my tragic right hip

I saw Melissa Bank at the ‘ladies’ afternoon at the IFOA this year and bought a copy of The Wonder Spot shortly thereafter. Her reading was hilarious and her delivery dry. The passage that she picked was perfect for the setting and Bank did well with the audience too.

So much brouhaha came about this summer after Curtis Sittenfeld’s review in the Times, but after reading the book, I’m tending to agree with her thoughts. The book is more of a series of vignettes than an actual story. Each chapter is separated by even smaller little bits of writing that read like scenes from an excercise in a creative writing class. It’s hard to understand where Bank’s decision making came from in terms of how she chose to tell the story. The events she chooses to leave in and what she keeps out is somewhat mystifying. The book would have been so much better if she made the decision to plum the emotional depths of a few important parts of Sophie’s life instead of hovering somewhere on the surface.

The Wonder Spot moves quickly through Sophie Applebaum’s life; it starts when she’s about twelve and by the time the book has finished, almost thirty years have passed. Bank’s witty prose flits in and out of Sophie’s various love affairs and ineffectual career choices. She’s a very funny writer and has the ability to sum up a situation in a few short sentences. But it’s a style that might seem more fitting for a short story than an entire book.

I felt the same way about The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing. But in terms of The Wonder Spot, I really miss an overarching plot; it would have stopped me from thinking, “What is this book about?” Because in this case, it’s just not enough that it’s about Sophie’s life, because, well, nothing happens. She sort of ends up exactly where she starts, new boyfriend, newish job, and no real revelations. And in terms of her intellectual growth? Well, it too is very much like where she started: average and adolescent.

All of the important things that do happen, seem to happen in parenthesis. Her father dies in passing, one of her boyfriends (one that doesn’t even have his own chapter) dies, and she loses her best friend (of sorts), but we never see and/or hear of the emotional involvement. We simply move on to the next stage in her life, a new art class, a new boyfriend and an attempt to find a new job.

I liked the book to some extent, but I just wanted there to be more. I just wanted something, anything, to happen to Sophie that pushes her past bland optimism and dry wit.

Shockingly, both work and the super-fancy disease doctor agree that it’s best to let you stay home and try to find it. So that’s where I’ll be: on my couch getting even fatter from the damn prednisone and resting until my blood counts normalize over the next couple of weeks. Apparently, no one wants a bloodless Ragdoll around.

The hardest thing to get over though, is the feeling of defeat when it comes to the disease. I feel like I’m letting it win, and it kind of has, I mean I can’t even get up a flight of stairs without feeling so tired I want to pass out.

But the biggest lesson from all this? I’ve got to learn how to relax. Stress causes the disease, at least, that’s what I think, and I’ve spent my whole life either putting myself through stress or trying to figure out how not to deal with it by barreling through so I don’t look weak.

Do you think I can find the answer in the next two weeks? Anyone?

Over the past week, I’ve made a rather pathetic attempt to try and watch some of the Oscar-nominated films before I head over to a friend’s house on Sunday night for the gluttonous, but absolutely addictive, show.

I watched Pride and Prejudice after my super-fancy disease doctor’s appointment yesterday afternoon. I resisted. Keira Knightley? Not my favourite. And Jane Austen and I have a rather precarious relationship (one too many failed attempts at acing Victorian literature classes during university). But I was won over, dammit, I was. It’s a great little movie, perfect for a rainy afternoon when your blood goes missing.

Then our friend Kate came over and we had our Shrove Tuesday pancake dinner. I’ve given up sugar for Lent. I’m not Catholic, but I do like the ritual of Lent. Fingers crossed John Constantine doesn’t come over and give me hell. Ahem, no pun intended.

Annnywaaay. We watched Walk the Line. And I resisted. Then resisted some more. I have a mythical relationship with Johnny Cash (read poem I and poem II). In my mind, the whole idea of a Hollywood biopic about his life could only end in disaster. I mean, Ali anyone? But on the whole, it’s an entirely passable film. The performances are solid; both actors refuse to mimic Johnny and June Carter Cash. They approach the roles like they’re maybe even a bit independent of the people that inspired them and that’s why it works. There’s a slight bit of surprise that the film’s been nominated for so many awards, but of the current batch of crap-ass films that came out this year, I guess it holds up?

Oh, and I went to see Transamerica. Felicity Huffman is very good in a very mediocre film. She’s got my vote (well my heart’s vote; my pen’s going with Witherspoon. I want to win the cash!).

My second visit to the super-fancy disease doctor in as many weeks was kind of funny in a scary sort of way. They’re convinced that the wonky blood work results are from the meds. Instead of making me better, I’m just falling down a pretty dangerous path.

Ragdoll: “I just don’t feel like I’m getting any better.”

Super-Fancy Disease Doctor: “You’re not. We’re making you sicker.”

It’s a weird bit of irony I think that what’s saving my life is actually bringing me closer to the brink of death. Take this stat for example: My red blood cell count (your hemoglobin) normally runs at 125; right now it’s a 82.

Ragdoll: “I’m just so tired all the time. I can’t even walk up a flight of stairs without being totally exhausted.”

Super-Fancy Disease Doctor: “That doesn’t surprise me. It’s as if you’ve lost 1/3 of your blood over the last three weeks.”

Barring any gashing wounds I don’t know about, how exactly does 1/3 of your blood just leave your body? Where does it go? What happens to it? Did it just get up and walk out of my body when I wasn’t looking? And whose going to find it? How do I get it back?

The only other couple of times I’ve been anemic have been the result of surgeries (both hip-related, of course). The only other time the blood mysteriously disappeared was when I first got sick. But then I was a crazy dancer girl who never ate and thought Diet Coke was a complete meal. Now, I’m hearty — my blood shouldn’t go missing and leave cottage cheese thighs in its place.

Well, apparently, the advice of the insurance lady that I met with today is for my RRHB “because you’re renovating anyway” to put in a safe to hold our valuables. Considering we don’t own anything remotely valuable to put into a safe (so how’s about dropping the desktop in there sweetie when you’re not using it) with the exception of the two rings I’m now wearing ALL the time, what would be the point? Although I do think it would be uber cool to have an Ocean’s Twelve style safe tucked into the wall behind our, ahem, “amazing” art collection. Heh.

Yes, I completely realize that I skipped right over #8 – You’ll Never Nanny In This Town Again. I read Suzanne Hansen’s memoir about her time as a nanny to the stars yesterday morning and was thoroughly bored. First off because of my New Year’s Revolution to try and stop consuming so much celebrity gossip (she worked for Michael Ovitz and his family), and I lapsed by actually reading this book, and second because it’s so average that it’s not really even worth writing about let alone wasting my precious anemia-starved brain on.

So then, last night I picked up Elizabeth Berg’s Open House. It too was a quick read, an Oprah book, which meant that I finished it in three hours or so. It’s an entirely passable novel about a woman in her early fourties dealing with life after separating from her husband of twenty years. She’s never worked and has always enjoyed the simple pleasures of family life. The book itself is sweet and good tempered. And watching how the main character, Sam Morrow, changes as her life changes is good for the soul.

But it’s funny how the back cover copy calls it a literary novel; and how different that designation is in the States vs. here in Canada. I wouldn’t call it a literary novel. Not in the sense that Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go is absolutely literary. But maybe that’s just my own prejudice about the subject matter and how these stories of women’s lives just don’t feel they have the weight of what I would consider to be important literature. Is that sexist and anti-feminist of me? Maybe, Berg’s a good writer and it’s an engaging story, but it’s not anything new, and certainly not anything beyond how you feel after watching a particularly good episode of Grey’s Anatomy. It’s an entirely different kind of satisfying—reading Ishiguro you feel like you’ve learned something about the state of the human condition; reading Berg you feel like you’ve just spent a day being pampered, having a pedicure and are about to eat your favourite dinner. Both are good, but different.

San Francisco is moving to be entirely waste free by 2020, which is cool. They’re even turning dog poo, well, attempting to turn dog poo, into a viable source of energy. My favourite sentence from this article? That they still have some bugs to work out.

Heh.

Apparently, intellectual property like short stories, poems and half novels are not covered by insurance. I guess the arts have absolutely no value in the world of very real house insurance after some asshole steals your computer right out from under you.

So one of my New Year’s Revolutions this year was to try and experience more of the city I live in instead of just sitting like a lump in my house. Soooo, so far this year I’ve done a few things in this vein that can actually count as ‘enjoying’ what the city has to offer.

I went to a taping of Cityline, which was way fun. It’s totally not a show that I watch on a regular basis, but I was invited and it was Fashion Friday, so why the hell not? The fashions were kind of eh, but the shows were amazing and Marilyn Denis is pretty damn delightful. Oh, and at the end of the taping they give you free stuff.

Side note: Here’s something you might like to know about me…I will whore myself out to the highest bidder for free stuff. Doesn’t actually matter what the stuff is as long as its free. Isn’t that pathetic?

Annnywaaay. We ended up with some Marc Anthony hair products and some other beauty product thingy. Oh, and Marc Anthony? Dude is orange in real life, and not the sweet Florida, natural looking orange, but bright crayon-esque, spent way too much time in the tanning bed orange. Ew.

And next weekend I’m taking Zesty (on the day of the Oscars no less) to ballet for her birthday. The National Ballet of Canada is performing various pieces originally choreographed by George Ballanchine, who is one of my all-time favourites of the dance world. I’m very excited.

Oh, and on Monday night I was at the New Face of Fiction 10th anniversary celebration. Also very much fun, but it’s a pain in the ass to find parking around the Distillery district. The delightful Patricia over at Booklust has a much better wrap up of the party up on her site. Holla!

See, I’m so cultured. Yawn…

The most frightening thing in the world, next to the phone ringing in the middle of the night (because according to the Cowboy Junkies, “…good news always sleeps ’til noon”), is a super-fancy disease doctor leaving a message on your voice mail that says, “I’d like to talk to you about the results from your blood tests.”

You see, doctors only call if it’s bad news. It’s one of the few things in the world you can truly count on: if your tests suck and there’s something wrong, the super-fancy disease doctor will call you. If you’re fine and nothing’s wrong, they put the results in the file and you see them in four months.

The most harrowing aspect of the disease is the up and down from the visit-to-visit bloodwork. Right now, my creatinine levels are still elevated, which is to be expected for the most part with the disease being active right now. What he didn’t expect to see is low white blood cell counts and anemia. Hell, it’s a wonder I’ve got any blood in my body at all.

So now I’ve got to go back to the super-disease doctor and see what’s up next Tuesday. And I thought I was on the right track…