You Are Just One More Annoyance
Feb. 12th, 2026 08:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraI'm lucky to have a sense of humor and an obsessive creative project that functions as a background process. Otherwise, life would seem pret-ty grim and absolutely meaningless just about now.
At least, it's warmer! Temps have been above freezing for the past few days and are forecast to be in the 40°s all next week.
On Monday, when it was -4° overnight, I woke up to a freezing cold house because Icky, once again, had neglected to order heating oil, and the furnace had run out of fuel.
Yes, again.
Icky, in NYC, was not answering his phone, so I called the Ulster County Sheriff's Dept to come and do a welfare check—hey! A 73-year-old woman, alone in a 36° house during sub‑zero weather??? Not safe!!!
I mean, I had a space heater, struggling to keep the ambient temps in ny bedroom in the 50°s, so with a coat and a hat, I wasn't gonna expire imminently of hypothermia, but c'mon.
The Ulster County Sheriff's Dept dispatched two officers who were very nice but could do nothing.
"You could try seeing if an oil company will do an emergency one-time delivery," one of the officers suggested.
"And call social services," suggested the other.
I sighed and said, "I didn't think you would be able to do anything. I just wanted this on record in case I die of hypothermia and you need to find the perp to accuse of negligent homicide."
"I will personally pull the electric chair switch on that one," said the first officer. "What a prick your landlord is. The rent market around here is horrifying."
I was due to go into Schlock, but of course, going into Schlock would have meant turning off the space heater because you cannot leave a space heater untended; the risk of house fires is just too great. And turning off the space heater would have meant returning to a bedroom that was 37°.
So, instead, I spent the morning calling around to 10 different heating oil companies and every Ulster County social services department that seemed vaguely relevant to my needs. Interspersed with calls & texts to Icky.
The heating oil companies were downright hostile. Heating oil deliveries? Get on line, be-yatch! And put down a $1,000 deposit! The Ulster County social services departments were bored, dismissive, & condescending. They too wanted me to get on line.
Finally, Icky called back. Wonder of wonders! He was even vaguely apologetic. And arranged a delivery with his regular provider. By mid-afternoon, the house was back up to a chilly but habitable 60°—which is where I keep the thermostat because heating oil is expensive but sweaters and sweatshirts are cheap.
###
The experience took its toll emotionally.
'Cause this is the third time it's happened, and fool me twice... So, I felt like a moron: I should have moved, right? Except if I had moved, I would not have had access to the Schlock revenue stream, which is coming in useful.
But more, I felt brutalized because I was old, scared, and met with a tone that said, You’re just one more annoyance. I grokked the bureaucratic flatness was more about their overload than my worth or legitimacy. Still. I felt very marginalized & hopeless & as if I was of no importance to anyone.
Didn't help that I had to trudge out 100 yards through the snow twice to bring the chickens water. Icky still hasn't dealt with that. No, the chickens are not my responsibility, but I'm not gonna have innocent animals suffering on my watch.
At least, it's warmer! Temps have been above freezing for the past few days and are forecast to be in the 40°s all next week.
On Monday, when it was -4° overnight, I woke up to a freezing cold house because Icky, once again, had neglected to order heating oil, and the furnace had run out of fuel.
Yes, again.
Icky, in NYC, was not answering his phone, so I called the Ulster County Sheriff's Dept to come and do a welfare check—hey! A 73-year-old woman, alone in a 36° house during sub‑zero weather??? Not safe!!!
I mean, I had a space heater, struggling to keep the ambient temps in ny bedroom in the 50°s, so with a coat and a hat, I wasn't gonna expire imminently of hypothermia, but c'mon.
The Ulster County Sheriff's Dept dispatched two officers who were very nice but could do nothing.
"You could try seeing if an oil company will do an emergency one-time delivery," one of the officers suggested.
"And call social services," suggested the other.
I sighed and said, "I didn't think you would be able to do anything. I just wanted this on record in case I die of hypothermia and you need to find the perp to accuse of negligent homicide."
"I will personally pull the electric chair switch on that one," said the first officer. "What a prick your landlord is. The rent market around here is horrifying."
I was due to go into Schlock, but of course, going into Schlock would have meant turning off the space heater because you cannot leave a space heater untended; the risk of house fires is just too great. And turning off the space heater would have meant returning to a bedroom that was 37°.
So, instead, I spent the morning calling around to 10 different heating oil companies and every Ulster County social services department that seemed vaguely relevant to my needs. Interspersed with calls & texts to Icky.
The heating oil companies were downright hostile. Heating oil deliveries? Get on line, be-yatch! And put down a $1,000 deposit! The Ulster County social services departments were bored, dismissive, & condescending. They too wanted me to get on line.
Finally, Icky called back. Wonder of wonders! He was even vaguely apologetic. And arranged a delivery with his regular provider. By mid-afternoon, the house was back up to a chilly but habitable 60°—which is where I keep the thermostat because heating oil is expensive but sweaters and sweatshirts are cheap.
###
The experience took its toll emotionally.
'Cause this is the third time it's happened, and fool me twice... So, I felt like a moron: I should have moved, right? Except if I had moved, I would not have had access to the Schlock revenue stream, which is coming in useful.
But more, I felt brutalized because I was old, scared, and met with a tone that said, You’re just one more annoyance. I grokked the bureaucratic flatness was more about their overload than my worth or legitimacy. Still. I felt very marginalized & hopeless & as if I was of no importance to anyone.
Didn't help that I had to trudge out 100 yards through the snow twice to bring the chickens water. Icky still hasn't dealt with that. No, the chickens are not my responsibility, but I'm not gonna have innocent animals suffering on my watch.
Reading Wednesday
Feb. 11th, 2026 06:53 amsabotabby Just finished: Changelog by Rich Larson. I don't have much to add from last week other than, surprise surprise, the last few stories were also amazing. One of the ones towards the end, "You Are Born Exploding," is probably the best one? I don't know which is the best one. It's about a mother whose young son is dying while increasing numbers of people in her seaside town are turning into zombie sea monsters, some of them voluntarily. Look, you can read it for free!
Sequel: An Anthology, edited by Chenise Puchailo. This collection is a sequel to Spud Publishing's first anthology, Debut (okay I find this, and everything about the press, very adorable, like a little middle finger in the face of SEO), and features six new authors and five new illustrators in Canadian genre fiction. I'm just really glad this exists, you guys. It gives me hope. It's like, very scrappy and indie and most of its focus is on the Prairies and interior BC, which is deeply underrepresented in fiction generally and in genre fiction even more so. It's not out yet but it should be launching in the spring.
Currently reading: The Threads That Bind Us by Robin Wolfe. Look, there are about six or seven of you who need to drop whatever you're doing and read this immediately. I'd have binged the entire thing in one night except that I felt like that wouldn't do it justice and I needed to slow down and read it in two nights instead.
This is a collection of twelve memories from queer and trans folks, written in their own words, which Robin then illustrates with symbolic embroidered textile art pieces (and a brief explanation of how the final embroidery relates to the story). It's devastating. The first story is about a teenager taking care of his leather daddy's friends who are dying of AIDS. There are moments of grief, love, and startling joy. It's the kind of thing where I just start directly texting friends who need to read it yesterday.
My only regret here is that the shipping somehow cost more than the book so I bought it in ebook form, which is probably actually better in terms of my seeing the details of the embroidery, but I'm sure the hard copy makes for a stunning physical artifact.
Anyway I am blown away so far and need you to read it so we can scream together.
Sequel: An Anthology, edited by Chenise Puchailo. This collection is a sequel to Spud Publishing's first anthology, Debut (okay I find this, and everything about the press, very adorable, like a little middle finger in the face of SEO), and features six new authors and five new illustrators in Canadian genre fiction. I'm just really glad this exists, you guys. It gives me hope. It's like, very scrappy and indie and most of its focus is on the Prairies and interior BC, which is deeply underrepresented in fiction generally and in genre fiction even more so. It's not out yet but it should be launching in the spring.
Currently reading: The Threads That Bind Us by Robin Wolfe. Look, there are about six or seven of you who need to drop whatever you're doing and read this immediately. I'd have binged the entire thing in one night except that I felt like that wouldn't do it justice and I needed to slow down and read it in two nights instead.
This is a collection of twelve memories from queer and trans folks, written in their own words, which Robin then illustrates with symbolic embroidered textile art pieces (and a brief explanation of how the final embroidery relates to the story). It's devastating. The first story is about a teenager taking care of his leather daddy's friends who are dying of AIDS. There are moments of grief, love, and startling joy. It's the kind of thing where I just start directly texting friends who need to read it yesterday.
My only regret here is that the shipping somehow cost more than the book so I bought it in ebook form, which is probably actually better in terms of my seeing the details of the embroidery, but I'm sure the hard copy makes for a stunning physical artifact.
Anyway I am blown away so far and need you to read it so we can scream together.
Update on legal cases: one new victory! :) One new restriction :(
Feb. 10th, 2026 03:03 pm![[staff profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user_staff.png){kind=small}
denise posting in ![[site community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/comm_staff.png){kind=small}
dw_newsBack in August of 2025, we announced a temporary block on account creation for users under the age of 18 from the state of Tennessee, due to the court in Netchoice's challenge to the law (which we're a part of!) refusing to prevent the law from being enforced while the lawsuit plays out. Today, I am sad to announce that we've had to add South Carolina to that list. When creating an account, you will now be asked if you're a resident of Tennessee or South Carolina. If you are, and your birthdate shows you're under 18, you won't be able to create an account.
We're very sorry to have to do this, and especially on such short notice. The reason for it: on Friday, South Carolina governor Henry McMaster signed the South Carolina Age-Appropriate Design Code Act into law, with an effective date of immediately. The law is so incredibly poorly written it took us several days to even figure out what the hell South Carolina wants us to do and whether or not we're covered by it. We're still not entirely 100% sure about the former, but in regards to the latter, we're pretty sure the fact we use Google Analytics on some site pages (for OS/platform/browser capability analysis) means we will be covered by the law. Thankfully, the law does not mandate a specific form of age verification, unlike many of the other state laws we're fighting, so we're likewise pretty sure that just stopping people under 18 from creating an account will be enough to comply without performing intrusive and privacy-invasive third-party age verification. We think. Maybe. (It's a really, really badly written law. I don't know whether they intended to write it in a way that means officers of the company can potentially be sentenced to jail time for violating it, but that's certainly one possible way to read it.)
Netchoice filed their lawsuit against SC over the law as I was working on making this change and writing this news post -- so recently it's not even showing up in RECAP yet for me to link y'all to! -- but here's the complaint as filed in the lawsuit, Netchoice v Wilson. Please note that I didn't even have to write the declaration yet (although I will be): we are cited in the complaint itself with a link to our August news post as evidence of why these laws burden small websites and create legal uncertainty that causes a chilling effect on speech. \o/
In fact, that's the victory: in December, the judge ruled in favor of Netchoice in Netchoice v Murrill, the lawsuit over Louisiana's age-verification law Act 456, finding (once again) that requiring age verification to access social media is unconstitutional. Judge deGravelles' ruling was not simply a preliminary injunction: this was a final, dispositive ruling stating clearly and unambiguously "Louisiana Revised Statutes §§51:1751–1754 violate the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, as incorporated by the Fourteenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution", as well as awarding Netchoice their costs and attorney's fees for bringing the lawsuit. We didn't provide a declaration in that one, because Act 456, may it rot in hell, had a total registered user threshold we don't meet. That didn't stop Netchoice's lawyers from pointing out that we were forced to block service to Mississippi and restrict registration in Tennessee (pointing, again, to that news post), and Judge deGravelles found our example so compelling that we are cited twice in his ruling, thus marking the first time we've helped to get one of these laws enjoined or overturned just by existing. I think that's a new career high point for me.
I need to find an afternoon to sit down and write an update fordw_advocacy highlighting everything that's going on (and what stage the lawsuits are in), because folks who know there's Some Shenanigans afoot in their state keep asking us whether we're going to have to put any restrictions on their states. I'll repeat my promise to you all: we will fight every state attempt to impose mandatory age verification and deanonymization on our users as hard as we possibly can, and we will keep actions like this to the clear cases where there's no doubt that we have to take action in order to prevent liability.
In cases like SC, where the law takes immediate effect, or like TN and MS, where the district court declines to issue a temporary injunction or the district court issues a temporary injunction and the appellate court overturns it, we may need to take some steps to limit our potential liability: when that happens, we'll tell you what we're doing as fast as we possibly can. (Sometimes it takes a little while for us to figure out the exact implications of a newly passed law or run the risk assessment on a law that the courts declined to enjoin. Netchoice's lawyers are excellent, but they're Netchoice's lawyers, not ours: we have to figure out our obligations ourselves. I am so very thankful that even though we are poor in money, we are very rich in friends, and we have a wide range of people we can go to for help.)
In cases where Netchoice filed the lawsuit before the law's effective date, there's a pending motion for a preliminary injunction, the court hasn't ruled on the motion yet, and we're specifically named in the motion for preliminary injunction as a Netchoice member the law would apply to, we generally evaluate that the risk is low enough we can wait and see what the judge decides. (Right now, for instance, that's Netchoice v Jones, formerly Netchoice v Miyares, mentioned in our December news post: the judge has not yet ruled on the motion for preliminary injunction.) If the judge grants the injunction, we won't need to do anything, because the state will be prevented from enforcing the law. If the judge doesn't grant the injunction, we'll figure out what we need to do then, and we'll let you know as soon as we know.
I know it's frustrating for people to not know what's going to happen! Believe me, it's just as frustrating for us: you would not believe how much of my time is taken up by tracking all of this. I keep trying to find time to updatedw_advocacy so people know the status of all the various lawsuits (and what actions we've taken in response), but every time I think I might have a second, something else happens like this SC law and I have to scramble to figure out what we need to do. We will continue to update dw_news whenever we do have to take an action that restricts any of our users, though, as soon as something happens that may make us have to take an action, and we will give you as much warning as we possibly can. It is absolutely ridiculous that we still have to have this fight, but we're going to keep fighting it for as long as we have to and as hard as we need to.
I look forward to the day we can lift the restrictions on Mississippi, Tennessee, and now South Carolina, and I apologize again to our users (and to the people who temporarily aren't able to become our users) from those states.
We're very sorry to have to do this, and especially on such short notice. The reason for it: on Friday, South Carolina governor Henry McMaster signed the South Carolina Age-Appropriate Design Code Act into law, with an effective date of immediately. The law is so incredibly poorly written it took us several days to even figure out what the hell South Carolina wants us to do and whether or not we're covered by it. We're still not entirely 100% sure about the former, but in regards to the latter, we're pretty sure the fact we use Google Analytics on some site pages (for OS/platform/browser capability analysis) means we will be covered by the law. Thankfully, the law does not mandate a specific form of age verification, unlike many of the other state laws we're fighting, so we're likewise pretty sure that just stopping people under 18 from creating an account will be enough to comply without performing intrusive and privacy-invasive third-party age verification. We think. Maybe. (It's a really, really badly written law. I don't know whether they intended to write it in a way that means officers of the company can potentially be sentenced to jail time for violating it, but that's certainly one possible way to read it.)
Netchoice filed their lawsuit against SC over the law as I was working on making this change and writing this news post -- so recently it's not even showing up in RECAP yet for me to link y'all to! -- but here's the complaint as filed in the lawsuit, Netchoice v Wilson. Please note that I didn't even have to write the declaration yet (although I will be): we are cited in the complaint itself with a link to our August news post as evidence of why these laws burden small websites and create legal uncertainty that causes a chilling effect on speech. \o/
In fact, that's the victory: in December, the judge ruled in favor of Netchoice in Netchoice v Murrill, the lawsuit over Louisiana's age-verification law Act 456, finding (once again) that requiring age verification to access social media is unconstitutional. Judge deGravelles' ruling was not simply a preliminary injunction: this was a final, dispositive ruling stating clearly and unambiguously "Louisiana Revised Statutes §§51:1751–1754 violate the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, as incorporated by the Fourteenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution", as well as awarding Netchoice their costs and attorney's fees for bringing the lawsuit. We didn't provide a declaration in that one, because Act 456, may it rot in hell, had a total registered user threshold we don't meet. That didn't stop Netchoice's lawyers from pointing out that we were forced to block service to Mississippi and restrict registration in Tennessee (pointing, again, to that news post), and Judge deGravelles found our example so compelling that we are cited twice in his ruling, thus marking the first time we've helped to get one of these laws enjoined or overturned just by existing. I think that's a new career high point for me.
I need to find an afternoon to sit down and write an update for
dw_advocacy highlighting everything that's going on (and what stage the lawsuits are in), because folks who know there's Some Shenanigans afoot in their state keep asking us whether we're going to have to put any restrictions on their states. I'll repeat my promise to you all: we will fight every state attempt to impose mandatory age verification and deanonymization on our users as hard as we possibly can, and we will keep actions like this to the clear cases where there's no doubt that we have to take action in order to prevent liability. In cases like SC, where the law takes immediate effect, or like TN and MS, where the district court declines to issue a temporary injunction or the district court issues a temporary injunction and the appellate court overturns it, we may need to take some steps to limit our potential liability: when that happens, we'll tell you what we're doing as fast as we possibly can. (Sometimes it takes a little while for us to figure out the exact implications of a newly passed law or run the risk assessment on a law that the courts declined to enjoin. Netchoice's lawyers are excellent, but they're Netchoice's lawyers, not ours: we have to figure out our obligations ourselves. I am so very thankful that even though we are poor in money, we are very rich in friends, and we have a wide range of people we can go to for help.)
In cases where Netchoice filed the lawsuit before the law's effective date, there's a pending motion for a preliminary injunction, the court hasn't ruled on the motion yet, and we're specifically named in the motion for preliminary injunction as a Netchoice member the law would apply to, we generally evaluate that the risk is low enough we can wait and see what the judge decides. (Right now, for instance, that's Netchoice v Jones, formerly Netchoice v Miyares, mentioned in our December news post: the judge has not yet ruled on the motion for preliminary injunction.) If the judge grants the injunction, we won't need to do anything, because the state will be prevented from enforcing the law. If the judge doesn't grant the injunction, we'll figure out what we need to do then, and we'll let you know as soon as we know.
I know it's frustrating for people to not know what's going to happen! Believe me, it's just as frustrating for us: you would not believe how much of my time is taken up by tracking all of this. I keep trying to find time to update
dw_advocacy so people know the status of all the various lawsuits (and what actions we've taken in response), but every time I think I might have a second, something else happens like this SC law and I have to scramble to figure out what we need to do. We will continue to update dw_news whenever we do have to take an action that restricts any of our users, though, as soon as something happens that may make us have to take an action, and we will give you as much warning as we possibly can. It is absolutely ridiculous that we still have to have this fight, but we're going to keep fighting it for as long as we have to and as hard as we need to. I look forward to the day we can lift the restrictions on Mississippi, Tennessee, and now South Carolina, and I apologize again to our users (and to the people who temporarily aren't able to become our users) from those states.
Pressure Makes a Pearl
Feb. 8th, 2026 09:05 ammallorys_cameraCRAZY cold when I woke up this morning: -5°F with a real-feel of -13°.
This has been a brutal winter.
The Work in Progress has really saved me.
It's giving my life meaning & forward momentum at a time when, honestly, life feels like an unrelenting slog.
I am the oyster, goo goo g'joob. Pressure makes a pearl!
###
Why do people join cults anyway?
I think because despite the fact that end-stage capitalism dangles meaningless choices in front of captive consumers—choose between 87,000 (!!!) possible combinations of Starbucks caffein customization options—most people don't like making choices, not really. They prefer to crawl into a set of lifestyle choices that have already been made and claim them as their own.
So, I suppose Chapter 6 begins with an observation along the lines of, In my real life, I made a hundred decisions a day: [Your facetious list goes here.] But here in Creepy Mansion, I made no decisions at all. It was relaxing.
But where does it proceed from there?
A word came into my mind yesterday: Profoundary.
I have no idea what a prefoundary is, but I know it's a key element in the New Millennium Kingdom lifestyle.
Oh, and I do want to do a Bible Study parody.
###
Other than that...
Neal has to rescue Grazia, but I don't want that to seem too melodramatic or Lifetime Television-y, plus Grazia has to be profoundly changed by the New Millennium Kingdom experience—henceforth, she does believe that the Universe has a plan and that every move she makes is part of it, preordained somehow.
And the chapter will end with this line after Neal dies and the point-of-view segues back to the front porch of the Catskills cabin where Grazia, Daria, and Flavia have gathered after Neal's memorial service: The heartbreak for me is the lonely guardianship of all those memories, floaters from an increasingly ephemeral past.
This has been a brutal winter.
The Work in Progress has really saved me.
It's giving my life meaning & forward momentum at a time when, honestly, life feels like an unrelenting slog.
I am the oyster, goo goo g'joob. Pressure makes a pearl!
###
Why do people join cults anyway?
I think because despite the fact that end-stage capitalism dangles meaningless choices in front of captive consumers—choose between 87,000 (!!!) possible combinations of Starbucks caffein customization options—most people don't like making choices, not really. They prefer to crawl into a set of lifestyle choices that have already been made and claim them as their own.
So, I suppose Chapter 6 begins with an observation along the lines of, In my real life, I made a hundred decisions a day: [Your facetious list goes here.] But here in Creepy Mansion, I made no decisions at all. It was relaxing.
But where does it proceed from there?
A word came into my mind yesterday: Profoundary.
I have no idea what a prefoundary is, but I know it's a key element in the New Millennium Kingdom lifestyle.
Oh, and I do want to do a Bible Study parody.
###
Other than that...
Neal has to rescue Grazia, but I don't want that to seem too melodramatic or Lifetime Television-y, plus Grazia has to be profoundly changed by the New Millennium Kingdom experience—henceforth, she does believe that the Universe has a plan and that every move she makes is part of it, preordained somehow.
And the chapter will end with this line after Neal dies and the point-of-view segues back to the front porch of the Catskills cabin where Grazia, Daria, and Flavia have gathered after Neal's memorial service: The heartbreak for me is the lonely guardianship of all those memories, floaters from an increasingly ephemeral past.
Locus List
Feb. 7th, 2026 12:00 pmmarthawellsSome good news:
Both Queen Demon and the Storyteller: A Tanith Lee Tribute anthology, made it on the Locus Recommended Reading List:
https://locusmag.com/2026/02/2025-recommended-reading/
with a lot of other excellent books and stories, including a new section for translated works.
You can also vote on the list for the Locus Awards. Anybody can vote here with an email address: https://poll.voting.locusmag.com/ though they have you fill out a demographic survey first with how many books you read per year, etc.
Of course a lot of great work did not end up on the list, like I was surprised not to see The Witch Roads and The Nameless Land duology by Kate Elliott, which I thought was excellent.
Both Queen Demon and the Storyteller: A Tanith Lee Tribute anthology, made it on the Locus Recommended Reading List:
https://locusmag.com/2026/02/2025-recommended-reading/
with a lot of other excellent books and stories, including a new section for translated works.
You can also vote on the list for the Locus Awards. Anybody can vote here with an email address: https://poll.voting.locusmag.com/ though they have you fill out a demographic survey first with how many books you read per year, etc.
Of course a lot of great work did not end up on the list, like I was surprised not to see The Witch Roads and The Nameless Land duology by Kate Elliott, which I thought was excellent.
Chapter 5: The Real Housewives of the Quaint and Scenic Hudson Valley
Feb. 7th, 2026 09:43 ammallorys_cameraYou can read Chapters 1 through 4 here.
CHAPTER 5
Over the phone, Neal said, "Always trust evangenitals to make God seem unattractive."
"Look," I said, "I know it's ridiculous. But talking to her is very—I dunno. Comforting. She has a coherent worldview."
Neal said, "Of course, she does. So did the Nazis. So do Scientologists."
"Well, I mean, it is refreshing. You have no idea what it's like in there. Nobody has any idea. It's fuckin' chaos, but somehow, we're supposed to normalize it. It's demoralizing."
Neal said, "I know when I'm demoralized, I always look to the Old Testament for the wisdom of barely literate scribes who knew that the sun revolved around the earth and thought goat sacrifice protocols were the apex of moral philosophy. That must be why today's Christianists are so forward-looking."
"You know what?" I said. "I can talk to whomever I want without your permission."
"But, see, you don't always do what's best for you. Just an observation."
“Maybe you and my therapist could just start talking to each other directly,” I said. “Circumvent the middleman. Leave me out of it.”
"You don't have a therapist."
"That's right! I don't!"
And then we started bickering about whether the N95 masks you could buy at Home Depot used the same filtering mechanism as the ones they distributed to nurses in the ICU.
###
That was one kind of friendship. Debbie Reynolds was another—situational, impersonal, the other end of the spectrum from the highly personal connection I had with Neal.
You can feel a great deal of affection for the people with whom you have impersonal relationships. But the essence of the relationship is transactional, the boundaries are clearly marked. You walk away from these interactions with a pleasant glow and no particular urgency to repeat them. Once we finished wrecking our lungs for the afternoon, I never thought about Debbie Reynolds, and if I were to quit my job suddenly, she would never, ever cross my mind again, except maybe as a tag to an amusing anecdote I'd find myself telling to someone I got stuck next to at a continuing education seminar.
We were work best friends. Everybody needs a work best friend, right? Somebody you can roll your eyes at during staff meetings when middle managers justify their employment by droning on and on about CYA disguised as new protocols. Someone with whom you can indulge in forbidden pleasures at the end of a long shift.
As spring turned to summer, the days grew longer, and work seemed to get harder. Any other year, the summer would have been luminous, but now it just stretched aimlessly in front of us like house arrest. After a claustrophobic day in the ICU, we scuttled home, locked the door, pulled down the shades, as though somehow that would keep COVID at bay.
At the end of our ICU shifts, Debbie Reynolds and I had taken to chain-smoking. Two cigarettes back-to-back instead of one. We'd light that second cigarette from the still-flaming butt of the first, almost as if we saw our matching smokers' coughs as an act of defiance, a Fuck You to COVID: You want coughing? I'll give you coughing.
One afternoon, Debbie Reynolds exhaled smoke, began coughing, and couldn't stop. Brought her hand up to her throat, gasped for air. Coughed some more. I watched, wondering whether there was something I should do. I couldn't think of what that something might be.
She reached into her Marlboro pack and fished out a third cigarette.
"Maybe you shouldn't," I remarked pleasantly.
She shot me a WTF look and clicked her lighter.
"Ever think of giving up smoking?" I asked.
She was coughing again. Dry cough this time. She held her hand up, motioning, Wait. Took a deep breath. Held it.
"Why the fuck would I want to do that?" she asked finally.
I shrugged.
"I don't want to be old," she said. "I can't think of anything less appealing than living past 70."
"No?"
"Why? So I can become more and more invisible? So I can break my hip, get diagnosed with lung cancer? Develop dementia, get shut up in some Memory Acres where, if I'm really lucky, they'll serve red, green, and orange Jello and one of the staff will speak English? No, thank you!"
So much for my career as a motivational smoking cessationist.
Next day, she wasn't at work. I didn't think anything of it. We may have been BFF in the Land of Code Blue, but we weren't joined at the hip. We didn't go out of our way to sign up for the same shifts, and we seldom shared details about our lives outside of work. If Debbie Reynolds decided to go on vacation, I'd only know about it if I noticed a tan under her PPEs when that vacation was over.
###
Three shifts passed with no Debbie. At the end of each shift, I'd wander over to the NO SMOKING sign, but found I had no real desire to smoke alone.
Then I had three days off in a row. I spent them binging the first three seasons of "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" and doomscrolling celebrity deaths on Facebook. My apartment smelled like old coffee and stale food delivered cold in paper takeout boxes, but Dead Pool options were practically limitless, thank you, COVID!
She still wasn't back when I returned to work. The charge nurse intercepted me before I could push through the ICU's double doors. "You didn't get the email?"
"What email?"
The charge nurse sighed. "I told them they should call you. You shouldn't be inside the hospital. Go to the ER and take a COVID test. Phone me with the results."
"Why?" I asked.
"Just do it," she said.
I knew better than to make a face. There was only one reason they sent ICU staff back outside.
Ten minutes later, my nose was burning, and the test was negative. I called the charge nurse and was summoned back to the unit. She watched me in the dressing room while I gowned and gloved.
"When's Debbie back here?" I asked.
The charge nurse sighed and looked grim. "I'm not supposed to say this because medical confidentiality, but you guys are pals, that's why we needed that COVID test. Debbie's here. In the hospital. As a patient. She's got it."
When I got done with work that day, habit took me wandering toward the New Millennium Kingdom table. Today's sign read Pestilence Brings Hope For the Faithful, and the flaxen-haired girl had backup: the tall, stooped man I'd seen a couple of times before.
Her eyes brightened when she saw me. "This is the one I told you about," she said to the man as though I wasn't there. "The one the Lord keeps guiding our way."
"Not the Lord," I said. "My Prius. I walk past you because my car's in the lot behind you."
But the man's eyes had fixed upon mine. "The Lord is as likely to work through the random placement of an automobile as He is through a burning bush."
I supposed that could be true, assuming one believed in the Lord.
"What you're seeking to discover is a thing you've always known," the man continued. "There are no coincidences. There are only signs. Signs that lead to the one true destination if you follow them. I know you know that—" he leaned over to peer at the name badge still pinned to my scrubs—"Grazia." He mispronounced it.
"Signs, huh?" I said. "The universe needs clearer handwriting."
"Hard day?" the girl asked sympathetically. "You work in the ICU. They all must be hard."
And suddenly, my eyes welled up with tears.
"You need fellowship," the girl said softly. "I'm Sister Penury. This is Brother Malachi. We have dinner every night. We break bread together at a big table, like a family. We laugh. We talk about what God is doing. You don't have to go back to your empty rooms. You don't have to be alone."
"Thanks," I said, "but I have a frozen pizza and a clinically significant relationship with Bravo waiting for me at home."
Brother Malachi's smile was pitying. “You hide behind jokes. It's a dissociative behavior. Did you know that? I used to be a therapist. I recognize it." He leaned in closer. "You joke because you’re afraid. You know that, don't you? You see death every day. You know the world is ending. And that's the world you picked to be in.”
"I have to go now," I said.
It was all I could do not to weep.
This is the difference between crying and weeping: When you cry, you're enjoying it; when you weep, you're not.
###
"What if they're right?" I said to Neal on the phone that night.
"What do you mean, 'What if they're right?'" he snapped. "They're not right."
"But what if they are?" I said. "What if we choose the lives we lead?"
Neal snorted. "You mean, back in Bardo? 'Gee', you tell that reincarnation broker, 'what I'd really like to be is a veterinarian in the Yorkshire Dales circa 1938!'
"'Nah,' she says. 'You should consider becoming Cassandra while Western civilization collapses around you! But mind the trigger warning: This material contains themes of intense sadness, depression, hopelessness, and emotional despair.'"
"You weren't there," I said. "You didn't see his face—"
"And I'm glad I wasn't," Neal said, "because I probably would have slugged the asshole, and then the Bar Association would have to put me on probation. Let me preemptively explain my motivation: I hate and abominate the assertion that people chose to be rounded up, stripped naked, starved, and shoved into gas chambers."
"You didn't hear his voice," I said. "The absolute certainty in his voice—"
"Oh, for God's sake." Neal sounded really angry. "He's a hustler, Grazia. That's what hustlers sound like. He's got your number. What? You think all hustlers are Nigerian princes writing flowery emails?"
"Don't you dare condescend to me!"
"I will condescend to you if you persist in letting assholes crawl into your head—"
Very coolly, very gently, I depressed the disconnect button on my phone.
For the first hour and a half, I was determined not to pick up the phone when he called back.
At the two-hour mark, I decided I'd pick up the phone, but I'd be icy, punctiliously polite.
After three hours, I decided he was my best friend. When best friends hurt your feelings, you're up front about it. You clear the air, so communication can improve.
Only he didn't call back.
Not that night.
Or the next night.
Or the next night.
Or the next.
###
I started parking my Prius two blocks away so I wouldn’t have to walk past the New Millennium Kingdom table. Without a work best friend to commune or commiserate with, even telepathically through layers of PPE, the hours in the ICU dragged. Each moment felt like Sisyphus's rock. Suction, prone, re-diaper, hang IVs. Repeat. Talk to anxious loved ones on the phone. Come up with fifty ways to say, "Gee, I don't know," when someone asks, "But they are improving, right? Aren't they?"
Debbie Reynolds was on the third floor. Visitors were not allowed, not even visitors who worked elsewhere in the hospital. I talked to her a couple of times on the phone. Mostly, she was pissed because there was no way she could smoke. She could barely speak a complete sentence without spasming into strange, raspy, COVID coughs.
"This sucks," she'd say. "They're not doing anything for me—" And then her words would sputter into coughing.
"Well, they must be doing something—"
"Remdesivir." The final "r" of the word rode out on one long wheeze. "So they have to check my creatinine fifty times a day. Fuck this place. They keep trying to force me to drink Ensure—"
"Nine grams of protein in an eight-ounce bottle!" I'd say.
Then we'd run out of things to talk about.
One morning, I tried to call Debbie Reynolds, but I couldn't get through. "Transferred. She's being transferred," the third-floor charge nurse told me fretfully.
Thirty seconds later, the motorized doors swung open, and Debbie Reynolds was being wheeled into the ICU on a gurney. Her skin was grey. Her eyes had that panic of someone who has forgotten how to inhale.
"Pulse ox 89% with rebreather on 15 liters. Acute hypoxic respiratory failure," shouted the ICU attending. The crash cart was right by the double doors. He reached for the tray.
Rapid sequence intubation. I knew the drill—and so did Debbie Reynolds. Between wheezes, I could hear her gasping: "Hail Mary, full of grace—" in time with the cardiac monitor's beeps.
The overhead lights exploded into full brights. The attending hesitated for a moment, laryngoscope in hand: "Anyone know her MOLST status?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Pellegrini," I hissed. "She doesn't want to die."
The intubation seemed to go smoothly. At first. Nurses shot her up with etomidate and succinylcholine; Pellegrini slid the tube between the cords and into her trachea on the first try. I was the team member charged with monitoring vitals and pulse oximeter stats: "Heart rate 130. Pressure 150 over 90. Sats 92% on 100%—"
Then her pressure tanked. MAP in the 60s and falling.
"Fuck," said Pellegrini softly.
Monitors exploded into alarms. Pellegrini barked orders. The nursing brigade scrambled with pressors and fluids.
It took us an hour and a half to stabilize her, and when we were finally done, I looked down at Debbie Reynolds shrunken within a tangle of tubes and lines, motionless except when the ventilator moved her chest, jaw slack, mouth taped open around that endotracheal tube, the sour funk of antiseptics radiating off her, and I asked Pellegrini, "She's not going to make it through the night, is she?"
He glared at me. This was one of those questions you're never supposed to ask.
But as it turned out, I was wrong about making it through the night. She didn't even last through the end of the shift.
###
The charge nurse made me leave early.
"But my shift doesn't end till 4," I said.
"Just go," she told me.
I couldn't tell whether this was compassion or disapproval.
Outside the hospital, it was the most beautiful day in the history of the universe. Lambent blue skies. Birds singing. Purple butterfly bushes and lavender hibiscus trees perfuming the air. Squirrels on treasure hunts scampered across the lawns that bordered Wiltwyck Hospital's historic old wing. Even the patients in the makeshift ER tent waiting to be processed for COVID seemed to be having a good time, their voices wafting merrily on sun-kissed summer breezes. Someone was laughing too loudly at a punchline I couldn't hear.
The details of this glorious present tense tried to paint a mural on my brain, only my mind was a no-stick surface, everything was sliding and jumbling. I'd forgotten where I'd parked the Prius. I found myself walking past the New Millennium Kingdom table.
Today's sign: Everyone Thinks They Have More Time. But Are You Sure You Do?
"There you are," Sister Penury said as if this chance encounter was a rendezvous we'd set up earlier that morning.
I knew then instantly that the universe had organized the entire day around this moment. The entire day? My entire life. I had paused in front of the table because pausing in front of that table was inevitable; it was going to happen, it was happening, it had already happened. Time was no longer a factor.
Sister Penury had been packing up the pamphlets as though she'd already known I would be the last customer of the day. Brother Malachi materialized at her shoulder, holding out a crinkled paper cup filled with a pale liquid he had poured from a thermos. "Chamomile tea," he said. "You look like you could benefit from some soothing."
"It's lasagne night!" Sister Penury bubbled. "I do love lasagne. When I prayed to God to divest me of all human alliances, He left me with lasagne! Funny, huh? He works in mysterious ways!" She chuckled and shook her head fondly.
"Our house is a sanctuary where warriors rest," Brother Malachi said. "No cell phones. No computers. No televisions. No alarms. A break from the battlefield. A place for sleep, and when you're ready, fellowship with other warriors. When you're ready."
The chamomile tea tasted good. Sister Penury had rolled up the banner; still laughing, she struggled to fold the table's legs.
"I want to go home," I said. Though when I pictured my apartment—the unwashed dishes, the wilting plants, the bed I hadn't made in three days—I wasn't sure I wanted to go there.
"Of course, you do," Sister Penury said. "Of course, you do."
"But what about my car?" I asked.
Sister Penury's laughter was heartier than ever. "Pick it up tomorrow."
The car Sister Penury loaded the displays into was a silver Honda hatchback with a mismatched hubcap, maybe 10 years old. There was half a case of bottled water on the back seat and two rickety-looking folding chairs bungee‑corded in the cargo area. SpongeBob stickers from another life decorated the dash, and behind the steering wheel sat Brother Malachi. "It's a short ride," he told me as though that was the main reason to get into the car.
The sun slid lower as we left the hospital grounds. Two sharp turns and then we were on Broadway, where Neal and I had tromped together so often. We passed the Old Dutch Church. "Calvin Vaux designed that," I said.
"Calvin Klein?" said Sister Penury. "I didn't know he was an architect."
The car angled right onto a side street. I recognized the crumbling Italianate row houses. We were in the Roundout District, where the ghost of the old canal still haunted evenings with the unmistakable scent of brackish water.
When the car finally stopped, I recognized the house it had pulled up in front of, too. The derelict mansion with the steeply pitched roof and the wraparound porch. That day in October when I'd seen it first was the day I'd first met Neal. Then it had been grim and bare. Now vines threaded the decaying balusters, and nettles, briars, and crabgrass choked the formal garden. It was still grim, though.
Brother Malachi made an elaborate pantomime of opening my side of the car.
"Welcome home," he said.
CHAPTER 5
Over the phone, Neal said, "Always trust evangenitals to make God seem unattractive."
"Look," I said, "I know it's ridiculous. But talking to her is very—I dunno. Comforting. She has a coherent worldview."
Neal said, "Of course, she does. So did the Nazis. So do Scientologists."
"Well, I mean, it is refreshing. You have no idea what it's like in there. Nobody has any idea. It's fuckin' chaos, but somehow, we're supposed to normalize it. It's demoralizing."
Neal said, "I know when I'm demoralized, I always look to the Old Testament for the wisdom of barely literate scribes who knew that the sun revolved around the earth and thought goat sacrifice protocols were the apex of moral philosophy. That must be why today's Christianists are so forward-looking."
"You know what?" I said. "I can talk to whomever I want without your permission."
"But, see, you don't always do what's best for you. Just an observation."
“Maybe you and my therapist could just start talking to each other directly,” I said. “Circumvent the middleman. Leave me out of it.”
"You don't have a therapist."
"That's right! I don't!"
And then we started bickering about whether the N95 masks you could buy at Home Depot used the same filtering mechanism as the ones they distributed to nurses in the ICU.
###
That was one kind of friendship. Debbie Reynolds was another—situational, impersonal, the other end of the spectrum from the highly personal connection I had with Neal.
You can feel a great deal of affection for the people with whom you have impersonal relationships. But the essence of the relationship is transactional, the boundaries are clearly marked. You walk away from these interactions with a pleasant glow and no particular urgency to repeat them. Once we finished wrecking our lungs for the afternoon, I never thought about Debbie Reynolds, and if I were to quit my job suddenly, she would never, ever cross my mind again, except maybe as a tag to an amusing anecdote I'd find myself telling to someone I got stuck next to at a continuing education seminar.
We were work best friends. Everybody needs a work best friend, right? Somebody you can roll your eyes at during staff meetings when middle managers justify their employment by droning on and on about CYA disguised as new protocols. Someone with whom you can indulge in forbidden pleasures at the end of a long shift.
As spring turned to summer, the days grew longer, and work seemed to get harder. Any other year, the summer would have been luminous, but now it just stretched aimlessly in front of us like house arrest. After a claustrophobic day in the ICU, we scuttled home, locked the door, pulled down the shades, as though somehow that would keep COVID at bay.
At the end of our ICU shifts, Debbie Reynolds and I had taken to chain-smoking. Two cigarettes back-to-back instead of one. We'd light that second cigarette from the still-flaming butt of the first, almost as if we saw our matching smokers' coughs as an act of defiance, a Fuck You to COVID: You want coughing? I'll give you coughing.
One afternoon, Debbie Reynolds exhaled smoke, began coughing, and couldn't stop. Brought her hand up to her throat, gasped for air. Coughed some more. I watched, wondering whether there was something I should do. I couldn't think of what that something might be.
She reached into her Marlboro pack and fished out a third cigarette.
"Maybe you shouldn't," I remarked pleasantly.
She shot me a WTF look and clicked her lighter.
"Ever think of giving up smoking?" I asked.
She was coughing again. Dry cough this time. She held her hand up, motioning, Wait. Took a deep breath. Held it.
"Why the fuck would I want to do that?" she asked finally.
I shrugged.
"I don't want to be old," she said. "I can't think of anything less appealing than living past 70."
"No?"
"Why? So I can become more and more invisible? So I can break my hip, get diagnosed with lung cancer? Develop dementia, get shut up in some Memory Acres where, if I'm really lucky, they'll serve red, green, and orange Jello and one of the staff will speak English? No, thank you!"
So much for my career as a motivational smoking cessationist.
Next day, she wasn't at work. I didn't think anything of it. We may have been BFF in the Land of Code Blue, but we weren't joined at the hip. We didn't go out of our way to sign up for the same shifts, and we seldom shared details about our lives outside of work. If Debbie Reynolds decided to go on vacation, I'd only know about it if I noticed a tan under her PPEs when that vacation was over.
###
Three shifts passed with no Debbie. At the end of each shift, I'd wander over to the NO SMOKING sign, but found I had no real desire to smoke alone.
Then I had three days off in a row. I spent them binging the first three seasons of "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" and doomscrolling celebrity deaths on Facebook. My apartment smelled like old coffee and stale food delivered cold in paper takeout boxes, but Dead Pool options were practically limitless, thank you, COVID!
She still wasn't back when I returned to work. The charge nurse intercepted me before I could push through the ICU's double doors. "You didn't get the email?"
"What email?"
The charge nurse sighed. "I told them they should call you. You shouldn't be inside the hospital. Go to the ER and take a COVID test. Phone me with the results."
"Why?" I asked.
"Just do it," she said.
I knew better than to make a face. There was only one reason they sent ICU staff back outside.
Ten minutes later, my nose was burning, and the test was negative. I called the charge nurse and was summoned back to the unit. She watched me in the dressing room while I gowned and gloved.
"When's Debbie back here?" I asked.
The charge nurse sighed and looked grim. "I'm not supposed to say this because medical confidentiality, but you guys are pals, that's why we needed that COVID test. Debbie's here. In the hospital. As a patient. She's got it."
When I got done with work that day, habit took me wandering toward the New Millennium Kingdom table. Today's sign read Pestilence Brings Hope For the Faithful, and the flaxen-haired girl had backup: the tall, stooped man I'd seen a couple of times before.
Her eyes brightened when she saw me. "This is the one I told you about," she said to the man as though I wasn't there. "The one the Lord keeps guiding our way."
"Not the Lord," I said. "My Prius. I walk past you because my car's in the lot behind you."
But the man's eyes had fixed upon mine. "The Lord is as likely to work through the random placement of an automobile as He is through a burning bush."
I supposed that could be true, assuming one believed in the Lord.
"What you're seeking to discover is a thing you've always known," the man continued. "There are no coincidences. There are only signs. Signs that lead to the one true destination if you follow them. I know you know that—" he leaned over to peer at the name badge still pinned to my scrubs—"Grazia." He mispronounced it.
"Signs, huh?" I said. "The universe needs clearer handwriting."
"Hard day?" the girl asked sympathetically. "You work in the ICU. They all must be hard."
And suddenly, my eyes welled up with tears.
"You need fellowship," the girl said softly. "I'm Sister Penury. This is Brother Malachi. We have dinner every night. We break bread together at a big table, like a family. We laugh. We talk about what God is doing. You don't have to go back to your empty rooms. You don't have to be alone."
"Thanks," I said, "but I have a frozen pizza and a clinically significant relationship with Bravo waiting for me at home."
Brother Malachi's smile was pitying. “You hide behind jokes. It's a dissociative behavior. Did you know that? I used to be a therapist. I recognize it." He leaned in closer. "You joke because you’re afraid. You know that, don't you? You see death every day. You know the world is ending. And that's the world you picked to be in.”
"I have to go now," I said.
It was all I could do not to weep.
This is the difference between crying and weeping: When you cry, you're enjoying it; when you weep, you're not.
###
"What if they're right?" I said to Neal on the phone that night.
"What do you mean, 'What if they're right?'" he snapped. "They're not right."
"But what if they are?" I said. "What if we choose the lives we lead?"
Neal snorted. "You mean, back in Bardo? 'Gee', you tell that reincarnation broker, 'what I'd really like to be is a veterinarian in the Yorkshire Dales circa 1938!'
"'Nah,' she says. 'You should consider becoming Cassandra while Western civilization collapses around you! But mind the trigger warning: This material contains themes of intense sadness, depression, hopelessness, and emotional despair.'"
"You weren't there," I said. "You didn't see his face—"
"And I'm glad I wasn't," Neal said, "because I probably would have slugged the asshole, and then the Bar Association would have to put me on probation. Let me preemptively explain my motivation: I hate and abominate the assertion that people chose to be rounded up, stripped naked, starved, and shoved into gas chambers."
"You didn't hear his voice," I said. "The absolute certainty in his voice—"
"Oh, for God's sake." Neal sounded really angry. "He's a hustler, Grazia. That's what hustlers sound like. He's got your number. What? You think all hustlers are Nigerian princes writing flowery emails?"
"Don't you dare condescend to me!"
"I will condescend to you if you persist in letting assholes crawl into your head—"
Very coolly, very gently, I depressed the disconnect button on my phone.
For the first hour and a half, I was determined not to pick up the phone when he called back.
At the two-hour mark, I decided I'd pick up the phone, but I'd be icy, punctiliously polite.
After three hours, I decided he was my best friend. When best friends hurt your feelings, you're up front about it. You clear the air, so communication can improve.
Only he didn't call back.
Not that night.
Or the next night.
Or the next night.
Or the next.
###
I started parking my Prius two blocks away so I wouldn’t have to walk past the New Millennium Kingdom table. Without a work best friend to commune or commiserate with, even telepathically through layers of PPE, the hours in the ICU dragged. Each moment felt like Sisyphus's rock. Suction, prone, re-diaper, hang IVs. Repeat. Talk to anxious loved ones on the phone. Come up with fifty ways to say, "Gee, I don't know," when someone asks, "But they are improving, right? Aren't they?"
Debbie Reynolds was on the third floor. Visitors were not allowed, not even visitors who worked elsewhere in the hospital. I talked to her a couple of times on the phone. Mostly, she was pissed because there was no way she could smoke. She could barely speak a complete sentence without spasming into strange, raspy, COVID coughs.
"This sucks," she'd say. "They're not doing anything for me—" And then her words would sputter into coughing.
"Well, they must be doing something—"
"Remdesivir." The final "r" of the word rode out on one long wheeze. "So they have to check my creatinine fifty times a day. Fuck this place. They keep trying to force me to drink Ensure—"
"Nine grams of protein in an eight-ounce bottle!" I'd say.
Then we'd run out of things to talk about.
One morning, I tried to call Debbie Reynolds, but I couldn't get through. "Transferred. She's being transferred," the third-floor charge nurse told me fretfully.
Thirty seconds later, the motorized doors swung open, and Debbie Reynolds was being wheeled into the ICU on a gurney. Her skin was grey. Her eyes had that panic of someone who has forgotten how to inhale.
"Pulse ox 89% with rebreather on 15 liters. Acute hypoxic respiratory failure," shouted the ICU attending. The crash cart was right by the double doors. He reached for the tray.
Rapid sequence intubation. I knew the drill—and so did Debbie Reynolds. Between wheezes, I could hear her gasping: "Hail Mary, full of grace—" in time with the cardiac monitor's beeps.
The overhead lights exploded into full brights. The attending hesitated for a moment, laryngoscope in hand: "Anyone know her MOLST status?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Pellegrini," I hissed. "She doesn't want to die."
The intubation seemed to go smoothly. At first. Nurses shot her up with etomidate and succinylcholine; Pellegrini slid the tube between the cords and into her trachea on the first try. I was the team member charged with monitoring vitals and pulse oximeter stats: "Heart rate 130. Pressure 150 over 90. Sats 92% on 100%—"
Then her pressure tanked. MAP in the 60s and falling.
"Fuck," said Pellegrini softly.
Monitors exploded into alarms. Pellegrini barked orders. The nursing brigade scrambled with pressors and fluids.
It took us an hour and a half to stabilize her, and when we were finally done, I looked down at Debbie Reynolds shrunken within a tangle of tubes and lines, motionless except when the ventilator moved her chest, jaw slack, mouth taped open around that endotracheal tube, the sour funk of antiseptics radiating off her, and I asked Pellegrini, "She's not going to make it through the night, is she?"
He glared at me. This was one of those questions you're never supposed to ask.
But as it turned out, I was wrong about making it through the night. She didn't even last through the end of the shift.
###
The charge nurse made me leave early.
"But my shift doesn't end till 4," I said.
"Just go," she told me.
I couldn't tell whether this was compassion or disapproval.
Outside the hospital, it was the most beautiful day in the history of the universe. Lambent blue skies. Birds singing. Purple butterfly bushes and lavender hibiscus trees perfuming the air. Squirrels on treasure hunts scampered across the lawns that bordered Wiltwyck Hospital's historic old wing. Even the patients in the makeshift ER tent waiting to be processed for COVID seemed to be having a good time, their voices wafting merrily on sun-kissed summer breezes. Someone was laughing too loudly at a punchline I couldn't hear.
The details of this glorious present tense tried to paint a mural on my brain, only my mind was a no-stick surface, everything was sliding and jumbling. I'd forgotten where I'd parked the Prius. I found myself walking past the New Millennium Kingdom table.
Today's sign: Everyone Thinks They Have More Time. But Are You Sure You Do?
"There you are," Sister Penury said as if this chance encounter was a rendezvous we'd set up earlier that morning.
I knew then instantly that the universe had organized the entire day around this moment. The entire day? My entire life. I had paused in front of the table because pausing in front of that table was inevitable; it was going to happen, it was happening, it had already happened. Time was no longer a factor.
Sister Penury had been packing up the pamphlets as though she'd already known I would be the last customer of the day. Brother Malachi materialized at her shoulder, holding out a crinkled paper cup filled with a pale liquid he had poured from a thermos. "Chamomile tea," he said. "You look like you could benefit from some soothing."
"It's lasagne night!" Sister Penury bubbled. "I do love lasagne. When I prayed to God to divest me of all human alliances, He left me with lasagne! Funny, huh? He works in mysterious ways!" She chuckled and shook her head fondly.
"Our house is a sanctuary where warriors rest," Brother Malachi said. "No cell phones. No computers. No televisions. No alarms. A break from the battlefield. A place for sleep, and when you're ready, fellowship with other warriors. When you're ready."
The chamomile tea tasted good. Sister Penury had rolled up the banner; still laughing, she struggled to fold the table's legs.
"I want to go home," I said. Though when I pictured my apartment—the unwashed dishes, the wilting plants, the bed I hadn't made in three days—I wasn't sure I wanted to go there.
"Of course, you do," Sister Penury said. "Of course, you do."
"But what about my car?" I asked.
Sister Penury's laughter was heartier than ever. "Pick it up tomorrow."
The car Sister Penury loaded the displays into was a silver Honda hatchback with a mismatched hubcap, maybe 10 years old. There was half a case of bottled water on the back seat and two rickety-looking folding chairs bungee‑corded in the cargo area. SpongeBob stickers from another life decorated the dash, and behind the steering wheel sat Brother Malachi. "It's a short ride," he told me as though that was the main reason to get into the car.
The sun slid lower as we left the hospital grounds. Two sharp turns and then we were on Broadway, where Neal and I had tromped together so often. We passed the Old Dutch Church. "Calvin Vaux designed that," I said.
"Calvin Klein?" said Sister Penury. "I didn't know he was an architect."
The car angled right onto a side street. I recognized the crumbling Italianate row houses. We were in the Roundout District, where the ghost of the old canal still haunted evenings with the unmistakable scent of brackish water.
When the car finally stopped, I recognized the house it had pulled up in front of, too. The derelict mansion with the steeply pitched roof and the wraparound porch. That day in October when I'd seen it first was the day I'd first met Neal. Then it had been grim and bare. Now vines threaded the decaying balusters, and nettles, briars, and crabgrass choked the formal garden. It was still grim, though.
Brother Malachi made an elaborate pantomime of opening my side of the car.
"Welcome home," he said.
Only I Don't Qualify For an Italian Passport
Feb. 7th, 2026 09:35 ammallorys_cameraI'm ashamed of being an American this morning.
Not sure I've ever felt that so specifically before. With all its flaws, I've always believed opportunity is not quite as rigged here in favor of the ruling classes as it is in other places.
But that video Trump posted, superimposing the Obamas' heads over cartoon apes' bodies.
That video really says everything you need to know about the United States.
If I were a Black American, I think I'd do anything I could to limit my interactions with white Americans, particularly my interactions with weak, namby-pamby white Americans like me who raise our voices feebly in protest but who are absolutely powerless to stop the surging tide of white supremecy.
###
In other news, it finally dawned on me that Chapter 5 is actually Chapters 5 and 6. Even when I tighten the prose, so much happens that the words keep piling. A natural break occurs when Grazia drives off to Creepy Mansion with the New Millennium Kingdom perps.
Not sure yet how I'm gonna frame Chapter 6. Obviously, Grazia can't stay at Creepy Mansion very long, and I'm not sure what she's gonna do there. I guess I could write a demented Bible Study scene! Not sure either how to manage Neal's metamorphosis into Sir Rescue riding a white charger.
###
It's 9°F out there right now. And the mercury is falling.
Not sure I've ever felt that so specifically before. With all its flaws, I've always believed opportunity is not quite as rigged here in favor of the ruling classes as it is in other places.
But that video Trump posted, superimposing the Obamas' heads over cartoon apes' bodies.
That video really says everything you need to know about the United States.
If I were a Black American, I think I'd do anything I could to limit my interactions with white Americans, particularly my interactions with weak, namby-pamby white Americans like me who raise our voices feebly in protest but who are absolutely powerless to stop the surging tide of white supremecy.
###
In other news, it finally dawned on me that Chapter 5 is actually Chapters 5 and 6. Even when I tighten the prose, so much happens that the words keep piling. A natural break occurs when Grazia drives off to Creepy Mansion with the New Millennium Kingdom perps.
Not sure yet how I'm gonna frame Chapter 6. Obviously, Grazia can't stay at Creepy Mansion very long, and I'm not sure what she's gonna do there. I guess I could write a demented Bible Study scene! Not sure either how to manage Neal's metamorphosis into Sir Rescue riding a white charger.
###
It's 9°F out there right now. And the mercury is falling.
Petrified Protective Amnesia
Feb. 6th, 2026 08:39 ammallorys_cameraWe had a brief respite from the punishingly cold temperatures: Last few days, temps actually broke freezing. But today, the polar vortex is bearing back down again. The National Weather Service has issued a Severe Weather Alert: Dangerously cold wind chills as low as 20 to 35 below zero expected throughout the quaint & scenic Hudson Valley.
This disinclines me to leave the house 'cause what if—minute chance, but still—my car breaks down on the way to the gym? Frostbite on exposed skin in as little as 10 minutes.
###
In Work in Progress news: We are up to the Debbie Reynolds death scene, which occurs during an ICU code, so I am wracking my tiny brain for status detail.
Then Grazia ends up going to the creepy New Millennium Kingdom mansion, where she spends 18 hours a day praying as the initial prep work for dismantling her personality begins.
Neal rescues her!
Big dilemma: Does Neal rescue her before or after the creepy mansion bursts into flame from a faulty electrical connection? (Decisions, decisions!)
Then Neal & Grazia have to have some sort of Meaningful Conversation on the front porch of Neal's Catskills cabin.
And magically, perspective swirls so that we are back at the very first scene of Part 1 when Grazia drives up there following Neal's memorial.
It would be great if I could tweak the closing prose too, so it mimics the chick lit cadence of that opening chapter, but I'm not sure I have the writing chops to pull that one off.
But after that, we start with Part 2: Daria.
###
I have my own Bad Cult memories, though I'd have to do some serious excavating to access them since they're buried under many decades of petrified protective amnesia.
As a teenager, I had dealings with a cult called Synanon.
Synanon didn't eat me, but it ate some people I cared about back then—most notably, Michael Garrett whom I still wonder about sometimes late at night.
I'm not sure how many of those Bad Cult memories I can repurpose. They're awfully immersive, and immersion is only of questionable usefulness in a passage that's supposed to be 1,500 words or so in length max. Don't really want to distract from the essential story, which is Neal & Grazia.
Here is Michael Garrett and me in 1968:
This disinclines me to leave the house 'cause what if—minute chance, but still—my car breaks down on the way to the gym? Frostbite on exposed skin in as little as 10 minutes.
###
In Work in Progress news: We are up to the Debbie Reynolds death scene, which occurs during an ICU code, so I am wracking my tiny brain for status detail.
Then Grazia ends up going to the creepy New Millennium Kingdom mansion, where she spends 18 hours a day praying as the initial prep work for dismantling her personality begins.
Neal rescues her!
Big dilemma: Does Neal rescue her before or after the creepy mansion bursts into flame from a faulty electrical connection? (Decisions, decisions!)
Then Neal & Grazia have to have some sort of Meaningful Conversation on the front porch of Neal's Catskills cabin.
And magically, perspective swirls so that we are back at the very first scene of Part 1 when Grazia drives up there following Neal's memorial.
It would be great if I could tweak the closing prose too, so it mimics the chick lit cadence of that opening chapter, but I'm not sure I have the writing chops to pull that one off.
But after that, we start with Part 2: Daria.
###
I have my own Bad Cult memories, though I'd have to do some serious excavating to access them since they're buried under many decades of petrified protective amnesia.
As a teenager, I had dealings with a cult called Synanon.
Synanon didn't eat me, but it ate some people I cared about back then—most notably, Michael Garrett whom I still wonder about sometimes late at night.
I'm not sure how many of those Bad Cult memories I can repurpose. They're awfully immersive, and immersion is only of questionable usefulness in a passage that's supposed to be 1,500 words or so in length max. Don't really want to distract from the essential story, which is Neal & Grazia.
Here is Michael Garrett and me in 1968:
podcast friday
Feb. 6th, 2026 07:06 amsabotabby There's a lot of good stuff on the podcast feed this week, but look, we all have to be Elbows Up these days or whatever, even though Canada is a fake country, because it's better to be a fake country with healthcare than a fake country with crushing medical debt. So I must proudly wave the flag when Behind the Bastards notices and recognizes an actual Canadian bastard, as they did this week with Romana Didulo, Queen of Canada (Part 1, Part 2).
Her Majesty is not a successful cult leader by American standards; she basically ruined the lives of a few dozen people and hasn't directly killed anyone that I know of, though in terms of indirect deaths through encouraging the spread of covid, she's likely ended at least a few lives. She's a fascinating study, though, in Why People Believe Batshit Things Against Obvious Evidence and Logic, and she's worth learning about for that alone. This is an obvious mentally ill person with no charisma, elevated to fame by some rando on the internet, and enabled by a media ecosystem that considers all opinions equally valid unless they're left-wing opinions. In a better society she'd be given the help she so obviously needs; in ours, her worst tendencies were encouraged and rewarded.
Of course, this is all ancient history from the early 2020s and is of no instructive value now. Just, y'know, interesting to listen to.
ETA: I am remiss in not mentioning that there's a third part to come next week. I had like 10 minutes left in the second episode and did not realize there was MORE ROMANA to come.
Her Majesty is not a successful cult leader by American standards; she basically ruined the lives of a few dozen people and hasn't directly killed anyone that I know of, though in terms of indirect deaths through encouraging the spread of covid, she's likely ended at least a few lives. She's a fascinating study, though, in Why People Believe Batshit Things Against Obvious Evidence and Logic, and she's worth learning about for that alone. This is an obvious mentally ill person with no charisma, elevated to fame by some rando on the internet, and enabled by a media ecosystem that considers all opinions equally valid unless they're left-wing opinions. In a better society she'd be given the help she so obviously needs; in ours, her worst tendencies were encouraged and rewarded.
Of course, this is all ancient history from the early 2020s and is of no instructive value now. Just, y'know, interesting to listen to.
ETA: I am remiss in not mentioning that there's a third part to come next week. I had like 10 minutes left in the second episode and did not realize there was MORE ROMANA to come.
Microwaved Tater Tots Drenched In Ketchup
Feb. 5th, 2026 02:32 pmmallorys_cameraMy heart breaks for Sarah, a country girl in her mid-20s, single mother of a two-year-old she cannot control, whose sole joy in life is that jumbo-sized styrofoam container of microwaved Tater Tots drenched with ketchup that she buys at the Arco Quik-Serve every morning.
But she should not be doing tax returns.
I was horrified watching her do one over the weekend. Her stained pink top was riding up, and her sweat pants were sagging so you could see the crack of her ass as she sat there playing Maybe This Will Work at the computer.
The client was too busy trying to push through a questionable Head of Household filing status through to notice, and anyway, he had his own problems with tater tots or maybe with Pabst Blue Ribbon six-packs. His red-rimmed eyes were set in a head that was probably normal-sized but perched atop his vast bulk made him look microcephalic.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know—it's Politically Incorrect to comment on people's weight. But I see what I see. And those jumbo-sized styrofoam containers of microwaved Tater Tots drenched with ketchup are a problem.
Anyway. I had been intimidated by the [hideous, soulless corporation's] tax preparation software, but after watching Sarah, I thought, There are no standards here, and thus I completed my first two returns as a tax professional yesterday.
One of my first two clients was Married Filing Separately. Back when I was an altruistic TaxBwana, I would have begged him to use a different filing status because MFS is absolutely the worst. It's totally worth it to make nice with that spouse you hate and want to divorce just so you can file jointly.
But now that I'm a predatory tax preparer circling the rubes so I can push product on them, I no longer offer advice. I just smile and input the boxes.
I cannot believe what people are willing to pay for this service. $170 per form! For a task that would literally take them 20 minutes in a library to do on their own. It isn't hard! I mean, we're not talking about complicated tax situations here; we're talking a single W2.
Survival is a rough, rough game. I'm just grateful I don't like tater tots.
But she should not be doing tax returns.
I was horrified watching her do one over the weekend. Her stained pink top was riding up, and her sweat pants were sagging so you could see the crack of her ass as she sat there playing Maybe This Will Work at the computer.
The client was too busy trying to push through a questionable Head of Household filing status through to notice, and anyway, he had his own problems with tater tots or maybe with Pabst Blue Ribbon six-packs. His red-rimmed eyes were set in a head that was probably normal-sized but perched atop his vast bulk made him look microcephalic.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know—it's Politically Incorrect to comment on people's weight. But I see what I see. And those jumbo-sized styrofoam containers of microwaved Tater Tots drenched with ketchup are a problem.
Anyway. I had been intimidated by the [hideous, soulless corporation's] tax preparation software, but after watching Sarah, I thought, There are no standards here, and thus I completed my first two returns as a tax professional yesterday.
One of my first two clients was Married Filing Separately. Back when I was an altruistic TaxBwana, I would have begged him to use a different filing status because MFS is absolutely the worst. It's totally worth it to make nice with that spouse you hate and want to divorce just so you can file jointly.
But now that I'm a predatory tax preparer circling the rubes so I can push product on them, I no longer offer advice. I just smile and input the boxes.
I cannot believe what people are willing to pay for this service. $170 per form! For a task that would literally take them 20 minutes in a library to do on their own. It isn't hard! I mean, we're not talking about complicated tax situations here; we're talking a single W2.
Survival is a rough, rough game. I'm just grateful I don't like tater tots.
Reading Wednesday
Feb. 4th, 2026 06:45 amsabotabbyJust finished: Nothing.
Currently reading: Changelog by Rich Larson. Whenever I mention Rich Larson to normies, they go, "Who?" Whenever he comes up among writers, the discussion invariably includes the adjective "underrated," which is a bit weird for someone who's kindasorta won an Emmy. It's absolutely true, though. He's prolific af and everything I've read by him so far is an absolute banger.
Changelog is a short story anthology. It's all cyberpunk, a lot of it set in the same cyberpunk future, spanning from Niger to Nuuk, wildly inventive and beautifully written. There are obvious Black Mirror and Love, Death + Robots (the Emmy was for an episode of that adapted from one of his stories) but the cyberpunk aspect of it is mostly backgrounded to focus on character.
It's hard to pick a favourite because there's not a single weak link here, but the standouts so far are "Animals Like Me," which is about a young gig worker recruited to do motion capture work for increasingly disturbing AI-generated children's animation, "Quandary Aminu vs The Butterfly Man," which is about a low-level gangster targeted by a genetically modified assassin that only lives for about a day and a half but is otherwise nearly unstoppable, and "Tripping Through Time," which is the most hopeful story I have read in forever (positive; I don't normally like hopeful stories).
Currently reading: Changelog by Rich Larson. Whenever I mention Rich Larson to normies, they go, "Who?" Whenever he comes up among writers, the discussion invariably includes the adjective "underrated," which is a bit weird for someone who's kindasorta won an Emmy. It's absolutely true, though. He's prolific af and everything I've read by him so far is an absolute banger.
Changelog is a short story anthology. It's all cyberpunk, a lot of it set in the same cyberpunk future, spanning from Niger to Nuuk, wildly inventive and beautifully written. There are obvious Black Mirror and Love, Death + Robots (the Emmy was for an episode of that adapted from one of his stories) but the cyberpunk aspect of it is mostly backgrounded to focus on character.
It's hard to pick a favourite because there's not a single weak link here, but the standouts so far are "Animals Like Me," which is about a young gig worker recruited to do motion capture work for increasingly disturbing AI-generated children's animation, "Quandary Aminu vs The Butterfly Man," which is about a low-level gangster targeted by a genetically modified assassin that only lives for about a day and a half but is otherwise nearly unstoppable, and "Tripping Through Time," which is the most hopeful story I have read in forever (positive; I don't normally like hopeful stories).
Minor operations; testing new serving path
Feb. 3rd, 2026 10:25 pmmark posting in dw_maintenanceHi all!
I'm doing some minor operational work tonight. It should be transparent, but there's always a chance that something goes wrong. The main thing I'm touching is testing a replacement for Apache2 (our web server software) in one area of the site.
Thank you!
(no subject)
Feb. 3rd, 2026 04:40 pmjelizaEvery so often I miss hypomania.
Just when I have a lot of stupid stuff to get done and no energy, really, and I do remember enough to know that 6 hours is useful and anything after that mostly isn't. Just. I remember Getting Shit Done.
Also not sleeping and being a total bitch, but still.
Just when I have a lot of stupid stuff to get done and no energy, really, and I do remember enough to know that 6 hours is useful and anything after that mostly isn't. Just. I remember Getting Shit Done.
Also not sleeping and being a total bitch, but still.
Just Another Aging Boomer
Feb. 3rd, 2026 09:36 ammallorys_camera
Bad couple of days.
Having trouble with the "falling" part of "falling asleep."
I could physically register how tired my body was, but every time I began to drift off, I was flooded with bad neurochemicals that made me feel unsafe, a chemical lurch that pulled me back into hypervigilance.
Very exhausting.
This winter has been very, very difficult.
It's partly the brutally cold weather, partly the ghastly political situation, partly my sub-optimal personal situation, but also (I imagine) partly my age: Totipotence has always played a huge role in my delusions of my own uniqueness: I can do anything! Maybe not well! But I can do it!
But at 73, I am learning there are things I can no longer do, & moreover, that other people see those limitations and judge me for them. I am no longer really a unique & special person. I am just another aging Boomer.
It's a humbling process.
###
Had my cardiac consultation yesterday. Liked the cardiologist very much! Beautiful young woman of Indian extraction. Terrific bedside manner.
"Cholesterol is mostly a genetic thing," she told me. "Lower estrogen levels, particularly after menopause, lead to increased LDL and triglycerides, raising cardiovascular risk."
My LDL (a/k/a "baaaaad" cholesterol) is 160—literally one point into being high!
But my lentil-and-oatmeal-heavy diet & regular visits to the gym have not succeeded in budging that number.
She wants to start me on statins.
"What happens if I don't take them?" I asked.
She cocked her head & smiled quizzically. "Your chances of having a stroke in the next 10 years go up by 30%. Your heart's in good shape! Your EKG looks great. But, you know. There's plaque in your arteries, and plaque breaks off."
Now! I am not particularly scared of dying, but I am afraid of stroking out!
So, I am going to take those statins.
Sigh...
###
In other news, Remuneration client seems to be on the verge of sending me a new assignment, which would be great.
Rallying
Jan. 31st, 2026 11:45 ammallorys_camera
On Thursday night, I went to an anti-ICE rally.
U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, better known as ICE, is trying to buy an old auto parts distribution center in Chester to use as a
The HV community at large is widely opposed to building a
Something must have escalated. I'm not sure what. But this rally was called on very short notice, and I figured absolutely no one else would go—I mean, nighttime at the nadir of a polar vortex?
Which is why I was determined to go.
When jackbooted thugs come to stamp out the last sparks of the American experiment in democracy, I don't want it to be said that I let the fire go out without a fight.
As it turns out, I was wrong about attendance. At least 300 people showed up, enough so that the Chester Commons' little lot was completely filled up, and we had to find a parking spot about half a mile away. A long, cold hike; temps were around 5°F.
Turns out my gloves are inadequate for this degree of cold and turned into ice blocks after 40 minutes of chanting & listening to local Congresscritter Pat Ryan speak. The rest of me, under three layers of undergarments, sweaters, coats, scarves, and Ushanka, was very toasty, though.
I suppose it could have been described as a beautiful night. The luminance of the not-quite-full moon—pinpoint Jupiter dangling just beneath it—reflecting off the vast banks of white snow, offered a really eerie backlighting:
In other news, penury prompted me to change my auto insurance. I am an incredibly cautious driver, which means I haven't gotten into any accidents in the last 15 years. (Please Universe, don't jinx me for writing that!) And yet my monthly premiums were really, really high, I suspect because State Farm saw me as a cash cow. As I was switching to an auto insurance policy that will save me $1,500 a year, I got a phone call—
It was from one of the property management companies that oversees one of the many, many low-cost senior housing complexes I have applied to over the past year.
They were not exactly offering me an apartment.
They were calling to tell me I was next on the waiting list if the person to whom they were offering an apartment decided they didn't want it.
The apartment is in Kingston, which is an extremely pleasant little city.
They will be doing an eligibility interview with me mid-February.
I am assuming the person they're offering the apartment to will take it.
But that means I am next up on the waiting list. Good news!
###
Also, Icky showed up Thursday. A mere four days after his most recent departure.
It was the Thursday Icky usually shows up to take possession of the younger spawn, Gus, but I was hoping the length of his previous tenancy meant he would skip this time around.
Gus promptly barricaded himself in his room. Gus spends as little time in Icky's physical presence as he possibly can.
About half an hour after Icky arrived with
I was in the kitchen cooking rice & beans, so I let Jeremy in. "Hi Jeremy!"
(I will be eating a lot of rice & beans till my monthly heating bills drop beneath $500.)
Icky glared at Jeremy—the full-on malocchio Death Star stare. Did not say a single word.
When I'd spoken to Christine on the phone last week, she'd mentioned that Jeremy reacts to Icky in much the same way that I do. "See, I think he's a complete asshole, but he doesn't bother me the way he bothers you & Jeremy. You & Jeremy are sensitive! I'm not!"
Anyway, I tried & tried & tried to make Jeremy more comfortable. He's a postman; I asked him questions about his route, quoted Herodotus at him: Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds...
"Good to see you again," he told me gratefully.
One good thing about Icky's presence: I won't have to deal with the chickens' water problem.
podcast friday
Jan. 30th, 2026 07:05 amsabotabby There's not really a choice this week even though a ton of great podcasts came out. It's going to be the ICHH/Cool People crossover episodes, "Everyone vs. Ice: On the Ground in Minnesota" (Part 1, Part 2). Margaret and James go to Minnesota to cover the occupation and the resistance. It's recorded before the brutal filmed murder of Alex Pretti (but after the brutal filmed murder of Renee Good) so it's a little bit more upbeat than we're all probably feeling. But it's very much worth your time. They spend a lot of the episodes discussing the community organizing, both visible and invisible, and how previous movements and the nature of the communities there led to a leaderful uprising against some of the most overt repression we've seen in the heart of empire in decades. And the show notes are full of things you can do to help if you're not able to go there.