July 13: The Little Face, Low Blood Sugar, Emotions

He left the room, and went up stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas.  There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one having been there lately.  Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face.  He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy.

I know that I've written about this paragraph before.  Not many people are aware of the existence of this scene:  Bob sitting next to the deathbed of Tiny Tim.  Even though I know Tiny Tim survives, this passage of parental grief is still very difficult for me to read.

I'm not going to talk about infant mortality.  I'm not going to talk about poverty in developing countries.  I'm not going to talk about the severe lack of medical care for the working poor in the United States.  No, those subjects haven't even crossed my mind.  I'm going to talk about low blood sugar.

Having been a diabetic since the time I was 13, I'm very familiar with low blood sugars (or hypoglycemia).  Any diabetic can describe the weakness, cold sweats, ravenous hunger, and exhaustion that accompanies this condition.  It's pretty standard stuff.  If you are diabetic, you will have low blood sugars.

This morning, as I was working, I was listening to a song by the Irish Rovers.  I believe it was "The Unicorn."  As I listened, I started getting really sad, which is a ridiculous reaction to that song.  By the time the Great Flood came and wiped out the entire race of horned equines, I was ready to cry.  I thought I was going crazy.  Then, I tested by blood sugar.  It was 45.

Not every diabetic has the same symptoms for low blood sugars.  For me, a hypoglycemic reaction lowers my defenses.  My emotions, which I can usually hold in check, sort of bubble to the surface.  The dip in my glucose level alters my brain chemistry in some way.  I can start bawling like a pregnant woman at the slightest provocation.  A shampoo commercial.  A piece of gum.  A magazine article.  A song.  Low blood sugar simply eliminates the switch that protects me from sentimentality.

So, when I sat down to type this post, I flipped through my copy of A Christmas Carol and came upon the above paragraph about Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim.  I had to close the book and go into the bathroom to regain my composure.  I felt like an idiot.  Thinking about Bob leaning over the bed and kissing "the little face" of Tiny Tim just pushed me over the edge.

I'm better now.  I've drank a cranberry juice and ate a raspberry fruit bar.  I have regained my natural cynicism and am ready to face the world, all of my tendencies toward compassion and sympathy walled away and safe.  I don't have to worry about being triggered into a crying jag by the fact that Ann Curry is no longer on the Today show.

Just don't show Saint Marty a picture of a kitty or a puppy.

Bring on the Kleenex!

July 2: Being a Poet, Great Panel, "Carol" Dip

Linda Nemec Foster:  a hard act to follow

Well, fresh from my appearance on the U. P. Book Tour in Republic, Michigan, I am a little tired but feeling wonderful.  The panel of writers was diverse and great, from the poets down to the historians.  We had poems, songs, and stories about starvation and fly-fishing nuns.  I read in the second half of the program, following Linda Nemec Foster--the most accomplished and entertaining writer of the group.  Linda brought down the house were her poems, and then I had to step up.  It was a little daunting, but I managed to grab hold of some of Linda's fireworks and not get burned. 

Last night just proved one thing to me.  Despite small audiences.  Despite limited opportunities for publication.  Despite years of honing my craft.  Despite lack of glory or honor or prestige.  Despite all of these things (and a few more I didn't mention), I LOVE being a poet.

There, I said it.

Today is Monday, and that means it's time, once again, to play the Carol dip game.  For those doubters out there, I wish to point out something.  Last week, I asked a question concerning the fate of a certain Today Show anchor.  The great book of Dickens predicted the departure of said anchor.  Last Thursday, Ann Curry quit Today, despite the fact that Ann is/was the nicest co-host Matt Lauer ever had.  Ann is gone, and Dickens knew it.  So what if everybody from Entertainment Weekly to Elmo was predicting Ann's demise.  The point is that you should never doubt the power of the Carol dip. 

Now that I have that off my chest, I will ask my question for today.  After much thought and reflection, I have settled on the following query:

Will I get sunburned on July 4th?

And the answer from Ebenezer Scrooge and company is:

To sit staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him.  There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own.  Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

I'm in trouble.  Just look at that string of adjectctives:  "very awful," "infernal atmosphere," and "agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven."  This description of Marley's Ghost isn't very comforting.

Saint Marty better purchase himself some sun block.

June 25: An Explanation, a Worry, a "Carol" Dip

This is not Jesus Christ

Having reread my post from yesterday, I think I need to explain my thinking a little bit.  When I used the fairy tale Beauty and the Beast as an example of unconditional love, I was in no way trying to intimate that the Bible, gospels, Jesus, or God are fairy tales.  That was the furthest thing from my mind.  I was simply trying to provide an explanation to readers of this blog who may not be familiar with Christian beliefs and narratives.  I was not saying that Jesus Christ was a Disney character voiced by Robby Benson, or that the Virgin Mary was going to start suddenly belting out Alan Menken Broadway tunes.  I have great respect for Christian beliefs, and I would never want to in any way diminish the power of the Jesus narrative.

Now, some of you are probably thinking, "What the hell is he talking about?"  Some of you might actually be scrolling back to yesterday's post to see what kind of controversial statements I made.  And then some of you are probably going to think, "This idiot is delusional.  He actually thinks people take him seriously."  I will accept any and all criticism/mocking.  I deserve it.  It keeps me grounded.

The second thing on my mind this morning is a worry about a drop-off in readership.  Yes, I keep track of how many people are reading Saint Marty on an hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly basis.  It's part of my unhealthy preoccupation with being popular.  I don't want to be the only girl not invited to the prom.  Until last week, I've been averaging around 500 to 700 views a day for June.  Suddenly, I'm lucky if I make it to 400.  I can't account for the sudden decline in views.

I'm asking my faithful disciples (and my not so faithful disciples) to let me know what kinds of posts are their favorites.  Perhaps I need to include more original poetry.  Or discussion of literature.  Or perhaps nude pictures of myself.  (Wait a minute.  I want to attract people to this blog, not send them fleeing for the nearest bottle of eye wash.)  You tell me, and I'll try to do it.  I'm a cheap date.  You don't even have to get me drunk.

Now, I owe you a Carol dip this morning, since it is Monday.  I've already written about the things that are on the forefront of my thoughts this early a.m.  However, I do have one more pressing question:

Will NBC kick Ann Curry off the Today show?

And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:

To sit, staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him.  There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own.  Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were stil agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

"You see this toothpick?" said Scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the version's stony gaze from himself.

There you have it, folks.  A description of Jacob Marley's phantom.  That means Ann Curry is history.  She's a ghost, a spectre.  She's dead on arrival.  (That sort of depresses me, because Ann Curry is the nicest person on that program.  Why can't nice people come out on top?)

Take it to the bank, folks.  You heard it from Charles Dickens and Saint Marty first.