Bright and early this morning, I went to Lemon Road Elementary School and voted in the Virginia primaries. There were very few people there and this worried me. I believe in voting; I think the low voter turn-out in this country is a national sin. I think election days should be holidays so people don’t have to take time off to vote. I also believe there should be a constitutional amendment stating that citizens must go to the polls. If they don’t want to vote, they should check a I Don’t Want To Vote box on the ballot.
I got the little round voter sticker and promptly lost it.
After voting I drove to the clinic for the fourth course of chemo.
In the waiting area, I watched an infomercial about a French doctor who had discovered that a type of melon grown in the south of France has amazing rejuvenating properties if used by already attractive women under forty. Time-lapse photos taken over ten days seemed to confirm that this particular fruit remained youthful and tight-skinned, while an ordinary melon devolved into something resembling a Jivaro shrunken head. A number of young female actresses testified that the doctor’s claims were true. One claimed that she was, gasp, 39-years-old! She didn’t look a day older than 38.
The chemo nurse is a voluble young man and the discussion this morning centered upon aliens; real, outer-space aliens, not people—like myself—from other countries. The nurse put on a surgical gown, latex gloves, a mask and goggles because the stuff he shoots me up with is nasty and could cause tuberculosis. As he suited up, he told me he believed there was an ongoing massive government cover-up regarding big-headed inter-galactic aliens and Roswell, and that the media was involved. I responded that years ago I had written a novel titled The IFO Report that dealt with exactly this subject, and that he could probably buy the book, used, for a penny plus shipping from Amazon. He promised to do so and read it.
I made a little kid whimper noise when the chemical cocktail entered my body. The nurse apologized. I said it wasn’t his fault; he actually had a pretty good touch compared to other medical personnel I’ve dealt with.
When it was done, I went home, fixed a cup of coffee, and puked. I will do this three or four times today.
My realtor sent me a text message asking if it’s okay for people to come and look at my house later this afternoon. I said no. For the next fifteen-or-so-hours, I will feel as if barbed wire is being dragged through my body, so I am not leaving my house.
Let me explain. My home is on the market, so for the past couple of months, I have become the Wandering Jew. Every time a potential buyer comes, I have to leave, as there appears to be an unwritten rule governing home sales. The seller (me) should not be anywhere near the property for sale (my house) lest he encounter the visitors (the potential buyers.) I am not sure why this is, though I can come up with a couple of scenarios.
- The seller is so repulsive he might frighten the buyers off.
- The seller might divulge some truly horrendous information about the property.
- The seller and the buyer might collude and come to an agreement that freezes out the real estate agent.
I don’t want to see anyone today. I will spend some time writing, and some time reclining, and some time rereading a good book. I may watch America’s Got Talent later. I plan to make a big sign that reads AUDITIONS HERE, because tomorrow we will be auditioning actors for two plays I wrote and that Arielle is directing.
Today will not be a busy day.