Even though you can't see it, that finger? HURTS.

So I messed up my finger a couple of weeks ago. The left index one. I guess I cracked it sideways while I was lifting something? Sounds like a thing I would do, and in fact was a thing I did. Also: ow.

My point being, it still hurts, internet. Still. And I can’t crack it without blinding pain, which is just ridiculous, seeing as I am addicted to knuckle-cracking. Also, did I mention it HURTS? It hurts when I type. It hurts when I hold hands with my kid. It hurts when I point. IT HURTS WHEN I FLIP PEOPLE OFF. (Also, my middle finger – which isn’t even the one I hurt – doesn’t stand straight anymore. It sort of…wilts.)

I am not flipping anyone off in this picture, but you can still see my poor wilting middle finger.

Is this what getting old is like? BECAUSE I DO NOT LIKE IT AT ALL.

(Of course I immediately entered every contest I could think of, just in case I was temporarily, what do you call it, lucky.)

The iPod itself came all the way from Canada. Did you know that they put French directions in Canadian iPods?

I’m seriously in love with it. Seriously. And unlike the Android, there are TONS of great kid apps that Ellison has decided mean it should belong to him. Not a chance, kid. (Except that he’s so cute all curled up on the couch with his little tech gadget, just like mommy and daddy.)

So, yes. I am a winner. I win things.

*Not actually a fact.

• Beignets from Violetta
• Mallhopping with the kid, who insisted on getting a plush Koopa Troopa (he’s been on a Super Mario kick)
• Ice cream using the gift certificate I won in the Metro Parent drawing
• Dangling our feet in the fountain at Director Park

It was a pretty good day.

So, um…good?

I mean, good, obviously, but you know what would be better? If I didn’t still hurt so goddamn much. Seriously, figure out a) why I’m in so much pain every couple of weeks and b) how to make that not happen anymore, and I will be in a really fucking good mood. I promise.

(Actually I’m in a pretty good mood currently…but still.)

Well, I CAN have sugar, technically – the doctor didn’t say anything about avoiding it except in a sort of roundabout way – but sugar gives me headaches, and I can’t take Advil anymore, so no headaches = good, yeah? (I can’t tell if treats make the ulcer worse, since currently anything I eat kind of makes it hurt.)

But as you all may be aware, I am a sugar addict. I just had to cancel my plans to join a group of friends tonight because we were all meeting for dessert at this fabulous dessert restaurant; I took one look at the menu and went I can’t be around this stuff without having something. Which…is good, right? Progress? Kind of like a newly-enwagoned alcoholic bowing out of an evening at the bar?

I’m still keeping my fingers crossed that the gastro doc (with whom I still need to make an appointment, gack) will give me antibiotics and then this whole thing will be done. And I can celebrate with dessert.

Actually (and I know you will be surprised by this, so brace yourself): it kind of sucks. I’ve been nauseous for almost two weeks, and it’s WAY worse after I eat so I sort of stopped eating (well, one meal a day – at the very END of the day), and I’ve been CRAZY tired. Which…totally doesn’t sound like an ulcer, right? I was figuring either pregnancy or celiac disease, but apparently the ER doc had a different idea, especially since I went in with sharp, severe pain in my stomach. Which was new! And even less fun.

So, duodenal ulcer. Brought on my NSAIDs. Which means no more Advil. I…may need a moment.

Apparently, left to my own devices and devoid of outside influences, the stuff I choose to listen to is…pretty goddamn emo. Not that I’m downloading emo crap from iTunes or anything, it’s just that apparently the songs I like are all full of hopelessness and despair. And occasionally elephants.

The lineup: OK Go, Evelyn Evelyn, The Postal Service/Death Cab for Cutie (Death Cab for the Postal Service? Postal Service for Cutie?), Steve Burns, Tegan & Sara, Glen Phillips, Iron & Wine (I have not made up my mind about Iron & Wine), Cat Power, the occasional Tori Amos, a smattering of Pink Floyd. An appearance by Stabbing Westward (oh 90s, you made stalking sound so romantic). That one Nirvana song I like ( – no, the other one). Shuffle. Repeat.

The inclusion of Evelyn Evelyn is predictable enough, at least – there is no possible way that I could not love something which involves circus freak cabaret. By conjoined twins. Who sing about a two-headed elephant. It’s like they made the album just for me. Also: listen to the song Evelyn Evelyn and tell me you’ve never had a relationship like that. Go ahead. I will wait.

The OK Go thing is a little more abstract, but for serious, you guys: Of the Blue Colour of the Sky is amazing. White Knuckles is the danciest song about having your heart ripped out that I’ve ever heard, and the muted refrain at the end of Needing/Getting (“When? When? Why not now? Why not me? Why not me?”) devastates me, even though the song itself is my least favorite on the album. (I know, people really like that song. I just can’t fully endorse anything that uses the word ‘dumber’ in a non-ironic way. Also it reminds me of something, but I can’t remember what. And yes, that is my reason, shut up.)

But add that to Death Cab for the Postal Service and stir in a little Glen Phillips and if you’re not reaching for a Prozac cocktail, you’re clearly dead inside. Or else you’ve been listening to the playlist for so long you can’t drag yourself out of bed. Because the common element in all the Death Cabs and New Explorers and Dust Mites and what have you: loss. A chasm of loss. (And also circus freaks.)

Steve Burns has this great album – this great, underrated album that no one I know has listened to because, Steve Burns, that’s the guy from Blues Clues right? And is pretty much as far as those conversations go – that he described as ‘songs about science and love.’ Which is the absolute perfect balance. All songs should be about science and love. Anything and love, really. Cooking and love. Shuffleboard and love. Debilitating arthritis and love.

Sidebar: I’m not talking about love songs. Love songs are totally different beasts, and while not all of them are utter crap, well. But instead of writing about love, instead of making love the focus, give it to me as the backdrop. Give me your rage or your despair or your disenchantment and then slip in that one line, the one that breaks my heart because I didn’t see it coming.

Of course, I have to also consider that both Songs for Dustmites and Of the Blue Colour of the Sky were produced by Dave Fridmann, so there’s always the chance that the thing that I love isn’t any of the above but is simply the Fridmann’s influence – a theory which I reject on the basis that I’ve never liked the Flaming Lips and also because it’s not like those are the only two albums I’ve ever fallen in love with, obviously.

To wit: Glen Phillips. Glen Phillips has had a place in my geeky heart ever since the days of toad the wet sprocket, and it’s there are days when he’s all I listen to, from Abulum to Secrets of the New Explorers. Songs about space travel? Yes please, as long as they are as hauntingly beautiful and immediate as The Spirit of Shackleton.

there are droplets of crimson
they surround me as they drift
bonding together
or bursting into mist
so i open up my mouth
and i offer out my tongue
they are salty and sweet
like the memory of love

See what he did there? That one line: salty and sweet, like the memory of love. You know that taste. I know that taste. And it breaks my heart.

Back to Steve Burns for a moment: one of my favorite songs is the unreleased demo version of Mighty Little Man, the one that doesn’t try to tell a story but instead is full of nonsense and revelation. I love it because it’s random, like doodles, and because in the midst of all the randomness he says “I have my mother’s eyes,” and it’s lovely and intimate and it doesn’t matter, not to anyone, but it’s true. (Or at least I assume it’s true. For the sake of argument.)

Burns didn’t like the demo of the song. He said it was too personal. (I would do a quote here but steveswebpage.com is down, so you’ll have to rely on my precarious and malleable memory.) But here’s the thing: the album version of Mighty Little Man? Does nothing for me. It might be a better song. It might have stronger lyrics. But it doesn’t make my eyes spark with sudden tears the way that line does. Also: shut up, I totally wasn’t crying.

I don’t want to hear a story. I want to identify. I want words to put to the things that have only ever existed inside my head. And yeah, it’s too personal. Anything worth doing always is.

I haven’t gotten the little icons back up (and I don’t even know if I’m going to bother with them, except that I love my lovely icons and will miss them if they are not there) and I may still re-code the site because I’m like that. But at least my sidebar isn’t sad anymore.

Here’s what I told Twitter:

Apparently my problem isn’t depression, it’s the fact that every 6mos or so I have a good day. The day after that? SUCKS.

Which pretty much sums it up, so I’ll just move on to the related subject of my sidebar, and how it doesn’t so much have anything in it anymore. Like my head. But unlike my head, the problem lies entirely at the feet of Yahoo! Pipes. You know, a service wherein I painstakingly set up a series of feeds and did magical linking things to make them output a certain way, and then even more painstakingly hacked my way through several PHP tutorials in order to display that output on my site? Yes, those pipes. The ones that are now outputting nothing.

I know, I know, it’s my fault for relying on a third-party service. And clearly I’ve learned my lesson and have not spent the entire night trying to bend Tumblr to my will in order to maybe use it to display my feeds in my sidebar (which…just in case anyone is deeply curious, does not work).

SO NOW I am going to need to re-code my entire fecking theme since I no longer have a lovely and clever lifestream-y sidebar. I WILL GET RIGHT ON THAT.

My big strategy for keeping the crazy at bay, as it turns out, is to work so hard I can’t even remember my name. This is lovely as long as I have no desire to think or be interesting, or to do things like sleep regularly or engage with my kid. Also, it’s sort of hard to maintain, what with the pressure and the stress and my weak constitution. But other than that it’s been great!

But things are finally winding down with work, and I’ve sort of almost been sleeping on a regular basis, and last night Not So and I went to a concert like grownup people, and it was a blast.

Which of course does not mean my coping strategies are wrong, exactly. Although if the solution to my depressive tendencies is to regularly see OK Go in concert, I’m pretty cool with that.