PG-13 Post

Note to readers: The following post deviates from my normally G-rated (or PG-at-most) content. If you are easily offended, you might wish to read no further than the disclaimer I issued to my parents. Tonight's post represents a departure from my normal content, as opposed to a harbinger of things to come. I've been somewhat influenced by my friends (who do not know they're my friends, as I read but do not often post there)  and by the occasionally bawdier content at exmormon.org.  Tonight I was inspired. I am eighteen now, and as such, it isn't wholly inappropriate for me to reflect content of  somewhat sexual nature. On the other hand, neither is it in any way necessarily for everything i write from this point forward to be smutty simply because I have, as a legal adult, the protection afforded by the First Amendment to write about anything that doesn't  threaten or libel anyone or incite violence. My next post will almost certainly be my normally mundane and uninspired content. I thank you in advance for not being offended, or for reading only those parts which would not be offensive to you.


The Flexor patches, especially when used in combination with heat treatment, are reducing the need for narcotics, although I'm still not out of the woods in term of having my next Catalina vacation be unceremoniously converted into an extended stay at the Betty Ford Clinic or some similar  accommodation. Dr. Jeff, AK Chairman Mao, the shrink I saw regularly when I received inpatient treatment for  PTSD, anxiety, and Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome (that is one hell of  glamorous diagnosis if I've ever heard one), came to visit me today. He told me not to worry about the Dilaudid, Hydrocodone, and Benzos.  He said I'm getting a relatively low dosage of all of the pharmaceuticals-- less in a given day, he said he would estimate, although he admits to never having treated her -- than Lindsay Lohan probably consumes  in an uneventful single-hour interval. He also gave me the Todd Akin line about how a body knows when  it's being given the drugs for legitimate pain and for anxiety and muscle tension related to the pain, and is, therefore, less subject to addiction as a result as long as the dosage is appropriate, which, he assures me, it is. A woman's body has some miraculous properties, according to the words of Chariman Mao and Todd Akin.

*****Mom and Dad, you'd probably be happier if you did not read this next portion.*****

The next thing some politician and/or pseudo-scientist will suggest is that a woman's body  has ways to avoid a sexually transmitted disease if her sole exposure is through "normal" marital relations [defined as vaginal intercourse via the "missionary" position, positively nothing in any way kinky about any of it, including absolutely no use of pornography or even of  "talking dirty"]  with her lawfully wedded spouse who happens to be the carrier of said STD,  having picked it up from  extramarital activity(ies) of some sort, if the wife was either unaware of her husband's indiscretions or if he confessed them to her and the two of them prayed about it together and received confirmation before resuming marital relations. If the former was the case, and the errant husband left his wife in ignorance regarding his dalliance, the sin shall be on his head [which "head" is to be the recipient of the wages of his sin shall be determined by a higher power], and he may be subjected to all manner of scourges, including but not limited to the inability to "perform,"  the inability to end his "performance" satisfactorily and in a timely manner  [consider or visualize  the warnings of Viagra and Cialis commercials in terms of the necessity of seeking medical attention in the event that an erection lasts for a interval of four hours or longer],  painful "performance," and lesions on areas of his body visible both while wearing ordinarily concealing clothing and visible only while wearing apparel of an extremely intimate nature or, [again, the sin be on his head or on his other naughty bulbous parts] while wearing no apparel whatsoever.

I freely acknowledge that I've read none of the preceding theory in any medical journal. Then again, neither did Todd  Akin read pertinent material from a reputable medical journal  before making his rather dubious claims concerning the female body's innate ability to shut down normal reproductive processes in the event of "legitimate" rape.  My assertion is that my scenario is roughly as likely as was that made by Mr. Akin. I'll leave it to the reader to determine which if either proposition is remotely credible.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: My Heart Belongs to Me.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: My Heart Belongs to Me.: As far as my former significant other is concerned, his status may not be former. Roses were delivered early this morning, and I received  ...

My Heart Belongs to Me.

As far as my former significant other is concerned, his status may not be so former after all. Roses were delivered early this morning, a candy gram came at noon, and I received  a makeshift pajamagram at about 3:00. The former significant other  had wanted  to send me the real thing (in terms of the pajamagram) but his mom convinced him that I would drown in the smallest size the company offered.  His mom and his sister helped him to pick out a lovely silk nightshirt / silk-blend knit leggings ensemble from Victoria's Secret***, which is not the typical go-to place of business for Valentine's day gifts (or gifts for any occasion/) when it comes to Mormons and their shopping habits. I appreciate the concession made on my behalf, yet can't help wondering if the fourteen-year old sister will ever be truly the same as she was before her venture into Babylon.. The single shopping excursion may have done more to bring the girl toward the light than anything I might ever have done intentionally.

Just because someone sends me something doesn't mean I'm absolutely obligated to reciprocate, but he has been very nice lately, and I didn't wish to be rude.  I'm not exactly in a position to hop into my car, pick out a nice shirt and tie for him, and drive to Los Angeles with it.  Fortunately, I have a Fairy-God-Aunt who also had relatives traveling to the UCLA neighborhood today, which is where my former (or not-so-former) significant other attends school  and lives in the dorms.

Jillian took cookie dough out of the freezer and baked two kinds of cookies: chocolate chip and frosted heart-shaped sugar cookies.  She packaged them beautifully, I was told by others, and had her mom deliver them this afternoon when part of the family drive to Los Angeles. Timmy, Jillian's brother, attends UCLA med school, and her mom was delivering baked goods to him for Valentine's Day in the immediate vicinity while on a family trip. The coincidence was most fortuitous.

The gift I gave was  sub-par when compared to his, but it's the thought that counts, or it's what people say all the time, anyway, when they inadvertently give someone a gift that is out-matched by the one given to them. The thought might have counted more had I actually baked the cookies that he received, nut he's none the wiser unless he reads this blogs, and so far he has no clue as to its existence.

My response to this person's actions is causing me to sound as though someone can drop me like a soda can into a recycling bin, and that i'll come rushing back at the first sign of positive attention, but the situation is a little more complicated than I've indicated.. The whole breakup, which  in my opinion he could have resisted more forcefully than he did, was at is father's insistence due to religious differences between the two of us, and due largely  to his father's fear that I would exert  excessive influence in the ex's (or not so ex's) decision as to whether or not to fulfill a two-year mission for his church. The official part of the break-up was short-lived, as the former (or not) significant other's mother very quickly overruled he husband's decision. Once the guy had dated three other girls in  the three days, however, things were not the same regardless of the impetus of the split.  Once his mother issued her edict,  I won't say that he exactly groveled, but he did become more attentive than he had been at any time  in the past.  This latest gesture, however, was by far the most seemingly sincere act since I've known the guy.  Still, I choose to be cautious where such matters are concerned. I'm eighteen. There's half  a lifetime  at the very least for me to conclude that any guy is THE one.

On a totally unrelated topic, I added two songs to my list of favorite songs, which now numbers twenty-seven and not just twenty-five. I suspect the total will number somewhere around eighty-nine before it's complete   My two additional selections are ones I can scarcely believe slipped my mind. One is "House at Pooh Corner" by Kenny Loggins. The other is "Waltzing Matilda."

The latest news on the myositis front is that I am no longer taking Toradol. Instead I'm using a topical NSAID known as Flector patches.  They seem more effective so I'm happy.

Happy Hallmark Day.

***  I'm not, by any stretch of the definition, anorexic.  I have small bones and a very ectomorphic body type, with a small appetite to boot.  If I could have my Fairy-God-Aunt wave her magic wand and instantly make me a size 2, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Myositis, Conjunctivitis, and Urinary Tract infections: They All Suck, Although I'm Not Sure Which Is the Worst

When I went to tennis camp when I was eleven, it was hotter than usual that particular summer. The facility at which the tennis camp was being held contained only a small swimming pool -- one that was roughly size of a home pool. When the weather was cool and only the die-hard swimmers used the pool, no health hazards seemed to occur.  Once the thermometer climbed to over 100, however, every tennis player, instructor, counselor, custodian, cook, and Bigfoot searcher  from the adjacent forest who happened to be passing by wanted to take advantage of the pool's cooling properties. The problem herein is that virtually no amount of chlorine that is safe in which to swim will  kill off the nasty pathogens that four hundred children and the other swimmers, both invited and uninvited,  may be harboring.

The result was that a camp-wide epidemic of pinkeye, otherwise known as an infectious form of conjunctivitis,  struck the camp and surrounding territory. The outbreak was so prevalent that the conspiracy theorists among us suggested terrorism in the form of biological warfare. Even at the age of eleven, I found it hard to believe that Al Qaeda would choose, of all places, a tennis camp out in the sticks of New Hampshire to wage its next attack on the evil empire of the USA, though I was in the minority with my opinion.

If you've never suffered pinkeye, consider yourself blessed. It was so bad that I would have gladly submitted to surgery to have my eyeballs temporarily removed so that I could rub calamine lotion or some other anti-itch medication thoroughly into my eye sockets before having my eyeballs put back into place.

Urinary tract infections are another unfavorite of mine. I've had more actual kidney infections than urinary tract infections  per se. I've been told that the two are varying forms of the same malady, and that they differ by degree of severity and by the depth to which the infection has traveled.  I know that  I was much more seriously ill with kidney infections than I was with my one urinary tract infection.  Still, given the choice, bring on the kidney infection. Urinary tract infections cause a strong burning sensation in a place most of us would prefer not to feel such a sensation. Accompanying the burning sensation is the feeling of urgency (the feeling that one needs to urinate frequently), the need to urinate frequently and with little notice, extreme pain while urinating and afterward, and pain, in addition to in the unmentionable places, also in the flank, and/or abdomen, and/or lower back.  Urinary tract infections would be given to prisoners in Gitmo or in other prisons in place of solitary confinement were such not a violation of the Geneva convention, among other constraints. I find it anomalous that death by firing squad, gas chamber, lethal injection, or, in some places, even by electric chair, are all perfectly legal in many places in the U. S., but giving a prisoner a small strain of bacteria that would cause him or her to contract a urinary tract infection is somehow considered cruel and unusual punishment.  Perhaps that is a testament to just how horrible a urinary tract infection really is.

Myositis, an inflammation of muscles known to originate from various causes,  is far less common than either pinkeye or urinary tract infections. For this reason, less is known regarding how to remedy the affiction or how to make patients more comfortable who are suffering from the effects. It's more painful than a UTI, but if my thigh or calf hurts, I can grab it  even if others are present. The same cannot be said for the body parts typically affected by urinary tract infections.  I could remain on Dilaudid and Ativan for twenty-four hours a day for the next two weeks or so were it not for the fact that I do not wish to be Lindsay Lohan's roomie in a rehab facility in the near future, not that my parents would necessarily spring for a spa-like facility nearly so luxurious as the next one at which  Ms. Lohan will try and fail to beat her various addictions.

The alternative is for me to use Dilaudid and Ativan at night only, lessening the overall exposure and potential for addiction,  which still carries some risk of addiction, but when the drugs are being used for legitimate pain and not for recreational purposes, the body can theoretically distinguish between the two uses and can withstand physical addiction for a longer period of time. (Does this sound vaguely like what Todd Akin said about the body having ways to shut down the possibility of pregnancy in cases of legitimate rape? I hope not.)    Physical addiction notwithstanding,  psychological addiction  is another matter entirely. Where in the hell is my  %$%^#(# Dilaudid?

The problem with using opiates and benzos only at night is that the pain is just as great during the day.  One suggestion, and not a bad one, is Guinness. At some point that will probably become the solution of choice. Right now I'm taking some IV Toradol  (an NSAID) during the day, and consuming alcohol -- even that with such proven therapeutic benefits as Guinness --  can cause major gastrointestinal issues when taken in conjunction with NSAIDS.  Toradol, however, can be taken continuously for only about five days, and intermittently for maybe seven days. We've already reached day four.  In three more days, it may be time for Guinness to once again reveal its magical properties. Alcohol in combination with opiates can be devastating to the liver, of course, but by then, I should be on little if any Dilaudid, and the amount of Guinness I can consume is not exactly of the quantity that would make an Irishman proud.

So the consensus (of one) is that all three afflictions suck, but that if you have access to enough good drugs and your father and/or your doctor is not a Nazi who thinks you'll become the next Anna Nicole Smith, take myositis if offered a choice of the three -- that is, unless you cannot spare three weeks to loll around in bed watching TV shows that are certain to diminish your IQ. "Judge Alex" is the only show likely not to compromise your intellectual capacity. As far as the rest of what can be found on daytime TV, may God help us all.

  

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: An Addedum to the Tornado Child Post

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: An Addedum to the Tornado Child Post: In regard to my having referred to myself as a tornado child, my mother has requested that I make a few clarifications, which I am more tha...

An Addendum to the Tornado Child Post

In regard to my having referred to myself as a tornado child, my mother has requested that I make a few clarifications, which I am more than happy to make. My mom was concerned that someone would get the impression that she sent me to school each morning in a disheveled state.  Such was not the case, and my mother even has photographic evidence to prove her point.  My hair was always wildly curly, so I practically never wore it to school in its unencumbered state.  I typically wore it in pigtails, a ponytail, a braid or braids, or in some style of French braiding. My clothing was clean and pressed each morning when I left the car to walk the short distance down the walkway  and through the school gates.

Somehow, by morning recess at the very latest, and often much earlier, my hair would begin to loosen itself from its moorings.  Dirt attached itself to my clothing and skin as though there was some sort of magnetic force attracting them.  If there was a mud puddle anywhere on campus, I would have some reason to walk near it. Even though I didn't typically fall into it (I wasn't a clumsy child) some other child would find a reason to create a large splash, drenching me with the contents of the puddle. I didn't eat enough food in the lunchroom, cafeteria, or wherever I ate to create a mess of myself in that manner, but that didn't stop children seated nearby from spilling chocolate milk or grape juice on me.   If we had any reason at all to use glitter in class, I emerged from the experience looking like a Halloween version of a child dressing up as a rock star.

In short, my mother didn't do this to me. I emerged from the house each morning looking respectable, arguably even cute. My activities at school caused the transformation.

My initial school pictures are an experience from which my parents have yet to recover. Some genius decided that the order for school pictures should begin with eighth grade and proceed downward all the way to kindergarten. While eight graders should be able to refrain from activities that would drastically and negatively alter their grooming before pictures were taken, asking the same of kindergartners is probably expecting too much. When my parents first viewed my school pictures the day I brought them home after kindergarten one day, my brother and I though we would have to call 9-1-1 to have one or both of them revived. I looked like an orphan on a bad day whose hair had been done by someone who was both blind and tactically impaired. My mom had painstakingly French braided the front part of my hair, then left the back flowing in its naturally curly state. In the picture, it looked as though someone had used a crochet hook to strategically pull random sections of hair loose from the French braided portion.  The back part of my hair that was left in its curly state,  while it had been combed to perfection only a few hours before,  appeared in the picture as though someone had ratted it.

My outfit was a tasteful little pink and gray woolen jumper with a coordinated pink blouse. The buttons on my blouse had inexplicably been unbuttoned and re-buttoned in a lopsided manner, so that the collar on the left side of my blouse reached all the way up to my ear, while on the right side it looked as though I was trying to display my nonexistent cleavage (which is, for the most part, still pretty much nonexistent). Someone gave me a scarf to accessorize my outfit. (We wore uniforms that year, as I attended Catholic school for kindergarten, but the uniform requirement was waived for picture day.) The scarf someone had so generously provided to accessorize my pink and gray outfit was bright orange.  Why either the photographer's assistant or the teacher didn't at least correctly button my blouse or remove the offending orange scarf is anyone's guess. Perhaps they were both color-blind, or maybe they thought my parents planned to use my school picture for a Christmas card photo in hopes that friends and relatives would cough up alms for the poor.

My mom insisted on re-takes, but my Uncle Ralph, who is also my Godfather,  paid for the original pictures as well because he thought they were too funny to wind up in a recycling facility somewhere. The largest one is framed in an office on one of his dairies. I think he carries another one in his wallet.

From that year until I was in fifth grade, my mom insisted that my dad adjust his work schedule each year on picture day so that he could "volunteer in my classroom" on that day, which meant to essentially hogtie me until pictures had been taken so there wouldn't be a repeat of the kindergarten picture debacle.

My mom also wishes to add that during the times she was hospitalized and my brother and I were  being cared for by members of my dad's family and by their relatives as well (all for a highly substantial fee) I probably walked out  the door each morning wearing whatever it was that I had slept in the night before, and my hair was probably combed roughly once a week [by myself] whether it needed combing or not. When my mom's sisters took care of my brother and me, we looked respectable at least at the start of a day, but when care was provided (again, not cheaply) by the other side of the family, all bets were off.

Is that sufficient, mom? I tried to make it clear that my tornado-like appearance was through no fault of yours. 

Damn, It Hurts!

The pain has worsened in my lower calves, ankles and feet --  the right one in particular, although it's just by comparison that the left one seems not to hurt so much. I suspect if I took a saw and hacked off the right one, the left one would then hurt every bit as much as the right one hurts now. It's all a matter of perspective. At least massage is no longer an issue. If anyone tried to touch me where it hurts, I'd probably go into cardiac arrest or something. (My dad says I'm being dramatic again.)

While the entire area hurts, the pain seems to be worse around the area where my tibia and fibula were fractured two years ago. My dad said it's not uncommon with either fever or changes in barometric pressure for old injuries to cause pain.

My dad called my rheumatologistm who said to start an iV and give me dilaudid and lorazepam so I can sleep. He told my dad to double check with my pediatrician in terms of dosages. I usually need a little less than someone of my weight because the drug's covering height but not much girth, and thebone itslef doesn't absorb asmuchof the drugs. pediatricians and pain medication specialists know more about such things, and since my dad doesn't have a pain medication on speed dial, he;ll call my Uncle Steve, who is my pediatrician. As far as I'm concerned, they should just given me the whole bottle of the stuff and put me out of my misery.

Here comes the IV. Help is on the way. First I'll get really loopy, then I'll fall asleep.

Bonne Nuit a Tous!

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Frat Rats, Robert Frost, Walls, Hunters and Gather...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Frat Rats, Robert Frost, Walls, Hunters and Gather...: In the most recent session of my Human Anthropology class, the subject of property rights and ownership came up in the discussion. This is ...

Frat Rats, Robert Frost, Walls, Hunters and Gatherers, Literal Meaning Versus Metaphorical Interpretation, and Reading Comprehension 101

In the most recent session of my Human Anthropology class, the subject of property rights and ownership came up in the discussion. This is pertinent in any treatise of hunters and gatherers, as governments in the societies we're studying do not recognize any property rights whatsoever for the indigenous pygmy hunters and gatherers within their jurisdictions. This was obviously not always the case, as hunting and gathering preceded farming and raising animals, much less industrialization, as a means of subsistence.  Still, change is inevitable with progress, and not all change , or all progress, for that matter, is necessarily for the better.

When I'm attending  a lecture via skype,  I am less vocal than I would be were I attending the class in person. When I was always the youngest person by far in a given class, I volunteered next to nothing by way of comments, answering questions only when asked directly. Now that there are students close to my age, I'm slightly more likely to volunteer an answer or an opinion, although I make it a point not to dominate the conversation of a lecture/discussion even if I'm well-versed in the material. When I'm skyping a lecture session, I can't always see how many hands are raised or who might be waiting to speak. I hit a signal key on my keyboard indicating that I'm willing to contribute to the conversation. If the professors hears it and feels like acknowledging me, he asks for my contribution. I at least don't lose favor with the professor for sleeping through his class.

In the discussion of hunters, gatherers, and property rights, the subject of fences arose. One student alleged that Robert Frost said , "Good fences make good nieghbors." Frost did say that in the sense that it was a line in his poem, "mending Wall," ansd he wrote the line along with the rest of the poem, although he surely wasn't the first person ever to have uttered or have written the line. In a larger sense, though, he really didn't say it.  The antagonist -- the neighbor in the poem -- was the one who always said, "Good fences make good neighbors." Frost's protagonist in the poem suggested that in the particular setting, a fence wasn''t needed. fences were for livestock. Frost's protagonist had apple trees, while the antagonist had pine trees. The pine trees, as the protagonist suggested, weren't likely to crawl across the property line and eat the apples. Frost's protagonist -- and presumably Frost himself-- thought the whole thing was pretty silly. He even considered the idea of an unnecessary wall being offensive in and of itself.

Still, Frost's protagonist humored the neighbor by making an appointment to mend the wall together. Exactly what tore the wall down wasn't entirely clear. Hunters may have been the culprits. Frost's protagonist would have liked to suggest to the neighbor that elves were tearing the wall down, but he thought better of it.  He watched the neighbor and observed that the view of the neighbor carrying  stone in each hand gave the man a somewhat primitive image ("like an old stone-savage armed" was how he termed it) and made a mental note of the neighbor's inclination to repeat the line"good fences make good neighbors" as he had heard it from his father before him, giving little thought t what the line actually meant in a more modern context.  The degree to which the poem was really about the need for fences and the mending of them, or whether it was more about doing things the way they had always been done without giving thought to why such had been done in such a way or at all, and the efficacy for continuing to follow tradition.  It's arguable that either or both are Frost's points.  On the other hand, who, including Frost himself, ever proclaimed him as anything resembling an arbiter of the rights of hunters and gatherers.  My suspicion is that the student with whom I debated "sort of" read the poem for a literature class and chose to use his limited knowledge of the poem in order to appear erudite. He failed miserably in his endeavor. Stupid frat rat!

Where uman anthropolgy and the property rights of hunters and gatherers are concerned, the more literal interpretation is certainly more apropos, though it's doubtful that Frost gave any thought to rainforst pygmies when writing the poem. Anyway, I pressed the signal on my laptop when the student commentsd tht robert Frost said "Good fences make good neighbors."  Without trying to sound overly pedantic or Cliff Claven-ish, I shared my idea that, pygmies notwithstanding, it was never robert Frost's personal agenda to push fences as means of ensuring harmony between neighbors. furthermore, for agrarian people to exist in relative harmony with hunters and gatherers, fences could not effectively wall in people and wall out others. Agreements needed to be reached as to what could be gathered and what could be hunted. cultivated crops probably should not be fair game for gatherers, nor should livestock be fair game for hunters. If such ideological boundaries were to be respected, what would be the need for thorough boundary-enforcing fences.  All that would be needed would be fences sufficient to keep livestock within one's property and out of crops.

Still, my detractor insisted tht good fences make good neighbors.  Had I been present in the flesh rather than virtually present via skype, I might have gone outside, grabbed a couple of stones, and handed them to him so that he could symbolized the "stone-savage armed" as in Frost's poem, but my suspicion is that the analogy would have eluded him.

My hamstrings, quadriceps, and glutes are seriously bothering me. As it is, Vitamin V is my only source of relief. The rheumatologist said the pain should only be at its worst for only another  five or six days.  Great. How long  exactly was Jesus on the cross, anyway? I'm not sure, though I don't think it was for quite five or six days, not that I'm equating my level of suffering with his. The rheumatologist suggested massage and recommended a few therapists from the physical therapy department. They would come here, as I'm not terribly mobile, and being outside in the cool temperatures would make matters worse. My reservations concerning massage therapy center primarily upon not wanting anyone to massage my gluteus maximus muscles. Perhaps I could convince the person to concentrate on quads and hamstrings and allow the glutes to mend themselves, but with my luck, I'd get some pervert who insisted that massaging one set of muscles while ignoring another would cause some sort of imbalance that might cripple me, and my mother might be just dense enough to fall for it.

This mass is ended. Go now to love and serve the Lord.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Memories, Pressed Between the Pages of My Mind

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Memories, Pressed Between the Pages of My Mind: Out of morbid curiosity or extreme boredom -- perhaps the  MDM2  SNP309  allelle  hasn't been giving out much exciting information lately -...

Memories, Pressed Between the Pages of My Mind

Out of morbid curiosity or extreme boredom -- perhaps the MDM2  SNP309  allelle  hasn't been giving out much exciting information lately -- my dad has begun reading my blog again. As those of you are aware who have read the blog recently, I am essentially (though, thank God, temporarily) incapacitated by a case of myositis, which is a painful inflammation of voluntary muscles, most typically large muscles. Myositis can occur from a variety of causes, but in my case, it appears to have been triggered by a case of influenza. Millions of people a year catch the flu, yet how many develop myositis? I'm just lucky in that way. Then again, some people die from the flu, and the last time I checked, my heart was still beating regularly, so I probably should cease with complaining.

Anyway, whenever my dad has reason to read my blog, he critiques it, makes fun of it, or generally has very few positive things to say about it.  What does he expect me to do if I do not blog, or precisely what does he think I should blog about? I suppose I could detail every specific ache or pain than plagues me, as in  "My deltoid muscles were giving me considerable trouble today, as were my quadriceps femoris."  (It reminds me of a bad commercial from a year or two ago where some lady with fibromyalgia was keeping a journal of her discomfort and reading it for the TV viewing audience.) I suppose I could also count the raised patterns in the textured ceiling of my room and report to everyone about it. That would certainly make for some exciting reading.

Instead, since nothing much is going on in my world right now,  I've written a bit about things from the past. My dad seems to think I'm just a little too young to start writing my memoirs. He says I'm going to become the next Billie Jean King, who wrote one autobiography, then decided that the accomplishments in her life were such that a single volume would not do, so she wrote an additional autobiography to supplement, supplant,   contradict, or clarify  her original work. (My dad likes to point out that Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Winston Churchill, and John Wooden, among others, managed to autobiographize themselves in a single volume each, and he wonders what in Billie Jean King's life was so distinguished that she required a second work to tell her story, but that's a subject for another day, and I'll let my dad discuss it since it's his obsession and not mine.) I try to explain to him that this is merely a blog as opposed to a biography, but he isn't hearing what I have to say. He's too busy walking around the house doing his best Elvis impersonation, singing, "Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind. . ."

My dad likens my blog to that of poor Wayne Osmond.  Mr. Osmond had a brain tumor, which was, I think, treated with both surgery and chemotherapy. He more recently suffered a stroke. He's been relating his memories to his wife, who has been typing them and posting them on a website.  According to my dad, Mr. Osmond's blogging is more excusable than mine because 1) he was involved with show business and has more interesting experiences to share than I do; 2) he suffered a brain tumor and a stroke, which renders any lapses in judgement on his part far more excusable than similar lapses in judgement on my part.

All of this notwithstanding, my father kept a journal in his teen years, as Mormons are encouraged to do. The journal is stored way somewhere in my grandparents' home.  I will find my father's journal if I have to break into my grandparents home and scour the place when my grandparents are  touring New Zealand or Western Samoa on some excursion for their church. I'll post a few of the more choice entries. Then I'll allow my readers to make their own conclusions as to youthful lapses in judgement.

In the name of  greasy French fries, Amen.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Another Feature of Too Much Time on My Hands: My F...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Another Feature of Too Much Time on My Hands: My F...: I have a great deal of time to think, quite a bit of time to listen to music, and, despite some restrictions on my computer time,  a little...

Another Feature of Too Much Time on My Hands: My Favorite Works of Music at the Moment

I have a great deal of time to think, quite a bit of time to listen to music, and, despite some restrictions on my computer time,  a little more time to blog than I normally would have at this time in an academic  quarter.  I choose to use this time to bloviate on the topic of my favorite musical works.  Because no one has all day to read,  and I don't even have all day to type, I'll limit my selections to twenty-five. As a disclaimer, I admit to being capricious by nature. Were I to type this blog two hours from now, it's possible that the selections would be entirely different. Nonetheless, at this moment in time, I shall list my twenty-five favorite musical works, which appear in no particular order.


"Believe in Me" by Dan Fogelberg
                  -no particular reason or meaning behind it; I just like it

"The Black Horse Troop" by John Philip Sousa
                  -I've never actually played this march, but I love it


"Less of Me" performed by someone of whom I have absolutely no idea
                 -I probably shouldn't like this song for many reasons. For one, it has a country flair --          
                   I believe it was written or at least  co-written by Glen Campbell. Two, the lyrics lay a bit
                  of a guilt trip on me, as I do not come even close to trying to live my life the way this song
                  professes that a peson should endeavor to do. Still, the message is worthy, and someday, in
                  terms of the content, maybe I'll get there, or at least approach it.



"Cello Suite Number 1 in G Major" by J. S. Bach
                 -It speaks [wordlessly] for itself.



"Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac
                 - I don't like Fleetwood Mac. My dad listens to them enough that I've had sufficient exposure
                  to make an informed decision, and I don't like them. Stevie Nicks' voice I find especially
                  grating. Still, "Landslide" is one hell of a great song, and it is Stevie Nicks' song; no one
                  else  should sing it. Ever.  Stevie Nicks' grating voice somehow works on this song,
                  Grating voice or not, it's a classic, but only with Stevie Nicks singing it.



"Crossroads" by Don McLean
               - It's on the depressing side, but it's great nonetheless.



"Good Riddance" by Green Day.
               - Some would say it has yet to stand the test of time. I'm willing to give it the benefit of the
                doubt and grant it "great" status despite its relative newness.


"Fantaisie Impromptu" by Chopin
              - In my own semi-informed opinion, it's one of the greatest solo piano works ever composed.



"American Pie" by Don McLean
              - Either the lyrics or the music by themselves would place this in the "timeless" category.



"Blackbird" by the Beatles
               -beautiful


"British Eighth March" by Alonzo Elliott (or Elliot, depending upon which source one accepts)
               - I never played this march, either, but I love it. My high school band director was too much
                of a wuss to use it in competition because he felt that the trumpet part in the trio -- almost a
                descant --  was too risky.



"You Can Close Your Eyes" by James Taylor
               - This one has sentimental value. My Pseudouncle Scott played it for me when I stayed with
                him and his wife during a few summers when I became homesick. It was and still is a
                comfort song for me.



"April  Come She Will" by Simon and Garfunkel
             - The words don't mean a great deal to me, but the song is so pretty that the words don't need to
               mean anything to me.  Incidentally, the song was featured in April's and Andy's wedding
               episode of Parks and Recreation episode, in addition to being part of the soundtrack  of
               one of the all-time great feature films, The Graduate.



"Sonata Number One for Viola de Gamba and Harpsichord" by J. S. Bach
             - I prefer the accompaniment on piano rather than harpsichord, but it's great either way. I  
              especially like the fourth movement.



"Sister Christian" by Night Ranger
             - another song for which I have no great reason for liking it; I just do, and I like the video



"Down Under" by Men at Work
             - Aussies rock.



"Miami 2017" by Billy Joel
             - prophetic in its own way, and Billy Joel is a genius



"Only the Good Die young" by Billy Joel
             - Billy works some great lyrics into this one.



"The Enigma Variations" by Edward  Elgar
            - sonic beauty; I especially like the Nimrod variation



"Eroica Symphony" No. 3 in E-flat Major by Ludwig van Beethoven
            - Despite its initial connection with Napoleon Bonaparte (it was originally to be titled
             "Bonaparte Symphony", but Beethoven  dissasociated himself and the work from Napoleon      
              when Bonaparte crowned himself emperor), and despite its relative lack of initial public
              acclaim , the work now stands on its own.



"The Standard of St. George" by Kenneth J. Alford (Frederick Joseph Ricketts)
             - It's another march I've never played, but I love it just the same, although I don't think the trio
               stands up to  the rest of the march in quality.



"Hotel California" by the Eagles
              - classic music, classic lyrics; I'm drawn to a particular line, "You can check out anytime you
                like, but you can lever leave," as it pertains in my mind  to Mormonism



"Bad Day" by Daniel Powter
              - Powter once performed this on Bill Maher' s TV program, after which Maher commented,
                quite fittingly, that the song, with only the most minor of changes, probably would have been
                a hit in any decade in which it had been recorded.



"100 Years" by Five for Fighting
              - profound



"All Will Be Well" by Gabe Dixon Band.
              - I became familiar with this song when it was used in promotion of the short-lived Dick
                WolfE courtroom drama Conviction.  It was also featured in Parks and Recreation. My
                Pseudouncle Scott plays and sings it beautifully, which is one reason I have become so
                enamored of it, but Gabe Dixon  doesn't do such a bad rendition himself. It's a good if
                obscure song.



Favorite music is not  nor should it be static. These are my favorites as of 6:53 PST on February 9, 2013. Ask me in three days and I may tell you twenty-five entirely different songs.

Myositis, Bureaucracies, Professors Who Derive Pleasure in Complicating Students' Lives, Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, Bowels of the University Administration

Thus far, all available lab reports indicate benign acute myositis rather than infectious myositis. This is is a major relief. The downside of it all is that I have one of the more pervasive cases of benign acute myositis that most of the doctors checking out either me or my lab reports has seen. They're concerned enough that they're re-running the tests, but I'm not particularly worried, nor is my dad, Myositis is not necessarily within the scope of my father's area of  expertise, but staring through the lens of a microscope is, and he's probably as good as anyone else at differentiating between one abnormal blood cell and another blood cell that is abnormal but in a different way. in defense of my dad, as much as I sometimes complain about my dad, in his defense I must say that he's done enough reading and speaking with experts concerning any injury, illness, or other anomaly that has come my way that he qualifies as something of a de facto expert of any condition or anomaly concerning my health that I probably would be six feet under or reduced to ashes were it not for his expertise concerning me.  He's confident that my aches and pains are of the benign variety, and I'm inclined to agree. Most of the other doctors seem to be increasingly leaning in that direction, although one of them did order a new battery of test, , which involved depleting me even further of my rapidly dwindling blood supply.

What it's all looking like is that I'll be virtually incarcerated (albeit in a really comfortable, almost luxurious room) for a period of closer to three weeks than the seven days  originally predicted. As far as most of my classes are concerned, this poses no problem, as all professors have agreed to allow me to skype, and all work of significance has been completed,  anyway.

The outcome of my gymnastics and tumbling courses is in greater doubt. In theory, the courses are  attendance-  and participation-based.  How well a person does when he or she is in class is of far less significance than whether or not he or she is physically present. One of my doctors is involved in negotiations with my professor. Were the problem not a medical concern that should resolve itself in a matter of weeks, it would be a non-issue. At this point the proposed options are for me to put in more time once I have medical clearance to do so or to submit written assignments for each class period missed. The course professor would prefer that I drop the classes. Each class is only worth half of a quarter credit, and it would not greatly impact my progress to lose a total of one unit this quarter, particularly in  non-academic courses. On the other hand, I've already devoted a few weeks to each of  the classes, and I'd just as soon get them out of the way.

My doctor has the option of waiving my "exercise science" (AKA "physical education")  requirement for the entirety of my university enrollment, but it seems silly to carry it so far. Furthermore, I would like to have the option of going into the gymnasium to hone my gymnastics and tumbling skills at my leisure even after this quarter has ended, and doing so would raise a bit of a red flag if I were under a medical excusal from all university exercise science courses.  The bottom line is that I don't really care, but it seems that since the excuse for the next three weeks or so is perfectly legitimate, and there are enough staff members present in the facility at various hours to verify that I've put my time in to compensate for the missed class periods, it should't be an extreme inconvenience  for the department to allow me to make up the missed hours.

Furthermore, this is an activity in which I actually want to participate. Many of the people enrolled in the class typically stand around trying to appear inconspicuous, all the  while doing as little as possible in effort not to be noticed yet to gain credit for the course. The professor and his associates should be more than willing to accommodate a student who will actively participate and will work with their schedules so that one of the appropriate professors or teacher's assistants is present to verify my attendance and participation. I'm not asking for them to alter their schedules so that they will be available to document my presence and participation at my convenience.

The  line even further below the standard bottom line is that I have in my support a 504 Plan (from Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, which is federal law and to which the university is absolutely required to adhere) related to various past and present health concerns,  which I could, if necessary, invoke, the invocation of which would result in copious amounts of paperwork for the Exercise Science  Department as well as for the Student Support Services Department and for the Department of Campus Support for Students with Disabilities. I'm not really much of an "I know my rights and I demand every one of them" sort of person, if only because I'm not proud of health issues that cause me to be different than my peers, but I'm not above demanding my rights when various university officials refuse to accede to the most benign of requests, If the professor would prefer a written make-up assignment for each class period I miss, I'll gladly do the paperwork. If he prefers for me to make up the missed time with additional in-gymnasium time, even at the rate of two make-up hours for each hour missed, I'll do the work without complaint.  It's not even a matter of principal for me. I simply want to complete the course this semester in order to ensure that I'm not stuck with a schedule in any future quarter  so unwieldy next year that I jeopardize my GPA.  my senior recital in piano performance will be next fall. I don't need to be required to put on a leotard and perspire my way through fouu hours a week of a mere formality when I'm facing something so challenging as a senior recital, which will be adjucated by the most exacting music  professors the music department can persuade to take on the task. The four hours each week would be far more productively spent sharpening every single note of music I will be expected to perform.

I detest bureaucracies. Before my most recent dealing with the bowels* of the administration of my university, I didn't believe that universities were bureaucracies  Before this most recent situation, I wouldn't have said that a university falls into the category. of  a bureaucracy. I suppose the opportunity to learn something new is available every day if one keeps his or her eyes and ears open to available learning opportunities.

For now, most of my learning will happen from whatever I can glean by watching reality TV from the comfort of my bed. It's riveting on occasion to see how the other half lives, although I cannot accept that it's actually  anywhere even close to half of the population who lives in the way the particpants we see on Steve Wilkos, Jerry Springer, Judge Alex and his judicial counterparts, and the participants of "Cheaters" and "Repo" conduct their lives.   Perhaps a more representative proportion would be to say that it's intriguing to observe how the remaining five per cent subsist.



*This is not entirely a random choice of words. It's an only slightly less crude manner of suggesting that there is a great deal of bull$hit involved in the decision-making processes of universities as said decisions apply to students.

Tornado Children: Reflection, Perspective, Introspection,. and Everything Else Accompanying Enforced Rest

Note: The term tornado children originated from an observation made about me by a classmate while our first-grade class was  reading together through the Weekly Reader.  On the cover of the particular edition of Weekly Reader was a picture of a tornado, along with a caption explaining the devastation typically accompanying  a tornado. The classmate, most likely with no malice intended and merely paraphrasing  what she had heard teachers and paraprofessionals say about me, commented, "The tornado is kind of like Alexis. It's really skinny and looks unraveled (she probably meant disheveled, but the word was not yet in her vocabulary), and everything around it is a mess." I recall the teacher trying to suppress a grin. I doubt the child has any memory of having made the remark, but I remember. I'll probably never forget it.

At the moment I have too much time on my hands. I can only read, as in a paper-with-print-on-it book or magazine, for two hours each day. Even my computer time is limited, and, other than skyping my classes, school work is  not what I am allowed to do while using my computer.  Thank the God of Liberal Arts that my major and most of my minor university course assignments have been completed and are in the bag.

The end result of forced convalescence is that I have entirely too much time on my hands and on my mind.  If idle hands are the work of the devil, an idle mind must be so to an even greater degree. After all, in the absence of a semi-automatic weapon or two or the ingredients required to assemble explosive devices, how much damage can two mere hands accomplish? The capacity of a truly deviate mind, however, is virtually limitless.  In the instance of my particular mind, though, it is not particularly deviate. I'm willing to create a bit of discomfiture or annoyance  for a person or group of people who, in my opinion, are truly deserving of such treatment, but on a grand scale, I would not or could not cause any sort of catastrophe or do anything that would result in genuine heartache for anyone. Hence the devil will need to find another idle  mind and set of idle hands to do his work. My present inability to be productive will instead  take the form of  critique of my education, and I'll try hard to avoid indulging in excessive self-pity.

Let me begin by stating unequivocally that I do not consider myself to be my decade's female version of Albert Einstein. Neither am I the younger non-criminal counterpart to any of the Texas inmates who were executed in spite of IQs considered too low by some to face such a fate. If I wish to be technical and perhaps a bit boastful, I can say with reasonable surety  that my intelligence quotient is much closer to that estimated to have been possessed by Einstein (who never actually took an IQ test) than those of the sub-normal Texas criminal element (my second SAT attempt resulted in a perfect score), but it's all neither really here nor there. An intelligence quotient is merely a number -- a person's mental age divided by his chronological age, then multiplied by one hundred -- and any number in isolation means little or nothing. What a person does with his or her supposed intellectual ability is the significance of the matter.  I'd rather be a supposed cretin by IQ standards who accomplished something productive in the world than be a member of MENSA who did nothing but to rest on his laurels and boast of his high IQ while devising brain-teasers designed to make the rest of the world look and feel inferior.

Were it not for my parents, I would have spent the first six years of my educational career believing that I was somewhere between sub-average and stupid.  My handwriting was barely legible, much less beautiful. If I worked extremely slowly and carefully, I could color inside the lines, but the end result still was not what any teacher would call "pretty." The "smart" children were the ones whose printing and later cursive looked as though it was suitable to be engraved on copper plate. Their drawings were neat and carefully done. Their coloring was not just inside the lines, but all  strokes of the crayon or colored pencil were parallel.  They cut precisely on the lines, where my incisions may have been a good quarter of an inch from the target markings.

No teacher ever actually told me in so many words that I was stupid, but the words "sloppy" and "messy"  were used to and about me freely, almost as though they were part of my name, and practically as epithets.  "You're sloppy, Alexis," I recall one teacher's aide saying to me as she looked over the long division paper I had completed and handed to her in third grade. She said it with a tone more appropriately reserved for a message such as,  "You just fed my dog a chicken bone and killed him, Alexis!" (I had scratched out an answer rather than erased it because the prior number had been illegible, and I couldn't have erased the original number because I had chewed the eraser off my only pencil.) It didn't matter to this teacher's aide that I was the only third grader in the class doing long division, or that, for that matter, that I hadn't needed to work the problem in written form to arrive at the answer in the first place; I could simply have looked at the problem and told her the answer or could have written just the answer without writing out all the calculations leading up to it. What mattered was that my work, and, by extension, I,  was sloppy.

My handwriting, even at its very best, was never careful enough. Even if the letter formation and spacing were acceptable, the end product was too faint to be read with ease. My desk was always too cluttered. My maps, while containing all the essential physical and political and geographical features, were always either lettered in too messy a manner or colored far too haphazardly. My cutting was, in the immortal word of my second grade teacher, "atrocious."

While everything said by each of my teachers in grades kindergarten through five may have been absolutely on the mark, there were, at the same time, things I was doing right, about which they might occasionally have found cause to mention, but didn't. I read both orally and with comprehension many years above my chronological grade placement, and my math skills were commensurate with my reading skills. I missed exactly one word on a spelling test in my entire life. On the very first spelling test in first grade, I spelled the word girl  g-r-i-l. Missing this word so mortified me that I made it a point never again to make such an error.  My overall point here is that there were obvious positives on which to dwell, and my teachers would not have needed to scrape the barrel very deeply to have found something nice to have said about or to me on occasion. It was easier, apparently, to complain about the disastrous state of my written work and the abominable state of my desk and my backpack.  I was a tiny human tornado in the form of an elementary school girl.

All this time, my mom and dad were telling me I was intelligent, but I wasn't sure whether or not to believe them, or if that was just something all parents were required to tell their offspring.  I knew that the more struggling students in our grade level were still working on the most basic concepts of reading, which I had mastered before preschool, and in fifth grade some students were still haggling with the more rudimentary concepts of addition and subtraction, while even my brother Matthew, who was not quite Sir Isaac Newton, had mastered multiplication facts years earlier. Still, I wasn't quite convinced that my delayed fine motor skill development didn't place me, overall, in the sub-average cognitive range.

Then came sixth grade and Mr. Thatcher. Mr. Thatcher's idea of acceptable handwriting was anything he could read.  He did, on occasion, compliment someone for pretty handwriting, particularly  if the handwriting was from  a child for whom praise wasn't likely to come in  another curricular area. The maps and graphs that looked the nicest, and that had the technical elements in place as well,  were those that were posted on the bulletin board, along with the essays well-written in thought and technical accuracy (though not necessarily in penmanship) and exams receiving the highest scores, though it may have taken the practiced eyes of Mr. Thatcher to decipher those correct answers.

Where in previous years' Open House Nights, my parents typically moved from wall to wall looking in vain for even a single piece of my work, During Open House Night the year I was in Mr. Thatcher's class, my best work was featured at least as prominently as was the work of any other child in the class.  For once, my parents did not have to leave the room in shame, all the while trying to console me that things were better than they seemed and that my teachers'
disregard for my work was not personal, nor was it, as they knew, due to carelessness or a lack of effort of my part,  Mr. Thatcher praised innovative  ideas and not just papers in which all the coloring strokes were parallel. Even where artistic skills were involved, he placed greater recognition on unique drawings or other works of art than on a student's ability to color within the lines of someone else's artistic creation. Furthermore, he introduced a keyboarding program to us, and gave extra computer time to those whose handwriting skills were such that we would benefit the most from the ability to express our ideas in print as opposed to having to rely on the handwriting that our mediocre-at-best fine motor skills would allow us to produce. Under Mr Thatcher's gentle means of sculpting souls*, I began to believe that my cognitive abilities might not necessarily range between sub-average and stupid.  And, even more important,  my performance in school and my confidence in mastering all things academic  improved with each succeeding year.  All it took for me was a single teacher who could see beyond letter-perfect penmanship and the ability to color within the lines to bring about the transformation.

Joe Wright, an online semi-acquaintance of mine whose blog I read and with whom I have occasionally corresponded through comments, writes A Different Kind of Beautiful: Reflections of a School Band Director http://jwright781.blogspot.com/2013/02/becoming-music-parent.html, in which he thoughtfully addresses many aspects of directing school bands. A parent himself, Mr. Wright recently wrote about how, in general, being a parent greatly altered his perspective as a band director and how, in particular, as his own child approaches the ages of the band students he teaches and directs, this is all the more so. In a comment that hit especially close to home for me, he wrote of a little girl who plays the saxophone, who comes in late almost daily because it takes her longer than most to change from her P. E. clothing back into her school clothing, and who needs to be reminded before almost every song to look at the key signature, is someone's child and is the the light of that parent's or of those parents' lives. (Although I may not have needed to be reminded of  key signatures, in every other respect that child is practically  the same little tornado of a girl as I had been.)   The child deserves to have her teachers remember this each day into which they come into contact with her, and she deserves  to be treated as the precious child she is. This is not to say that the child should never be reprimanded, but rather that the child as a whole, the potential fragility of the child's emotional state, and the importance she holds [or should hold] in the life of at least one adult should be considered at all times.

I was one of the lucky little tornado children. In spite of my somewhat discouraging early childhood education, I made it through high school and will likewise get thought university and the post-graduate program of my choice. Unfortunately, not all students are so lucky. Not every child has parents telling the child that he or she is intelligent. While I might have been skeptical, still it was nice to hear, and was far better than had my parents echoed what my early childhood teachers were telling me at school each day. And further in my parents' defense, I'm not at all sure they had any idea of the negativity I faced on a daily basis at school. I never thought to mention it because, in my immature mind, I thought they might be angry and blame me.

Our schools need more Mr. Thatchers and Mr. Joe Wrights filling the available teaching slots. Teachers who understand that there is more to intelligence than coloring within lines and forming all letters perfectly with perfectly angled slants are entirely too rare.  Likewise, teachers of music and other subjects who recognize and celebrate  the whole child while teaching that child just one subject are teachers our system cannot afford to lose.


*Thanks for the words, Mr. Dan Fogelberg, and rest in peace.

Benign Acute Myositis/ Infectious Myositis

I have a narrowing of diagnoses related to my leg pain and weakness.   According to the doctors I have seen, some of whom may actually have a clue of what they're speaking, I am suffering either from a condition known as benign acute myositis or from infectious myositis.  Benign,of course,  indicates the affliction isn't terribly serious and is somewhat self-limiting. Acute in a medical sense typical means of sudden onset or of short-term duration.  Myositis is an inflammation of the bone. 

Infectious myositis, is, as the name would indicate, contagious to some degree. I would have picked it up somewhere, and would have the potential to transmit it to others, although, as I understand it, it's not nearly so communicable s influenza or head lice.

My fingers are crossed in favor of the first diagnosis. I would much prefer the condition that, however painful it might be, is essentially self-limiting and is of short duration.   I have places to go and things to do.  I will not be so  trite as to  quote Frost in saying that I have "promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep," but suffice it to say I cannot afford to loll around in bed for weeks on end. I can spare a few days or even a week or so, but that's the extent of recovery time I am willing to devote to this pseudo-illness.

Myositis is a broad term  referring to inflammation of voluntary skeletal muscles.  In many cases, the calf muscles will be the primary muscles affected. My calf muscles are feeling the effect,  but my quadriceps and hamstrings are feeling the brunt of things, in addition, to a lesser degree, to the upper body muscles, including but not limited to the deltoids, pecs, biceps, and external obliques. Still, the upper legs are feeling the worst of it. Everything else I could ignore were it not for what's going on in my thighs.

This entire inconvenience most likely came about as a complication of some sort of influenza that I had but worked my way through because I chose not to acknowledge its existence.  I did not cause the condition by refusing to acknowledge influenza and to recuperate in a conventional manner. It was the luck of the draw. Also worth noting is that benign acute myositis is typically a childhood malady. So is croup. What else is new?

I'll be out of class for a week or so. If the more serious prognosis ends up being the correct diagnosis, my doctors will be in contact with my professors concerning skyping lectures in order to continue enrollment at my university, but that's a bridge that will be crossed if and when the need should arise.
I'm not concerned. This doesn't feel like a long-term illness. It's far more likely that in a week or two I'll be back to dragging myself to class, possibly with a few lingering aches and pains, but well on the mend.

Results from lab work should fill in the blanks in the next few days. In the meantime, I'm doing what I can from my bed but otherwise living the life of an invalid. Maybe the forced laziness will cause me to pack on a few pounds. One can only hope.

Today While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vines

I'm not sure why I typed that song line as a title. I don't particularly enjoy the song. My dad dislikes it.  I doubt that either my mom or my brother likes it,  though I've never discussed it with either of them.  Neither the melody nor the lyrics stands out as a great work.  I don't usually give it much thought.

About six  years ago, I was spending part of the summer with miscellaneous relatives is Utah. One of my girl cousins, who was and is about two years older than I, was scheduled to provide a musical number (what everyone else in Christendom calls "special music") for church that day. In many other churches, if a musician were to perform a solo of any sort, he or she would carefully choose the selection in advance and would most likely practice in advance as well.  Such would be an anomaly in Mormon circles. One often decides what one is going to play or sing between the time the performance is announced and the time it actually happens, usually in the time it takes to walk from one's seat to the front of the chapel.

In the case  of my cousin, I will give credit where it's due. She did at least ask me to accompany her half an hour before church was scheduled to start. She had  no idea what she might want to sing, but she at least didn't wait until the worship service had begun to start worrying about it.  I play the piano with relative ease, but I can be every bit as lazy as the next person. Furthermore, I don't like being looked at by people I don't know. Were I to accompany Julie, I would be seated at a piano in an unfamiliar LDS chapel, accompanying a girl who was known by more or less everyone in that chapel. They already knew her; why would they need to look at her? Instead, they all would be staring at me, noticing my knobby knees and the bones protruding at my elbows and wrists. If there were an alternative, why should I put myself through such unofficial but very real scrutiny?  I had an epiphany.

"Julie," I said to my cousin, "You play the ukulele, don't you?"

"Yes . . ." she answered, having no idea where this might lead.

"People hear the piano all the time, "I told her. "They get tired of it. Why don't you accompany yourself on the ukulele? That would be different, and people would like it."

"I don't think I know very many songs anymore," she said, sounding a bit skeptical. "I only know a few chords. And I don't know how to tune it."


"I can tune the thing for you, " I told her. "And all you need to know are three chords, " I told her. "You can do this, Julie!"

"But what would I sing?" she pondered.

"Do a primary song," I told her. Children's songs are always well-received.

Julie retrieved a children's songbook and picked out " 'Give,'  Said  the Little Stream," a standard LDS children's song. It is, incidentally, a favorite of Thomas S. Monson, who is the current head honcho of the LDS church, though he had yet to step into full power at that point.  I hurriedly penciled in a three-chord version of the song, using the chords D, G and A. I tuned the ukulele and handed it to Julie. "Go for it, " I told her.

Julie ran through the song, haltingly at first, but gaining momentum.  She was ready to appear before the congregation.

Sacrament Meeting began with the opening hymn and prayer, followed by announcements and official business. Next came The Sacrament, which is much like communion except that water is used in place of wine or grape juice. The Sacrament was  followed by a youth speaker, who was no more excited about having to speak to the congregation than Julie was to sing to them.

At last it was Julie's turn to render her musical number. (Render and rendition are two favorite words among those conducting LDS meetings)  "Sister Julie Cannon (names have been changed to protect  the innocent as well as the guilty) will now  favor us with a musical rendition of a hymn, " the bishop's first counselor announced.

My cousin Julie stood before the congregation, placed the book on a music stand in front of her, strummed a few preparatory chords, then promptly deviated from everything she had prepared. It seems that the very first song she had ever learned on the ukulele was the one about "Today while the blossoms still cling to the vines." She immediately went into it, omitting or altering absolutely nothing.
All the Mormons present that day heard Julie sing about drinking wine.  Her parents' faces were redder than any red wine Julie or anyone else might have consumed.

Julie's parents blamed me even though I had suggested nothing of the sort. Still, it was the least of my worries. At least no one was staring at my skinny little arms and legs,  every bone of which was clearly identifiable even under what little skin, fat, and muscle tissue I had.  I was happy.

My fever is in the low-grade range, so I may be sprung from this joint after tomorrow. 

Waxing Philosophical About the Super Bowl

Super Bowl XLVII is history.  The Forty-Niners have experienced their very first super bowl loss. My family has Bay Area roots on both sides to some degree, but even the most devoted fan among us won't be driven to put his head inside a gas oven or overdose on Propofol.   It's a game.  It's nice when our team wins, but our team cannot win all the time and, furthermore, if our team did win all the time, we wouldn't really appreciate the times when they do win.

A few crucial calls appeared to lees-than-objective fans to possibly have been in error, but I have not yet checked objective sources to see if anyone less biased than my family and friends also recognizes the error in those few crucial calls. Regardless, I'm certain any errors that may have been made were not deliberate. My brother said that the referees who officiated the game tonight were not necessarily the ones with the highest ratings, as some of those officials had been outspoken during the officials' strike earlier in the season and were suffering retaliation by not being invited to officiate in the Super Bowl.  This is something I heard from my brother and not from  NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell, so I take it with a grain of salt. If it is true, however, such action was not in the best interest in the league, and Mr. Goodell and anyone else who had a part in this decision-making process should not be proud.

I'm still feverish with achy legs, a headache, and a few very minor respiratory issues. My uncle has diagnosed these symptoms collectively as influenza, so I will not be back on campus until the fever subsides, which should be soon enough, as I cannot see this going on for too long. Just in case, I'll throw together an additional make-up assignment for gymnastics. My professors are more than happy not to have a person with influenza of any type attending their classes and are cooperating fully by  providing me with their own lecture notes.

I'm growing somewhat bored, but I don't exactly feel like prancing all over a gymnasium while turning various forms of flips, as merely walking makes me dizzy. I'll stay in bed and be waited on for a day or two. By then I should again be ready to take on the world, or at least to attend classes.

Ciao

Superbowl, and I Really Don't Care

On Thursday night I went to sleep much as I always do. I woke up on Friday morning with my usual weekday sense of urgency. I jumped out of bed and began pulling things out of closets and drawers and began dressing. My mom opened my door and reminded me that I wasn't going to class.  It hit me almost as a shock. I sat on my bed and began slowly to remove the things I put on and to pull my pajamas back into place.

I crawled back under the covers. I noticed the dog sticking her paws beneath the door, so I got up and opened the door to let her in. When she's in my room, she sleeps on a throw rug right newt to my bed.
I reached for my remote and turned the tV on. there wasn't much that caught my interest, but I like background noise, so I left it on the weather channel and eventually went back to sleep.

Someone came in a few times to give me things to drink, and my mom left the door ajar so that the dog could come and go as she pleased.  I noticed the sun gradually getting brighter and then dimmer, but paid little attention to it. i eventually woke up to notice the sun sot of out again. The clock said 1:40.  I had slept more or less uninterrupted for thirty hours. i did not think such a thing was possible, but it obviously is.

When I got up to eat cereal, my mom said I had a fever the day before -- nothing terribly impressive, but about 102.0 at its highest. She felt my forehead and said that I no longer feel warm.  That's a good thing, as I have plans to go to my Aunt Jillian's house tomorrow, and I don't go there if i'm harboring any active infection.

The Super Bowl s sort of a non-event for me. I usually attend someone's part to be sociable, but if there aren't at least a few people there who, like me, don't care a great deal about the game its;ef or even the commercials. I'm very bored. My Aunt Jillian doesn't care about the Super bowl, either, so I'll have at least one like-minded person with whom to interact.

Enjoy the unofficial national holiday.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Day Off

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Day Off: My leg soreness has gotten a little worse and I'm feeling somewhat yucky on top of that, so I'm not attending class tomorrow. I'll miss my ...