Frankenkitty Comes Home!

April 10, 2015May 8, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

Or, shall we say, the FrankenWrahWrah.

Ronnie James, one week post-op. (4/10/2015)

The results of Ronnie James’ surgery are unbelievable, better than anyone thought possible.

Friday, 4/3/2015, Day Zero: Our first sight of Ronnie James after his surgery, about five hours post-op… still coming out of anesthesia, heavily medicated.

Hello, Wrah-Wrah!

He’s half hairless. He’s got a five-inch-long incision with about 20 stitches, plus a few stitches closing up the hole where his chest tube had been. He’s minus his left cranial lung lobe, part of an adjacent lung lobe, and a mysterious mass, and he’s breathing much easier now!

Poor Nounours missed his brother so much, he literally waited at the door for him to come home (when he wasn’t wandering around the house crying).

We were all kind of confused going in, but the truest story of the Wrah-Wrah could be seen when our surgeon opened him up and looked inside. The phone call I received at work after the surgery was bizarre because what the surgeon found was bizarre. It fact, it was so bizarre, I have to save the story for the next post.

Meanwhile, here are some pics of our little warrior!

Saturday, 4/4/2015, Day One: The day after his surgery, we went from the gym directly to the hospital to visit Ronnie James. We were allowed to hold him. He was so out of it and scared!

Sunday, 4/5/2015, Day Two: When we brought him home on Sunday night, Wrah-Wrah went straight to my office to rest, relaxed on his pain meds.

His fur had been shaved so precisely for the surgery, it looks like he's wearing half a coat! That spot in the center is where his chest tube had been.

His fur had been shaved so precisely for the surgery, it looks like he’s wearing half a coat! That spot in the center is where his chest tube (for drainage) had been.

That is quite an incision there, little guy.

Monday, 4/6/2015, Day Three: Pain-killers in full effect! The kitties’ toy area in the living-room has been one of Ronnie James’ favorite hang-out spots since he’s been home.

So many toys! Too many decisions.

Tuesday, 4/7/2015, Day Four: We had a rhythm going with Ronnie James' after-care. Between his different meds and his compress treatments, there's something to be done six times each day. He's doing so well!

Tuesday, 4/7/2015, Day Four: We had a rhythm going with Ronnie James’ after-care. Between his different meds and compress treatments, there’s something to be done six times each day.

He’s spent a lot of time snuggling up to me in my office at home.

Thursday, 4/9/2015, Day Six: Breathing so much easier now!

We’re so grateful to everyone involved in the Wrah-Wrah’s medical journey (which isn’t quite over, but we’re certainly off to a great start!) and well-being, from the doctors and staff at our two clinics to all of you who’ve been keeping him in your thoughts and prayers. Next week I’ll fill you in on What the Heck the Surgeon Found.

Happy Friday, All!

Update on Ronnie James (for anyone who’s interested), or, Saving the Wrah-Wrah.

March 24, 2015May 8, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick 2 Comments

As you probably know if you’ve been reading here for a while, we’ve been treating Ronnie James, aka the Wrah-Wrah, aka le petit Wrah-Wrah, aka our furbaby, aka our son, for asthma for the last seven months. Well, a lot’s happened in that time, and some of you have been so kindly asking after him, so here’s the latest.

After his initial diagnosis of asthma, Ronnie James’ progress fell into the familiar, frustrating “one step forward, two steps back” pattern. With each step back, we’d return with him to the vet, and each time, his chest x-ray would come out looking different than the previous one. In November, his x-ray showed a collapsed and consolidated lung, conditions that are typically seen as complications of feline asthma. That was disheartening enough, but after a fairly unchanged January x-ray, he suffered further decline and another crisis, and back we went for more imaging. This was in the first week of March, and we found ourselves confronted with an x-ray that was abjectly frightening. It sent us down a rabbit hole of worry and fret. We’re just now emerging from the other side.

Ronnie James’ chest x-ray that day – it was March 4, I believe – was ghostly white, practically opaque. His chest cavity was so filled with fluid that we couldn’t see his heart, and his abdominal area looked the same. His liver was obscured. His stomach was obscured. It was alarming hearing the doctor navigate around Ronnie James’ insides as we stared at the screen. We were basically looking at a cat-body-shaped silhouette filled in with murky whiteness. We were looking at a big question mark.

“Right here is where we should see his heart,” the doctor said, pointing at a section. “Here is where his liver should be. And his stomach would be here – ” She paused as we bent closer to try to see. “This right here,” she said, tapping a small black shape, “is his lung. The black shows that there’s air in there.”

But none of his other vital organs could be seen.

Long story short, more tests were conducted, and two days later, we were relieved to find that things were okay in his abdominal cavity. But the pleural effusion issue – his chest cavity filled with fluid – had to be resolved. All signs pointed to a disease called chylothorax. We were referred to a specialist. Ronnie James needed next-level testing, and he needed to have a chest tap to drain the fatty lymphatic fluid that had no business being there. Our doctor was hesitant to perform a complete aspiration because the fluid had accumulated directly over Ronnie James’ heart.

However, the very next day, of course, was the day we were scheduled to board a plane to France for a week! One extremely long week, from the perspective of a critically ill kitty and his parents.

While we were in France, the doctor emailed with two options for veterinary specialists, animal hospital facilities with state-of-the-art equipment to tackle specific and complicated medical situations for animals, and we couldn’t do anything about it until we got back. We needed enough time and internet access to thoroughly review the two specialists online, and we had to be able to call them with questions before choosing one. I felt like it was a stupidly clichéd race against time, and it was. We’d done our online research into Ronnie James’ condition. We knew that it was critical to drain the fluids from his chest as soon as possible. The timing of the whole thing couldn’t be worse.

So all that week in France, I ran around during the day, cried at night, anxiously exchanged messages with Ronnie James’ beloved Auntie Margaret, who generously, expertly and compassionately kitty-sat and medicated Ronnie James for us, and got little to no sleep throughout. Don’t get me wrong! I still had an awesome, wonderful time and tremendous fun with everyone, but throughout it all, a part of my mind ceaselessly counted down the minutes to getting home and taking the Wrah-Wrah to the specialty hospital.

Back in Arizona, we researched the two facilities, made our phone calls and scheduled Ronnie James for an appointment with the internal medicine specialist at the hospital we chose. We took their earliest available slot, which was for Monday the following week (yesterday). I was beside myself. We’d already waited a week, and now we had to wait another whole week! But THANKFULLY on Wednesday night last week, the clinic called to tell us there’d been a cancellation for the next day, so we were able to get him in on Thursday.

Ronnie James at the specialty hospital, pre-thoracentesis and extensive testing.

We were grateful and beyond relieved that with their imaging equipment and many years of experience, the specialists were able to perform a complete thoracentesis on Ronnie James, safely aspirating 120 ml (the equivalent of three large syringes!) of milky-white fluid, chyle, from his chest cavity. Chylothorax was confirmed.

Post-thoracentesis, resting.

120 ml of chyle (~1/2 cup!) was removed from the Wrah-Wrah’s little chest cavity!

Alleviating the Wrah-Wrah of his pleural effusion was one thing. The remaining critical task was to determine the underlying cause of the chylothorax, if there was one. (50% of chylothorax cases are idiopathic, meaning that there’s no known cause.) We had to get to the root of the problem so we could take some action to prevent his chest from filling up with fluid again! Thursday evening, the internist showed us Ronnie James’ CT scan. Contrast revealed a suspicious 2cm x 1cm mass in his left lung lobe. It was also confirmed that his right lung lobe had collapsed. A biopsy from the mass and more fluid samples were sent out to an external lab for analyses and cultures.

The results wouldn’t be back until Monday, so we settled in to wait again. It was a long wait. As some of you can (unfortunately) attest, the longest wait of all is the one between the words “we found a mass” and the receipt of the lab results.

Meanwhile, we spent the weekend marveling at the Wrah-Wrah’s restored vitality since his chest tap. He was back to his old self! He was alert, active, awake more than asleep; he was talking (wrah-wrah wrah wrah WRAH! Wrahhhhhh!), playing, flirting with us and running around, throwing himself on the floor and rolling over for belly rubs, purring furiously (as if to make up for all the purrs lost during his illness), engaging in his favorite games and raising hell with Nounours again. We hadn’t seen him like that in months! Without the fatty lymphatic fluid crowding everything in his pleural cavity, Ronnie James’ lungs could expand normally again. He was getting more oxygen, and it showed. The difference was dramatic.

Ronnie James returning to his former self over the weekend.

Late Sunday afternoon, we received a wondrous surprise phone call from a doctor who was working with our internist. She reported that Ronnie James’ labs had come back free of cancer and infection!

This brings us to today. At some point today, the internist will call to report the details of the lab findings – one of the cultures is still pending – and to go over a game plan for the next steps. Part Two of the restoration of the Wrah-Wrah’s pulmonary health will begin soon, and with luck, it’ll be uneventful maintenance from there on out!

We’re hopeful that we can find a way to resolve this for him so he can live out his lifespan with a high quality of life. He’s only 10… he has at least 10 more years to go!

Thank you all for your kindness and support. We feel the love, and so does Ronnie James. We feel blessed, too, to have a wonderful, caring team of doctors between the University Animal Hospital and the VCA Specialty Animal Hospital. They saved Ronnie James’ life, and we can’t say enough how grateful we are to have this precious little guy with us, being his old self!

There aren’t enough kisses in the world for the Wrah-Wrah….

Thank you all for reading! Please pass this post along to any kitty or doggie parents you may know who might be going through the same or similar medical crises with their furbabies. It would be wonderful if Ronnie James could provide with a little information and hope.

“A rumbling sound, then three sharp knocks…”

February 27, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick 2 Comments

We’re on the eve of a new month, and we’ve got another Friday the 13th coming up soon! That makes two months in a row. In honor of the underrated yet overhyped doomsday of lore, I’ll regale you with an anecdote. Today is, after all, the halfway point between the two Friday the 13ths.

First, a refresher, or background information for those of you who are new here.

A few months back, Callaghan and I watched The Babadook, which I’ve since decided is the best horror film I’ve ever seen. Being a huge fan of all kinds of horror, including some of the cheesiest of the many bad movies the genre has to offer, I tend to rate a horror film based on its HMISM (How Much It Scared Me) factor. (I just made that up.)

It’s hard to get a good rating on the HMISM scale. I don’t scare easily. I have Exaggerated Startle Response, but that’s jumpiness, not fear… and it’s certainly not the same thing as a satisfying case of creeptastic-movie-produced heebie-jeebies. After a good horror flick, I’ll find myself looking over my shoulder apprehensively, and the back of my neck will prickle as I wander alone through the house. Not only did The Babadook have this delightful effect, but also, it was 99% cheese-free.

We knew we were sitting down to watch a horror movie, but we didn’t suspect we were in for an astonishingly terrifying, brilliant, richly layered and masterfully wrought horror movie. The Babadook has stayed with me, and I can easily call to mind its expertly applied sound effects.

This brings me to the weekend of our last Friday the 13th (two weekends ago), when I heard a mysterious triple knock in our bedroom.

Callaghan was at the gym. I was the lone human in the house, working on my laptop on the bed with Ronnie James and Nounours purring by my side. All was quiet, and then we heard it. Knock-Knock-Knock.

The kitties startled upright, and I looked around with all the neurons in my brain shining through my eyeballs as I tried to ascertain what I’d just heard, and where the sound had come from. It made no sense. It really sounded like someone had knocked on the wall from inside the room, but no one was there. There was no way the sound came from the front door, since that’s at the opposite end of the house.

A few seconds later, I heard it again. Knock-Knock-Knock. This time, it happened while I was actively looking around, and I didn’t see anything either directly or peripherally. There was nothing in the room that could have explained the sound, but I thought I heard it from the area of Callaghan’s night table.

Just a night table with the usual stuff on it, right?

Naturally, I thought of The Babadook. That’s how the Babadook announced himself in the movie: Knock-Knock-Knock. The thought came to me with some amusement, but I was truly mystified. When I told Callaghan about it later, he said he had no clue what it could have been.

One day the following weekend – that would be last weekend – we were lying in bed, waking up slowly, when the triple knocking sound suddenly filled the quiet space in the early morning room. Knock-Knock-Knock.

“There it is again!” I said excitedly, happy to be validated by the recurrence of the sound. I hadn’t been sure that Callaghan believed me when I’d described it to him. He turned toward the direction of the sound, studying his night table.

“It’s this,” he said. He was extracting something from beneath a pile of magazines. I looked and saw that it was a small, slim tablet. With its dark blue cover, I hadn’t noticed it mostly buried on the dark table.

Why look at that. It’s a tiny tablet.

Of course! Now I remembered that little tablet… it was the mini Samsung Callaghan had given to his Grandmother in France last year, specifically so she could use it to Skype us. Mamie isn’t tech-savvy, so Callaghan set it all up for her, simplifying it as much as possible. She only had to open it, swipe the screen, and hit the Skype button… but she never did. She said that she wanted to use it, but it was too complicated. Eight months later, when Callaghan’s Dad visited us in December, he brought it back. I hadn’t realized it and I didn’t even remember that tablet, so it didn’t occur to me to check under the magazines when I heard the triple knock!

It’s a very small tablet.

We took this pic last night to show the smallness of the tablet. It’s barely bigger than my hand.
(Yes, it was 18:20 and 75 degrees. Don’t worry. In a few months, we’ll deal with our scorching summer while you enjoy your well-deserved beautiful temps outside!)

Callaghan’s own tablet is a white, regular-size iPad in a white and red Eiffel Tower case. It’s quite conspicuous, and it obviously wasn’t on the night table when I’d first heard the knocking sound. And my tablet is a regular-size black Samsung with no case. I didn’t see any tablets when my eyes skimmed the night table. My powers of observation are slipping.

“Mamie must have set the sound notification to knock,” Callaghan said. “I didn’t do it!” We checked, and sure enough:

SO MANY QUESTIONS.

We tapped it and heard the triple knock. Each time Callaghan received an email, the tablet made that sound. Mystery solved, right?

I just don’t understand 1). Why Mamie would bother changing the notification alert sound if she never used the tablet, and 2). How she could have changed it if she was so reluctant to try the tablet that she never even hit the Skype button to call us. I mean, does this make any sense? The idea of Mamie fiddling around with the settings and changing things in there seems a bit far-fetched. For me, there’s still a feathery question mark hovering in the air above the whole thing.

“Maybe the Babadook changed the notification sound,” Callaghan suggested helpfully.

“Yeah, let’s go with that theory,” I said. “It’s more fun.”

After this upcoming Friday the 13^th, the next one won’t occur until November… but somehow, I doubt the eight months in between will be uneventful!

Happy Friday, All!

My Shoe Anti-Rhapsody.

February 17, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

The weekend turned out to be good because I escaped having to shop for “nice” shoes, a task I’d been avoiding. I spared myself with the realization that if I need to dress up (I am capable of cleaning up kind of nicely, when I want to), I have several options that look perfectly okay with ankle boots. I can wear boots with tights and a knee-length or longer skirt or dress, and no one would look twice at a simple black ankle boot if it’s not dirty or scuffed, right?

It happens that there’s an upcoming event whose dress code is “cocktail attire.” I’m pretty sure I can get away with short boots, though.

I’m not sure where my aversion to wearing dressy shoes comes from, because I haven’t always had it. There was a time that I didn’t mind wearing them, and I often wore them to work. The heels couldn’t be more than three inches high, though, and even that was pushing it! I was never comfortable walking in heels.

As a result of wearing heels on a semi-regular basis, I now have a bunion on my left foot, and it looks like I might be developing one on my right foot. If I could go back in time and tell my younger self anything at all, it would be, “Don’t wear high heels, even if they’re not really high. They’re not worth it.”

(It seems that one way or another, women end up mutilating their bodies whether they’re aware of it or not. I mean, aside from the drastic differential in damage and degree of pain and severity, how is the practice of Chinese foot-binding any different than modern women wearing high heels regularly over an extended period of time? Both are done for the sake of fashion and in compliance with current beauty standards, and they have the same effect in the end: deformed feet.)

Anyway, I haven’t worn high-heeled footwear on a regular basis since 2009. I did thrift some kind-of-high wedge sandals in Texas, but I only wore them twice, and only for a few hours each time.

Since shopping for dressy shoes means fashion, it also pretty much means high heels, and since, to me, trying on high heels is only slightly less fun than getting invasive dental surgery, I’ve come up with every excuse to avoid the whole business.

My (admittedly) halfhearted attempts to find “nice” shoes usually end in failure. One day in the summer of 2012, I wandered into a shoe boutique in Nice, France (where we were pretty much living at the time). The shoes were mostly trendy and some combination of glamorous, provocative, strappy, studded, or colorful… and they were mostly high-heeled. Many were high-heeled with platforms. I was supposed to be looking for shoes for a special occasion, but I ended up getting some converse knock-offs I found hidden in the back corner, high above and out of reach… I had to ask the shoe guy to get down a pair in size 38.5 (my European shoe size). The shoes were casual, but they were made of metallic material and faux patent leather, so that made them special occasion converse knock-offs, right? My reasoning was lame, and I knew it. I bought them anyway.

In their defense, those flimsy, blingy black and silver converse-inspired shoes were pretty comfortable. I spent the rest of the summer power-walking through Nice in them. I still have them:

Brand unknown. It just says “sport” on the metal plaques at the tops of the laces.

“Never say ‘can’t’,” but… I can’t walk in high heels, and I don’t care.

Also when we were still living in France, we visited Los Angeles for a week, and once again, I went shopping for dressy shoes. This was in September, at the end of that same summer. We had an event in Berlin coming up in November, and I was running out of time. I had to find some shoes! I finally found a pair of black velvet-like wedges at a mall shoe shop. Of all the shoes I tried on, those were the most walking-friendly ones in my price range.

Fast-forward to November: I wore the shoes from the hotel in Berlin to the convention center, and I only made it half-way down the street. Luckily, it just so happened that my comfy, reliable old cowgirl boots were stashed in my backpack. (Yes, I wore a backpack with my dressy outfit.) Cowgirl boots aren’t exactly formal footwear, but they’re better than barefoot at a convention center event. My excuse was going to be that I was an inappropriately casual American who didn’t know any better. If there’s a stereotype about Americans wearing casual western boots at semi-formal events, I’m afraid I helped to propagate it. Sorry, not sorry.

Shoes. If “perfectly okay” is good enough, they’re perfect as far as I’m concerned!

Mammogram machine vs. my armpit; plus, BONUS! MMA kitties.

January 30, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

This week went fast! It wasn’t without its adventures. For one thing, I went to the V.A. for a couple of appointments. My first stop was at the women’s clinic for a mammogram, and man, let me tell you.

My armpits have always annoyed me, but they’ve never drawn the consternation of a medical technician before. This was a first. The Phoenix V.A. Medical Center is equipped with a new, state-of-the-art 3-D mammogram machine, and it is excellent, but even it works best with armpits that are less ridiculous than mine.

The mammogram was going just fine until we got to the part where you turn to the side and stretch your arm out laterally to grip the apparatus. The technician positioned my arm precisely, returned to her picture-taking station, and promptly came back, shaking her head while maintaining her cheery demeanor.

“Let’s see what we can do with your skinny arm!” she exclaimed, gently re-configuring my upper arm. “And your armpit. That’s the problem, actually. This position has nothing to do with the breast. It’s all about the armpit, and your skinny armpit is creating a black hole.”

Of course I knew what she meant. It was just funny how she said it… or, rather, it was funny how I heard it. Your skinny armpit is creating a black hole. She really did emphasize those last two words.

I thought, Wow, my armpit can swallow anything in the universe! And nothing can escape.

Shaving my uncooperative armpits has always been an exercise in tedium. I’m pretty sure that somewhere in the shaving technology universe, there’s a prototype armpit floating around, and women’s razor blades are designed to fit it. The flatter, broader plains of typical female armpits and legs can easily accommodate these razor blades that are embedded in thick plastic frames. If there’s a prototype of a deeper, narrower armpit, I haven’t found the corresponding blades yet.

Actually, no, I have. They’re in the men’s shaving section. Men’s razor blades are more streamlined and agile at navigating around the variable terrain of a face. I used to ~~steal my ex-husband’s~~ use the Mach 3 men’s razor for my underarms. It worked pretty well. I should start using one again.

Anyway, I don’t happen to have a picture of my armpit, but I DO have some pics of our cats post-MMA take-down! Here’s Ronnie James caught in a triangle choke hold:

*&(^$^%$….

No problem, I can get out of this. WATCH ME.

THE STRUGGLE IS REAL. (Mom, why are you just standing there holding a camera and laughing? HELP ME!)

THE STRUGGLE IS REAL. (Mom, really?! You’re just going to stand there and laugh?)

*sigh* Whatevs. I’m tired.

Happy Friday, All!

My Super Bowl Curse.

January 6, 2015January 6, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

This is not the post I’d planned. This was supposed to be my 2014 Favorites post, but it turns out it takes energy and strength to put such lists together, neither of which I’ve had at all for the last two days… so instead, I’ll tell you the weird little story behind that.

19 years ago, in 1996, the Super Bowl was hosted here in the Valley. All of Phoenix metro prepared for the arrival of the Dallas Cowboys and the Pittsburgh Steelers, who were set to play in Arizona State University’s Sun Devil Stadium, and the requisite chaos ensued. Super Bowl fever is a thing in and of itself, so you can imagine that Super Bowl fever in the hosting city is madness. Sun Devil Stadium holds almost 70,000 people, and ticketholders flooded into the Valley from elsewhere to fill it up for the annual championship football game. Exciting times, right?

I was a senior at Arizona State, carrying a full course load and working 20 hours a week in the foreign languages department, so I pretty much lived on campus.

At some point during that last week of January, I started to feel sick with nausea that ebbed in and out for days, getting progressively worse. I visited the student health clinic on campus twice. They said I had an ear infection, though I had no pain in my ear, and they sent me off with stuff for the nausea. Finally, I woke up one morning and headed to my 17th-century British literature professor’s office for his early office hours. Our class was scheduled to take an exam that day, but I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I went to his office, told him I was sick, and asked if I could take the exam early. (I still remember the expression of trepidation-bordering-on-disgust on his face as he regarded my sick ass sitting there in his office for an hour!)

I finished the exam, went to the language lab, told them I was sick and wouldn’t be able to work my hours that day, and left. Soon after I got home, all of proverbial hell broke loose.

I’ll spare you the graphic detail and skip ahead to the part where my friend came to my apartment almost six hours later to take me to the Emergency Room. When we arrived, the triage nurse took my vitals and said, “I don’t understand how you can still be conscious” before installing me in a bed. Wow! How to avoid waiting for hours to be seen in the ER: arrive severely dehydrated!

Bits of the night surfaced and wavered before me between periods of oblivion. At some point, my boyfriend arrived. I remember him watching me and remarking, “When you do get sick, you REALLY get sick.”

Truly, I had never been so sick with infectious disease. I had an I.V. drip for hydration, another with anti-nausea meds, a third one with a painkiller (for the lower back pain resulting from dehydration) and a catheter. The situation was described to me as my stomach was drawing the water out of my muscles and that’s what I was throwing up, which was a ghastly notion, but I was more intrigued by something I overheard as I drifted in and out of consciousness. A doctor and a nurse were standing over me, talking, unaware that I could hear them. One of them said, “Yep. This is how they all end up.” This is how they all end up. The words sounded sinister. I found out later that they’d been talking about what the medical community was calling “the Super Bowl flu,” an epidemiological phenomenon. When thousands of people visit an area at the same time – as in Super Bowl week – the local germ pool gets infiltrated with foreign germs to which the locals have no immunity, and the locals get sick. Phoenix residents were getting clobbered by this vicious stomach virus, with many of us landing in the ER. I was a Super Bowl statistic.

Toward noon the next day, the crisis was over. I was feeling slightly better from all the treatment, and I wanted to go home. “You’re not going anywhere until you pee,” said the matter-of-fact nurse in her matter-of-fact nurse way. “We need to see you pee!” But I couldn’t. They kept me there until I could, and then it took a whole week of bed rest at home to completely recover.

That was in 1996, and that was the last time I had the stomach flu… until two days ago, when my blissfully long run of avoiding the dreaded throwing-up virus came to an end. Again, I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that it flattened me pretty good. Yesterday morning, I wanted to work on my 2014 Favorites post for today. I was sitting on the couch with my laptop next to me, and I literally did not have the strength to pick it up and set it on my lap. Flattened.

Out of curiosity, I stepped on the scale this morning. I don’t often weigh myself, but I know the general weight that I maintain, and by my estimation, the scale showed nearly six pounds less. I either lost over five pounds in the last two days, or I’d started out weighing less than I’d thought I did. I wouldn’t be surprised if I did weigh what I thought I did and lost almost six pounds, though, considering the efficiency with which my body evacuated itself of everything I’d consumed in the last week.

Why is this all of this significant, you might ask? Well, THE SUPER BOWL IS COMING BACK TO PHOENIX THIS MONTH. Coincidence? I think not. I think the next time the Super Bowl comes to the Valley, I should lay in a stash of supplies and barricade myself inside the house for the entire month of January.

I’m feeling better now. I’ve been sleeping a lot. Though plenty dramatic, this time was not as severe as last time. My temperature is back to normal, my headache is mostly gone, my lower back pain is subsiding and I’m recovering some energy, but I’m still weak. I’m taking today to start eating again and regain some strength so I can return to work tomorrow.

Also, my gym bag is packed for Body Combat tomorrow night. Yesterday, I was so lacking in energy I thought for sure I’d miss Wednesday’s class, too, but now I’m jumping out of my skin because I missed last night!

Long-Overdue Yoga Fix Ahead!

December 26, 2014That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

Since we’re still on Christmas break at my work, I’m seizing the opportunity to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. My schedule is pretty well packed during normal life hours, so this is what’s happening this non-normal morning: I’m going to spend 90 minutes twisting my non-flexible self into the various poses prescribed by Bikram, I’m assuming, in a room designed to accommodate the activity (heated to a high enough degree to assist your body with said positions).

This will be my first yoga class in almost 10 years, and I’m looking forward to it. I have a brand-new yoga mat that I purchased last year with earnest intentions, but have yet to use. The day has arrived!

I’m pretty sure my body’s going to hate me within 24 hours of this Bikram yoga class, and it will probably start plotting its revenge faster than you can say “shavasana.” I’m expecting it, hence my plan to pick up some Epsom salts on my way home. I already have the essential oils I’m going to add to the hot bath I’ll take tonight. I just want to be able to give 100% in Body Combat class tomorrow morning, and being able to walk without soreness would help with that. I’m counting on this yoga class to make me feel muscles I’d forgotten I had. Bring it.

Although… here’s a little secret… in the past, I’ve powered through Body Combat class while in pain. I’ve literally hobbled through the parking lot thinking what the hell am I doing, then getting to class and forgetting all about it, feeling nothing but the awesomeness. The secret is adrenaline. Adrenaline is what drives me through Body Combat because mentally I flip into training mode, which my brain is hard-wired to link to my “fight or flight” response. This is the up-side of PTSD. It’s a great natural painkiller. (Yes, I know Body Combat is a cardio class, but as far as I’m concerned, if I’m kicking and throwing punches, I’m training… so I know I’ll be able to get through the class tomorrow, regardless.)

I’m still picking up Epsom salts for a hot bath later. My muscles, tendons and ligaments will deserve it! Plus, I’ll enjoy it. Yeah. I don’t need an excuse!

10 years is a long time, though; I feel like I might as well have never done yoga at all. I remember that my first yoga class ever was at Arizona Combat Sports back in 2002… there was an advanced student there on the Brazilian Ju-Jitsu side who was also an advanced yoga practitioner and instructor. They added a Saturday morning yoga class to the schedule with him teaching it, so I figured I’d try it for a few sessions. I thought it balanced out my Muay Thai training well, so I was inspired to try yoga at other places. I enjoyed it, though I never felt like a “natural” in any yoga studio. For one thing, as I said, I’ve never been particularly flexible.

Random: My favorite long-term effect from yoga is my affection for Deva Premal, who sings Hindu and Buddhist chants so beautifully. It was only because of yoga that I discovered her.

Okay, I’m off to get ready for this yoga class… Happy Friday, All! =)

Kitties with their Christmas stocking stuffers! They do yoga every day.

The State of the Wrah-Wrah.

December 5, 2014May 2, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick 2 Comments

Good morning! The purpose of today’s post is to update you on the state of the Wrah-Wrah.

For those of you who are new here, Ronnie James, aka the Wrah-Wrah, is the elder of our two little boy cats. We adopted them in France and moved them with us to the States, and now, after being here for about a year and a half, they’re both meowing in English… well, this is true for Nounours. Ronnie James does not actually meow. He talks. In English. He often says, wrahwrahwrahwrahwrah, wrah-wrah!

One More Thing you should know about the Wrah-Wrah is that his namesake is Ronnie James Dio:

Ronnie James with my headphones on the left. Ronnie James Dio with his mic on the right. NOT UNLIKE.

One More Thing #2: in addition to talking to us, the Wrah-Wrah loves cuddles, kisses, being held and being with us – as in, physically right next to us – more than any kitty I’ve ever known.

Now for the update!

A few months ago I’d talked about how Ronnie James was diagnosed with asthma. His condition has been worsening despite his inhaler treatments, so the day after we returned from California over Thanksgiving break, we took him back to the doctor. A second chest X-ray revealed shadowy areas on his lungs that completely obscured his heart, whereas in his X-ray of three months ago, his heart was visible. This latest X-ray looked worse than bad. It looked horrible, and I spent the weekend talking myself back down from the edge of despair. But I kept hearing the doctor’s voice. It looks like it could be something attached to his heart, she’d said. Or growths….

It goes without saying that you never want to hear the word “growths” come out of the doctor’s mouth when looking at your baby’s chest X-ray.

So we were relieved to hear the official X-ray analysis and Ronnie James’ diagnosis two days later. He has “collapsed lung and consolidated lung,” a complication of his asthma, apparently. His right lobe is collapsed, along with part of his left lobe. The consolidation aspect means that there’s something in his lungs other than air – indicating, likely, fluid. While none of this is happy news, it’s certainly better than “something attached to his heart” or “growths.”

I don’t have the pictures of his insides to show you this time, so here are some recent photos of him on the outside:

Le petit Wrah-Wrah!

Wrah-Wrah in his favorite dragon stance on his Mommy’s foot.

Oh, yeah… Ronnie James is a dragon.

Ronnie James on the left. Night Fury from “How to Train Your Dragon” on the right. NOT UNLIKE.

Ronnie James on the left, Night Fury from How to Train Your Dragon on the right. NOT UNLIKE.

We were told that Ronnie James’ lungs will never be normal again. I read online that kittens and very young cats can have their collapsed lungs re-inflated in special chambers, but the Wrah-Wrah is ten, so that is not an option for us. What we’re doing is we’re minimizing the trauma with diligent, increased application of his inhaler treatments, and at the moment, we’re also going after any infection that might be present and causing the consolidation of his lungs. The day of his diagnosis, he received an antibiotic injection, and we launched a 14-day course of other antibiotics. I placed a double order of Fluticasone inhalers for his daily dosages (now twice daily), and he has his Albuterol inhaler for rescue situations.

We are lucky. We have a wonderful doctor at the University Animal Hospital, which is the best clinic in town. We have a wonderful overseas pharmacy that offers free shipping. Ronnie James has a wonderful Auntie to take care of him when we’re out of town (which we minimize as much as possible). And Callaghan working as a freelancer means that he’s able to be home with the Wrah-Wrah all day, which is a blessing because the Wrah-Wrah is the happiest when he’s with us, and if he needs his rescue inhaler, his Daddy is here with him.

One more thing… Ronnie James’ blood-work came back showing that his thyroid counts are even higher than before. He hadn’t tolerated his liquid thyroid medication well, so we had our local Diamondback Drugs –another amazing pharmacy! – compound his medication into a gel that we rub onto the inside of his ear once a day. This method of drug administration for kitties is revolutionary, friends, which you can imagine if you’re at all aware of the difficulties of giving kitties their oral meds.

That’s it for the update… thanks for reading and for your support. Ronnie James says “wrahwrahwrahwrah!!”

Happy Friday, All!

Is there a medieval dentist in the house?

November 18, 2014That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

There’s been an ongoing drama rattling quietly behind the closed doors of our domestic life these last few weeks, rattling like strings of dried-out teeth from an old skeleton. I would tell you all about it, except that it must remain hush-hush (for privacy reasons, I’m not allowed to talk about it).

Yes, a moratorium has been placed on all public discussion of said drama, but I can say that I’ve arrived at a conclusion based on all related events. I didn’t just casually arrive at this conclusion, either… I was forcibly propelled to it by simple logic. Sorry. I’m being vague, I know, and it seems unfair that I can tell you the punch-line as long as you don’t know the joke. But I do want to share the punch-line, because I’m resigned to the reality of it, and this has been no small feat.

The only possible answer to the gigantic WTF that’s engulfed the last few weeks is… Callaghan was an evil dentist in a past life.

Supporting my theory is the fact of Callaghan’s sinister antique dentist cabinet, which still lurks at the back of la bergerie on the property in France. The dentist cabinet. I wrote elaborately about it, as some of you may remember:

…it occurred to us to peek inside the beat-up old antique metal dentist cabinet that Callaghan accidentally got from a dentist office in Antibes. (Yes, by accident. It’s long story.)

NOW IT ALL MAKES SENSE.

I’d always thought there was something creepy about this dentist cabinet. The cabinet’s wide, shallow drawers had come filled with all sorts of little instruments and drills – dentistry’s accoutrements of bygone times – that Callaghan had removed for use on various projects. It could be, we thought, that the missing screws had made their way into those empty drawers at some point. Ghostly, pain-inflicting screws, I couldn’t help but think. I peered over Callaghan’s shoulder with a bit of trepidation; it wouldn’t have surprised me if the dentist cabinet turned out to hold supernatural properties, transforming everyday objects into tiny medieval torture instruments. Contents of its drawers were not to be trusted.

The first thing you’ll notice when reading this excerpt (other than the fact that I clearly had more time to write back then) is that this mysterious dentist cabinet came to reside with Callaghan “by accident.” To which I now say, knowing what I know from these past few weeks, that there are no accidents. That dentist cabinet deliberately came home to Callaghan, who, in his present iteration of being, hasn’t been able to brush the remnants of his past evil dentist-hood off his aura. “Paybacks are a bitch,” my friends. This is karma.

Poor Callaghan. At least now that we know the root of the problem, we know that what he needs is a shaman, not a dentist, as someone astutely pointed out. Yes, others, too, have noted that the only explanation for the epic f*ckery we’ve experienced recently has to be that he was an evil dentist in a past life; that’s how absurdly obvious it is!

(Note to self: Google “shamans who specialize in past-life sadistic dentistry of the medieval persuasion.” That should get us somewhere.

Elevator Tips for the Elevator-Phobic

August 22, 2014That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

As recently as eight months ago, my elevator phobia – a spin-off of my claustrophobia – kept me out of elevators at all costs. Now, because of my job, I take the elevator every day, numerous times a day. This marks a great personal victory for me, even though I still always choose the stairs whenever possible.

So, as a somewhat recovered elevator phobic, I thought I’d put together this handy Elevator Phobic’s Guide to Taking the Elevator, in case it can be of use to anyone.

1). When the elevator arrives and the doors open, look inside first to check for sewer roaches before getting in. You just never know, and the last thing you need is for your recently-somewhat-alleviated phobia (elevators) to be revived by a clash with your one remaining phobia (roaches).

Being weird in the elevator to show you my “I see a roach” face. Derp.

2). Always have your cell phone with you before stepping into the elevator. Make sure it’s charged.

3). If there are other people in the elevator with you, quickly check them out to evaluate whether or not you could take them in a fight if you had to (which I do automatically all the time, anyway, no matter where I am… it’s a reflex). If you do find yourself in a situation that necessitates self-defense tactics, the elevator would be a convenient place to be if you’re like me and you fight best on the inside because you have short limbs.

4). If you’re unsure about the integrity of the elevator, bring a bottle of water in with you. It never hurts to keep a protein bar or nuts with you, either.

5). If the elevator arrives and neither the “up” nor the “down” signal lights are lit, err on the side of caution and don’t get on. Wait for the next one. An undecided elevator is an elevator that might decide to get stuck in the middle somewhere.

6). Mentally listen to Steven Tyler singing “Love in an Elevator” while you’re in the elevator. It will bring some levity to the situation.

7). Minimize your time in the elevator as much as possible. I almost always take the elevator partially, up from the second floor and down to the second floor, rather than ground floor to ground floor. Between the ground floor and the second floor, I use the public stairs.

8). Arm yourself with knowledge by studying the control panel in the elevator as soon as you step in (well, after you size up anyone who may be in there already. Priorities, you know). That way, in the event of a stoppage, you’ll be more likely to able to find the appropriate buttons even while you’re in a panic.

9). Valium, or something similar. Just… whatever it is, have it with you. Frankly, if I could, I’d harpoon myself with whale tranquilizer if I got stuck in an elevator alone. I would just want to be out.

10). If there are other people in the elevator, amuse yourself by trying to figure out which person would be the devil, à la M. Night Shyamalan’s delightful film Devil.

Happy Friday, Everyone! =)

Inside the Ronnie James

August 15, 2014May 2, 2015That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

Just when you thought it was safe to approach your computer (I know, you thought I was going to say “to go back in the water,” since this is shark week)… here’s another cat picture. But there’s a twist to this one:

That would be the Ronnie James, aka “the Wrah-Wrah.”

Here’s how you’d normally see him:

Hi. You can call me the Wrah-Wrah.

Since the weekend, I’ve been kind of disheartened and distracted thinking about the Wrah-Wrah. We took him to the vet on Saturday, and he was diagnosed with asthma.

This is a controllable situation, but… but. I just feel like a bad kitty mommy.

He’s been uncomfortable for months. With his chronic cough and breathing quirks, we should have taken him in sooner. All this time, we could see and hear him breathing too quickly, too erratically. We could hear him wheezing now and then. We witnessed many of his coughing bouts, always in that same, telltale position, never hacking anything up, but acting as if he was trying to. Then I think back on that scary episode that woke us up one night not too long ago, and I think, why didn’t we take him to the vet immediately after that? Obviously, something wasn’t right.

We did schedule him to see the vet at some point, but at the last minute, something came up, and then he seemed to be okay again, so we cancelled it. It’s allergies, we thought. It’s a hairball, and he’s trying to eject it, we thought. It’s a mild upper respiratory thing. It’ll pass.

That was last month. Finally, after sitting with him through several more weird coughing episodes, we made another appointment. By the time it occurred to us that he really needed to be examined, the earliest appointment available (with the doctor that I wanted, though all the doctors at our clinic are excellent) was for 4:30pm last Saturday. We were heading out to Rage in the Cage, and we were almost late because we were at the vet with the Wrah-Wrah, waiting for his chest x-rays to come back. (Don’t worry… we did stop at home after the vet. We didn’t bring Ronnie James with us to Rage in the Cage, haha.)

When the vet went over the x-rays with us in the examining room, she showed us a frontal view of his chest and pointed at the ghostly white stringy-looking things in his lung area. This bolstered her suspicion of asthma, and the next day, the analyzing radiologist confirmed it. When the vet gave us the images on the disc, we weren’t able to get back to that first view, but you can still kind of see it here:

I CAN HAZ ASTHMA.

Apparently, only about 1% of kitties have asthma.

We discussed the available treatment plan options and decided to start with oral medication. It was a process of elimination decision: Ronnie James needs steroid treatment (Prednisone), and the injection option carries the risk of leading to diabetes later in life. There’s also a kitty inhaler we can use in the event of an asthma attack.

We get his Prednisone from Diamondback Drugs, a wonderful veterinary “compounding pharmacy” that prepares medications in a variety of ways. We asked them to make a flavorless liquid Prednisone formula (the liquid preparations are either tasteless or flavored) so the Wrah-Wrah won’t have to go through the daily ordeal of taking a pill.

Also toward the end of reducing his stress as much as possible, we bought a Feliway diffuser, which is like room deodorizer, except humans can’t smell it. Feliway is basically a synthetic version of the feline facial pheromone, and it works like aromatherapy for cats. We plugged it into an outlet in the bedroom, where he spends a lot of time. It actually works really well! The Wrah-Wrah’s nervous over-grooming habit has decreased dramatically since we plugged in the Feliway.

We’re also going to get a humidifier for the bedroom, since dry air can make asthma worse.

Yes… Ronnie James has a condition that’s exacerbated by dry air, and I brought him to the desert. =(

We have an asthmatic Wrah-Wrah, a special-needs Wrah-Wrah, and now we need to learn how to give CPR to kitties (which all kitty parents should probably know, anyway, come to think of it).

So that’s the latest in Ronnie James news, folks. Ronnie James, rockin’ on like his namesake, Ronnie James Dio. He continues to love snuggling up to any headphones he finds lying around.

Ronnie James with headphones, July 2013

Ronnie James with headphones, August 2014

Happy Friday!

One Year Ago Today…

May 30, 2014That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

Despite our intentions and efforts, a fly on the wall at the end of May last year would have seen us running around chez nous as we prepared to leave the Little House in the Rhône-Alpes and our alternate “places of residence” on the French Riviera. The undertaking seemed monstrous in its magnitude. It felt like we had loads of stuff scattered all over the southern half of France. Wound up in the chaos of making the trans-Atlantic move back to the States, we had to admit that we were no more organized about it all than we were in the days leading up to our (my) move to France 20 months prior, at the beginning of September 2011.

(I say “my move” because Callaghan never actually lived in Arizona, so he didn’t really move to France. He was here with me for just over three months, and during that time it was decided that we had to live in France because of his work.)

Such as it was that our move to the U.S. of A. was slightly less than seamless. It all turned out well, though, right down to Ronnie James and Nounours behaving beautifully, with exceptional patience, in their carriers the entire way. From the 90-minute taxi ride from La Combe to Lyon, to the two-hour layover in Frankfurt, to the 10 or so hours flying to Houston, to the three hours driving from Houston to Austin the next morning (how they appreciated getting to run around in the Houston hotel room that night!), and the final four hours being carted around town as we searched for an apartment (the one we’d initially arranged didn’t work out), waiting to check into a hotel room for a few days, we discovered that our little boys are Amazing. Superstar. Traveling. Kitties!

Those of you who’ve been reading here for a while – thank you! =) – may remember this picture:

Kitties touch down on American soil, and Ronnie James says, “Wrahwrahwrahwrahwrah” in English for the first time.

We enjoyed five months of fun summer/fall times in Texas before I realized where I had to be.

We packed our entire household again, put Ronnie James and Nounours back into their carriers, and headed west to return to the desert. We arrived in the Valley of the Sun on November 9, moved into our Tempe apartment and eased into an unusually mild Arizona winter.

A few weeks ago, in the heart of spring, we visited the Desert Botanical Gardens and felt truly welcomed home as we wandered amongst the desert flora. You can really see the personalities of the cactuses when you visit the DBG:

Hey there, Stranger! Welcome home to the Land of AZ.
(No one sculpted this cactus to look this way, by the way)

Contrary to what some have been led to believe, Arizona is a friendly place on many levels!

So this is my reflection today. One year back in the States. Seven months back in Arizona. It feels so good to be back. When we left Texas, there was still some uncertainty about the future, but the instant we got here, we both knew that we were home.

When we stepped outside early yesterday morning, the rich, heavy fragrance of creosote settled around us, telling us that it was going to rain. Sure enough, within the hour, a few drops fell, and I thought, how could I live anywhere but this magical, intoxicating place?

I first moved to Phoenix after the Gulf War in 1991. It’s been over twenty years, and I still meet people who come here that way… they arrive in some state of limbo or instability, despair or even ruin, and they rise, like the Phoenix, from the ashes. Arizona has a history and even a documented tradition of people moving here in need of healing (even when the reason was mostly consumption back in the 19^th-century). This is a healing place, a land of powerful Native American spirituality and a sunny, dry climate conducive to recovery.

An artistic take on the logo of the City of Phoenix (at Sky Harbor Airport)

On Monday night, we went down the street and climbed halfway up “A” Mountain to take pictures of the sunset with Callaghan’s father, who was leaving the next day. My breath catches at the splendor of an Arizona sunset to this day.

Sunset beyond the Hayden Flour Mill and Tempe Town Lake

Silhouette of the Phoenix skyline against the deepening sunset

Tempe at dusk, between the sunset and nightfall

Happy Friday, All. =)

Transitions! (New Schedule)

March 26, 2014That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

I’ve been inconsistent here these last few weeks as I’ve been adjusting to a new schedule, namely, having one again.

My agenda (Franklin-Covey)

Naturally cut out for a structured life, I thrive in the rootedness that routine provides. Living with a crazy spontaneous artist has been a healthy counter-balance to this, but I’m happy to resume the habit of setting the alarm and getting out of the house by a certain time in the mornings. This has required re-calibration of my inner clocks, which have been at liberty to run amok for a long time now, it seems!

While I personally enjoy mapping out my day, it’s been a while since I’ve done it on a regular basis, so being able to ease back into the practice as my current circumstances allow has been a fortunate thing.

My inner clocks are usually in need of re-calibration, anyway. For one thing, they often tick at odds with other peoples’ inner clocks. I’m remembering how my X had been put-upon by my middle-of-the-night inner clock when it would clang, “YAY ENERGY!!! IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT – NOW IS THE PERFECT TIME TO CLEAN THE BATHROOM!!”

“I just don’t understand it,” he’d mutter with annoyance, pillow half over his head as I whizzed around (though silently, ninja-like, so I never really understand why it bothered him) with the all-purpose spray cleaner. “It’s like you get a second burst of energy in the middle of the night.”

“Energy” was the operative word, I guess. He was sensitive to the energies of others; regardless of my earnest attempts at silence, the underlying waves of my stirred-up, midnight oil energy disturbed his own sleep schedule. The poor guy had a hard time getting me to sleep “early,” but over time he did manage to cure me of my inability to resist the urge to clean things at 2:00AM.

Now, I hardly clean at all.

See how that works? My X had to put up with me cleaning the bathroom in the middle of the night. Now, Callaghan has to put up with me not cleaning. (I exaggerate. Of course I clean… every once in a while. He cleans the bathroom more often than I do, though.)

In my defense, I don’t think I ever actually planned to clean the bathroom in the middle of the night. It always started rather innocuously. I’ll just wipe this area here around the sink. Then, since I’m doing that, I might as well do the mirror. A process would emerge. Next thing I knew, the whole bathroom would be underway.

Where my X had to deal with my late-night cleaning inclinations, Callaghan has to deal with my late-night, over-active train of thought. Such as it is that he’s established what he calls the “11:00PM Rule,” meaning, he’s placed a moratorium on “thinking about things” at 11PM. That’s right… 11:00PM is Last Call for “freaking out” at our place. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t ever sleep,” he says, reasonably.

And it’s true… I’ve had a hard time falling asleep for years now. Recently, too, this all changed, but not because of the 11:00PM Rule. The change just happened to coincide with when I started oil-pulling exactly two weeks ago. Somehow, I haven’t experienced insomnia since Day One of experimentation with that ancient and now-trendy practice. This was not an effect I’d anticipated when I started. It’s been completely wonderful.

My alarm clock. It’s 11:00PM!

Anyway, all of this to say that my schedule has changed, including my writing schedule here… I’m in a transition phase, and things will even out eventually!

It was King James in the Locker Room with the Football

February 24, 2014That Asian-Looking Chick 2 Comments

Happy Birthday to Callaghan! We would have celebrated all weekend, but he came down with a case of food poisoning that knocked him on his behind pretty good, the poor guy. We canceled everything and holed up here at home. It’s a relief to see him feeling better again. Food poisoning, ugh.

One thing about Callaghan: he has a unique gift for enriching my life and keeping me on my toes with his often random, always unpredictable, documentary-inspired thought ramblings (of the likes I haven’t shared with you in a while).

Here’s one from recent days… he was in his studio, listening to a documentary about the history of the British monarchy, and I’d just wandered into the room:

“I don’t understand about the NFL,” he said in his usual out-of-the-blue way. “Don’t you think that, knowing the percentage of the population that’s gay, it’s weird that anyone would be shocked that some footballers are gay?”

“Football players,” I said.

“What?”

“Football players play in the NFL. Footballers play soccer. And I agree… it’s beyond me why anyone would care whether football players are gay or straight.”

We’ve had variations of this conversation before.

But I was perplexed, as I often am at these moments of interaction with Callaghan.

“What led you to think of gay football players in the NFL?” I wondered out loud. “You’re listening to a documentary about the British monarchy…”

“OH, I don’t know, I guess I was thinking about it before because of that one guy… wait, oh yeah, it IS because of the documentary! It’s because of King James the First.”

“The documentary said that King James was gay?” I didn’t bother asking whether the documentary said that King James was in the NFL, as I’d already arrived at the conclusion that he wasn’t via my keen powers of deduction.

“No, the documentary didn’t say he was gay.”

“Then why…”

“Well, yeah, King James was married, but he didn’t really care for girls… he wasn’t famous for having affairs like the other kings were. I guess that was my train of thought. And then I thought about them in the locker rooms,” he explained.

“Locker rooms?”

“…and they did say that he preferred male company. They didn’t actually say he was gay, though. But yeah, that’s what got me thinking about football players.”

That clears up that mystery!

King James I

And now that it’s Callaghan’s birthday, we can go back to being consecutive ages again rather than appearing to be two years apart. (He enjoys saying that I’m a cougar, but being older than him by 14 months does not a cougar make.)

Dear Cancer: Get Lost and Stay Lost. Sincerely, Her Daughter.

December 16, 2013December 16, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 10 Comments

Today, my Mom sets off on a journey new to her, familiar to many: chemo. We spent the weekend with her and Dad in California, and despite the circumstances, we all had a wonderful time.

Our family has been consumed with the development of her cancer since the last week of October, two weeks before we moved back to Arizona. Since then, in the midst of boxes and unpacking and getting our residential affairs in order and job-searching and holidays, time has speedily hustled us up to this moment, because that is what time does. It moves us forward.

This is actually Mom’s second go-round with cancer, but she didn’t have chemo the first time. What’s happening now was not supposed to happen. The daily Tamoxifen therapy she’d diligently followed after her first surgery proved ineffective… the cancer came back, and this time, it’s different. It’s HER2+. Aggressive cancers need aggressive treatment, so we’re looking at a year of all-out war, all told.

I haven’t talked about this here yet (and I wasn’t sure that I would) because the audaciousness of it simply defies words. The whole thing has been rather bewildering. It’s devastating and scary when it happens to friends and relatives, but to someone in my immediate family? That’s when it exits the realm of thinkability, leaves us looking at it, agape and aghast, from another dimension. This thing, this cancer, it’s like an obnoxious, uninvited dinner guest who just kind of showed up and sat down at the table, elbowing itself forcibly between all of us at once, making space where there wasn’t any to be had. It’s installed itself there like a fifth member of the family, and it’s demanding to be fed. Its hunger is voracious, and it’s rapidly grabbing for whatever it can get its filthy, greedy hands on.

Sure. We’ll feed you. Enjoy your chemo cocktail. And Herceptin. And radiation. AND SO ON. WE WILL NOT STOP FEEDING YOU UNTIL YOU COME APART AND CEASE TO EXIST. AND THEN WE WILL FEED YOU SOME MORE.

We’ll feed it, alright.

Today, the doctors will start slipping poison to the intruder.

Unfortunately, the poison will affect Mom as well as the intruder. I preemptively wrapped her up in a fuzzy warm robe and socks and slippers and a hat, because the Bay Area’s winter chill will increase as her treatment progresses, and she’s tiny. Her armor. Soft armor for a strong woman. She’s still good-naturedly running around accomplishing twenty things at once with her characteristic efficiency; she’s as indefatigable as ever. Callaghan and I couldn’t get her to just sit while we did things. That’s where Dad comes in… Dad is another weapon in her arsenal, maybe the most important one.

She’s well-armed, and that’s reassuring. An abundance of love and lots of prayers from family and friends. A lively sense of humor, a great attitude and a great deal of fortitude. The way I see it, the intruder has no chance. It’s outnumbered.

Flying home to Phoenix over southern California

“Gargarisms.” Just Try to Deny the Awesomeness of that Word.

October 25, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

The other day, Callaghan got up from the couch and announced, “It’s time to do your gargarisms!”

It was one of those moments I had to just sit and mull over his words for a few seconds. (It happens every once in a while.) Then I realized that he’d gone to the kitchen and taken a glass from the cabinet, and he was standing in the half-moon light of the open refrigerator door, pouring carbonated water into the glass, and it hit me: he was saying that it was time to gargle.

Context is a wonderful, helpful thing.

“Un gargarisme,” Callaghan explained over my burst of hilarity, “is how you say it in French.” But he was cracking up, too, as usual.

That was our first good laugh of the week. Gargarisms! I had to do my gargarisms, yes. And that is a brilliant new word, I thought.

The greatest part of the story, though, is that when I went online to look up “gargarism” (thinking that someone else might have found it funny to twist the verb “to gargle” into a noun), I discovered that it actually exists!

The noun is classified as “obsolete,” but it’s legit nonetheless. I’d learned a new word! Two new words, in fact, since I learned both the English and the French versions.

Anyway, I started doing the gargarisms with soda water this week at the suggestion of a medical website in an attempt to get my throat to stop attacking itself,* as it’s been stuck in a cycle of producing mucus as a response to nothing at all, causing me to have to clear my throat all the time. I mean, ALL. THE. TIME. This started back in December, almost a year ago, so I’m really kind of over it at this point. The V.A. is sending me to speech therapy, because sometimes that can help. Pending that, pass the club soda so I can do my gargarisms. (I cannot get enough of that word. GARGARISMS!)

—–

*I have autoimmunity, which means that my body habitually goes on sprees of attacking itself (meaning, me). It does this at random and as a response to stress and sometimes for no reason at all. Some of my problems are chronic (Autoimmune Thyroiditis, aka Hashimoto’s Disease; Reynaud’s Phenomenon). One is chronic and currently in remission (Sjögren’s Syndrome). I’m on the appropriate meds, and things are being managed just fine… except for the thyroid disease, which has recently decided to overstep the bounds of its medication. We will be having none of that! A batch of increased Synthroid prescription is in the mail as we speak, so hopefully I’ll feel less tired once I switch to the higher dosage.

Ophtalmologue

October 9, 2013October 10, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

Yesterday was my optometrist appointment at the V.A.

My eyes en route to the V.A. eye doctor.

First, the doctor consulted my chart to check my age. Then looked at me suspiciously, but smiling.

“I have to ask you this,” he prefaced carefully. “Do you ever notice that you have a hard time seeing close print when you’re wearing your glasses for distance?”

“Sometimes, yes,” I answered truthfully, giggling. I knew where he was going, and I couldn’t contain my mirth. At last! I’ll be 45 in two months, and I’ve finally reached the crossroads of life with “BIFOCALS” pointing one way and “READING GLASSES” the other. SO EXCITED.

I’m not even being sarcastic. This might sound weird, but I’ve been eagerly anticipating aging-related far-sightedness since my 30’s, when I started noticing reading glasses in interesting, artsy styles and colors displayed in the drugstores. Before Callaghan and I left France, I made sure to pick up a couple of pairs so when the time came I’d be all set with some cute French ones.

Reading glasses from the Pharmacie du Vercors in Bourg-de-Péage, one of the villages close to where we lived in France.

I keep the black pair on my desk, and the hot pink and black ones in my purse. Recently, I’ve actually had occasion to bust them out to read the ultra-fine-print on food packaging ingredients lists at the store. (I read the ingredients on absolutely everything. Funny how food manufacturers often make it deliberately difficult with their microscopic fonts.)

“We’ll find out in a minute,” he reassured me as he slid over to the equipment. At the end of the exam, he was still grinning. We’d whiled away the time bantering about this and that, and he’d dilated my eyes and pronounced them healthy.

“Okay,” he said. “Now we have a little decision to make!” He explained that I could get bifocals if I wanted to, but I don’t really need them right now, and once you get bifocals, you can never go back, and that might be a good reason for me to wait another year. If I wait another year, I could easily deal with the mild far-sightedness I’ve got going on at the moment. I don’t wear my glasses all the time, anyway. My prescription is very light.

“In any case, I’d say you can get away with another year,” he concluded. “But it’s really up to you, since you’re so borderline. You can get bifocals when you’re 46….” He paused. I was cracking up.

“We make them without lines now.”

“I think I’ll pass on the bifocals this year. I have some cute reading glasses from France that I want to use.”

“Do you have them with you? Let me see these French reading glasses!”

I extracted the glasses from my bag and put them on.

“Oh they ARE cute!” the doctor said.

I left after ordering a pair of normal glasses with tortoiseshell frames in a modified cat-eye. The V.A. has quite an impressive selection! They look nothing like BCGs.

Birth Control Glasses… Classic!

August 19, 2013August 19, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

Yeah, we all know my inner girly parts have left the party, so no need for birth control anything, but I’m getting these glasses, anyway.

Let me explain. See, I have an appointment at the Eye Clinic at the Veteran’s Outpatient Clinic in the first week of September. I’m going to get glasses there because I can, and I need them – not 24/7, but for watching movies and staring at computer screens for long periods of time, which I do (ahem) kind of a lot, being both a movie fanatic and a writer. My current state of “glasseslessness,” shall we say, has gone on long enough. I do have a pair at the moment, but the right-side lens is flawed… it fogs up spontaneously while I’m wearing them, so they’re pretty much useless. Has anyone else experienced this problem with their glasses?

Anyhow, I wasn’t even aware that I was eligible to get glasses from the V.A. until I attended the New Patient Orientation last month, and the presenter covered that topic as he navigated down through his informative Power-Point presentation. I almost missed it, because the subject came up while I was only listening with one ear. (My other ear was momentarily tuned in to my inner voice, which was busy wondering what we were going to have for lunch. I was hungry.)

I heard the venerable older Vet utter the words “eye exam,” and the word “glasses.” And then, as he casually continued on, he used a term I hadn’t heard in many years: “BCGs.”

It took a second for it to come back to me, but once it hit, I started laughing. I couldn’t contain it, and I instantly felt like a Bad Person for interrupting him. He paused… glanced my way… and burst out in laughter, as well! BCGs. Damn! I hadn’t thought of them in so long.

“You’re a Stormer, right?” he asked me, verifying that I was the Gulf War vet on his roster.

“Yes,” I said. The connection was made. Mutual laughter is a wonderful thing.

The military has acronyms for everything, and everything you need is provided as standard military-issue. If you need glasses, you’re issued glasses, and those glasses are known by the acronym “BCGs.” Birth Control Glasses.

The idea is that the glasses are so ugly, you won’t be able to get laid if you’re wearing them. It’s a joke, but “BCGs” is seriously what everyone in the Army calls them. It’s practically their official name, and that’s what’s so funny about it. All soldiers know what BCGs are… at least, they did during my time. I’m sure it’s still the case today. The Army is fairly change-resistant in many ways.

Depending on the era, BCG frames can be horn-rimmed or slightly squared-off, but they’re always large, thick and dark (either black or brown).

Callaghan was sitting there with me, and he was confused. Being French, he was thinking of tuberculosis. In French, “BCG” is the term for the tuberculosis vaccine (Le vaccin bilié de Calmette et Guérin).

French tuberculosis vaccine on the left, American military standard-issue glasses on the right. NOT UNLIKE.

In the civilian world, hipsters have now made BCGs a part of their basic everyday uniform. See how that works? Military HAS to wear them. Hipsters WANT to wear them. (Come to think of it, civilians also like to wear camo print and combat boots. Solider fashion, always in fashion! It’s a classic… never goes out of style. Hmm….)

And so it is that I shall obtain a pair of glasses from the V.A., and I’m grateful for it. When we wandered into the glasses area while we were down there last week, I saw that there’s a plethora of available frame styles, and some of them are quite attractive… so the glasses I get don’t have to be actual BCGs, unless I choose them with the civilian hipness factor in mind. Still, the idea of glasses from the V.A amuses me.

Now for the obvious question: If these glasses are perched on the favorable end of the desirability scale in civilian hipsterdom, what would that make them, in that case? “PGs” – Pregnancy Glasses? “GLGs” – Get Laid Glasses? Parents of hipster kids, lock up those glasses!

It’s All in the Details. Too Many Details.

July 19, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 6 Comments

This week, I started having dreams of disconcerting detail. I jotted them down each morning, though I didn’t need to, because I still remember them all… these were not normal dreams, especially not for me, being someone who rarely has dreams she remembers. This week’s dreams have been sharp, multi-faceted and multi-dimensional, layered with thought processes, inner voices and memories.

Monday night: Details such as my dream-self thinking of the specific reason why I’d gone to bed when I did, in my dream, and the chipped paint on the corner of the distressed piece of furniture (a small chest of drawers), and how there were four pieces of white furniture, but two of them were different shades of white than the others, the image of the different shades etched deep on the surface of my memory when I woke up… and also knowing and remembering exactly how it was that I’d come across these pieces, and my thought process regarding the differing shades, looking at all four of them together and comparing the colors, and then the crisp detail of the style of the first piece, and of the others, going clockwise around the room and back, etc…. This kind of detail in a dream can drive you crazy, can’t it?

Tuesday night: The detail of the side of the bed in which I – my dream-self – had slept, and why I’d chosen that side. Dream rationale. The layout of the house, its floor-plan, how the water – the shoreline – wrapped around it; on the left side of the house, the fence closing off the private backyard, and noting how, from that side, you could only access the water from the inside of the house (a private little stretch of the beach), but how on the other side, to the right of the house, the water could be accessed by the public, though it was still a part of the private property. This kind of detail, and also the detail of the reasons why the new homeowner bought that particular house. The detail of the interior scents, as each room had its own, unique fragrance. The detail of the planning and the strategizing that went into the moving (into the house). The weather on the day of the move, and what the person explained to me (regarding my motivations the previous night) when my dream-self woke up in the morning.

Exciting stuff, right?

Wednesday night: How the angles of the clouds looked in the reflection of the rising sun. Yes, the clouds in the sky were angular. Fluffy sharp mirrors, blinding. Remnants of the hours spent dwelling on this. This is insanity. Also, the clouds were conversing with each other, and they were speaking French, each side of the dialogue absorbed into the ether.

Thursday (last night): The dog, a cute mutt, sitting and waiting in glorious detail on the front steps of a particular house in California, the key under the doormat, the doubled food and water bowls in the garage (hot pink bowls nested inside larger electric blue ones), and the heavy smell of rain in the air, a scent of rain so powerful that it wasn’t just intense, it was actually invasive, the dream-scent lingering in my nostrils when I woke up.

What is all of this? I wondered when I opened my eyes this morning, feeling tired after four nights of dreamscape insanity. Where are these dreams coming from?

Then it occurred to me.

On Monday, my doctor at the V.A. gave me Ropinirole for Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS). Ropinirole is a dopamine agonist, which is a compound that works to activate the brain’s dopamine receptors. It’s prescribed to patients with Parkinson’s disease as well as those with RLS. Following my hunch that it must be related to my bizarre dream activity, I looked it up online and read that the drug can cause hallucinations.

What a bottle of crazy dreams looks like. Not as nice as the mug Callaghan got me while were waiting to pick it up (at the V.A.).

What a bottle of crazy dreams looks like. Not as nice as the mug Callaghan got me while we were waiting for the pharmacy pick-up (at the V.A.).

So that explains it, right? Whew! I’m tired. How can anyone feel rested after nights on end dreaming to this ridiculous degree?

Since the drug isn’t really helping, and since I’m not enjoying the level of dream activity it’s provoking, I’m going to stop taking it. There are other options.

There’s a reason why I’ve never been attracted to the notion of experimentation with hallucinogenic recreational drugs – I don’t want to hallucinate. The idea has never appealed to me. I like reality. I like reality in all of its mundane and often depressing, dubious splendor, and I will navigate it with my sanity intact, thank you very much. Give me reality and the dreamless sleep of the dead any day.

Ropinirole. Not for me!

Infernos Everywhere! Run! Or, Cover Yourselves.

July 17, 2013July 31, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 2 Comments

Some of you appreciated my impromptu ramble about masks, so let me do another “1-Minute Topical” as a kind of Public Service announcement. Subject: sunscreen. I wear it on my face every day, no matter what. Even if there’s no sun. Even if I’m not leaving the house. It’s the one product about which I’m kind of fanatical; I’ve been using it religiously for decades.

I once read – and I truly believe – that where there’s daylight, there’s a need for sunscreen, because a room filled with daylight is a room filled with damaging UV rays. Yes, your skin can sustain damage under a cloud cover! The term “sun damage” is a misleading one, in my opinion. You don’t need golden beams of sunshine to end up with skin damaged by UV rays. You are not safe if it’s overcast. Know how vampires are affected by daylight even if they’re inside? Same danger.

Skin cancer happening

While I envision horrible things happening to unprotected skin after sunrise, I’m not daunted. It’s easier to put on sunscreen than to hide from the daylight in a coffin until nightfall. I like an SPF of 30, minimum, in a broad-spectrum (that means UVA and UVB) formula. My current anti-UV ray weapon of choice is Eucerin’s Sensitive Skin Everyday Protection Face Lotion, SPF 30, which I’ve used since at least 2009. It’s great. (Side note: Eucerin and its parent company, Beiersdorf, claim to not test on animals, though their names don’t appear on current cruelty-free products lists… so I’m not sure what that’s about. Conflicting information alert.)

Speaking of animals, our boys’ true natures have really emerged since we’ve been here. It’s warm, and there’s carpet, so they’re letting it all hang out, so to speak. I’m not sure about Nounours (he’s harder to read), but Ronnie James is Hawaiian at heart. This is clear from the fact that he enjoys playing air-ukulele while lying on his back. We’ve caught him dancing the hula, also while lying on his back. And he loves to sit on his butt in big armchairs, as people in Hawaii are wont to do. (I know this first-hand. My family is originally from there, so I’ve spent a lot of time there, myself.)

Mmm-hmm… Ronnie James’s got the hang-loose ‘tude of the locals down (not that Al Bundy is Hawaiian), and he was obviously born with it, because his ukulele-playing, hula-dancing self has never been to Hawaii.

Hula dancing

Giant Box of Kitty Litter – 1; Kristi – 0

July 10, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

A few days ago, I had my ass handed to me by a giant box of kitty litter, and since then, it’s been all about pain management up in here.

It destroys more than just ammonia if you hold it carelessly with one hand and bend over and extend yourself at a weird angle while trying to fit it into a specific spot in the back of the closet.

It destroys more than just ammonia odors if you hold it carelessly with one hand and bend over and extend yourself at a weird angle while trying to fit it into a specific spot in the back of the closet.

Here are the results of experiments I’ve conducted with the various pharmaceuticals lying around the house:

–Extra-Strength Advil, my preferred over-the-counter pain medication: I took four at a time and experienced no relief. When I checked the expiration date, I found that it was expired. Trash! It was almost empty, anyway, so not much went to waste.

–Extra-Strength Tylenol: I took two at a time and didn’t get any relief from it, either, which isn’t surprising considering that my brain doesn’t get the memos sent by many types of pain-killers. There’s a rumor that natural red-heads tend to be difficult to anesthetize. My biological father has flaming red hair; my natural hair color is reddish (it’s actually really red in the front, where my bangs are). When I woke up from my major abdominal surgery a few years ago (my biological mother had ovarian cancer, so I had a recommended prophylactic bilateral salpingo oophorectomy with hysterectomy, aka the “Everything Out!” women’s surgical special), we discovered that I “don’t have the receptors for morphine,” in the words of one of the nurses. Yep, I woke up feeling everything. My brain does respond to Demerol, though. Lock it up! (No, on second thought, don’t lock it up. Find it. Bring it. Thanks.)

–Aspirin: I tried taking two aspirin yesterday morning, and it also failed to have an effect. So I spent most of the afternoon sleeping.

I see no reason to visit the doctor for this, because I know from vast experience over the course of years that prescription pain-killers like Vicodin, Percoset and several others have very little if any effect on me. They usually do nothing.

The true moral of this story is that I need to get back into working out, so I can keep my lower back strengthened and protected against these kinds of ridiculous mishaps. An MRI from a few years ago revealed a ruptured disc – S1, I think – so I know that I have a weakness in that area already. My favorite way to work out is to train in some kind of martial arts dojo, so I’m going to start researching options around here.

This post was brought to you by Ronnie James and Nounours, who really do appreciate their clean litter every day:

Happy Hump Day, Everyone!

You’re American. You Must Be Obese.

January 12, 2013February 19, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 7 Comments

We got back from our latest trip to Nice last night. While we were there, we took the time to visit the maison de carnaval (“house of carnival”), the place where the majestic floats for Nice’s annual February carnival are made. We wanted to get a sneak peek at the construction progress because, like last year, several of Callaghan’s drawings were selected to appear as floats.

I have something to get off my chest, so I’m going to go ahead and dump it here.

(By the way: This is not about Callaghan!)

Let’s say you’re an artist. You decide to participate in a contest to come up with a series of original drawings on the theme of “The Five Continents,” depicting your visual interpretation of the corners of the world. (This refers to the non-American version of the world’s continents, hence five rather than seven.)

The competition is intimidating. You know that your drawings have to be absolutely inventive in order for the committee to select one or more of them; a prestigious carnival’s enormous, sophisticated floats will be based on the winning drawings.

So here you are, ready to go! The continent of North America lies before you, challenging you. There are many options, many things about this continent you can take and develop into creative ideas. You sit and think and soon find yourself rolling along an exhilarating wave of inspiration, creative idea after creative idea blooming up from the depths of your imagination. Your mind hums with anticipation; you can already feel the satisfaction of releasing the creative mojo from your brain, taking the images from your mind’s eye and transferring them to paper.

You unsheathe your drawing pencils. You’re inspired. You’re proud of yourself. For North America, you’ve decided, you’re going to focus on the United States. You’ll incorporate various elements into your drawing – elements that will represent America. One of these will be an American woman: She’ll be obese. She’ll be blond. She’ll be naked except for blue star pasties on her nipples and a tiny red and white striped bikini bottom. She’ll wear a gold crown. You’ll put her up on the back of a pink Cadillac. In her upraised hand, you’ll draw in a diet soda. She is a parody of the Statue of Liberty.

At the carnival’s home offices, the selection committee reviews the hundreds of entries submitted by talented artists. Next thing you know, you receive a letter of congratulations. Your drawing was selected! Your idea was so original, it beat out all the others. At the end of February, a pink Cadillac float representing America, complete with the ridiculous half-naked obese woman brandishing her diet soda, will drift along in the parade for all to admire. You’ll receive an award for your clever design at the end of the carnival’s run. Congratulations.

Here are the rhetorical questions this scenario begs in my mind: Is the world really so conditioned to viewing America this way that it can’t see the juvenile cruelty of ridiculing obese Americans? Can there be an acknowledgement of the difference between a successful satire and outright hostile social criticism hiding behind the guise of satire?

Dear Selection Committee: I don’t get it. I don’t get why you would taint the illustrious tradition of your annual carnival by selecting a drawing such as this. Shouldn’t you be setting high standards for carnival parades, rather than lowering them by perpetuating mean stereotypes through the pedantic representation of them in your floats?

Why reduce a country’s identity to a stereotype, anyway? America. Geographical wonders such as redwood forests, the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, the Great Lakes and Niagara falls. Specific, world-wide-recognized characters such as Elvis, Mickey Mouse, the Statue of Liberty and Uncle Sam. Places such as Hollywood and New York City. All of these emblems could be used as the basis of satire. Also worth considering is the tremendous cultural diversity among the American population.

America is nothing if not multi-cultural. The country grew up as a coming-together of people from all over the world, and those people brought their traditions that have both held pure and mixed together with others. It can be said that to be American is to be of mixed ethnicity; most Americans are “mutts.” I’ve known very few Americans who are 100% anything. It’s not like Europe, where it’s more predictable that people in Germany are of German ethnicity, people in France are of French ethnicity, people in Italy are of Italian ethnicity, etc. There is no such thing as an “American” ethnicity. America is unique in that it’s a country in which almost all of its citizens (the exception being Native Americans) can trace their ethnic roots back to their places of origin. “American” is a nationality, not an ethnicity. America is a collection of the world’s people.

How can anyone miss the greatness of this? When you really think about it, isn’t it a stunning concept? Isn’t it great, I mean truly great that a country such as America even exists?

What I’m trying to point out is that it’s kind of gratuitous to draw an obese white person and stick it on a float called “America” to represent its people. Clearly, the intent here is not to satirize. The intent is only to turn the subject into a laughing-stock for the amusement of the parade audience, most of which is not American.

Stereotypes can be negative or positive. Obesity is a negative American stereotype that suggests disapproval of not just a body condition, but a psychological one as well. Often, obesity is perceived as an attitude-oriented issue – one that can easily be changed if the person “really wants to.” It’s a complex stereotype, and it’s hostile: the obese are viewed negatively on different levels. This is why I’m feeling this drawing stretch beyond satire, and I have to wonder what the artist was thinking. Did he choose to portray obesity because it would be the easiest of the negative American stereotypes to draw? Or because it’s perceived to be the funniest? Or because it was just the first thing that occurred to him when he thought about America, so he went with it without bothering to search his mind for alternatives?

I saw this drawing, obviously. In my opinion, it’s not even that good. (I think I’m at least slightly qualified to make this judgment, since I live with Callaghan and I see the results of his considerable talent every day.) Regardless, if the decision to draw an obese person was made in bad taste, the decision to select the drawing out of hundreds was even worse.

I believe it would be possible to come up with ways to visually satirize America with the finesse required to also celebrate it – not just mock it. Intelligent, creative satire. I’m all for it.

We’re aware that obesity is an accelerating medical problem in America. But who is anyone to indict us, as a nation, for being “greedy” or “lazy” or “self-indulgent” (or whatever the perception may be) because of it?

Who is uglier – the obese American, or the person ridiculing him or her?

Beauty is on the Inside

January 9, 2013January 9, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

Yesterday was the day “GYN” was written in my agenda. It would be my first Well-Woman exam in France. Callaghan and I got there on time, and the doctor called us in immediately. Shocking! This was a good sign. I was brimming with curiosity. How would this particular exam differ from those I’ve had in the States? All the medical exams I’ve had here so far have been different. We followed the doctor down the hall to his office. I was about to find out!

For starters, he couldn’t find my vagina.

Kidding! What really happened at first was that he couldn’t figure out why I was there, since I’d had everything removed except my vagina. Ovaries, tubes, uterus and cervix – the whole SHE-bang, gone. He had a good point. There’s nothing to find in a pelvic exam on a woman who’d evicted all of her reproductive organs from her pelvis. He asked a few questions for clarification purposes.

“My GYN in the States said I should still get a yearly check,” I explained.

The doctor gesticulated with his hands as he meandered through a long reply, but even with the sign language, I wasn’t sure I understood him.

“He says there’s nothing to do,” said Callaghan, cutting the response down to six words.

But the doctor got up and showed me to the examination area, anyway, while Callaghan remained seated in his plush green velvet 18^th-century replica chair at the desk. The exam area was concealed behind an ornate Oriental screen. The doctor told me to undress completely, but he did not give me a paper gown. This omission flashed in my mind. What’s a pelvic exam without the crinkly, slippery paper gown? (Not that I missed it. I didn’t.) As I reposed on my back with my feet in the stirrups, I gazed above and bit my lip to keep from laughing as I recalled how a former GYN had tacked a poster of Tom Cruise on the ceiling above the exam table. It was supposed to help patients relax. I’m not making this up.

After the exam, I got dressed and joined Callaghan at the desk, wondering what the doctor would find to say about my non-existent girly parts.

“C’est bien,” he said. “Votre vagin est parfait.”

“Your vagina is perfect,” said Callaghan.

“That’s what I thought he said.”

“Well I already knew that your vagina was perfect.” He sounded like his intelligence had been insulted.

We burst out laughing. The doctor ignored us. He grabbed a large coffee-table book, set it down, spun it around, and opened it to display pictures of all kinds of vaginas, interior close-ups beautifully captured in gleaming full color. He enthusiastically used his pen to point out the different parts of vaginal anatomy. As he flipped through the vagina photographs, I suppressed the urge to ask him which one resembled mine. If mine is “perfect,” then why couldn’t it also be featured in a vagina photography book? There are models for all kinds of body parts (hand models, leg models, feet and teeth models). From what I understand, body-part modeling is lucrative, and the models take out insurance policies on said parts… celebrities too, sometimes, if they have a part that’s especially famous. Didn’t I read somewhere that Jennifer Lopez has an insurance policy out on her ass?

In any case, I have to say that this doctor was more thorough than any American one I’ve had, and the exam was only 34 euro (that’s without insurance). Girls, remember this if you ever visit France! You could squeeze in a Well-Woman appointment during your stay. It’ll probably be cheaper than going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, too.

Happy Hour at the Office of Le Docteur

December 2, 2012January 9, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick Leave a comment

I’ve studied many interesting specimens of humanity while sitting in doctors’ waiting rooms, but this one lady from Thursday’s appointment wins the prize for Best Walking Free Entertainment in a Medical Waiting Room.

These are the events as they transpired:

-The woman stumbled in on a boozy waft of cold air. She was older, maybe in her 60’s. It was 10:30 in the morning. “Bonjour,” she said to the whole room. (In France, it’s standard to greet a room when you walk in, probably even if no one’s there.)

-She weaved around the small coffee table to maneuver herself between it and me on her way to her final destination, which was the seat next to mine.

-As she went past, I looked up at her, made eye contact and smiled. This is the American equivalent of the verbal French room-greeting. (The French aren’t that familiar with the whole smiling at each other thing. I know this for a fact after conducting numerous experiments on random French people. It doesn’t stop me from smiling at them, though. I’m hard-wired that way.)

-My smile was met with a terrible scowl of doom. This woman was clearly in a bad mood.

-She sat down in the chair to my left. On the other side of me, Callaghan leaned in to whisper, “I can smell her from here.” He got away with this because he said it quietly and in English, plus the lady was plastered, so she probably wouldn’t have noticed, anyway.

-I resumed my activity of reading out loud from L’Express magazine and stopping at the end of each sentence to pester Callaghan for explanations of the bits I couldn’t figure out. (By the way, did you know that there’s a long line of women behind the famous Laurent-Perrier House of Champagne?)

-Not ten minutes later, there was movement to my left. It was the drunk lady rising out of her seat like a large gray gull to loom over the table and swoop up a magazine.

-Before she sat back down, she opened her mouth in the direction of the woman sitting by the window and loudly complained about le docteur being late, jerking her elbows upward for emphasis. In her grating gull voice, this came out as WAWK WAWK WAWK

-Our end of the room clouded up with a fresh gust of alcohol breath. It didn’t smell like cough syrup, either.

-Callaghan and I looked at each other. Our eyes said, Can you believe it? It’s 10:30 in the morning and she comes in drunk, complaining about the doctor being late!

-She gave us two, maybe three more performances before we were called in. At least she changed it up slightly each time so there was some variation in the details.

Perhaps I should be kinder. I mean, it’s possible that she’s seeing the doctor because of alcoholism, which is an authentic disease. She made for an amusing wait, though! Still, I would have preferred to read about the Laurent-Perrier champagne sisters without the soundtrack.

Le Docteur

November 29, 2012January 9, 2013That Asian-Looking Chick 3 Comments

This morning, my husband and I went to the doctor, or, should I say, le docteur. So I’m in le docteur’s office trying to do three things at once: 1). Listen attentively as he talks to my husband so as to understand as much of what he’s saying as possible, and 2). Keep my mind from wandering, and 3). Listen attentively, and 4). Try to understand as much of what he’s saying as possible, and 5). Try to understand as much of what my husband’s saying as possible, and 6). Try to not get lost, and 7). Start the whole process again after I get lost, and 8). Try not to get frustrated as I find myself 10 sentences behind by the time I start trying to understand again because I got lost, and 9). Try to keep my mind from wandering as I think of how frustrating it is to try to understand everyone, and 10). Wait – that’s eight things. Or is it nine? I only meant to list three. Did you follow all of that? Neither did I.

This is my struggle as a non-fluent-French-speaker in France. Trying to follow a conversation in French is like trying to follow a mental tennis match, only it’s faster than tennis, so it’s more like ping-pong. The ball blurrs with speed, and the blurrier it gets, the harder it is to keep track, especially if I start seeing double and it looks like two balls. It flies around so quickly that by the time I find it, it’s already somewhere else. Next thing I know, the match is over, and I have no idea what I’d just seen. At that point, the only thing more mind-tangling is when one of the players turns to me with a question about the game. And since I do know something about it, there’s this idea that I’d successfully followed the ball. But the game is complicated. There are serves and pauses and front hands and back hands and double-vision balls bouncing off the net and getting caught off the edge and etcetera. Angles are involved. Angles! I’m going to start calling them “slangles.” My mind trips on the slangles every time. Most of the time, anyway.

Thankfully, I usually understand my husband’s questions, and I can even answer in ping-pong-ese. Other times – a lot of the time, actually – I get it, but I can only answer in English. And sometimes, I don’t get it at all. Then I feel like I let everyone down, especially after it had been noted that my understanding had improved so much.

This is just the normal docteur. This isn’t the shrink-docteur where I go once a month to have an actual conversation without my husband being there. It’s like trying to play ping-pong with myself, blindfolded. And I’m not even going to try to explain what that’s like.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: