Blog, Sweet Blog

OK, it's been way too long since I blogged. So sue me. I also promised an acro for Monday and pictures later in the week. So sue me. My imood still says "sad" and I'm still tearing the skin off my face. So sue me.

It's funny though, how just when you're in that really comfortable place where you've sunk into depression, an odd thing will bring you out of it. That happened to me last night. But more about that later.

Let's see, let's see. The past three weeks. Well, I still don't have complete cabinets, and my house is still in total upheaval. The process is going, oh, approximately the pace of a snail doing the backstroke through molasses. It was supposed to have been finally completed on Monday night, after we realized it wasn't going to be completed Saturday night nor Sunday afternoon, but as luck would have it, and the gods of fate who hate me so would deign, Monday morning Mr M woke up with a raging case of gout, rendering him basically footless. So no finished product Monday. I spent that evening putting on handles, some of which had badly measured holes. I don't know if that was because it was before we started using a template, or it was a crooked template, or what. Anyway, a little creative re-drilling took care of that, and I moved on to hinges.

I only got a few hinges in on Monday, so I finished those up on Tuesday night, when the gout was still raging and my depression was still swirling. Mainly because I became determined to finish the job by myself. It was not possible - the size of the doors, the way the hinges are made - I just cannot do it by myself. So I ripped through the kitchen throwing away every piece of plastic, newspaper, and general refuse I could get my hands on. I took out the frustrations of not being able to hang the doors by myself upon the garbage bag, which I punched into submission several times. Then I went to the Comfy Chair to cry, smoke, watch "American Idol," and tear the skin off my face. Typical evening at The Pod.

We're projecting a Thursday finish. Just like NBC projected an Al Gore win in Florida.

(By the by, we won't even mention the fact that in taking up the masking tape, several strips of my green paint have come up along with it, and there's no way in hell I'm ever going to be able to match that green again to repair it. I'm thinking of maybe a kitchen fresco of some sort. Maybe a "Guernica"-type thing showing the battle of the cabinets. But like I said, we won't mention that.)

So, what else has been happening while I've been away? Oh, yeah. That. People seem to be dropping like flies. Terri Schiavo died, without the dignity she'd hoped for. However, just when things started getting ugly, who should step in but the Pontiff, whose deathwatch took all the press and rubberneckers out of Florida and sent them squarely to Vatican City. I thought that was very gallant of him, actually.

Thing is, I was one of those papal rubberneckers. I spent all of Friday evening and all of Friday late-night, Saturday wee-morning, and Saturday morning-morning (don't you just love insomnia?) staring at that live shot on CNN, the one of The Pope's apartment there in the square, where the deathwatch was going on. Those two lights shining through the windows. I kept watching, fascinated, listening to a thousand talking heads but focusing solely on the two windows. I kept thinking there'd be a big metaphorical "the lights going out" kind of thing, where when he passed, off would go the lights and the assembled throng would breathe a sigh of acceptance.

However, I kept waiting and it never happened. Saturday afternoon Cabinet Hell began, so we shifted our attentions away from TV, and wouldn't you know it, that's when JPII left this mortal coil. And I don't mean to make light of anyone's death, and I'm not making light of his, but dammit, I watched all that time and I missed the actual announcement. I felt cheated. I didn't get to see the lights go out in those windows, if in fact they actually did. When I snapped on the TV again after a phone call interrupted Cabinet Hell, they showed the apartment - and an extra light was in a third window! I was waiting for lights to go out - who knew they actually turned more lights on?! Wow, this whole papal white smoke/black smoke/bell ringing/light turning thing has really got me flummoxed.

So anyway, the weekend brought more insomnia, so I laid on the couch at Mr M's watching them carry The Pope around. I was honestly worried he'd slide off that slanted slab they had him laid out on, and I started having Ayatollah flashbacks. Remember when the crowds got so rowdy in Iran they knocked the Ayatollah off his slab? Damn, talk about your religious fervor. And now The Pope's resting there in the Basilica, sans coffin, still on the slab, where a million people have seen him laying there looking, from that "shot from the feet up" angle the camera seems to like so well, amazingly like Father Christmas.

I liked The Pope. I thought it was cool that he was Polish, and wanted to be an actor, and escaped Nazis. I thought it was cool he named himself after the poor guy before him who died 34 days into his reign. I thought it was cool he visited his would-be assassin in prison. (And wouldn't it have been more cool if they'd let the guy come to the funeral? Come on, what a story.) And I thought that he really truly did love people, even if he didn't want you to be gay, or have an abortion, or take The Pill, or be a priest if you were a woman. So I try to use that "grandpa" logic - you know, your grandpa was a great guy, but just so old he was out of the loop.

Anyway, even with all that, I guess I'll remember John Paul II most for originating the Popemobile. If that's not the coolest thing a pope ever did, I'll eat my cabinets.

I'm taking bets the next pope will name himself John Paul III. I personally would like to see another Pope Clement or Pope Innocent in my lifetime. Or maybe Pope Todd.

And now Prince Rainier has left us. Dammit to hell. The man who stole Grace Kelly from Hollywood. The man I always thought looked a lot like Chris Difford from the band Squeeze. I hope they keep him on ice till the Papal funeral is over with - he deserves a little of the limelight, too.

And the final irony of all this? The Pope died, The Prince died - and Jerry Falwell lived. Sorry, it's cruel, but there's no reason not to be honest here.

And Peter Jennings has lung cancer. Made those few Djarum Blacks not so fun to smoke yesterday, for some reason.

Death and sickness, death and sickness. This blog is turning into a phone call from my Mom. All I have to do is mention the weather where you are, and I'd have it. Maybe I should sign off.

Tomorrow if I make it here I'll tell you about the event that perked me out of my depressed state.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Be prepared for a surgery blog coming soon. This is a preview or a warning, however you want to take it.