I went to the doctor for my UTI, which turns out not to be a UTI after all but instead something that nobody knows what it is. Maybe kidney stones. Maybe, huh, who knows. My doctor checked all my lady parts, even unto doing one of those vaginal ultrasounds that are not much fun. I have an ovarian cyst, hurrah me, and, she said, sounding dissatisfied, “Your uterus is completely normal. Absolutely ordinary.”
“Wow,” I said, “Go normal uterus! Rock on in your ordinary way!”
So whatever is wrong with me, if there is indeed anything wrong and I’m not just making it up, is a mystery. My kidneys hurt and my bladder hurts but I have no other symptoms, so, oh well. These things happen and I guess I will just go along. I got another prescription for antibiotics. I think instead of taking them I will fill it and keep the drugs on hand for the inevitable apocalypse that signs and portents say is coming along any day now. It’s not doing it very fast. Sometimes I think I’ve spent my whole life waiting for the apocalypse and I am not the only one: every single day almost we have somebody coming in to the bookstore asking for either books on how to deal with the end of the world when it happens, like how to grow crops and kill people, or fictional books about how very tough fictional people have survived the same. There is a whole thriving sub genre of these, ranging from the apparently infinite action adventure series of the Outlanders and Deathlands, which I suspect are not written by just one person or indeed necessarily by a person at all, through the slightly better thought out works of Margaret Atwood, Peter Hellman and Cormac McCarthy. And then there are the current crazy screeds written by A. American – the A stands for ANGRY, of course it does – which have been trickling slowly in and rapidly out of the shop. Everybody likes a good apocalypse yarn.
I have noted before that people seems to expect that as soon as the apocalypse comes, everyone will immediately start killing each other. I kind of doubt this – yes! There is a place where I am actually somewhat less cynical than the average American! – but I am in the definite minority. I just have trouble believing that the only reason people are not out there murdering 24/7 is the presence of the Code of Law, which is to say cops and marble city buildings. I think people generally would prefer not to murder other people if it can possibly be avoided. Among other things, it’s so messy – and then you have a corpse to dispose of, which is not easy. I know it isn’t easy, because my dogs murdered a possum last week.
The first I knew of this was last Friday, when I got home late from work, crawled into bed and turned on the window fan, which, along with the whole house attic fan, is what keeps my home bearable during the summer months. Alas, the air the fan brought in that night was not just air, no, it was, like an early John Waters film, in full on Odorama. To my sorrow as the owner of predators, I am familiar with the smell of Dead Things and this was indeed vintage Dead Thing. I thought about going out to deal with it but I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that venturing out into the darkness to find a Dead Thing seldom ends well. So I just kept tweeting (twitter was made for stuff like this; I love twitter so) burying my nose in the pillow and bemoaning my fate. The smell came in waves. Things mostly do.
A couple days later, after writing a bad poem about the dead possum on the front door – have I mentioned that I painted the inside of my front door with chalkboard paint? I think it is the single most genius thing I have ever done, no, seriously – I got my son, who by virtue of being male is the Appointed Disposer of Dead Things in our sexist household, to get rid of it. He put it in a trashbag with the shovel and thence to the outdoor trash can, which will never recover – the smell was, uh, pungent. “It’s kind of interesting,” he said, “how things decompose.” And it is, actually: the fur all falls off first and then it goes on from there, or at least I think it does, because I can’t look longer than necessary to note the absence of fur, which does not improve animals aesthetically, no, far from it. Although I think bald men are actually quite sexy, so there is that exception.
In other news, I went to the Mountain State Fair before it opened and helped out hanging some of the artwork, which I used to do every year but haven’t in the past four or five. I have always kind of liked doing it – it’s fun to be at the fair before it opens and it’s fun to see what people have entered. I don’t do the judging anymore, though, because one year I insisted on giving a blue ribbon to a ballpoint pen drawing of Ozzy Osbourne on a napkin instead of to one of the lavishly framed PBS painting show inspired laborious oil landscapes which are so popular and I believe there was something of a stink about it. The fair is not really a hotbed of groundbreaking contemporary art, go figure. I also used to always drag some suffering friend or family member along, sweetening the deal by throwing in cocktails or at least beers in styrofoam cups. This is also not what you are supposed to do, but hanging weird art just goes better with vodka.
Also, then I get to take brooding melancholy photos of ferris wheels.
And that is all I have to say this week, but hey, the gallery is almost totally up to date! Even July is done, so look on my works ye mighty and be mildly impressed.