Friday, February 25, 2005
And To You I Leave...Melodrama
Rage and I got home to the usual scene on Monday night, the dog is racing around snapping at Boris and Natasha, Boris is meowing incessantly for his treat, Rage is saying "ah, gookie?" certain in the knowledge that I missed the other nine thousand times he told me he wanted a cookie. Anyway, the dog goes out, the cats get treats, the baby gets coat and hat off and then gets his blasted cookie. Now it is time to check the messages. We usually get one from some Russian guy with a truck offering to move us, but today there was a message from my family doctor.
I had an appointment a month ago wherein they leeched me of some fluids and gave me an ECG. They always tell you that if they don't call then assume no news is good news. She was calling. Holy fuck. I tried calling the office back, but they were closed. My message went thusly:
"Uh, hi, this is Lynx, the doctor called and left a message asking that I call her back, so I am. Um, if anyone is still there could you please call me back and let me know why she was calling? 'Cause now I think I'm dying. I mean, I know everyone is dying, but I think I'm dying NOW. So, if anyone is around call me back at home."
No one called back. Then I called my mother. She's the perfect audience for this sort of paranoia because she thinks like I do. If the doctor calls it means your number's up. The great shepherd is calling you back to his holy flock. You're taking the big sleep. Checking into the eternal hotel. She informed me that she would not be able to sleep until she knew what was wrong with me. I immediately felt better. It's always nice to have someone else overreact with you. I couldn't dwell on this, though, 'cause there were many other people to shore up support with.
Some of you might be wondering what Rage was doing while I was on the phone planning my funeral. I have no idea, but it's possible he created a concerto or two.
I also called the boy's mother. Not just to tell her I was likely dying, but also to see how her day was. He later told me that she hesitantly suggested I might want to take it down a thousand. Clearly not a subscriber to my and my mother's school of potential news.
Before everyone automatically assumes I'm the human equivalent of Eeyore, I'd like to remind you all that I do the same thing with possible good news. Remember that killer job I applied for with the government? Yeah. I was spending my new paycheque and redecorating my house the same day I sent my application in, so the overreacting goes both ways.
I heard nothing back that night from my doctor, and while I was in bed I thought about how my decline in health would progress. I actually started to cry thinking about all the milestones of Rage's life I'd miss, and the things I wouldn't get to do. I wondered who the boy would love after me. I worried about all the debt I'd be leaving my parents to deal with and whether that would cripple them financially.
I couldn't get through to the doctor's office in the morning and left another sketchbag message for them. I wonder why they wouldn't want to call back right away? I told all the girls in the office my tale of woe and my boss looked at me and said, "No, you can tell when people are sick. They look sick. You, you don't look sick." Well, there you have it. So I spent the morning mooning away and making my little plans.
All of this for some jumped up female complaint she'd been calling about for a month and was thinking of just forgetting about 'cause it really wasn't a big deal.
The children are right to laugh at me.
Rage and I got home to the usual scene on Monday night, the dog is racing around snapping at Boris and Natasha, Boris is meowing incessantly for his treat, Rage is saying "ah, gookie?" certain in the knowledge that I missed the other nine thousand times he told me he wanted a cookie. Anyway, the dog goes out, the cats get treats, the baby gets coat and hat off and then gets his blasted cookie. Now it is time to check the messages. We usually get one from some Russian guy with a truck offering to move us, but today there was a message from my family doctor.
I had an appointment a month ago wherein they leeched me of some fluids and gave me an ECG. They always tell you that if they don't call then assume no news is good news. She was calling. Holy fuck. I tried calling the office back, but they were closed. My message went thusly:
"Uh, hi, this is Lynx, the doctor called and left a message asking that I call her back, so I am. Um, if anyone is still there could you please call me back and let me know why she was calling? 'Cause now I think I'm dying. I mean, I know everyone is dying, but I think I'm dying NOW. So, if anyone is around call me back at home."
No one called back. Then I called my mother. She's the perfect audience for this sort of paranoia because she thinks like I do. If the doctor calls it means your number's up. The great shepherd is calling you back to his holy flock. You're taking the big sleep. Checking into the eternal hotel. She informed me that she would not be able to sleep until she knew what was wrong with me. I immediately felt better. It's always nice to have someone else overreact with you. I couldn't dwell on this, though, 'cause there were many other people to shore up support with.
Some of you might be wondering what Rage was doing while I was on the phone planning my funeral. I have no idea, but it's possible he created a concerto or two.
I also called the boy's mother. Not just to tell her I was likely dying, but also to see how her day was. He later told me that she hesitantly suggested I might want to take it down a thousand. Clearly not a subscriber to my and my mother's school of potential news.
Before everyone automatically assumes I'm the human equivalent of Eeyore, I'd like to remind you all that I do the same thing with possible good news. Remember that killer job I applied for with the government? Yeah. I was spending my new paycheque and redecorating my house the same day I sent my application in, so the overreacting goes both ways.
I heard nothing back that night from my doctor, and while I was in bed I thought about how my decline in health would progress. I actually started to cry thinking about all the milestones of Rage's life I'd miss, and the things I wouldn't get to do. I wondered who the boy would love after me. I worried about all the debt I'd be leaving my parents to deal with and whether that would cripple them financially.
I couldn't get through to the doctor's office in the morning and left another sketchbag message for them. I wonder why they wouldn't want to call back right away? I told all the girls in the office my tale of woe and my boss looked at me and said, "No, you can tell when people are sick. They look sick. You, you don't look sick." Well, there you have it. So I spent the morning mooning away and making my little plans.
All of this for some jumped up female complaint she'd been calling about for a month and was thinking of just forgetting about 'cause it really wasn't a big deal.
The children are right to laugh at me.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Somebody Lied to You
I don't pretend to be any sort of music officianado, but there are some rules even the most musically-challenged can understand. My tastes tend to run far and wide; I'm not specifically into anything but love bits and pieces of all. I guess the word we're looking for is ecclectic. If I can sing along with it and Mariah Carey isn't the artist, then I'm more or less happy.
Recently I've rediscovered a love of eighties hair bands and classic rock that has me a little worried. I'm not sure when exactly this happened, but now when Boston's "More than a Feeling" comes on I rock out a little. The boy and I were driving and having an appropriate and sophisticated adult conversation when I started squealing and ordering him to turn up the radio 'cause Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine" had come on the radio. I catch myself saying "all RIGHT!" when Platinum Blonde comes on the radio.
If only this were the only music felony I was guilty of. Back in early highschool I went with my parents to see two CHUM Rockin' Back to the Sixties concerts. As geeky as that in itself sounds, they were a lot of fun. However, I didn't just go out of idle curiosity or 'cause my parents made me. Nope, I had a reason to be there. The first year the reason was Micky Dolenz, the second Davy Jones. I actually wrote in my diary after the first concert that when I saw Micky Dolenz, who does look like an ugly monkey, that "words can't describe how I felt." I hopped on the Monkees' bandwagon a little late, but I did hop on. I watched the show and or taped it every night it was on Much Music. I bought their tapes, and (this is the crowning touch) I belonged to a (maybe the) Monkees' fanzine. That's right. I subscribed for one year to Monkee Business Fanzine.
This was a predictible piece of drivel and the people contributing were equally as sad and pathetic as I must have been. I remember when I woke from my reverie and realized what a freak I was becoming and how bizarre those I had aligned myself with were. I read an article in which a woman was describing having gone to a concert that some members of the Monkees were performing at. She was writing about what a beautiful day it had been for this outdoor event when she penned "God must have been a Monkees fan." I stopped reading the magazine.
All of this is apropos of what I heard on the radio on my way home from meeting Big M two Fridays ago. It was nineish, so stations were starting their live to air programs from various clubs. This is when I heard the extended dance remix someone had done of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I may not know much, and I may have bad taste, but I know how wrong this is. Nirvana wasn't about a killer dance beat or clubbing, it was about providing an angry self-indulgent druggie a forum for that anger. Don't turn their shit into a club mix.
I like Nirvana, they appeal to me on the level of how much I enjoy angry alternative music where people scream and say inappropriate things. Nirvana fit right in, remember "Rape me"? There are some songs, and some groups you just can't make dance remixes for. It's inappropiate. I feel about this the same way G and I felt the first time I heard Faith Hill doing "Piece of My Heart." I called G right away (we were in grade 10 or 11).
Lynx: Hey, are you watching CMT?
G: Are you serious? Of course not.
Lynx: Turn it to CMT, but brace yourself.
G: Okay, one sec.
Silence
Lynx: Are you watching?
Silence
Lynx: G?
G: She is evil. Evil. And she must be stopped. Janice is rolling in her grave.
Lynx: So is Willie Nelson, he wrote it I think.
G: He's not dead
Lynx: Oh, well as my grandfather used to say 'I haven't seen him in awhile.'
G: Fair enough. This is horrible. This is awful. THIS IS WRONG FOR SO MANY REASONS. SHE'S TURNED THIS SONG PERKY. THAT BITCH!!
Or at least that's how I like to remember the call.
I don't pretend to be any sort of music officianado, but there are some rules even the most musically-challenged can understand. My tastes tend to run far and wide; I'm not specifically into anything but love bits and pieces of all. I guess the word we're looking for is ecclectic. If I can sing along with it and Mariah Carey isn't the artist, then I'm more or less happy.
Recently I've rediscovered a love of eighties hair bands and classic rock that has me a little worried. I'm not sure when exactly this happened, but now when Boston's "More than a Feeling" comes on I rock out a little. The boy and I were driving and having an appropriate and sophisticated adult conversation when I started squealing and ordering him to turn up the radio 'cause Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine" had come on the radio. I catch myself saying "all RIGHT!" when Platinum Blonde comes on the radio.
If only this were the only music felony I was guilty of. Back in early highschool I went with my parents to see two CHUM Rockin' Back to the Sixties concerts. As geeky as that in itself sounds, they were a lot of fun. However, I didn't just go out of idle curiosity or 'cause my parents made me. Nope, I had a reason to be there. The first year the reason was Micky Dolenz, the second Davy Jones. I actually wrote in my diary after the first concert that when I saw Micky Dolenz, who does look like an ugly monkey, that "words can't describe how I felt." I hopped on the Monkees' bandwagon a little late, but I did hop on. I watched the show and or taped it every night it was on Much Music. I bought their tapes, and (this is the crowning touch) I belonged to a (maybe the) Monkees' fanzine. That's right. I subscribed for one year to Monkee Business Fanzine.
This was a predictible piece of drivel and the people contributing were equally as sad and pathetic as I must have been. I remember when I woke from my reverie and realized what a freak I was becoming and how bizarre those I had aligned myself with were. I read an article in which a woman was describing having gone to a concert that some members of the Monkees were performing at. She was writing about what a beautiful day it had been for this outdoor event when she penned "God must have been a Monkees fan." I stopped reading the magazine.
All of this is apropos of what I heard on the radio on my way home from meeting Big M two Fridays ago. It was nineish, so stations were starting their live to air programs from various clubs. This is when I heard the extended dance remix someone had done of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I may not know much, and I may have bad taste, but I know how wrong this is. Nirvana wasn't about a killer dance beat or clubbing, it was about providing an angry self-indulgent druggie a forum for that anger. Don't turn their shit into a club mix.
I like Nirvana, they appeal to me on the level of how much I enjoy angry alternative music where people scream and say inappropriate things. Nirvana fit right in, remember "Rape me"? There are some songs, and some groups you just can't make dance remixes for. It's inappropiate. I feel about this the same way G and I felt the first time I heard Faith Hill doing "Piece of My Heart." I called G right away (we were in grade 10 or 11).
Lynx: Hey, are you watching CMT?
G: Are you serious? Of course not.
Lynx: Turn it to CMT, but brace yourself.
G: Okay, one sec.
Silence
Lynx: Are you watching?
Silence
Lynx: G?
G: She is evil. Evil. And she must be stopped. Janice is rolling in her grave.
Lynx: So is Willie Nelson, he wrote it I think.
G: He's not dead
Lynx: Oh, well as my grandfather used to say 'I haven't seen him in awhile.'
G: Fair enough. This is horrible. This is awful. THIS IS WRONG FOR SO MANY REASONS. SHE'S TURNED THIS SONG PERKY. THAT BITCH!!
Or at least that's how I like to remember the call.
