A Fighter

Mostly I have a hard time understanding how a light like that could be extinguished. In the end it was really only cancer that could have done it; something so cruel and tireless. Old age would have been too feeble a cause and she simply would have gone on living and laughing forever. My mother was a force to be reckoned with, and cancer was the only foe stupid enough to take her on.

I like to believe that she left it panting and broken in its corner of the ring.

It's genetic.

My cat loves to chase my mom and I around the house all the time. Up and down the hallway he stalks us, and every so often, he catches us with his claws. While I just yank my pants leg out of his grip, my mom's thinner pants make her more prone to his attacks than myself. So, naturally, her first reaction whenever he snags her is to wheel around, glare at him and shout, "how would you like it if I bit YOU?! Or better yet, how about I just toss you off the balcony like a flying squirrel? Then you won't chase me anymore!" Mostly this exchange just makes me laugh. But from time to time I like to just let me mom know that following through with her threats is not okay.

This is a 100% genuine sample of a normal, everyday conversation between my mother and myself:

Erin: Try not to kill the kitty cat while I'm at work. No flying squirrels off of the balcony!

Mommie: Too late, I just FedExed Binx up to Colin ... without the box!

Erin: OMG, you totally stapled a packing slip to his tail, didn't you?!

Mommie: Ah, no. That would have been cruel. I superglued bubble wrap to him and taped the packing slip to THAT. DUH!

Erin: Did you at least poke holes in the bubble wrap so he can breathe?! Actually, he'll probably claw a few air holes himself, so no worries!

Mommie: You must really think I'm mean, GEESH. I put a straw through the bubble wrap and just to be sure he is safe marked it THIS SIDE UP!

Erin: Oh whew! A straw is a good idea, he can totally figure out how to suck air through a straw. Bye bye, Binx. Sorry you have to be shipped to death.

Mommie: In best ghetto accent: "Oh no I din...n't, foo, Binx like, he chillin' man! That superglue is fly, stuck that sucka's lips right to the straw. No way he lose it man. Know what I sayin'?"
Back in normal voice, I also left instructions for Binx in 3 languages.
Plus I shipped him overnight express delivery. If he gets a hairball stuck in the straw he can hold his breath that long.

Hello, I've had you on my mind

For hours, there's no doubt
No use wasting time
Hello, by Tristan Prettyman

So, I've toyed with the idea of starting a blog ever since my typography teacher suggested it as a means of overcoming some hideous anxiety about my writing. Then Kami suggested it as a type of newsletter to keep the Six Musketeers in the loop of every one's hectic lives. What results here is a mash-up of the two. For the fistful of you (see: Kami) who read this thing, expect equal parts boring life story and bad creative writing. Feel free to comment on either. Please note that the writings I post here are copied directly from my moleskin, where they were written exactly as I thought them. I haven't edited them, which is part of what I was told to do to help with my squeamishness every time I pick up a pen. We'll see how that goes.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Post-Script: All of my posts (except the writings) will be titled with quotes from various places. If the words are from a song, then there will be a link that points to a download. If they're from a story or other written material, the link will lead you to more info on the source. Sound good?
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Post-Post-Script: I should probably let everyone know what the final tally in my mommie's Adventure of the Great Gangrenous Gallbladder of '08 was. Mommie: 1. Gallbladder: DED.

After the ER doctor sent her home Tuesday night with a cool, "your gallbladder isn't distended -- despite everyone but me being sure it is -- so go home and have fun writhing in pain," her oncologist told her to march back to the hospital. They had been sent strict orders to admit her, what with the trial chemotherapy she was on having a 45874329.6% success rate in DESTROYING patients' gallbladders. Several tests and a wowed surgeon later, and the diagnosis was official: mommie had gangrene. In the (of the?) gallbladder. Sweet. At least, that's what the surgeon said.

Apparently, the guy had never seen such a horrid case of dedness, and was naturally thrilled at the procedure he was about to perform, however simple. Since UCLA is a teaching hospital, he documented the surgery well so that all the little interns could see what happens when a patient is denied a common operation. Repeatedly.

The end result is that mommie comes home tomorrow, sans gallbladder, but feeling much better. Woot!!