My Advance Medical Directive

Having had a recent brush with death (and by "brush with death" I mean "a semi-serious illness that lasted, surgery included, about a week and a half"), I have once again been reminded of the need for an advance medical directive. I know that it's important that my loved ones know my wishes should I, for any reason, be unable to communicate them. With that in mind, I decided to go one step further and put my AMD here online.

Directive to Physicians

Directive made this 18th day of August in the year 2009.

I, Junglemonkey, being of sound mind, willfully and voluntarily make known my desire that my life shall not be artificially prolonged under the circumstances set forth in this directive, nor shall the quality of my life be greatly compromised.

1. If at any time I should have an incurable or irreversible condition caused by injury, disease, or illness certified to be a terminal condition by two physicians, and if the application of life-sustaining procedures would serve only to artificially postpone the moment of my death, and if my attending physician determines that my death is imminent or will result within a relatively short time without the application of life-sustaining procedures. I direct that those procedures be withheld or withdrawn, and that I be permitted to die naturally, although feature-enhancing artificial light and a six-piece chamber music group would be nice.


2. In the absence of my ability to give directions regarding the use of those life-sustaining procedures, it is my intention that Madame Rosalie, certified psychic, be permitted to lay hands on my forehead and divine my wishes. Should my inability to communicate involve the sort of head trauma that would make such laying on of hands impractical Madame Rosalie is hereby authorized to read the lines of my left palm only.


3. If I have been diagnosed as pregnant and that diagnosis is known to my physician, my family is directed to sue Dr. Victoria Whitman who performed my tubal ligation in February of 2000 and guaranteed that I would never again need another method of birth control. Dr. Whitman's paperwork is in the filing drawer of the big wooden desk upstairs.


4. If I become unable to update my Facebook or Twitter accounts, my family is directed to use whatever means necessary to keep my accounts updated at least four times daily, ensuring that at least half of all posts are both “snarky” and “hilarious.” My family is directed to ensure that any future posts are re-Tweeted at least once a week by no fewer than three people.


5. If I request that my children drive me to a membership warehouse store so that I can stock up on tube socks and beef 'n' cheese mini tacos, I direct that those trips be withheld, or that any of my nieces or nephews be sent instead as I work on my ultimate all-time high Bejeweled score.


6. In the event that I refuse to acknowledge that my niece Tanya is a lesbian and insist on asking “When are you going to find a nice boy and settle down?” at every family gathering, my family is directed to show me all of those pictures of Tanya starring in the 4th grade production of Peter Pan. Again.


7. In the event that I am thrown out of the supermarket for winking and growling “Nicely packed, bag boy” to the 18-year-old kid who packs the groceries, my family is directed to explain to the manager that “Mom is off her meds again.”


8. When I am no longer able to distinguish the difference between Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin champagne and cheap white wine mixed with 7Up, my best friend Carl is directed to take possession of my entire wine cellar and throw a party to which he is directed to invite our friend Patricia, but NOT Sylvia.


9. In the event that I begin wearing shoes that make my feet look like hooves and clothes made only of flame-retardant materials, my family is directed to cut my hair like Florence Henderson circa 1972, and tell me that I have “Wessonality.”


10. If at any time I appear unable to communicate, unable to respond to stimulus and immobile, my family is directed that I'm probably just thinking and to shut the hell up and leave me alone for crying out loud. A person can hardly get a second to herself around here!

This directive is in effect until it is revoked.

I understand the full import of this directive and I am emotionally and mentally competent to make this directive.

I understand that I may revoke this directive as any time.

I understand that a lot of people are fascinated by American Idol, but for the life of me, I don't know why.

I request that only comfort care be provided to me, no antibiotics, no artificial nutrition (with the exception of Pringles), no mechanical ventilation, and no hydration. It is my strong preference to be allowed to die outside of a care facility if possible, preferably in the home of Martha Stewart, while she whips up a crème brulee to ease my passing. The only condition under which I desire these preferences for end of life care to be altered is in the case of possible cryogenic suspension in which case I would like my sickbed to be wheeled to the mall where I can undergo a complete makeover beforehand.
Signed Junglemonkey

It's All About Expectations

The Pirate and I just got back from a fabulous day out that included a lovely breakfast, an amazing movie and pistachio ice cream. At this very moment, I am sipping the best gin I've ever had. I shan't tell you the name of it, but it comes in a bottle that looks like it should contain propane.

Back when I first saw the previews for GI Joe, I thought “I have to see this.” I'm a sucker for stuff blowing up and gleefully bad dialogue (not to be confused with unconsciously bad dialogue of the George Lucas type, where he has no idea what a moron he sounds like¹). I expected no plot whatsoever. I expected lots of creative digital explosions of stuff. I expected techno envy, because the characters would have battle rhinos and personal jet packs and all those other things that I've wanted my entire life and have been unjustly denied.

Having modulated my expectations to their very lowest setting, I was pleasantly surprised. There was a limping Swiss cheese of a plot – score! Of course the plot depended entirely on a series of flashbacks that reveal everyone's motivation to be laughably implausible, but in cartoons, nobody's worried about little things like motivation. The whole thing was so circular, with the guy we thought was the bad guy being secondary to the real bad guy who turns the hero's fiance into a bad girl and...nope, I've lost it. I was at the movies not an hour ago and the plot is already evaporating in a puff of nanobot-laced smoke. The most lingering image from the movie is Dennis Quaid, mugging shamelessly.

But who cares about plot - What about special effects? There were not only creative digital explosions, but creative digital metal-eating nanobots and, my very ultimate favorite, a spectacular final underwater battle scene that rivaled SpongeBob SquarePants for scientific inaccuracy! And gadgets? What didn't they have? Guns that attached to any surface, appendage or material! Lee Press-On Muscles galore! A Hummer with a cow catcher! Evil fizzy antifreeze! Robotuna!

It makes me think about the time that the Pirate and I played hooky from work one summer afternoon to watch LXG. Remember LXG? We'd seen the preview when we went with friends to see The Italian Job, and it looked fun. Oooh! we thought. All our favorite literary characters in a steampunky adventure. We thought there would be plot. Character development. The preview showed a woman in a long coat dissolving into a flock of ravens as she walked along. Was any of that in the film itself? It was not (to include, to my immense disappointment, the shot of the woman dissolving into ravens). It was unwatchable, and the Pirate and I spent the whole ride home bitching about what a letdown it was. Obviously, we hadn't correctly modulated our expectations.

At the risk of spoiling it for you completely, I will say that the ending sets things up for the next movie and makes no secret of it and I am as excited as I can be. With my expectations once again jacked down to their lowest level, I'll be there to see what else can be strapped on, shot off, molecularly dissolved, or blown to pieces!

¹ Now that I think of it, this is a movie adapted from a cartoon that was itself adapted from a toy. The movie dialogue sounded very much like the cartoon dialogue and was therefore self-consciously aware of the fact that it's aimed at 6-year-olds. There was much nodding and winking. Similarly, the cartoon series Clone Wars, which was NOT written by George Lucas, has wonderful cartoon dialogue which borrows heavily from actual dialogue from the Star Wars films. This once again affirms my belief that cartoons are the highest form of art.

Virtual Bank Line: The Majestic Sweep of History

Since falling ill, my dreams have been restless and action-packed. I was worried at first that my boss's conjecture, that my creative spark resided in my gallbladder and might therefore have been entirely removed, might prove true. Last night's dream showed that the spark is still alive and well.

I was the sister of the village blacksmith, an enormous, hot-headed bull of a man well-known up and down the countryside as a political instigator. He was constantly agitating for political reform, criticizing the Earl who governed our village and a few of the villages to the south. He made no secret of the fact that he favored the policies of another man whose land holdings lay to the north of us, and he would be willing to join in open revolt against our current lord.

My brother, being the strong-headed personality he was, required a firm hand to run his household. His wife was a weak and feeble woman, sickly all of her life, but the daughter of a man who had been allotted a great deal of land and had no sons. I had never been allowed to marry (my brother had something against every suitor I'd had), but my brother's houseshold was the defacto center of our town's social life, and I was the defacto center of my brother's household.

After years of stirring up the local landed peasants and angering the Earl, war was finally at our doorstep. I came into the house one day to find my brother in the center of a gang of men sharpening spears and collecting stones. The lord to the north was coming, and they were planning to join him against our own lord.

I began grabbing small things of value - things sure to be looted once the fighting was over. My brother's wife had some jewelry, there was a bag of silver coins that represented my brother's savings, and a bolt of expensive cloth. At the last minute, I decided to leave the cloth behind. I ran into the woods and hid myself in a tiny cave.

Fighting is loud and unspecific. Nobody shouted "For our Earl!" as they went at each other. Unless you already knew whose men were whose, it was impossible to tell which side was winning. Men fought, screamed, died without declaring allegiance to anyone but God, and that was mostly in the form of supplication.

I came out from my hiding place and crept back to my house. I peeked in the kitchen window to see the room full of men I didn't know. That was all the answer I needed. I could see the bolt of cloth propped up in a corner and cursed myself for not having taken it.

It took me two days, but I walked all the way to the nearest village, about 25 miles north. I went to the home of a woman who was known as the best glass-blower in the kingdom. Her renown was such that she had been granted the right to say "Glassmaker to the King," and she was known as Frances of Athe. She knew my brother and agreed to take to take me on as a servant. I eventually learned the glass-blowing trade and the two of us did very well for ourselves.

For those of you who are concerned, I did see my brother's head on a spike at the gates to our village some weeks later, and I never heard anything of what became of his wife. I didn't really mourn either of them.