Writing Thoughts and Escaping From Reality

So, once again, I’m tempted to write in another fandom. I wrote my first Jeeves/Wooster fic, “Hard Boiled Eggs” and I’ve been on a reading binge for at least a week. A large part of the latter is that my elderly mother is doing badly and I need to hide from that and from the state of the world in general. So I plunge into the world of Archive of Our Own 3 for hours on end.

But is all of my time to be taken up writing fanfic? I’m not young anymore. I should be turning my thoughts to a memoir,  and essays. I have many ideas. I’ve written about mental illness. Right now I’m writing a piece about going insane. I’m quite good at it. I’m considering writing about handling a gun (45) while I was in Memphis and how I really wanted to buy it. Even though I’m pro-gun control and a New Yorker to boot. I should finish a long piece I’ve been writing about my father’s death. Or the time I had orgasms for 18 straight hours. Or the time a SWAT team showed up on my doorstep and took me to the psych ward. (Turns out it was a false alarm–someone called in to 911 deliberately. I never found out who it was.) I managed to write about being deported from England, in “A Basket Full of Cats”.

I should finish the enormous historical fantasy novel I’ve worked on in spurts since 2009. I should promote the anthology of my plays that a small press published over a year ago. I should try to perform more than twice a year.

Part of me just wants to write about the unexpected consequences of when Bertie convinces Jeeves to be Fred Astaire to Bertie’s Ginger Rogers.

If I was younger I wouldn’t be quite so conflicted. Oh, wait, I’m always so conflicted.

The Wonderful Chronicles - My Sorta Breast Cancer Journey

In May of this year, I discovered that there was a suspicious lump in my left breast.  Two, actually.

There's a history of breast cancer in my family.  Actually, a host of cancers.  So I knew it might happen eventually.  And when it did, I was pissed and scared.  So these are edited entries I made on a private blog.  I called them "The Wonderful Chronicles".

I wouldn't exactly call it my breast cancer journey.  It hasn't changed my life in any fundamental way so far.  Does that make me a bad cancer patient?  Am I not being noble enough??  Should I post photos of myself smiling boldly while wearing a head-scarf?  Even if I didn't go through chemo and I still have all of my hair?  Anyway, in the grand tradition of over-sharing, here we go.

May 23, 2015

It's Saturday, the first day of our three-day weekend. I got three letters from my doctors after a series of tests:

1) Blood work: mildly elevated bad cholesterol

2) I have arthritis in both knees

3) I have a suspicious growth in my breast.

I want to drown myself in the toilet.

Is Exercising Too Much To Ask? Apparently The Answer Is Yes

Despite being plus size and proud, the effects of aging have started me questioning just how plus size I can be.  I.E., high blood pressure and a right knee that hurts like a bitch. (Luxating patella, if you must know. It's a condition that Yorkshire Terriers and other small dogs are prone to.  Yay me.) 

I decided to stop putting off exercise and go swimming at the Y my husband belongs to.  I bundled swimsuit, shampoo/conditioner and body wash, and headed out and realized: fuck. I don't have a padlock. 

Into the hardware store for a padlock with keys.  

I get to the Y, go to the elevators--the pools and Aquatic office are on the 2nd floor.  The 2nd floor is mostly other non-profits, so I ask several people where the Aquatic office is.  I find it, and am sat down until the guy is found.  I'm in the wrong place; the women's dressing room has been moved to the 3rd floor.  I get on the elevator, and find the 3rd floor button is covered up. 

So I go to the 4th floor, which is the gym proper, and wander around asking people how to get to the third floor. Because no one on that floor is in their offices.  Nobody knows.  Finally one guy says to take the elevator on the left.  I do, but the button doesn't light, and I end up on the 2nd floor again. I am righteously pissed.  After procrastinating for months, I finally get my shit together, and I CAN'T get to the damn pool!  

So, back in the elevator up to the 4th floor.  I walked down stairs to the 3rd floor, no entry, knocked repeatedly.  Crickets.  So I go back up and find another flight of stairs.  No entry.  I pound on the door as hard as I can.  Crickets.  I am starting to think this was a seriously bad decision.  

What chlorinated hell is this?

 I go back up, scout the floor, and find a stairs that don't look like fire stairs!  They're steps to the third floor!  Yay! THE THIRD FLOOR MEN'S DRESSING ROOM. 

As old guys scuttle to cover up, a security person escorts me out.  I'm almost in tears, telling him I am just trying to get to the goddamn womens' dressing room.  First I go to the towel desk, get two fresh towels, find a locker, etc.  But I can't open the package the lock is in. 

Back to the towel desk, ask for a pair of scissors, cut open the package, go down, get everything arranged, in my bathing suit and two towels, find the door to the pool-!  

Go to the pool to see a sign that you have to wear a bathing cap.  Shit.  There are these blue elastic headthings, but for some reason the one I pick doesn't fit, and I look and it says: Shoe Covers. 

Back to the towel desk, ask can I buy a swim cap.  I have to go to the 1st floor membership desk.  

Back to locker, put pants and shoes on, down to the desk, buy a swim cap, but not before the guy asks to see my guest pass. "This is all you've got?" he asks, but he drops it because he can see the murder in my eyes. 

Finally, I get myself, towels and tote bag to the pool, and get in the water. 

And everything is okay again.