Initially, I was about to idly comment on the odd juxtaposition of creating an elegantly draped afternoon formal tea table that would have even impressed Queen Victoria herself, to the tune of Strawberry Alarm Clock’s Incense and Peppermints. Then I thought, “Well, I dunno – it sorta fits”. All I needed was the granny glasses and I would have slid neatly into at least one of those two generations – the Victorians or the 60’s era flower children. I’m daintily drinking a top of the line loose English Earl Grey tea (right out of Harrod’s, so it’s either top of the line or seriously overpriced) out of a rose-chintz bone china tea cup that belonged to my grandmother. I don’t know what it is about the sound of a bone china tea cup being replaced in its saucer (*clink*) that makes me feel ladylike and dainty, but there you have it. Nothing to nibble on during this afternoon formal tea – I’m still a little queasy – but the tea is heavenly.
Obvious next requirement for Soul Mate: willing to overlook love of his life acting like a screwball anglophile every once in a while. Just as long as someone physically prevents me from lifting my pinkie in the air as I’m drinking, I’m happy.
The good news is that the primary care physician actually came through and got me an appointment with a gastroenterologist at 2:45 that afternoon. Much better than waiting around for February 17th, which is the appointment Mass General Hospital scheduled with one of their gastroenterologists. Waiting for the hour of departure to roll around, I watched cd’s of Season 2 of Deep Space Nine. It’s been so long since I saw the original (and I used to tune into the show religiously I loved it so much) that it seems new again.
At the time I absolutely adored the character of Quark and the gifted actor behind all those sharp teeth: Armin Shimerman (or, Principal Snyder to all you Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans). This time sound I got to appreciate Philip Anglim’s low key sex appeal and Louise Fletcher’s unapologetic evil. Naturally, right as I was preparing to leave, I checked the mail and found that what I thought was Season 3 of The Tudors had just arrived from Barnes & Noble, and there wasn’t enough time to watch any of it before I left. Love that show -- Henry VIII only belatedly wishes he looked like Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Or maybe he did – who knows?
The good news? The tests that Mass General had done had made it to the gastroenterologist before I arrived. The bad news? He couldn’t figure out what was wrong, either.
Came home with so many more appointments my head was spinning – an upper GI and an appointment with an endocrinologist in two days time; more invasive procedures further down the road, which required me to be unconscious. They’d sucked more blood out of my veins again because apparently, the trillion and a half tests Mass General had run on the steady supply of blood I gave them every morning weren’t enough.
Came home to more vicious assaults by the Sky Sadist. It wasn’t Season 3 of The Tudors in the box, it was Season 2, which I hadn’t ordered and which I’d already seen. My debit card (which I had just had to replace a week or two earlier) went missing again. I finally found it tucked inside of my Daytimer appointment book – and into which (I assure you) I had NOT tucked it. How it went from a wallet slot into the Daytimer is something only the Sky Sadist can tell you, because the evil cackling I had to listen to while I ripped my handbag apart looking for it was unmistakable. I’d already cancelled the debit card for the second time in as many weeks, and had to get myself a new one from the local bank branch the following morning, causing no end of headaches. Bill Gates decided to do one of his Windows “updates” and shut down my computer without asking me first, ignoring his own computer settings, and losing me whatever I had open at the time. I spilled hot tea all over my brand new unblemished Daytimer pages and the Selected Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley. The heating ducts went on the fritz again, which would require me to call maintenance – AGAIN. After discussing the invasive procedure with the doctor, he sent all the paperwork to Haverhill instead of Lawrence, so everything was on hold again, while they faxed the paperwork back to Lawrence from Haverhill. And all of the lights in my car had blinked on while driving home from the gastroenterologist (“SERVICE! ENGINE! REPAIR ME RIGHT THIS MINUTE OR DIE!!”), and I was now without a debit card to pay the auto repair guys. All the while struggling not to throw up, for reasons no one could tell me.
What I actually needed was a gypsy or a voodoo priestess to lift the never-ending Sky Sadist curse, but just try to find either one of those in North Andover, headquarters of the Soccer Mom’s Associative Ring of Massachusetts. (SMARM). Official SMARM Vehicle: SUV. Members known for being so insufferably narcissistic and lazy that not a single one of them was capable of moving a shopping cart 5 feet into a designated area, preferring to leave them for other motorists to run into. Also known for running down pedestrians in crosswalks without blinking. Point is: no self-respecting gypsy or voodoo priestess would be caught anywhere near SMARM territory for fear of being fatally infected.
But back to the business at hand: my next step was the nearly impossible task of “dissolving all negative thoughts and letting in hope.”
Okay. (Said with fervent anticipation): I hope for someone who looks like Fabio, I hope for someone who looks like Fabio, I hope for someone who looks like Fabio.”
No, not THAT Fabio. Fabio Armiliato in “Francesca di Rimini” at the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma.
Ok, fine. I knew hope wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to generate, when I was back in Lawrence Hospital, sitting in a dark hallway in the Radiology Department, awaiting upper GI tests that would require me to drink cups of barium, which I loathed. Lawrence General Hospital is back to its habitual level of incompetence by failing to provide accurate directions to either the doctor or me (i.e., no, I was not supposed to go directly to Radiology, I was supposed to go to Admitting, on another floor entirely. As a result of that bungle, I’m now running a ½ hour late and have another appointment at 10:00 a.m., which there is a good chance I won’t make. Thanks again, Lawrence.)
Just as I was when this project began a year ago, I was surrounded by more elderly sick people and sitting in the darkened hallway so long I fully expected to catch some other vile disease I didn’t have when I walked in, before they even got around to fixing the unknown disease I did have.
I was also back to starving. The medical profession really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the people they hand out “nothing by mouth” orders to. My stomach is empty and hurting. I’m beginning to think it would be seriously cool if I barfed all over them.
Oh, right. “Dissolve negative thoughts and let in hope” isn’t really building up a head of steam, is it? Actually, the book is more concerned with my eradicating negative thoughts I had about love. Some of her examples:
“I don’t want to be disappointed again. Don’t expect too much.”
“I’ve been so badly hurt I don’t believe in love anymore.”
“There are no good men left.”
“Everyone gets love except me – I’m left out.”
As for my own examples, I could immediately add one of my own without too much thought:
“I keep expecting the scary man in the black suit to show up.”
The idea was to write all of my own personal negative thoughts about love in my beautiful leather journal with my sensual fountain pen and then replace each negative thought with a positive affirmation like, “My past love life has no bearing on my future!” – except I’m not sure you could consider the scary man in the black suit to be a “past love life” – he was more like a “recurring nightmare”.
The final step was to copy all the negative beliefs onto small pieces of paper and burn each one.
Wait. Kathryn Alice wants me to set fire to small pieces of paper? In my apartment?? Me? The accident prone me? Me with my flammable perfume on (see entry on Magical Moon) that could set me off like a human torch? Does the spell still take if you burn small pieces of paper in your stainless steel kitchen sink? Does that leave scorch marks I’ll have to answer for later? Will it set off the fire alarm and being the entire fire department running over here with sirens blaring? And will I have to explain what I was doing, setting small pieces of paper on fire? And wouldn’t THAT be humiliating!
Ahhh, the endless possibilities in this scenario … some of them painful, some of them expensive and none of them good. How about if I just drown the pieces of paper? Or put them in my blender with some water, make paper mache out of them, make homemade paper, and use the screened result to send a note to the North Andover Fire Department: “I decided not to set these on fire. You owe me, big-time. Send large check and some really handsome, single firemen to the following address, which is still intact as I did NOT set fire to a lot of small pieces of paper as instructed, and screwed up my own soul mate search. You’re welcome. ”
Anticipating the worst, I scribbled down a few negative thoughts about love:
- Who could ever love me while I have a stomach full of barium? (Of course, I thought of this question while I was actually drinking the barium and had an attractive white barium ring around my mouth. So sophisticated! So classy! I just know I was cute as a button wearing a mouth barium ring!)
- What happens when two people fall in love and then grow apart? What’s the point of falling in love in the first place?
- Is love even possible after the age of 25?
- Don’t people get set in their ways? I know I did. Do.
- Don’t most men prefer blonde Reese Witherspoon sorts of characters, who act really dumb and flounce around giggling? I’m sure I don’t giggle. Well, that’s a lie. I did giggle once, and was so shocked at myself when I did it, I swore I would never do it again.
- Will Hosni Mubarak’s resignation impact my love life? (Okay, that question occurred to me while I was watching CNN‘s coverage of his resignation at the second appointment. And yes, Lawrence’s bungling had made me about 20 minutes late, so I was able to cool my heels in Pentucket’s waiting room, watching CNN for quite some time). Feel free to scream, ‘ONLY IF YOUR SOUL MATE IS AN EGYPTIAN!” – I already answered that one myself.
- Will the plates in my spine ruin my sex life? (And no, I’m not EVEN going to ask the neurologist that question – anyone with titanium plates screwed into their spine feel free to weigh in on that).
- Will I meet him at the Real McCoy Restaurant in Middleton? (Apparently not, but this was a great restaurant. You should try it sometime, future soul mate).
Originally published: Feb. 11th, 2011 at 4:20 PM
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