Comment (from Agent Dan) on my last entry:
Ahem. Every day I think *what will Dan have on his blog now? Maybe today will be the day I finally don’t have to read about poor old Karl again.* But no, not today either. Not even a little note to say *I love Em* or something like that. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Like the ringing of Art Garfunkle’s phone.
Obviously, this was meant to shame me into posting, and just as obviously it has succeeded. For the record, I *do* love Em. On the other hand, she’s about to turn 30 (on Tuesday!), and you can’t trust anyone over 30, and you can’t have love without trust, so… Just kidding. But I’ll check back in on Wednesday in case anyone’s worried.
Also for the record, Art Garfunkle has been brought back to life by a team of cryonicists, and not only does he have a web site, rumour has it that he’s been making and taking calls of late. It was one month ago today that he and Paul Simon performed “America” and “The Boxer” on Letterman, and the two of them “will embark this fall on their first concert tour in 20 years“. I’d even be tempted to see it, if tickets weren’t running into the hundreds of dollars.
In other news, since my last post, our friend Judy went out and built a blog/site of her own – you GO, girl! [I really can't believe I just typed "you go, girl" - the sight of it is almost as silly as the sound of me saying it would be. Almost, but not quite. The sentiment is legit, but the silliness rating is still off the charts.] Anyhow, she’s also helped to shame me into posting, if only by posting almost daily since putting her site up, and thus making me look even more like the lame-blog loser that I am. And she has a daughter! How does she do it?
In recent torments, it’s amazing how a single mosquito can ruin a night of your life. What does it weigh? How can something the size of an eyelash cause so much grief?? Em and I both woke up (MANY times) last night to that unbelievably nasty, unmistakable buzzing that starts out faint, then rapidly gets louder until it sounds (and FEELS!) like it’s coming from right inside your ear – which it sometimes is! Of course you wake up, and flail an arm by your ear in a fairly pathetic way that mostly involves slapping yourself in the head, only to hear the sound come back a few minutes later. You also start to realize (in my case) that you’ve got at least a couple of bites already, and that they’re already beginning to swell and itch, and will be absolutely lovely by morning. And that you’ll be tired all day from not being able to sleep – even when the buzzing stops for a bit, you’re restless, knowing that you’re being stalked (and nibbled on!) all night by a relentless, tiny predator. Plus you start wondering WHERE the stagnant water is that would account for the presence of such a beast (we’ve never had one in our apartment before – although we’ve only been sleeping with the bedroom window open for a couple of months), and making plans to root out the source once day breaks. Oh, and did I mention that there’s some peculiarity in my biology that makes the little bastards love me like no one else I’ve ever known? For years as a kid, I had to endure this nightly torment at summer camp. Six long, long WEEKS in the woods a couple of hours north of Montreal, and I have never really gotten over the experience of being left out every night as a big plate of food for another species to feast on. At first, I’d wake up with 20-30 new bites (only ten times as many as any of the other kids), until I learned to start sleeping with bug spray slathered on me (oh, the sweet smell – and taste – of DEET), and how to make a tent out of my blanket, and tuck the edges under my mattress into the springs of my cot, and sleep curled up in the center of the “tent”. I didn’t get much oxygen that way, but I’d definitely rather run the risk of anoxia than spend the nights being eaten by bugs, and the days scratching myself raw.
The amazing part is that at some point in the wee hours, some time after Em got fed up and went to sleep on the couch in the living room, I made a fast pass with my right hand by my right ear, and ACTUALLY CAUGHT AND KILLED THE DAMN THING. [I assume there was just one, since after I killed it I wasn't bothered again.] I can’t explain how good it feels to kill a mosquito. Particularly since there was a nice patch of blood in my palm (presumably my own), confirming that the little beast had already nicked me at least once already, and was coming back for more. I understand that she only wants a little, and even that just so that she can have children, but oddly enough that doesn’t stoke my sympathies. While I was cursing all the world’s mosquitoes (they “cause more human suffering than any other organism — over one million people die from mosquito-borne diseases every year”
), I also took time out to curse the people who built this place almost a hundred years ago. The ancient, wood-framed, bedroom window took me almost an hour of brutal effort to get open a few weeks back, and now it can’t be closed. And of course there are no screens on any of our windows. If there’s another mosquito attack, I’m going to have to nail a screen into place myself. Actually, I may just go get a screen at the hardware store tomorrow – why wait for another bloodsucker to show up?
Sigh. I’m bitter. I didn’t get enough sleep last night, and I’m stopping every few seconds as I type this to scratch at one of the four new bites I’ve got – two on my left hand, one on my right, and one on my back. DAMNED creatures!
In somewhat mixed news, Arnon has graciously extended some hospitality our way, in light of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s recently becoming the Governor of California. I’m grateful for the offer, but we’re gonna tough it out for now. If the radical right sends shock troops in, we may have to circle the wagons and make a last stand in Berkeley – if so, remember us fondly.
Okay, that’s enough to get me back on the blog-updating wagon. More tomorrow. This time I mean it.
