Wha? Huh? Fuh??

Read this article and tell me if you think it's even remotely plausible.

A freaky Friday accident left Lindsay Lohan in stitches.

The Mean Girls star was rushed to a London hospital last week after she sliced her leg open while breakfasting at the home of Bryan Adams, according to published reports.

Lohan had reportedly just stepped out of the shower Friday afternoon, when she lost her grip on a teacup, which smashed to the ground. A shard of the broken cup connected with the actress' shin, leaving a gash that required 10 stitches to close.

"She and her friends were preparing breakfast, with eggs and everything, and Lindsay was going up the stairs, carrying a ceramic teacup," Lohan's mother, Dina, told Star magazine. "She had just come out of the shower so she was still wet and had some lotion on, and she completely flipped on the stairs since it was slippery."

According to Lohan's rep, the actress is doing fine and her work schedule will not be affected.

Okay. First of all: What is Lindsay Lohan doing eating breakfast at Bryan Adams' house? Isn't he like, 50?? And she's walking around first thing in the morning all wet and lotion-y?? Does this make anyone besides me go "eeeeewwwwwww"?

Secondly: Go into your kitchen and drop a teacup. I would imagine that you'd have a very hard time finding a piece that could leave a gash that would require TEN stitches. Two or three, tops. And you'd probably have to pick it up, hold it firmly, and gouge it into your leg to make it happen. I have a hard time imagining a teacup falling to the floor with enough force to shatter, causing a chunk to bounce up and leave a gaping slash in someone's shin. The physics just don't work out.

Third: "...and she completely flipped on the stairs since it was slippery." Since what was slippery?? Ma Lohan, watch your pronouns, please.

Fourth:She "completely flipped" on the stairs? And a teacup gash is the worst injury that came of it? Does La Lindsay have a background in gymnastics or something??? I mean, Kerri Strug could stick the landing on one foot, but I wouldn't have figured Lindsay for being Olympic-caliber...

Fifth: "...preparing breakfast, with eggs and everything..." Okay, this phrase just made me giggle. Sounds like someone's taken to heart Granddad's admonition that "it's just not breakfast without eggs".

Seriously, though, this so-called "explanation" makes about as much sense as Dubya's infamous "I choked on a pretzel." Any alternate stories will be welcomed in comments....

:::inarticulate gurgling noise:::

Okay, you guys. I know it's been a week since I last posted, but seriously? It seems like hours. This week has gone by in a blur...a blur with column headings and row numbers, brought to you by Microsoft. That's right--I have spent the week in a hell of Excel.

From Monday through today, all I have done at work is to work on a grossly complicated system of Excel spreadsheets, which was left to me by someone who didn't know what it did, nor did the person before him. Between my boss, my uber-boss, one of the programmers, and myself, we managed to figure out today that we've been sending out inaccurate data on this spreadsheet for at least a year or more. Yet no one has noticed or corrected it, til it came to my realm of influence, whereupon the recipients have started to scrutinize every last little cell, every last formula.

I don't know how this thing works. I could figure it out, given peace and time; but every time I come near figuring it out, someone finds something else that needs to be changed, which upscuttles my understanding and forces me to start over. Seriously: NO ONE IN THE COMPANY has the knowledge of what, exactly, this thing is supposed to do, and how. There are six or seven people who each have pieces of what it ought to do, or where it ought to be getting its data from--but some of them are wrong, and some people's information contradicts other people's info, and all of it confuses me.

What's worst: I was told today that this is entirely my responsibility, even the things I don't know, and that I SHOULD know them, and that my NOT knowing them is a disappointment. In essentially those exact words, was I told this. So now I'm worrying that my job is in jeopardy, and let's just forget the fact that NO ONE TRAINED ME when I started this job, and even the person before me who did this same report for OVER A YEAR had any idea of how it worked. Somehow all that is to be overlooked, and I am suddenly expected to do what two people before me and five people around me don't seem capable of doing, regardless of the fact that they have been here MUCH longer than I have and know MUCH more about the workings of the business than I do.

I stayed past 6 two days this week, and didn't leave before 5:30 except for once. I went to lunch yesterday, too--otherwise, no. So it's not for lack of trying. And I will be working on it from home this weekend, at the request of the boss.

I am SO TIRED of this spreadsheet. I am seeing cell references in my sleep.

My brain has turned to oatmeal. RUNNY oatmeal.

I think I need a nap.

Random

Make of THIS what you will, but it just can't be good:

Today I got Chinese food for lunch. And my fortune cookie?

Was empty.

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Am I the only one who wishes that the Internet would get rid of that picture of the poor one-eyed kitten??? That's one of the saddest, most pitiful things I've seen in a long while, and not only that, but if you read the story, it turns out that the poor kitty died. Any mention of dead kitties makes me need to hug the felines, which in turn makes my eyes all itchy and causes me to start sneezing. Repeatedly.

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In other cat-related news: the interlopers have been downright rotten lately, and may be exempted from the above-mentioned hugging. Seriously, y'all, we're coming up on 18 months with these little crap-factories, and they're now so attached to me that I can't even pee without a cat bursting into the bathroom and head-butting me in the knees. There are certain things a woman wants to do in peace, you know??

Really, though, they're the ones who'll suffer for their chronic underfoot-ness; I've stepped on more paws and tails than I can possibly count. I'd feel bad about it, but every morning and night, they run down the stairs in front of me and nearly send me flying, so...maybe I don't feel so bad after all.

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Hey, remember that "rule" that says the gas company can't cut off your service for non-payment between November 1 and April 1?? Well, guess what? It's not a rule, after all. Apparently it's a "courtesy" that People's Energy, in their infinite benevolence, extends to their customers. Only not this year, it seems...because today at work I got a call telling me that unless I pay a goodly chunk of my (now 15-days-past-due) bill, I will apparently be cut off. It's worth mentioning here that I made a partial payment; I paid $150 of the $340 charge from the previous month, planning to pay the winter bill down through the spring, as I usually do. But that's not an option this year; apparently, the best way to deal with consumers affected by astronomical gas prices is to squeeze them as hard as possible, as soon as possible, and threaten them to boot. So tomorrow I will pay $200, which will cover the remaining past due balance...which only leaves me $393 in the hole, since December's bill got mailed yesterday.

Does anyone else see something really, profoundly wrong here??? I have a job--what do people do who are on fixed incomes, or unemployed, or have five kids to feed??? How is a utility licensed by the government allowed to put consumers in a position where they might very well have to choose between heat or food??? (Don't answer that--I already know the answer. But it's unconscionable, and I hope there's a circle of hell prepared for the people who benefit from it. That's blood-money, if you ask me.)

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Methdone update: I'm now at twelve days clean, and I feel fine. All my needle-bruises are pretty well healed, though there are a couple of spots I can still see. I'd forgotten one of the unpleasant things about methadone, though: at doses this high, it makes you sweat. I'm constantly wiping my face and lifting my hair off the back of my neck, trying in vain to cool off. I've moved a fan into my office, and I keep it blowing on me all the time, but even that's not too helpful, and I'm constantly cajoling the other people on my floor to admit that it's hot, so I can call maintenance and have them turn down the heat. It never works, though--"Hot? Are you CRAZY? I'm FREEZING!" is generally the response I get--and I've taken to wearing t-shirts to work, just to keep cool. Even with that drawback, though, I'm thrilled to be stable on my methadone and NOT having cravings.

The only time of day that I don't like being on methadone is the two minutes it takes to swallow my dose. I'm on 130 milligrams, which the nurses have to split into two cups for me, because 130 mgs is thick and lumpy and impossible to swallow all at once. Methadone is one of the most wholeheartedly vile-tasting substances you can imagine--it's like gulping down a big handful of half-dissolved aspirin, and it coats the inside of your mouth and sticks there, clingy and bitter, til it's washed down with something sweet. Right next to the medication window, the clinic has one of those big Igloo jugs full of double-strength red Kool-Aid, which tastes like heaven after slugging down a few tablespoons of sludgy orange goo. But if it keeps me away from heroin, I'll drink orange sludge every day for the rest of my life, if I have to.

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And speaking of withdrawal: I can't believe there's still five weeks left til NASCAR season starts back up. It seems like FOREVER!

Poor Oprah

In the comments section of the last post, Barb said "And I hope Oprah feels like an idiot."

No such luck. Some choice snippets from this article, since it's probably going to try to force you to register before you can read...

"What is relevant is that he was a drug addict ... and stepped out of that history to be the man he is today and to take that message to save other people and allow them to save themselves," Winfrey said Wednesday night in a surprise phone call to CNN's Larry King, who was interviewing Frey on his live television program.

And yet, one of the hallmarks of addiction--of any kind!--is dishonesty. So how far out of that history has Frey really stepped?

"Oh, but he did it for a good cause..." Even if he did fabricate for noble reasons--and I'm very skeptical of that premise--that doesn't make it right.

Frey, in his first interview since The Smoking Gun story came out, acknowledged he had embellished parts of the book but said that was common for memoirs and defended "the essential truth" of "A Million Little Pieces." "The book is about drug addiction and alcoholism," he said. "The emotional truth is there."

Now, quotes like this are almost enough to make me understand conservatives. Is Frey claiming that as long as some "emotional truth" is there, the factual truth doesn't have to be observed? And even if "embellishment" (and isn't that a nice euphemism?) is common practice among writers of memoirs, since when does that make it okay? That's the ultimate twelve-year-old's argument: "Everybody ELSE is doing it...." Again: that doesn't make it right.

Furthermore: there's a big difference between tweaking some minor details to add dramatic effect, and playing fast and loose with enormous chunks of reality. He fabricated most of his arrest record. How does that enhance the "emotional truth"? But it DID lend him an air of street cred, which the real facts would not have enhanced in the slightest; somehow there's not so much of the outlaw about five hours in a jail and a case of the chicken-pox, you know? The fabrication enhances an emotional LIE, not an emotional TRUTH; the reader is led to believe that Frey is tough, a criminal, incorrigible--when the facts are much less glamorously evil. He's not 50 Cent; he's Vanilla Ice.

And then there's his whole "paying tribute to people who died" allegation. How is it a "tribute" if you're using the deaths of two young girls, in which you weren't even tangentially involved if the evidence is to be believed, to build up your aura of "I'm a baad, baaaad man!"? The word for that is "exploitation", not "tribute". The family of this girl is far more patient than I would have been; had it been my daughter whose death was exploited in such a way, I would have been screaming for James Frey's blood.

I stand by my opinion of this whole situation. If you're an author or a publisher, and you're calling something "non-fiction", then it had better be NON-fiction--not "sorta-fiction" or "only-fiction-where-I-needed-some-drama". All the alleged good intentions in the world--saving drug addicts, memorializing the dead--don't make up for the fictions and the sins of omission. This book was framed as an autobiography, with all the tacit agreements between author and reader that the genre implies. When you read an autobiography, you expect the substantial truth; if the substantial part of the story is not true, what you have is a work of fiction. All the semantic niceties in the world don't change that, and I think Oprah would serve herself much better if she stopped trying to defend what James Frey did, and started a discussion of ethics instead.

A Million Little Pieces Of Crap

Well, rats. There goes my big chance to get "elevenevele" adopted by Oprah's Book Club.

Stupid Frey...screwed it up for everyone.

The fact of the fabrication itself (assuming it really IS a fabrication) is a hell of a story, though. I mean, anybody can write shocking fiction, but for someone to invent something like that and then claim it was their own life story...it's like masochism at arm's length, taking the aura of glamorous debasement without ever having to experience the actual degradation involved. (I haven't read the book--I make it a point not to read competitors--but the excerpts I've seen have been typically junkie-graphic. I have stories I could tell which are just as gross--and mine are real!)

Seriously, what a fraud. And the thing that kills me about people like this is: they are just as content with infamy as with fame. Frey has the recognition he was craving, and if his name goes down in history next to Jayson Blair and Mitch Albom instead of John Steinbeck, it's all the same to him. Attention is attention, as any hyperactive five-year-old can tell you.

The most grievous punishment that the public could inflict upon Frey is a very simple one: stop talking about him. Stop talking about his book, about his fabrication, about the experiences he claimed to have had and the life he claimed to have led. Curtail his fifteen minutes about twelve minutes early--that would be the harshest thing we could do to him.

Of course, that's not going to happen. Hell, I'm talking about it here, and if this story has made it down this low on the totem-pole of bloggery, I can only imagine the feeding frenzy this story will have incited further up the new-media food chain. But you can be sure I won't be listing either of his works on my top-ten list, if and when I create one--and that's even taking into account my notorious soft-spot for junkies, outlaws, and outcasts. Even if half of what he claims to have lived through is the truth, that still leaves the other 50% as lies (or whatever you care to call them: "embellishment", "exaggeration", "bovine excreta"...take your pick). And frankly, I like my outlaws and outcasts to be REAL. It's one of the few restrictions I put on them....be evil, be low-down, be seedy, but DON'T be a poser. That's one of the cardinal sins to a child of the 90's like myself, and not likely to be forgiven.

(The other cardinal sin, of course, is selling out--which begs a disclaimer: I wouldn't WANT anything I wrote to be an Oprah's Book Club selection. I'm gonna go with Jonathan Franzen, on this one.)

The Reason It's So Quiet...

...is that absolutely nothing is happening.

And it's wonderful!

LJ is out of town, since Friday, and so I have spent the intervening days doing just exactly what I wanted to do, nothing more. Mostly this has involved the damn word game, watching TV, doing needlepoint, and chasing cats out of my bed. I had my second session of therapy last night, which went well, and I came home and ate ice-cream for dinner and was very happy. And when I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep, I laid in bed and watched "Little House on the Prairie".

I like this life. I like solitude, probably more than I ought to. I miss LJ when he's not around, but I'm also more relaxed, and spend more time doing things I enjoy--even if those things are just puttering around and wasting time. I know I should be more productive, but I figure that will come with time; right now I'm working on just being kind to myself.

Which is kinda fun, really.

Out of the Woods

I hereby declare myself officially Out Of The Woods as regards the possibility of dopesickness. For the first time all week, my appetite is back and my stomach is not upset; in short, I feel very very normal. Better than normal, actually, because it's devoid of the nervousness and fear that has characterized the past few days. I didn't ask them to increase my methadone dose today, also for the first time since this all started, and I was a bit apprehensive, but apparently I'm going to be all right (although I don't plan to push it by sleeping late--I'll be at the clinic promptly at 8 tomorrow, same as every other day.)

And, as I've said repeatedly throughout this whole experience: I'm done with heroin. This past few weeks have been really hard for me--more physically than mentally. I have almost zero tolerance for discomfort, when it comes down to it; I'm the sort of person who yelps when she stubs her toe, or cusses up a storm when she gets a paper cut. I'm an absolute infant when I get a cold or the flu; I'll hole up on the sofa with a blanket and a box of kleenex, looking pitiful, at the first sign of a sniffle. Maybe I see it as compensation for my mental strength--like if I have to be so emotionally strong, I can be a wuss about physical pain, or something. And dopesickness is the worst--because it's both physical and mental, and because it can so easily be postponed. I don't ever want to go through that again.

It's more than that, though. I can't entirely explain what the rest of it is; I'm only now beginning to understand it myself--but I know I want to leave it behind.

I am thrilled just to feel hungry again; thrilled not to worry about whether or not I'm going to be sick. It's nice to have my brain free for other things--even if it's just watching "Annie" on TV and playing that damn word game.

I'm happy. That's the long and short of it--I'm happy.