Flotsam

I stayed home from work today as a result of a migraine that kept me up most of last night, wishing myself dead. The migraine was the result of Saturday, when my cousin Amy asked about my migraines and I perkily replied “Oh, I hardly ever get them anymore!” I just had to tempt fate, who is always ready to oblige, that slut. But I think I made excellent use of my day off. Here is what I did:

1. Cleaned bathroom
2. Started a P.G. Wodehouse I have never read before (!!!) (Damsel in Distress)
3. Went to Target and humiliated teenaged pharmacy attendant
[“What was the prescription for?”
“Um, I think it’s called ‘Errin?’”
“But what’s the name of the medicine?”
“It’s generic for Micronor”
(Blank look)
“It’s a Progestin. Birth Control.”
“Oh! Umm,…errr…” (drops pen) “Great, twenty minutes.”]
4. Made dreamy, delicious, divine corn and crabmeat chowder (with bacon…oh god, it was good)
5. Finished bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, because wine doesn’t keep forever and to Waste is Sin

Now I am here with you, and may I just say, you Internets have been better than bacon-wrapped scallops, what with your emails and comments and such. I appreciate it more than you know (which sounds sinister, but merely means that you would be surprised how much it has meant to me).

I have also spent a fair bit of my day off worrying. I am concerned about my pending laparoscopy (surgical consult the 13th, actual procedure to follow shortly thereafter). Past boyfriends have criticized me for not responding properly when they tell me their problems—rather than pat them on the back and say “There, there, that is dreadful!” I generally jump right in trying to solve said problem and, apparently, analyzing everything to death. This tendency is what worries me about the laparoscopy. Regardless of what they find, I can’t take much action because we are still far from ready to conceive. If it were just me, single, having this procedure, I would get the results and bolt into doing whatever the doctors suggested—Lupron, Clomid, IUI, etc. I know that you have a window after a lap where your fertility is vastly improved, and it makes me uneasy not to be able to take advantage of that. I don’t know how to deal with problems if not by trying to solve them. Quiet acceptance? I am more likely to start wearing stirrup pants.

The other thing that is worrying me is the realization that if I am going to pursue my M.F.A., there is a very real possibility that I am going to have to, at some point, actually do some writing (for an example of the lengths I will go to avoid honing my alleged “craft” see…um…this blog).
Now, I am going to confess something to you, something I have never told another living soul…I am going to tell you about Miss Rothschild.
Miss Rothschild is an evil but despicably clever editrix who has lived in my mind lo these many years, since I was about fourteen. She started out as just a vague impression of criticism, but eventually coalesced sufficiently that I know most everything about her. Miss Rothschild has black hair (always pulled back, obviously) and smokes perpetually. One of those assistant editors who never rises up the ranks of the publishing house employing her, she is nevertheless the most astute and eagle-eyed judge of writing in the business, and possibly in the world. Everyday she wears the same black cashmere cardigan, with a specially made pocket for her red pen (which, I confess, I have rather personified as well). Miss Rothschild views most of my sentences with the same pitying disgust I reserve for that dreadful turtlenecked bodysuit with shoulder cut-outs I once saw in Yonkers. Our exchanges generally go like this:

I finish writing a sentence and Miss Rothschild, reading over my shoulder, blows a smoke ring and says, shortly,
“Trite.”
I offer up a revision.
Miss Rothschild reclines on the divan–
“Overwrought,” she yawns.
I am proud of my third attempt, and leave my computer for a congratulatory glass of wine. When I return, Miss Rothschild is reading my poor paragraph over the phone to a friend, choking with laughter and speculating as to whether English is my first language.
I retreat, beaten.

You can see my dilemma—an M.F.A. application requires a sizable writing sample. While I have written individual sentences that have won Miss Rothschild’s (grudging) approval, seldom do they appear within the same piece.

Fortunately, Miss Rothschild doesn’t have an Internet connection, and so I am free to write as poorly as I like, here.