Normally, as I get closer to the deadline, as the situation seems to get more grim and desperate - that’s when It comes through for me and bails my ass out just as Darth Vader’s about to blast my X-Wing Fighter into oblivion.
But for the past two days, It hasn’t done shit. Maybe while I was stuck in a seminar for the past two days, It took a road trip down to TJ and fell in love with a matronly hooker named Consuello. Maybe It’s waiting ‘til next week when I’m truly on the verge of being fucked, before swooping in with parcels of salvation.
Or maybe I should just go out and have a drink.
And that’s what I did Thursday night. Of course it wasn’t leisure simply for the sake of leisure: T was in town from Hong Kong. He was crashing over at my place for a night while on his way to New York. So about 20 of us met up at Café Bleu to catch up with the guy.
Haven’t seen T since July, but it might as well been yesterday – although the dude did pack on a few extra pounds, courtesy of oil-drenched Chinese cuisine. Believe it or not, T actually changed his hairstyle. Of course the motivation wasn’t hip-ness, but fear. The new look was created to accommodate one of his two latest phobias: balding. The other is Dengue Fever. It was just like old times again.
Got up early to pick up my middle sister, Grace, at LAX. Third time this week I’ve been there. I’ve been doing more cab duty than brilliant-ideas-to-save-my-ass duty.
Grace and her husband just got back from a trip to Peru, where they were blown away by Macchu Pichu and almost completely devoured by the Amazon. She rolled up her pant legs to reveal a galaxy of bug bites. I shit you not, there were at least 50 brown splotches on each leg. The insane thing is that this all happened within three minutes, when they’d briefly rolled up their pants on a boat, thereby exposing the only body parts that weren’t protected by clothes or Deet. Apparently in that part of the world, the mosquitoes outnumber air molecules.
Grace was going to stay with our parents ‘til Tuesday to keep our baby sister company. She hadn’t seen her since the surgery, so she was completely fascinated by our baby sister’s comb-over. The chemo had already taken out over half of her hair in ugly, ragged patches. Not something you see everyday. Especially on the youngest member of your family.
It was at that point she decided to just shave it all off. So I went and grabbed the clippers. And in about ten minutes, my baby sister was as bald as a light bulb. I’d already gotten her three hats and Grace had brought over some bandanas as well. But she basically looked like a bald chick wearing a hat. I guess we’ll have to take her wig shopping.
Other than the hair, the rest of her is holding up quite well. After a dip in her white blood cell count due to a post-operative infection, she’s in good shape, mind and body. At some point, I’m getting her a puppy, depending on how much the next round of chemo wears her out. Unconditional love from a small animal should do her some good.
I don’t know what’s more gay: That I finally went and saw “Mamma Mia,” or that I declared it the best musical I’d ever seen (Yes, it narrowly edged out “Chicago.” I put an asterisk next to “Les Miz” since I saw it in Prague and had no idea what the Czech bastards were saying; but everybody keeps telling me that if I’d seen it in English like a normal person, I’d have ranked it first.). I think I’ll get my baby sister an ABBA CD.
It’s one of the stranger aspects of cancer that I’ve come to view happiness in clinical terms.
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