Call me Alexandra Rueve.

As I sit here in the most tremendous physical pain I've ever experienced, I'm acutely (I even wince at the use of that word in any function other than as an adverb to melodramatically but accurately precede the word PAINFUL) aware that though in my head I keep marveling, "Wow, I can say without hesitation or equivocation that this is the most pain I've ever felt", I have not yet given birth to a child. I hope I'm not the type of woman (are there types? I suppose by 30 I should know this; I have friends, cousins, classmates, some a few years older, some my age, and even a few younger who have already begun having kids--it is most certainly on my short term radar screen, my boyfriend and I discuss it, I'm a year or two past the point where I recognize what I jokingly term, heretofore in my own head, "womb envy") who is so terrified at the prospect of the short term physical pain that I want to miss the experience entirely-- but this eternally humanizing experience that at once both elevates and reduces a woman--it seems as though all the discussion and anecdotal musing and preparatory chats in the world won't prepare you for an undertaking that's so commonplace it occurs every moment of every day, but yet so fascinating and spiritually powerful, it will change your life. If nothing else, I suppose there's solace in the fact that when the astonishing pain from this sinus-induced abscess finally abates, the reward will be just that: relief. Childbirth, I suppose, has quite an altogether more fascinating, unique gift.
I'm not sure if it's to taunt myself by way of reminding myself that so far it's been anything but efficacious (the drug, not Wikipedia, though we're getting to that), but I've got the Wikipedia page (a source I decry constantly to Job, who loves to "wiki" things; I'm super disdainful of it, but I suppose if you keep in mind you can't consider its definitions as having merit without at least 3 other sources, you're still safe to play in the erratically monitored playground minefield that is reader-contributed online encyclopedias...) window open to "Hydrocodone/paracetamal". Like, as though there'd be something pivotal in the general description of the medication that was somehow missing from the pharmacy instructions, on the bottle itself or from the very thorough verbal directions the doctor provided over the phone.... I swear to you, though, if I could tease some additional information, however far-fetched, even from the labrynthine sketchfest that is Wikipedia, like "a 500 mg dose of Hydrocodone is best absorbed into the bloodstream if one sustains a mounted tripod for 17 minutes on one's bedroom floor, while humming the theme song to the original score of 'Shaft'"...I'd DO IT. THIS HURTS. Okay, enough about that.

TEXT/INTERTEXT/CONTEXT: My SIM card's weak sauce

You know the drill. Recently received or sent (usually the former) texts, stripped of sender/recipient identification. Funny, to me, at least, out of context. I can't bring myself to maintain original misspellings, except in the case of texts from my mom, the comedic value of which are predicated upon her absolute refusal to spell properly when texting. :)

1. "Wait, how did we share a baby?"

2. "Oh I'm eating the bagel and drinking the OJ you callously rejected."

3. "Chops McLogger, which is what I propose we call your lumberjack boyfriend."

4. "Will you be Job's valentine? He's shy. That's why I'm asking for him." (for more knee-slappers like this one, visit http://www.bummerfreezone.blogspot.com)

5. "I picture you wearing your Crocs right now. Please confirm."

6. "Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeern!!!! ...Dawg."

7. "Home. Took the Vicodin. Hey, tell Mark thanks for feeding Hugo that spicy sausage stuff--he's puked twice..."

8. "The eye-patch was just stupid. Even after the patch she always had something over the left eye. No need. Like, we get it."

9. "With a side of neo-nazi."

10. "I can't worry about it all at once. Or I'll lose my mind. So, one thong at a time."

*Special addendum to Text/Intertext/Context! I received an email from Obadiah this morning. I'm going to transcribe it word, or...character for character, and then give you Christine's interpretation of its meaning. She's a trusted source considering he penned it while on her lap. Not much has made me smile the past 48 hours as it's gotten to the point where I can't recollect how it feels for the pain not to eclipse every other feeling or thought, but THIS, this made me smile. I love Obie.:

11. "ohc8+o

88

8cvgcgdfre"

"The above message is from Obadiah. It says "I miss you Lisa!"

This post's title: I'm going to literally cut & paste my Facebook status regarding this odd occurrence into the blog body--for those of you who'll read it twice, I'm sorry. May it be equally funny & an addition to your day now as it was two days ago in your newsfeed:  Lisa McNerney

is choosing to interpret the fact that this phantom _Norton Anthology of Poetry_ a) arrived addressed to my apartment; b) appears to have been ordered by an individual whose listed phone #'s aren't in service; c) is a canonical book I didn't encounter in undergrad or grad English programs; & d) flopped open RIGHT to "Eve To Her Daughters"** as a challenge to read it. cover to cover. it's on.

I admit I didn't address the book's arrival from textbooks.com as hastily as I should've. Both my neighbor and I stepped over it for a few days, each presumably figuring it belonged to the other. Finally I stopped to look at it and saw that it was indeed addressed to my apartment, but to a woman named "Alexandra Rueve", for whom all the listed phone numbers are out of service. Considering it's one of the most glaring omissions in the career of an English grad student not to have read, I've charged myself with the task of reading it cover to cover. Approaching it like one does the Bible, though. Not necessarily reading it Genesis to Revelation...easing in with the more palatable, contemporary stuff, a la the Gospels, if you will. Trust me, especially when bedridden, Plath or Gwendolyn Brooks are far more accessible than Beowulf's Middle English. Anyway, I'm excited. Below is the Judith Wright poem** I referred to in my facebook status. I've always liked it. Serendipity, I thought, when the book opened to that particular poem.


It's always been tremendously difficult for me to get my Fray on.....to "hurry up and wait", if you will. Now
that I've had some serious interviews for things I feel strongly enough about to wait a bit on, without the routine of running (it's been too hard the past few weeks with travel followed/coupled by the pain--I'm sorry I keep bringing it up but my eyes blur as I write this, it's so offensive.), I'm at a loss as to how to structure my day. This 1,376 page behemoth is a start. I think I can put my academic pants back on enough so as to spend a few hours a day with this. :)

Also, I'm super excited. My friend Sam made me a few CD's of music he likes, and a lot of it is righteous. But the most important part is this. He labeled the discs "A. McNernial"; "B. McNerniality"; and "C McNerniaucity". I appreciate other nerds so much! Thanks Sammy.

Quick Question:

I have friends being laid off in virtually every industry. The scythe of this economic travesty's been indiscriminate. People with doctorates. Baristas. CEO's. Explain this to me. I'm stymied. How does a business like this sustain itself? Also: dollhouses are fundamentally creepy.

** Eve, To Her Daughters:

It was not I who began it.

Turned out into draughty caves,

hungry so often, having to work for our break,

hearing the children whining.

I was nevertheless not unhappy.

Where Adam went I was fairly contented to go.

I adapted myself to the punishment: it was my life.

But Adam, you know...!

He kept on brooding over the insult,

over the trick They had played on us, over the scolding.

He had discovered a flaw in himself

and he had to make up for it.

Outside Eden the earth was imperfect,the seasons changed

the game was fleet-footed

he had to work for our living, and he didn't like it.

He even complained of my cooking.

(It was hard to compete with Heaven).

So he set to work. 

The earth must be made a new Eden

with central heating, domesticated animals,

mechanical harvesters, combustion engines,

escalators, refrigerators,

and modern means of communication

and multiplied opportunities for safe investment

and higher education for Abel and Cain

and the rest of the family.

You can see how his pride had been hurt.

In the process he had to unravel everything,

because he believed that mechanism

was the whole secret--he was always mechanical-minded.

He got to the very inside of the whole machine

exclaiming as he went, So this is how it works!

And now that I know how it works, why, I must have invented it.

As for God and the Other, they cannot be demonstrated,

and what cannot be demonstrated

doesn't exist.

You see, he had always been jealous.

Yes, he got to the centre

Where nothing at all can be demonstrated.

And clearly he doesn't exist; but he refuses to accept 

the conclusion.

You see, he always was an egoist.

It was warmer than this in the cave;

there was none of this fall-out.

I would suggest, for the sake of the children,

that it's time you took over.

But you are my daughters, you inherit my own faults of character; you are submissive, following Adam even beyond existence.

Faults of character have theri own logic

and it always works out.

I observed this with Abel and Cain.

Perhaps the whole elaborate fable 

right from the beginning

is meant to demonstrate this; perhaps it's the whole secret.

Perhaps nothing exists but our faults?

At least they can be demonstrated.

But it's useless to make

Such a suggestion to Adam.

He has turned himself into God,

who is faultless, and doesn't exist.

--Judith Wright