Flotsam

Friday. Sweet, sweet Friday. The weekend lies before me like a luxurious expanse of…not-working. Except I might have to work a bit, this weekend, to make some money, because my bills are doing that thing they do (in case you have forgotten, “that thing” is whispering in Peter Lorre voices “Pay us, or you will raise your children…IN DEBTORS PREE-SON!”).

But as I was saying, last time, I am a model of restraint. The Nearly, he is cooing over car seats and saying “I’ve been thinking it might not be so bad to do a little bit of treatment,” and I go on with my knitting and say “That’s nice, dear,” or words to that effect.
Some words to that effect:
1. “Oh?”
2. “Hmm.”
3. “Ah.”
4. “Huh.”
5. “Probably not.”
My instinct, naturally, is to whip out some charts and a calendar and pull my hair into a tidy and businesslike bun before peppering him with questions and calling in a notary to stand as witness—but this sort of thing has not met with much success in the past, and besides, I am not interested in talking anyone into anything.
And I do, after all, have many other things occupying my mind. Such as the following:

1. News Items I Find Devastatingly Amusing
a. That part in the State of The Union where “The President” remarked that the Iranian people were being held hostage by A Clerical Elite. And, yes, I know what “clerical” means. But isn’t it more diverting to imagine that this Clerical Elite is a cabal of snooty secretaries? And that they patrol the streets of Iran in pencil skirts with their glasses on beaded chains and live in heavily guarded compounds and when one of them spies an urchin stealing a hunk of bread she shoots his hand with a staple gun? Oh, the mirth!
b. Yesterday on NPR, a serious British lady referred to the Moro Islamic Liberation Front. Or “M-I-L-F.” And all I can say is I really, really hope they have t-shirts, and that the guerilla warriors wandering around Mindanao are wearing them.

2. The Fact That The Shirt I Am Wearing Is Not As Opaque As I Initially Imagined It To Be
And so I am forced to walk to the bathroom with a copy of the banking laws pamphlet clutched to my chest. Because nothing says “professional” like nipples.

3. The Essay I Should Be Writing
Once upon a time I wrote a long essay. I worked on it for months and months, and interest had been expressed by a certain radio program, but then they could not use it after all, and I cried and had some bourbon and worked on it some more. Eventually I submitted it to a magazine. Time passed. And then one day I got a rejection letter—but this was not an ordinary rejection letter, because the editor of this magazine had written, by hand:
“This is very well written but not right for us. Try cutting (especially at the beginning) and send to Editor X at Journal Y.
Blah, blah, et cetera,
Sincerely,
Editor Of Magazine”
Now, Journal Y was an extremely well-respected, oft-anthologized publication. So, obviously, I made some cuts to the beginning and sent the essay toute de suite to Editor X.
Or…I meant to, anyway.
In my defense, my hard drive had crashed in the interim and I would have had to reconstruct the piece from a printed copy of an earlier draft, but still: guess how long ago this happened?
Four years ago, or twice the gestation period of an elephant. Two Irish Twin baby elephants could have been born in the time that has elapsed since I received that letter.
But I have finally tired of gazing into the gaping maw of a gift horse, and am trying to rewrite said essay to submit to Journal Y.

4. Headache Or Aneurysm?
This is a game I play after I go back on hormonal birth control. I’m playing it right now, as I write this, having just finished a rousing round of Will I Throw Up. So far my money’s on Headache, but not knowing is part of the fun!

So, as you can see, I am quite busy.

p.s. My neck seems to have recovered on its own, thankfully, and the Nearly had one more brief episode of pain, but nothing since. I never did get my period this cycle, so after two negative pregnancy tests on day 40 and a rather chilly conversation with a nurse who would not call in a prescription for Provera without an in-office test, I decided that periods are overrated anyway and just started the pill. But not before I hung up on the nurse and said to the Nearly “Fuck that noise!” causing him to mock me relentlessly for the rest of the evening.