Michael

I remember my first time with Michael. My brother’s best friend introduced us to him circa 1983, via the video for Billie Jean. I thought the lyrics were, “Billie Jean is at my door.” We had the Thriller album on vinyl and I stared dreamily at his picture. I was eight. My brother and I eagerly awaited the premiere of the video for Thriller and then couldn’t watch the whole thing because it was too scary.

I couldn’t connect with his earlier album, Off the Wall, not until much later.

I remember Bad, but then for a stretch it wasn’t cool to love MJ, even before the child molestation charges. Let me add, too, that I don’t think Michael was a pedophile. I think he was deeply disturbed, a child himself. And parents should not have their children spend the night at his house.

I was on a plane to Southeast Asia when Michael died. I learned about it during my layover at Narita. Interestingly, the Americans I encountered during that trip all pretty much took the attitude, Oh yeah, Michael Jackson, that child molester. But the Europeans fairly universally thought of him as the legendary artist that he was.

Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough became an anthem for me after college, when it was used for the warm up in a hip-hop dance aerobics class I took on Monday nights. The opening music still makes me want to party.

So, even though I forsook him for a number of years, I look back on MJ’s career with admiration and affection. I loved the Glee episode featuring his music, most especially the video for Scream. At first, I thought it was practically a shot by shot remake. I didn’t realize the choreography was new, and I thought, man, this just shows what good dancers Michael and Janet were/are because I never realized how awesome this video was. But then I rewatched the original, and dammit if I don’t think the Glee video is better!

Madonna

I don’t have as precise a memory of my first exposure to Madonna. I think it was probably the Borderline video, around 1984. That was also the year lots of nine-year-olds like me learned what virgin was. I didn’t know who Marilyn Monroe was before I saw the video for Material Girl. I walked out of Desperately Seeking Susan desperately wanting a really cool jacket with a pyramid eye on the back. Friends of mine had Madonna lookalikes at their birthday parties. I became penpals with one. Her name was Denise.

Like MJ, Madonna was uncool in my circle for a few years, until I met a girl in 1990 who unapologetically worshipped her. That was during the Vogue/pointy boob/Dick Tracy era, and I had to admit, there was nothing uncool about her.

I’ll admit, I haven’t really paid that much attention to Madonna in recent years, since her arms became all scarily muscular. But I do enjoy her songs when I hear them, and I still admire her.

The only part of the Superbowl that interested me was her performance during the halftime show, and she rocked it.

I never saw Michael Jackson in concert, and I regret it. Maybe I need to get tickets to Madonna’s upcoming tour.

Last night, I screamed and yelled at a guy who ran a burrito stand (in my dream) because he was making my burrito too slowly. As a result, he refused to make my burrito. It was a “No burrito for you!” situation.

In real life, I’m feeling fairly well-balanced, happy and mellow. Maybe that’s because I’m taking all my repressed anger out on imaginary people while I sleep.

For that reason, I didn’t think Fear Factor would be our show either. We watched an episode the other day where the contestants had to drink a Crappaccino: Blended bugs topped with live bugs. Blech. Neither one of us could stomach much of that.

As the contestants approached the Crappaccino challenge, I asked, “What is it they’re hoping for? They know it’s going to be some gross eating challenge. Are they thinking, Gee, I hope this is one where we just have to sit in a tub of cow’s blood and carry beef hearts in our mouths, because I don’t think I’d be able to eat live scorpions.” I actually think I might be able to choke down live scorpions, and while beef heart is gross, I’m familiar with it; I feed it to my dogs.

The episode we watched today contained MY event. One partner had to sit in a vat fill with hundreds of live snakes while the other transferred snakes to another container using only their mouths. I’ve had pet snakes and kissed them. I could do either of those things easily, and Rob says he’d be able to lie with the snakes, so we would have killed at that challenge.

Plus, Fear Factor’s got these other stunts I think we’d enjoy. During each of the shows we watched recently, there were stunts that made me say, “Fun! I want to do that!” (Even if there weren’t a cash prize.) I totally want to put on crash gear and fly up through a five-floored structure. Catapult onto a rope grid suspended high off the ground? Sign me up. Can we get one of those so I can practice at home? Of course, I’ve also jumped out of an airplane three times and “fear was not a factor” for me then either. Guess I’m more of a thrill-seeker than I thought.

We’ve seen ads for another episode where some girl is crying while her head is being shaved. That happens a lot on America’s Next Top Model. I mean, I’ve cried over a bad haircut before, but if someone were paying me for it? I’d get over it.

I turned to Rob and said, “Something you should know: I’m not at all afraid of snakes, and I would totally shave my head for money.”

And I love to read. I’ve always loved to read. But whenever I sat down to read the books assigned to me, my eyes just glossed over the words and I didn’t process them at all. The night before the English AP, I reread The Great Gatsby and thought, “Hey, that’s not a bad book.” (I got a 5 on the AP, by the way, but that’s because I was able to draw on my knowledge of Hamlet, from acting in it.) Even then, I must not have understood Gatsby, because last year, I reread it a third (?) time and it was all new to me. Did you know that all the characters do in that book is drink and party? How is this standard high school reading? How did I not realize that’s what it was about?

I reread Persuasion in college, like it was the first time, and very much enjoyed it.

I’ve been listening to some classics on audiobook while driving lately, because the last few contemporary novels I listened to pissed me off, and I wasn’t sure if that was because they were shitty books, or because I wasn’t experiencing them properly, having them administered through the ear. I’ve appreciated To Kill a Mockingbird (which I read as a young person, not for school, but I didn’t remember it well. I thought Boo Radley was the black guy Atticus defended.) and Of Mice and Men (which I’d never read).

Then I read that House of Mirth is Mindy Kaling’s favorite book. House of Mirth? You mean House of Boring! I couldn’t even get through that book in high school. Unless, maybe I didn’t really try? So I got it on audio, and you know what? Lily Bart’s kind of a kickass heroine.

So, for the record, I was an idiot when I was in high school.

I always think, “Seriously? I loooove the snow. How can you not love snow?” Saying you hate snow is like saying you hate sunshine or rainbows. Maybe you hate driving in it, or you hate having to shovel the driveway, but those are just the effects of the snow, not the fault of those frosty diamonds from heaven. Same as, maybe I hate it when it’s really, really hot out, but I wouldn’t say, “I hate sunshine.”

Today is my fourth day at home with the doggies, with 7-plus inches of snow in places. It’s a brisk 25 degrees outside. While I’m looking forward to it warming up tomorrow, I will miss the glorious sparkling snow when it’s gone. We’ve been taking magical daily walks through the white woods. Moonlight reflecting off the snow-covered backyard makes it bright enough to play out there after dark.

I’ve been waiting eagerly for snow for months and I’m so happy that my trip to Hawaii last week didn’t interfere with my enjoyment of this weather.

Here’s where I was a week ago:

I’m not sure when exactly I became one of those ladies who can’t travel because she doesn’t want to be away from her dogs, but I had a hard time leaving them for a whole week. Rob’s parents usually dogsit, but since they were the ones taking us on this trip, that wasn’t possible. I kept telling myself I was being irrational. Like, would I REALLY rather stay in freezing, gray Washington and go to work instead of spend a week in Waikiki? No, of course not, but it took me a full day of vacation before I could let myself relax completely, give in to paradise. And oh, my, was it a wonderful trip. We all got along so well and it was absolutely worth leaving my doggies for seven days, although really, I think we should give some thought to going to a beach resort that accepts German shepherds.

Rob took these pictures the day we left and I looked at them longingly every day:

After we got back last week, I worked from home for a few days, went into the office Friday, had yesterday off for Martin Luther King Jr. Day. And now…Snowmageddon! Mind you, I have my computer at home and I can get as much done here as I would if I braved the icy roads, so technically, I’m still working. Everyone else in the universe is playing. Snow Day!

Also, I have a new camera, so it’s actually my JOB to learn how to use it by taking these pictures:

In a way, 2011 was the worst year of my life. Isis’ death certainly was the low point of my last 25 years.

Something wonderful happened this year too. We found Mia. More precisely, Rob’s sister knew someone who was looking for a home for an apparently abandoned dog. Our Mia.

Never mind how anyone could abandon any dog, we can’t imagine how anyone could abandon Mia. She’s a wonderful dog and obviously was meant to be ours, which she proved by hopping in my car within minutes of meeting us, saying, “All right, let’s do this!” She didn’t even ask us anything like, “How many walks will I go on a week?” “What sort of diet will you be feeding me?” “How many hours will I be left alone each day?”

Rob said the other day, “Can you believe there was a time we weren’t sure if we were going to take Mia?”

She’s done wonders to restore peace, balance and happiness to our home. She’s been an excellent mentor for Leo. Even though I’m pretty sure she’s the one who told him how to escape the yard via the creek. Of course, she would never stray from our property, but Leo’s made a break for it twice, so we’re going to go ahead and fence that side of the yard.

And now we have two dogs, just like I always wanted. (Of course, one of those dogs was supposed to be Isis. We still have Isis-shaped holes in our hearts, as a fellow student in my memoir class described it.) I walked them both this morning on the wooded trail near our house, bundled up in fleece long underwear and a wool hat, admiring the frost growing on broken branches like a glistening white fungus. I meant to walk just Leo, but Mia slipped out the door ahead of us, so I grabbed her leash and took her along.

A few years ago, I had the sad realization that I never would be able to walk Isis safely on that trail. The path is too narrow and winding, so joggers and other dogs came upon us with little warning, triggering Isis’ vicious barking frenzy. I tried walking her during off-hours, but the last straw was having her pull me off my feet and drag me through the mud so she could sink her teeth into a black lab’s butt. The lab was unharmed, but its owner was not amused.

I thought I would never walk that trail again, not foreseeing a time when I would have a different dog, dogs even, who could be trusted on that narrow, winding trail. I used to be jealous of a guy I’d see walking two mellow rottweilers. Now I’m the woman walking the two huge German shepherds. They’re not perfect in public. Leo likes to grab Mia’s leash and at specific points on our route, they devolve into a National Geographic display of wildlife, rearing up on their hind legs and snarling at each other. All in play, of course, but tell that to the passing motorists who just catch the tableau of two entwined dogs with their leashes tangled around me.

Walking them was the highlight of my day.

I’m not completely heartless. I admire Jay Kopelman and all he went through. I just can’t stifle my tendency to edit books in my head while I read them.

Take Jaycee Dugard‘s powerful memoir, A Stolen Life. I mean, after all that poor girl went through, how can I possibly criticize her book?

The book jacket warned me, “A Stolen Life is my story — in my own words, in my own way, exactly as I remember it.” Later she discusses her strong desire to keep her family’s privacy and hiring a PR rep. She said she resisted writing the book. So my suspicion is, the deal she made was that the book would be printed just as she wanted it, with little interference from the publisher.

And in fact, the book reads as though it’s been published exactly how she wrote it and in the order she wrote it. She writes a bit about what happened to her during the abduction and captivity and then there’s a bit of reflection, under the heading “Reflection” about how she felt while she was writing it. I think that’s a perfectly wonderful way to write a memoir. Sometimes it’s the only way. At one point, she tells us that she’s procrastinating writing the part about the worst abuse by cleaning her computer screen. Heartbreaking.

In another place, she interjects a bit about her feelings toward her biological father who tried to get in touch with her in 2010, after she was freed. I’m merely saying that if I were a book editor, I would have gently suggested moving that section to the end and rethinking the use of the reflections throughout. They didn’t work for me as a reader. That’s all.

Still, Jaycee’s is a truly remarkable and devastating story, and that comes across, so what do I know?

She includes some of the journals she kept while being held captive for 18 years. Two things strike me. 1) Even after 10-18 years away from her mom, she misses her and thinks about her all the time. 2) She struggles with body image issues (no doubt as a result of being subjected to so much sexual abuse). Even while completely removed from mainstream society (although exposed to mainstream media such as TV), she hates her body and yearns to get in better shape.

In those journals, on March 28, 2006, 15 years into her captivity, she lists her dreams for the future. No. 9 is “Write a best seller.” (No. 1 was “See Mom.”)

They told me my throat might hurt for 10-14 days following my tonsillectomy. For this I was prepared, and planned to take whatever narcotics necessary to alleviate the discomfort.

Some people feel well enough to go back to work after 3 days, but in about 7 days, scabs start to heal and that causes more pain, especially in the ears. I was prepared to need a full week.

They TOLD me it would be the worst sore throat of my life. I thought, bah, how bad could it be?

My tonsils were causing a somewhat minor, mostly irritating problem and would continue to do so for the rest of my life. I reasoned that having them removed was worth the risk of two very unpleasant weeks.

I’m not sure it was worth it.

The first two days were fine. Boy was I a trouper. Days 3 and 4 were excruciating. That was to be expected, but I figured 5 and 6 would be better. They weren’t. I was in the same amount of pain, requiring a narcotic rotation every TWO hours. The doctor told me I should substitute the oxycodone with ibuprofen, to see if I could extend the time period between doses of liquid vicodin/tylenol to six hours. Yeah, right, like ibuprofen is going to do anything. But actually, I was almost out of the oxy and didn’t feel like it was doing anything anyway. Turned out the ibuprofen did about as much.

On Day 8, I started taking the drugs less often, but felt the same amount of pain. Not the worst sore throat of my life, but something entirely different. A swollen tightness blocking food or liquid from passing. Wicked, searing pain in my ears. A complete inability to swallow anything. Tiny chunks in cream of broccoli soup scraped past my scarred throat like gravel. So did mashed sweet potatoes. I pressed a hot compress against my ears so often that I singed the skin a little, but at least it soothed the ache inside.

During this time, I never left the house. I slept in a reclining chair with a humidifier aimed at my elevated head, waking every few hours to heat up the compress, eat some ice chips or watch another episode of Friends. Nick at Nite played marathons of Friends all Thanksgiving weekend. That was a highlight.

I also watched dozens of episodes of Felicity and Ally McBeal via Netflix and the entire first two seasons of The Vampire Diaries. I was surprised that I didn’t get tired of this routine. Sleep, watch TV, try to choke down some oatmeal, macaroni and cheese or ice cream. Repeat. I could do this forever, mostly because I couldn’t begin to fathom doing anything else, I was in so much pain.

I had complicated thoughts that I wanted to express, but it hurt too much to make the effort to form the words.

The worst pain came in the morning, probably because sleeping with my mouth open dried out my throat, despite the humidifier’s best efforts. I felt better in the evenings, maybe because at about 4 o’clock I started to look forward to Rob’s coming home. The evening of Day 9, I felt more like myself. This is it, I thought, I’ve turned a corner, tomorrow I will be better. I will turn on my computer and blog about the experience.

I felt shitty again the morning of Day 10. I did turn on my computer, but only to pay the mortgage. I felt just a tiny bit better that evening. Yesterday I was able to do a few more things on the computer. Speak a few more complete sentences. My mom said I sounded more like myself on the phone. And last night, I slept lying down in a bed. (Although Rob tells me I made horrible noises that were beyond snoring. He said, “No wonder your throat hurts.”)

Today, I woke up, showered, dressed and sat down at the computer like a normal person. I might even walk the dogs.

The pain is about a 6 out of 10, after being an 8 or 9 most of the time for days. I guess that’s progress. Someday I might be able to eat food again. Perhaps in time for Christmas, because all those cookies I’ve been seeing on TV look awfully good.

I’ve been under general anesthesia once before, to have my wisdom teeth out when I was almost 19. The only surgery I’ve had since was a ganglion removal in my wrist, for which I was given a local … and will boast to anyone who will listen that my dreamy hand surgeon said if he’d known how involved it was going to be, he would have put me under. I was such a champ.

I have been preparing for this week’s grand affair by acquiring a cool mist ultrasonic humidifier to keep my throat moist, Throat Comfort Yogi tea, Zico chocolate coconut water (you know, to rehydrate), and thinking of soft foods to eat: oatmeal, scrambled eggs, macaroni and cheese, smoothies.

Also, very importantly, I have loaded up a bunch of television series in my Netflix instant queue. People, Netflix isn’t charging enough! I can watch the entirety (or near entirety) of Buffy, Angel, Felicity, thirtysomething, Vampire Diaries, seasons one and two of Glee … and so much more.

So be prepared for such outdated observations as, “Seriously, how could Felicity ever choose Ben over Noel? Noel is the perfect man.”

You’d think in anticipation of having to spend as much as a week on heavy narcotics that I would have been more active over the weekend, but no. I had coughing and sneezing fits on Friday and Saturday. Even though I didn’t feel like I was getting a cold, I worried that this something would keep me from having surgery tomorrow. Certainly it would not be fun to sneeze with enormous tonsil scabs forming in the back of my throat.

Also, my neck’s been hurting, probably from sleeping awkwardly to accommodate two monster German shepherds in our bed. Yeah, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

As a result, I spent more time on the couch this weekend than I should have, dwelling in such questions as why in the world did Felicity obsess about Ben for four seasons, when beautiful, kind, smart, funny Noel was there all along?

I needed to talk to someone about this.

Me: Did you ever watch Felicity?
Rob: No.
Me: But you know the basic premise? There’s this love triangle …
Rob: All I know is that it starred a girl with curly hair.

In more current affairs, how do you think they got those zombies in the barn in The Walking Dead? Don’t you think Lori should just have the baby? I mean, the fate of the human race is at stake. And did you see The Simpsons? It was about writing a tween blockbuster novel by committee, structured like a heist film. Brilliant.