor risk factor that I haven’t seen mentioned very often, but definitely applies to me, is not eating on a regular schedule (something which I know also contributes to the BMI right smack in the middle of the overweight range). I often don’t eat breakfast, a habit exacerbated by the fact that my thyroid meds must be taken at least an hour before eating or two hours after; when I’m stressed, it’s very easy to forget to eat until 3:00 or 4:00 in the afternoon, or later. Apparently, there’s some evidence that fasting for more than 12 hours (e.g., more than overnight) means that the gallbladder doesn’t empty its accumulated bile often enough, which may encourage cholesterol to precipitate out of the bile and form sludge and stones in those who are susceptible. (There’s an article that seems to suggest this at Wiley Interscience, but the site is currently down for maintenance, so I can’t confirm. At the moment, then, the best supporting evidence I can offer is the University of Michigan’s suggestions on preventing gallstones, though they don’t define what exactly a “long period of fasting” is.)
Finally, though I haven’t been able to find this opinion explicitly backed up anywhere in my Web searches, my regular doctor had said that the fact that my hypothyroidism went for so long without being diagnosed, and was so advanced when it finally was, might have exacerbated the gallstone situation. His theory seemed to be similar to the prolonged fasting idea: my metabolism was so slowed down that Detritus didn’t contract very often or very completely, leaving a lot of bile behind to languish and basically cause a ruckus.
So, some of the factors were or should have been under my control, but some of them weren’t. I’d like to think that my veganism over the last four years helped to moderate the effects and speed of progression — dietary intake of cholesterol has been effectively nil, though I’ll admit to hitting the olive oil and grapeseed-oil-based Vegenaise with a fairly large mallet on occasion. Ah, well.
Anyway, I’m still here, though slightly hunched over at the moment. Very lonely, though, because the dogs are boarding at their regular vet this weekend. I feel like crap about that, but I don’t think I could have managed the nearly hourly trips outside that Nigel and his poor kidneys demand these days. I can go up and down the stairs, but not nearly as fast as Nigel likes to head out the door — and the last thing any of us need is for me to be pulled down the stairs by an overenthusiastic or urgent dog jerking on the leash, and probably either breaking something or landing on top of one or both dogs.
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*It seemed vaguely appropriate, although something more sedimentary would probably be more apt, I guess. Anyway, “Detritus” has a nice Pratchetty ring to it, and thus makes me smile.
