Anyway, I attribute it with healing powers. I also had some big surprises in the form of my awesome cousins who showed up from Massachusetts and North Carolina to, well, surprise me! I love them so much, and there was much intense laughter and, once my brother arrived, more intense laughter. He just adds spice to the proceedings. I should call him “Mrs Dash.” (yeah, I’m a little worn out at the moment)

Anyway. I will just mention that these moments represent the upside of cancer. The part where friends and family rally around you. I maybe sound spoiled sometimes, but I am genuinely grateful for so much. And that includes every one of you sending love. I am unfairly blessed.

Cancer does suck, but it also reveals every aspect of the human condition.

I’m grateful today that my mother, whom I sometimes think is overly concerned with appearances, encouraged me to get dressed and put on some of the 3,000 pounds of cosmetics I have on my dresser. Superficial, but I felt a lot better with a little mascara.

And, Maven, I have to let you know that a giant pool of laughter erupted when I explained your wardrobe concept of “Denim Circus.” you are ingenious.

So, that’s all for tonight. Let’s all sing “I feel love” by Donna Summer as we drift off to sleep, counting our blessings. Count! Sing! I demand it!!

here’s a picture of my cat napping with me.

For which I am grateful.

I have never embraced the pink bracelet culture of cancer fighters. It just didn’t really jibe with my vision, or whatever. But my friend Mickey came down to visit, giving me a pink rubber bracelet like the one she was wearing. It reads, Cancer Sucks, and I was like, Yeah. Pretty much. So I’m now wearing the bracelet in her honor.

And this arrived:

So that’s a big plus. Things are looking up.

Today is better than yesterday. Let’s hope that’s a continuing trend.

In this case, the turning point of the case rested on the idea that she needed exacting directions to drive to a certain pharmacy to pick up a prescription I did not ask her to refill. The driving directions, and this is in the days of gps, amounted to “take the exit, then turn left on the next street, which is clearly marked.”

She turned it into such a clusterfuck of idiocy, like, but what lane will I need to be in??? that I finally lost my shit and started sobbing and she was all, well, you’re using exasperation on me and I have trouble navigating your unfrozen cave man roads, so you should be kinder to me.

That she has been to this pharmacy before made no difference. That she can navigate these roads all day long if she’s going to the healing rooms, is of no consequence. I used exasperation, and I think we can all see that that is the major crime, here. My evil failure to acknowledge her intermittently crippling Traffic Anxiety.

And so I am back to my drugs, and she is sulking in the next room because look how much she has done for me and I don’t appreciate it.

Here is the ovoid face today:

You want to see what cancer looks like? It looks like that. A stupid argument and a lot of rage and since I can’t get up and grovel in the next room, some frosty silence until She decides to forgive me.

Trust me, this is the ugliest side of the disease, when politeness has been smashed into bits and the real feelings come through. And it is inevitable that they do. And I hate every second of it. Every motherfucking second.

Isn’t this a horrible picture of me, plotting my escape? It really is, and I post it here as a gesture of bravery and suggestion that, in real life, I am eight times more beautiful than Celine. Dion. And I’m not bragging on myself — I have a certificate of authenticity issued by the … Eh, I got nothin’.

But all this by way of saying that I feel better today. Two days ago, I could not type the word intersection without 32 extra letters, and today, I’m bagging on super-hot celebrity Celine Dion. Progress? I agree.

My mom has been amenable to all my great plans. The key, which I believe all 3 of my beautiful readers suggested, is to keep her busy. Who knew?

Anyway, I used to kind of hate people who said they were “so blessed,” or whatever, because it seemed braggy to me in a “Jesus loves me more than you…” kind of way. But then tonight, I sat down and gave some thought to what I actually have. I won’t run down this list, but it seems that I am in fact blessed in my own right and do not need to plot my escape.

Small example: my favorite restaurant agreed to make my favorite soup tomorrow just on the strength of my aunt asking them. “Oh, soup — big whoop,” you say, snapping your gum, hand on one hip, like you’re some kind of Celine Dion, and you would be right, except that you have not tasted this soup and so you do not know!!!

Anyway, I am still really sick. I’m on a lot of drugs. But I can type again! And despite that, I will continue to blog. You are welcome. And if you take issue with my reasoning, just remember: Drugs.

Here’s a picture of me and my oval-shaped head, to erase the memories of the previous picture I so recklessly posted.

It’s so ovally! Hee hee hee hee!

(See: Drugs.)

Q: What do you call half a Soviet news agency?

A: Demitasse.

It is not the kind of joke you can tell nowadays. Not because it’s inappropriate, but because it’s irrelevant. And it wasn’t that funny to begin with.

Thanks for the love in the face of my temper.

I’m now at home, being driven batshit crazy by my mother and her sister. I apparently have to be watched 24 hours a day. This gives them plenty of time to second-guess the nurse and tell humiliating stories about my youth.

I cannot tell you how oppressive being watched 24 hours is. Like, actively watched. It is surreal and horrible. I’m so exhausted that I can’t absorb more information.

Also? My mom’s preferred topic of conversation? The intense toxic pain that comes with grief (hers).

I am so tired.

I’m in the icu at the hospital and rationing water for for four hours, relegated to a bedpan when needed. No, I don’t particularly want visits, I don’t mean to sound harsh. Nor phone calls. I’m covered with monitors and bloody IVs.

I’ve decided to discontinue chemo. It didn’t do anything. It made me sick. This discontinuation creates more conversation I don’t care about. I tune it out. I don’t want a walker. Where would I go?

And besides all the paperwork, the Medicare, the money, which I must somehow pay, there’s the question of me. What’s going to happen to me? Physically. It’s weird. Do I get another summer? Do I get to revisit the beach house of my childhood summers? Do I drag on for months? Is there another Christmas? What about Paris? What about Kong? What about my family?

Sorry. I don’t want to to hear from you. I can’t answer questions. I have no sense of humor. I glad your aunt Gladys kicked this disease but I also don’t care.

This afternoon, over the sound of Martha Stewart, I heard my mom discussing various names in conjunction with mine. I became suspicious. “what’s happening??” I asked, and after a melee of noise, detetermined that a minister was coming by. “What nationality is is he?” I asked, meaning denomination. “Muslim,” my mother answered, which is when I lost my shit. “I have no sense of humor. You can’t be fucking with me!!” Evangelical Baptist is the the real answer. Essentially the opposite of everything I believe.

Supposedly I agreed to this meeting yesterday. My fever was over 103.3 yesterday. I dont think I can be held to anything. I don’t know.

I don’t know what this conversation will will entail, especially if she sits on the the sofa, prissilly overseeing the proceedings.

Fuck this shit.

Call me lazy –I don’t hear you.

Last year, I would have jumped in with both feet. This year, having seen nothing but lackluster results, I’m a little more blasé. We’re gonna wait.

It seems that my mom’s 90-year-old companion is providing a good distraction for her. And so, because I have vented a lot about her, I will offer something nice:

It is a fact that she, her sister and their brother marched with their grade school band in the opening day parade at the Happiest Place on Earth.

That is pretty neat.

In other news, my brother brought me a new stuffed kitten.

I’ve named him Moxie. Kong’s immediate reaction was to hit him in the face, hard. Welcome to my world, Moxie.