Celeste

“Unfortunately, there is no mistake,” she said, closing the file.

“You can’t do anything? Anything?”

“I can call around, see if there is space at one of the courtesy hotels, but we’re booked.”

I looked at my friend. She shrugged. “Fine. We’ll stay. Two beds, right?”

“Your reservation is for a king.”

Celeste whispered, “It’ll be fine. A king bed is huge. Let’s stay.”

But I didn’t want the bed to be huge. I was going to be in the same room, the same bed as Celeste, for three days. Agony. 

“It’ll be fine. Chill. We’re going to have a good time here, I promise. You’ll pick up all sorts of new skills, meet lots of people. For me? Please?” Celeste smiled, the dimple in her right cheek peeking at me.

“Okay, fine. Let’s just do what we came here to do.”  The desk clerk handed us the keycards and vouchers for complimentary cocktails to compensate us for the inconvenience.

Great.  A conference I didn’t even want to be at because I’m not a writer or a poet or an agent or anything.  One room, one bed, and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Celeste had picked up a few boxes of cardbordeaux, some white zinfandel, sangria and a case of some limited edition IPA for me.  Our plans were to get plastered together, but not to be plastered together. Man plans and gods laugh. Ha ha.

She put two six-packs and the white zinfandel in the mini fridge. “I’m going to donate the sangria and the cardbordeaux to the greater good, take them down to the office later,” Celeste said as she lined up her toiletries in the bathroom and hung her clothes in the closet.  “Two big towels, two hand towels, two washcloths.  That’ll be fine. I’m going to shower. Be a doll and get some ice, I don’t think five minutes in the fridge will do anything for it.”

I filled the ice bucket and returned to the sound of running water and singing. Celeste liked to sing in the shower.  She claimed it muffled her atonality, but that wasn’t true.  The atonality, not the muffling.  I loved listening to Celeste sing, in the car, on her porch, and now, in the shower.  It was a nice change from listening to her cry.

Celeste cries a lot. With me, anyway.  Guess I’m the shoulder of choice for this girlfriend did that, that boyfriend did this, her parents sucked, her job was meaningless, her friends were thoughtless, yadda yadda.  Singing was sweet.

I filled a large glass with ice and zinfandel, opened an IPA and drank.  The water stopped, but Celeste continued singing, something about a hippopotamus for Christmas, then segued into Rascal Flatts’ “Broken Road.”

And then she opened the door.

Celeste was naked except for the towel wrapped around her hair.  A pair of Dias de Los Muertos skulls surrounded by roses were tattooed over her mastectomy scars.  She smiled.

“I told you there were just enough towels. Oh good, I’m so thirsty. How ‘bout them Mets?”  She picked up the glass sipped, and winked at me.

It was going to be an interesting three days.

Chicken Soup for the Snatch

Onions are good. Chop a few onions, coarse chop so they’re still in chunks. And celery stalks. Mise en place, good rule to follow. Get all your needs and wants lined up before you even start so you know where you are going. That’s a likely story, knowing where I am going. Rinse the celery and cut into small pieces, about the same size as the onion cubes. Onions are good. No one knows...when you are slicing onions. No one sees, no one knows. Put the pieces in a bowl while I brown the chicken. Oh yes, don’t forget to brown the chicken pieces, the thighs, drumsticks, wings and neckbone.

Make the skin crispy while the fat melts into the pan, golden rich fat. The thighs are smooth and plumb, dark juicy meat you can sink your teeth into once they’re cooked. Brown them until the meat is al dente, flaking off the bone into your bowl, still in solid pieces, not gossamer light breast meat. Breast meat floats to the surface, pale and bland, easily overcooked. But thighs are full of flavor, toothsome. Like my thighs. Like when he used to bite my thighs, all suntanned and firm, many hours of walking or bike riding making the muscles long and hard, but with the meat striated between. Biting them, pulling them apart, shredding the meat with his teeth, sweetly resistant against his tongue.

Make sure the flame is high enough, so hot that flames lick up the sides of the pan. The fat will drip off the pieces, sputtering as they drip. Easy to get burned, fat can bounce right out of the pan and burn any part of me that is not protected. Have to remember to wear protective gear while cooking so I don’t have to worry about additional scarring. I am already scarred. And scared. I am scared all the time now. But I wasn’t scared then. I didn’t know I’d get new layers of scar tissue before the old ones had a chance to fully heal.

Remove the chicken pieces from pan and set them aside on a plate. Pour in the cubed onions and the celery. The celery will add texture. The onions will caramelize as the tears add an almost burnt sugar flavor. Keep cooking them, over a medium heat. Stir. Add some water, salted water, to the pot. Almost ready to add the broth and spices. Don’t need salt. I am making my own salt, my own broth. Standing over the pot, the steam leaches my tears. They hit the grease, the caramelized onions and sizzle, evaporate.

Slice the carrots into shoestrings and the parsnips into coins. There are two schools of thought on slicing vegetables: either everything should be cut into the same size and shape, or cut everything into as wide a variety of shapes and sizes as possible. Today, I am going for variety. I want things as varied as possible, as different as possible. I want to be able to pick and choose. The thought of everything being exactly the same, fitting into a neat mousehole makes me queasy. I am a geodesic peg and I don’t fit into anything. I don’t even try anymore.

The turnip. I’ll cut that into wedges. No one ever cuts a turnip into wedges. I want it my way. Not my mother’s way (thin slices) or his mother’s way (cubes, lots of little cubes) but my way. Wedges. This is my soup.

Pour in the holy water, toss in the soup greens. Add the browned, crispy chicken pieces back to the pot. Simmer. Skim the foam that rises to the top, the greyish speckled foam. It’s the exact color of, the exact same color as... and the soup greens, the bright green parsley and cilantro and dill... Oh god why do I have to remember that? Let me stir the soup. Add pepper, minced ginger, garlic powder. Stir, skim. Stir, skim. Taste. It has enough salt. Simmer.

Noodles. I forgot to make noodles. Alright, I’ll make them now while the soup simmers. Mix flour, water, egg. Dash of pepper. Mix it, knead it, roll it out. I wish I had my favorite rolling pin here, the tapered French maple pin, but I will settle for a child’s plastic pin I bought for a dollar to use on playdough. I just have to push a lot harder to get it to work. Nothing comes easy. It’s all work. Cut the noodle dough into strips and toss into the soup after it’s simmered for a bit and is almost done. Is it ever done or is it always almost done?

The noodles swirl and twist, a dance, over over, a convoluted dance, so tangled up. Why doesn’t he want to dance with me? Why doesn’t he love me anymore? Did he ever love me at all? What did I do wrong?

Oh hell. What did I ever do right?

It needs more salt. The noodles sucked up the salt. I’ll just stand here for a few minutes. It’ll be fine then. I’ll add the salt and the soup will be fine. In a few minutes. Yes, it will. It’ll all be fine.

Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris

I see her almost every day and nod, smiling. She nods back. When she notices. If she notices. She wears bike shorts and a teeny camisole. Watching her, her legs, the way they extend, toes pointed, as she rides. No hands. It’s a crime for a woman her age to wear bike shorts and look that good. It’s a crime to look that good. And not be mine.

I can see myself between those legs.

Her shirt plastered to her, to her breasts. I wonder if they’re real. I wonder what her sweat coated skin tastes like, run my tongue along her linea negra, her navel, up to her ribs, fragile bones I could crush. Licking the salt pooled under those breasts, while my fingers... Smoothing my hands over her, that crease where her legs meet that perfect heart-shaped ass, clench those thighs, just hard enough to see my fingerprints.

I can see myself squeezing those breasts.

I want her flushed and sweaty. Because of me. Not her bike. She reaches up, exposing a few inches of sun-kissed skin, just above the indent of her spine, dimples on either side. If she were younger, she’d have a tramp stamp there, across her lower back. But she doesn’t. I want to see her ride me until she collapses. After, I’ll bathe her and rub scented lotion into that skin.

I can see my name tattooed there, on her lower back.

Opalescent. Not shell, not marble, not metal, no, not cold at all. I touched her once. Brushed past her on the express line at Publix "where shopping is a pleasure." She was picking up the Sunday New York Times and a dozen donuts. It was early. The Times sells out by 8. "Oh. Excuse me. Did I trip you?" I grasp her elbow, hold it to steady her. "No, I’m fine, really I am. It’s okay." Oh god, her elbow, her arm so warm and solid. Warm, like a cat napping in a sunny spot under the window. Does she stretch like a cat, paws down, butt in the air, exposed, tail flicking back and forth?

I can see myself curled up with her, tail holding me to her.

Oohhh...
I would...
Oh I would bury my handsfaceself inside her. I would.
I want to make her eyes roll back, make her toes curl, make her throb and twitch and spasm
I want to make her cry out, make her breathless, dazed, exhausted, make her happy.
I want to make her happy.
I want to make her forget all the sad.
I want to make her forget all the befores
I want to make her mine.
If only she’d let me. If only.

What color are her eyes when she wakes up? When she cums? Sleeping beauty, I’ll love you awake, slow smile of pleasure at dreams become real. They will become real. Open your eyes to a living dream and let them be real. If you kissed me, brushed those lips against me, gave me a chance, one chance, just one chance, I know, I know you’d cry "yes, oh yes, oh yes." My mouth on yours, nibbling your lower lip, tongue slowly, so slowly entering your mouth, running it over your teeth, your palate, flicking against your tongue. Let me fall into an abyss I never want to climb out of. If only you’d let me.

I can see myself in her. I want to see myself in her.

Hair just long enough to wrap around my hand, pull her head back and stroke her windpipe with my thumbs. I could press. But I don’t. Push her down, feel that hot little mouth on me, oh yes. Taste me on her lips. After. I want her stretched out, naked. So naked. I want her insides, outsides, substantives, ephemerals. Feel that heart shaped ass on me, the curve of her spine. I’ll keep you in my pocket. Safe. I want you. I want everything about you.

And you don’t even know I exist.

August is Extremely Slow

Arriving at the outpatient clinic at the ungodly hour of 6:25 am, I enter into utter chaos. I wish. Seriously reader, this is Floriduh, not NYC. In NYC, any outpatient clinic adjacent to an emergency room entrance would be an obstacle course of gunshot wounds, stabbings, heart attacks, strokes and those who, lacking medical insurance or a primary care physician, use the ER as their GP. No. Wait. That was NYC in the bad old days. Now, post Guiliani, post 9-11, ER's are as eerily calm as the forested mountains of Idaho. You can't hear the buzz but you know it lies just under the surface, coiled and ready to strike.
In any case, I enter a ghost town. There is no one at the entrance, the admitting desk, in the corridors. I wander the halls, wondering how I'll get into the clinic. Maybe it's an omen that I should just turn about and leave. It is a medically indicated procedure, but not a medically necessary one. Preventative, ergo optional at this time. I can leave and continue the family tradition of acting against medical advice. I remember the results of my parents and brother opting to ignore their physicians' preventative treatments. Suicide by inches.
I stand there, in that deserted hallway. Turn. Turn again. Consider my options. Which, truthfully are more limited than you might think, as I have no escape vehicle to jump into and take off for parts unknown, exceeding the speed limit just enough to not be accidental. Suicide by inches? Oh no, that is not for me. When I go, if I opt out earlier than my five year allotment, it will be in a blaze of glory. Full tank of gas, skidding head first into a pylon and exploding with sufficient heat to melt whatever I crash into. Or just having the good luck to be on a structurally deficient bridge at the exact moment it chooses to collapse. When I was a child, I envied those who died on the bridge at San Luis Rey. Only a friar questioned their innocence, their reason for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, since there is no such thing as coincidence. I wanted to be one of them, feel the rush of free fall, of knowing that sooner than I could count it would be over.
I turn, in that deserted hallway, pondering my most recent brush with sudden death. How I knew I would be alright, that it was not time. There is a security in knowing it is not yet time. I can live life as the Shakers did: Do your work as though you had a thousand years to live and as if you were to die tomorrow. Put your hands to work, and your heart to God.
Except I know I will not die tomorrow or the next day or the next day after that. I have a reprieve. I still have some time to squander in idleness, although not as much as most. I cannot afford to waste time in illness. Ignoring medical advice will result in more intervention in the long run, more tests, more examinations, more poking prodding sticking drawing. More fear. Ever so much more fear. Chilling, paralyzing fear. Despite my outward calm, my blithe assertion that it is really just cosmetic, preventative, the memory loop playing is of my doctor twenty years ago asserting that, if certain changes were to take place, this procedure would have to be done.
Change happens. The exact changes I was warned about. And I am here. Turning around and around, ever so slowly in the deserted corridor of a hospital triage area. Making myself dizzy, giddy with dizziness, to cover the gut wrenching fear I try so hard to deny.
"Ma'am, can I help you? Were you looking for the main entrance to the hospital? The cafeteria? Outpatient surgery?"
I blink, startled. Look at the nurse as if I've never seen one before.
"Ma'am?"
"Oh yes. Thank you. Outpatient surgery, please. I'm supposed to be here at 6:30."
"Well, you're right on time. Let me get these doors and you just go right on through. Someone on the other side will guide you."
"Is Virgil waiting for me, then?"
"Virgil? No, he's not on duty this morning. I believe Kathy and Julia are doing intake."
She presses a code for the doors. They swing open. I smile my thanks at her and step through to the other side.

Just How Slow is August, Anyway?

For a very minor outpatient procedure, not only have I been poked, prodded, pinched, x-rayed, MRI'd, ultra-sounded, squeezed but anything and everything else you can imagine. Much of this manhandling under other circumstances, the world being context and meaning only determined by what frames the context, I would have considered pleasurable to some degree or other. In another frame. Not in this one.
Does my life start to remind you of "The Perils of Pauline"? Shall I change the name of my blog to "The Reversals, Ravages and Raw Deals of Recidivist Robyn"? Please feel free to comment and I will feel free to ignore, as usual.
In preparation for the latest, I spend part of the day in "pre-op". Pre-op starts with a jaunt down the turnpike, exceeding the speed limit by 5-8 mph. Exiting the traffic-free turnpike, I am most appreciative of the heavy volume of vehicular (rhymes with one of Dubya's favorite words) transportation adding to global warming. As if we'd notice here in Floriduh anyway.
Locating the hospital where I will be sliced, diced and julienned on Wednesday, I gave reception/intake my medical cards, credit cards, ID cards and the passwords to mine and my children's fiduciary accounts. Mi dinero es su dinero. Cuanto? Todo. Todo el mundo es su dinero. Next!
They took blood. LOTS of blood. They took urine. They took blood pressure. FYI 100/45, am I dead or alive? They took resting pulse, 56 bpm. They did an EKG. I'm not sure why they bothered. Anybody that actually knows me would tell the doctors that I am a heartless, soulless cruel little bitch. If they want to know my state of being, they should do an EEG and watch the synaptic connections in my head, which have been compared to Epcot fireworks and various laser light shows.
Finally, a chest x-ray. Still looking for a heart? The tin woodsman is standing in the forest. He has a purple heart. How apropos. A purple heart for the walking wounded. If I had a heart, it would be purple. And broken. Snapped, crushed, shattered. A story for another day perhaps. Only modern fairy tales have happy endings. And Friendly's. I am a traditionalist. The only happy ending is to live another day. Step into the shards. Bleed. Step over them. Heal a bit. Have the chance to wipe your tears. Grow. Learn. Perhaps tell your tale so someone else can benefit from your mistakes. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.

August is a Slow Month

Having gone through every hoop you can imagine to obtain my precious MRI's, it is with great joy I receive the copies into my sweaty little hands. It only took twelve phone calls from me and four from my doctor's office over the course of five business days before the center could manage to print out a set for me. I suppose it being the depths of summer, there are much better things to do than print films and reports for women wondering if they are in imminent danger of losing superfluous body parts. No, I am not referring to my appendix. And this being Orlando, the depths of summer cover from May until December, dissimilar to Camelot, that's for certain! I am thankful that the young man at the reception desk was mortified at the records room's the lack of follow-through and made it his personal responsibility to get me the copies.
I open the file to gaze upon my insides. Grey blotches. It looks like my mammographies. Grey blotches. I read the report. Incomprehensible except for one line: No significant masses detected. Does this mean there is such a thing as an insignificant mass? Or that I may have masses, but they are not detected? Or do I have insignificant masses which are detected? It makes no sense to me, four pages of gobbledegook. I slide the films back into the oversize envelope and wander out into the rain.
The next day, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, I meet with the specialist. Hand over the various photos of my insides and await his decision. Dr C shakes his head sadly. Turns on the sonogram and gels the wand. Slides it over the surface of my breast, around the edges, eyes inches from the screen. Back and forth, slowly.
"Fascinating. This confirms it."
"Confirms what?" What the hell is he looking at? All I see are more grey blotches.
"Your breasts. Your breasts are dense."
"Dense? My head is dense. What do you mean, my breasts are dense?"
"It means that despite eight years of breastfeeding, the hormone breakdowns resulting from the approaching menopause and just plain age, your breasts are young."
"That still means nothing to me. My breasts are dense?"
"Breast density is related to age and child bearing. Your breasts do not indicate either."
"Bet you say that to all the patients."
"Only the cute ones. In any case, your breasts are 25 years old. The rest of you is forty-eight. So while they're having a fine time, you need your rest. And geritol."
"Oh. Cool. So I can leave, everything is alright then?"
"Oh no, I'm not done with the examination. There is still the unexplained growth on the anomaly."
Oh fuck. What's he talking about now?
"Anomaly?"
"Yes, this growth. It should have been removed years ago, but better late than never."
"Why? Why remove it?"
"It's politically incorrect to leave it. Remove it before it becomes a problem. It has gotten larger. It'll get rubbed and irritated where it is. Off now while it's a piece of cake."
"Any idea what's involved with this?" Thinking to myself, how much is he going to make from this procedure? What's the BC/BS pay scale?
"Honest, you could do it yourself with a paring knife or a scissor, but you'd pass out before you did the dirty deed..."
"Fine. Let me consider it a physical enhancement."
"This week. We can do it this week."
"I need time to waffle."
"No waffles, no pancakes, no grits. This week."
Why is he in such a rush? What is he not telling me?
To be continued....

We've Reviewed Your Files

As if I don't have enough tsuris, now this?
Between my kinda sorta homelessness and unemployment, my beloved psychotic perpetual victim older daughters and my youngest who is truly otherworldly at times, and that not in a good way, I still need more?
That which the gods would destroy they first make great. I'm not great.
God does not give you more than you can bear. Sez who?
That which does not kill you makes you strong. Knock me over with a feather.
I am neither great nor filled with fortitude nor strong. So what am I? In any case...
Not enough to have every other brick in my tower tumbling down, burying me, the foundations crumbling neath my feet. Not enough to be dragged into an abyss, tentacles twined lovingly around my ankles. "Would you like a glass of water, dear?" So says the torturer. "Drink deep." So says. Now to have this trivial stress added?
"Ms W, we've reviewed the results of your recent MRI. The doctor would strongly advice you to see a specialist. We've already referred your files to Dr C. You should call him ASAP to make an appointment. Here's the number."
You've reviewed? The doctor reviewed? WTF? Two damn months ago the doctor reviewed my files and sent me for the MRI. NOW he looks at the report? WTF?
Okay dear readers, time to spill. Because you have to understand something not obvious. This was NOT an MRI of my brain. We all know what an MRI of my brain would look like: swiss cheese. Moldy swiss cheese. Drippy moldy swiss cheese.
No, this was an MRI of another body part. I should use the plural to be perfectly accurate, it being a pair of body parts. The body parts which are specific and used to easily and obviously identify the female of the species. So to hear the dreaded words, "We'd like you to see a specialist," especially when the hearer is well aware of how high risk she is, does not make for a good afternoon.
Except....
They waited two months to call me on this? Is this for real incompetence and inefficiency (we are in floriduh) or does the doctor have August billing doldrums? Back in NYC, if there was an anomaly on an x-ray, test, MRI, you were called in a day or two. Surely this necessitated a call within a week if there was real cause for concern? Surely?
Because while I may love going topless, I do not look forward to being topless. At least not for a few more years.
So. I can give credence to this and worry my freshly dyed head (more grey, so much more grey than a week ago) OR...
I can make chocolate mousse.
I made mousse.

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