Well, here we are, you looking for something to read and me looking for something to write about. My ovaries? They’re still a little sore, thanks for asking, but the doctor didn’t think my symptoms sounded serious enough to warrant a sonogram, or an ultrasound, or whatever they’re doing these days to get to the crux of the biscuit. So then I asked my acupuncturist to do her peculiar magic on me, which stopped the bleeding right away. I don’t know why I didn’t go to her first. Well, I do know — it’s because I thought something was really wrong. Feeling a little bit off sends me to acupuncture; being afraid I might need surgery sends me to the HMO.
And I might have to hop back on the vegetarian wagon because that seems to be the cure for — I hesitate to call them hot flashes because it’s more accurate to call them waves of warmth or sudden feelings of pleasant normality. It’s nice to feel, for thirty seconds or so, like I don’t need to wear a sweater, or sleep under the extra quilt, or wear the fuzzy slippers when it’s 78 degrees outside. (Right now it’s 72 degrees inside and I am wearing the slippers AND the sweater AND I’m tucked underneath a quilt while Jackson plays a Naruto game on his Xbox. I’d have Peewee asleep in my lap if I didn’t feel like the weight of him would pop my ovaries like two sad old grapes.)
Jack was out of circulation yesterday so I took Jackson downtown to see Thor. I’d been avoiding reading the reviews because sometimes it’s better not to know what you’re getting into, and for that reason I had a pleasant viewing experience untainted by A.O. Scott. (I just went over to see what A.O. Scott thought and then I closed the browser tab because I STILL don’t want to know.) I will never be as demanding of films as a professional critic. Part of the reason is that my mind is being washed away by menopause, and the other part is that my date for these things is usually a nine-year-old boy. So we had a fine time seeing Thor. The characters were good-natured and handsome, the special effects were ridiculous and confusing, and we got to have popcorn, nachos, Red Vines, and cokes for lunch.
Here are some pictures from the last time we were in Pismo Beach, which seems like forever ago. I can’t look at these photos without thinking about Jackson, who’d just finished a science unit on sea creatures and the sea shore, telling me how fishermen used to tear starfish in half and throw them back into the sea, presumably in disgust about how useless they were, but then the starfish would just grow back their missing portions and then you’d have TWO starfish where you would have had ONE if the fishermen had just tossed them back into the sea without getting all ANGRY about it. “Can we tear one in half?” asked Jackson, to my horror, resulting in a short but impassioned speech about sentient beings, no matter how simple and faceless, still feeling pain. Then Jack followed up with a story about when he was a kid and people at Jones Beach would take shovels and beat jellyfish that had washed up on the sand until they exploded. Nature! Top of the food chain! Next life we’ll all be plankton.