Nom de Plume

I’ve been doing Big Brothers Big Sisters for several months now. My “little” is in 7th grade; she’s told me some things about her school that make my hair stand on end. I won’t even get into the social aspects (like having a gun pointed in her face by a member of the SWAT team). But let me just say that the more I learn about the Seattle public school system, the more appalled I become.

Take this, the 6th grade level expectations for language arts (conveniently posted for ridicule at the Seattle Public Schools web site):

In sixth grade, students are aware of the author’s craft. They are able to adjust their purpose, pace and strategies according to difficulty and/or type of text. Students continue to reflect on their skills and adjust their comprehension and vocabulary strategies to become better readers. Students discuss, reflect, and respond, using evidence from text, to a wide variety of literary genres and informational text. Students read for pleasure and choose books based on personal preference, topic, genre, theme, or author.

Good lord. And the person who wrote this convoluted, awkward piece of crap is tasked with helping kids become better readers and writers?

Hoo boy. The blather continues for 7th grade:

In seventh grade, students are aware of their responsibilty as readers. They continue to reflect on their skills and adjust their comprehension and vocabulary strategies. Students refine their understanding of the author’s craft. Oral and written responses analyze and/or sythesize information from multiple sources to deepen understanding of the content. Studnets [sic] read for pleasure and choose books based on personal preference.

Can someone please tell me what a student’s responsibility as a reader is? And what, precisely, does “reflecting on skills” mean? Because I for one have never put down a book mid-chapter and said, “Let me reflect upon my reading skills now and adjust my comprehension strategies.”

And really, what are comprehension strategies anyway?

Argh.

Okay, little warning here. This is another whiny post–so you can decide whether to skip it.

I’ve been debating about posting all the stuff about this ectopic pregnancy and my rollercoaster emotions. Ultimately, I’ve decided to go ahead and do it. This is why: There’s a lot of clinical information out there on various medical web sites. It’s all valuable information–but it’s all about how you feel physically, not emotionally. Thank God for the personal stories on blogs and message boards. Those have helped so much. We don’t talk about these things unless covered by a veneer of anonymity; they are deemed too personal, no one’s business, whatever. But in this connected world of ours, if we can’t talk about the things that touch us, if those things are lost in the never-ending quest for “content”–well, then, what can we talk about? I am still ambivalent about posting all this because until recently, I haven’t gotten that personal on the blog, and I really don’t want to make people feel uncomfortable. So let me make it clear that I’m not looking for sympathy, responses are not necessary. It’s therapeutic to write about it, just as its therapeutic to read about other people going through the same thing. The responses I’ve gotten from the vitiligo posts prove that.

So large disclaimer aside, this is what I originally logged in to post:

Several years ago, Steve tore his Achille’s Heel tendon. I remember thinking that had he lived 100 years ago, he would have been crippled for life. I’ve been thinking about it again. I could have died. This isn’t being melodramatic; it’s a statement of fact. We are fortunate to live when we do: Medicine has rendered something possibly life threatening into something marginally uncomfortable for a week or so, with a couple of tiny scars that no one is ever going to notice. In fact, my recovery time will be less than Steve’s was.

So it seems churlish that I feel such resentment. But I do.

I resent that there was all this stuff done to me when I out cold, like I was just this slab of meat on an operating table. One moment, there’s a mask being placed on my face. The next moment, I’m awake and sore. Two hours–just gone. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have wanted to be conscious. But when you’re asleep, even those nights when sleep seems like a dark cave of oblivion and you wake still halfway in it, there’s still a shard of self-consciousness. If nothing else, someone doing stuff to your body would wake you. This? This was like death. It was nothing. Where was I? Where did I go? And isn’t it ironic that all this stuff that saves a life feels so negating? (Actually, it’s kind of funny that surgery seems to be prompting an existential crisis.)

I also finding myself really resenting what is functionally a loss of an entire Fallopian tube. (If you want to get all technical, it was a fimbrial ectopic, which means that it got stuck in the part of the Fallopian tube next to the ovaries. This section has a large opening and little tentacles that wave the fertilized egg into the tube. This whole section was removed.) One Fallopian tube works perfectly well, it’s true. Everything else was in perfect condition, that’s true too. And so future fertility shouldn’t be a problem. If you want the absolute truth, I am still ambivalent about having a kid. But now, by God, it’s a challenge.

But if you want to know what I resent most, it’s having to see that heartbeat on the ultrasound twice. That just pisses me off.

The methotextrate didn’t work. When I went into the ultrasound yesterday, the heart was still beating, and it was bigger. So I had the surgery. It all went well; I don’t know precise details, but the dr is going to show me pictures in my post-op appointment. From what I do understand, they removed the last inch and a half of the fallopian tube with the ectopic in it, it was a nice clean cut, and it should have no effect on future fertility.

In other words, all is good.

Also, I have a huge bottle of Percocet and Steve, who is graciously letting me milk this for all its worth.

Steve would kill me if he knew I was blogging this. He says I blog too much personal information. Which I probably do, so let’s just not tell him, shall we?

So, this is what’s going on: I was pregnant again. My doctor (Eva Miller from Seattle Healing arts for a shameless plug for her–she’s wonderful) had insisted that I go in for an ultrasound on Monday because of some spotting over the weekend and (again) low progesterone. Thank God she did. It was an ectopic pregnancy. With a live heartbeat and everything. The next three hours were a whirl; I was basically frogmarched into the ER at Swedish, put in a hospital gown, and hooked up to machines I had only ever seen in movies and on TV.

Ultimately, the OBGYN (Dr. Philip Welch, if you’re looking for one; another shameless plug because he was also wonderful) ran through my options, either a laparascomy or a single dose of methotrexate. I wanted the latter, but because there was a live heartbeat, he wanted to do a little more research and consult with some colleagues. I wasn’t feeling any pain, so he sent me home with strict instructions on signs to watch for. Yesterday morning, Steve drove me to his office and we went ahead with the methotextrate. I go in tomorrow to check hcg levels, and again on Friday for another ultrasound.

The whole thing has not been fun, to say the least. But there are some things for which to be grateful. First, there was nothing to indicate that this was an ectopic, and this could have been so, so much worse if it had ruptured. Which it would have. Second, it was a viable pregancy, except for its location, which is a good sign. So that’s where we are. I’m fine and definitely thanking my lucky stars.

And really, don’t tell Steve.

There are two truths staring me in the face as I look at the slowly loading admin interface of WordPress 2.7. The first is that the last year has been hard for me in a lot of different ways. The second is that I miss WordPress 1.5. Blogging felt so easy back then. I popped in, wrote a post, and voila, the blog lived. These two truths converged; I lacked blog luster and the varying iterations of WordPress got harder and harder to deal with. Images stopped uploading. The amazon plug in stopped working. The site took longer to load. So I stopped blogging. I had hoped that upgrading my database and getting the latest version would get me back into it. And it has–more blog posts in the past month than in the previous year. Nonetheless, I am growing increasingly disenchanted with WordPress. The catch is that previous versions lack the functionality that I want, but that functionality comes with a price. Oh, and of course, there’s really no good alternative for what I want.

All of which makes me feel ungrateful. WordPress is free. And for free, it’s a pretty sweet deal. I do appreciate all the volunteer time and effort that goes into getting the latest version out
and coming up with plug-ins that I can use simply by downloading (right from the admin interface, no less). But you know, it’s SLOOOOOW. Slow to load on the back-end. Slow to load on the front-end. Just freaking slow.

The other slow thing has been stuff just getting better. As I say, the past year was hard. The past six months have been just awful. Among other things: I had the miscarriage; Millie got cancer; I got penumonia and had a bad allergic reaction to the antibiotics; my ex-boyfriend shot himself; work has been slowing down and I’ve been worried; my hypo-google-chondria has spiralled out of control. After we were snowed in for two weeks in December, I’m afraid I just kind of gave up and slid into a depression. The panic attacks haven’t helped. I finally went in last week and now am the somewhat happier owner of a refillable prescription for Xanax, and I’m trying 5HTP to even out the moods as an alternative to the Lexapro prescription I also have. I’ve been taking it for about a week, and it seems to be working. So all this is to say that I think I’m coming out of it.

I was going to write a post about my adventures in shackitude, namely the 50 bazillion cars in front of the apartment building next door and the almost constant traffic. I think I’ll bypass all that for now, and cut a long story short. I wasn’t there–had left about an hour before–but there were shots, a police officer hit, and a hole in one of my windows that went straight through the curtain and straight into the opposite wall.

A client asked me to use Microsoft Groove for a project. I have it in Office, so went to launch it and open the workspace file … and it turns out that Groove doesn’t work with 64-bit.

Just to reiterate: Microsoft is promoting 64-bit. Microsoft created Groove as part of the Office system. Groove and 64-bit don’t work together.

!!!

I just crockpotted a whole chicken–just took the skin off and threw it in there with a can of tomatoes, an onion, some garlic, and some marjoram. Pretty cool. Except for the fact that the stupid knob on the lid fell off, and it turns out that when you factor in shipping for a replacement part, it would actually be less expensive to haul myself down to Fred Meyer and buy a new one. Which is one of those things that just makes you grumpy because it shouldn’t be cheaper to be more wasteful, but I guess that’s the way it goes.

Anyway, in my webbish peregrinations searching for a new lid (or better yet, just the KNOB) I came across this lovely gem of complete and utter crap.

I mean, who writes this stuff anyway?

A company called Sneakin Design, that’s who. And guess what? They’re recruiting! Yes, that’s right, they’re looking for writers (“The only requirements are that you can read and write in American English… That’s it!”), and you too can join the ranks of people making 50 Phillipino pesos per article.

Obviously, someone’s making money on these advertising-driven pages, but it’s certainly not these poor (in every sense of the word) writers.

Anyway, I was curious about whether there would be any more gems in the registered users area, so I registered. I now have the opportunity to submit two sample articles to see if they like my work. Better yet, I don’t have to scout around for topics either, because they’ve given me some to choose from:

Gonorrhea
Gall-Bladder
Gardening
Oil-Painting
Credit-Cards

Woohoo!

Mom has NOT left the ranch.

Julian has been evacuated, but she’s staying at Rhonda’s, which I guess has been slimed, etc.

Millie is leaving.

Jesus, this is beyond terrible. The fires just keep getting bigger and converging and spreading every time you click refresh on the google maps. My mother and Millie are fine–keeping cell phone use to a minimum. At last check in, they were all packed and ready to go, horses were trailered etc. Probably to Borrego.