So yet again I'm here in The Frozen Tundra, watching whatever tom fuckery television the network executives have decided to broadcast over the airwaves. Currently my options are endless. I can paint my nails, read a book, eat some strangely unsalted hot and spicy peanuts or nibble on the leftovers of my pistachio-crusted salmon, compliments of room service. I can also watch neverending episodes of Law & Order and HELLO, can we talk about how many episodes of this show are sitting in a vault somewhere? I used to watch reruns back in college and that was eight years ago.
I think I'm going to paint my nails. WHILE watching Law & Order. I'm a multi-tasking fool.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Two for the Money, Three for the Show
Lately I’ve been house hunting, due mainly to the fact that I don’t have a current project to occupy my time and house hunting seemed like the way to go. Normally when my boredom level reaches critical mass I take up a new time killer- like making plans to move to Maine or obsessively looking at plane tickets to The Netherlands. I don’t actually plan on doing any of these things, I just waste valuable time researching them. Time that could be better spent not eating cookies so as to give myself a better chance at fitting in that godamn bridesmaid dress. But I digress.
While I’ve had the most success at finding possible homes on the generic MLS search engine, craigslist has been the most amusing. I was introduced to the site back in 2002 when I lived in New York and my roommates and I had what you might call a spat. That spat had me dreaming about baseball bats and the kind of damage I could inflict with metal vs. wood. In my dream I decided on wood, because I thought I’d get a more satisfying crunch when I hit a homerun with their kneecaps. That will forever remain in Dream Status, because otherwise that’s known as attempted manslaughter by reason of the Twinkie Defense. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again- I am not a good candidate for jail. Jumpsuits make me look bloated.
And so craigslist.org became one of my top timewasters after a coworker found me on the flower bleeding from my ear because I’d just found out how much a broker charges to get you into 450 square foot apartment. She took pity on me, poured me a glass of vodka and pointed my browser to that fairytale place where brokers don’t rip flesh from your upper arm as payment.
But the houses are just a drop in the bucket compared to the overall scariness that can be found there. Need a small ass? Get a mini donkey! Ever thought about moving to San Francisco to live it up with a Caddyfastic light peanut butter man with zero setbacks, check out brotha brotha. Don’t bypass those errors of grammaticalness. Then there’s a packrat whose wife has probably threatened him with bodily injury if he doesn’t get rid of those Car & Driver magazines from 1977. And 1983. And 1992.
Or I could just buy this house. Or should I say houses?
My favorite part is the closing sentence: ONLY SERIOUS INQUIRES!!!! JUST REMEMBER THEY DO NEED MINOR REPAIR YOUR NOT GETTING TWO MANSIONS FOR THIS PRICE OK.
Ok. Duly noted.
While I’ve had the most success at finding possible homes on the generic MLS search engine, craigslist has been the most amusing. I was introduced to the site back in 2002 when I lived in New York and my roommates and I had what you might call a spat. That spat had me dreaming about baseball bats and the kind of damage I could inflict with metal vs. wood. In my dream I decided on wood, because I thought I’d get a more satisfying crunch when I hit a homerun with their kneecaps. That will forever remain in Dream Status, because otherwise that’s known as attempted manslaughter by reason of the Twinkie Defense. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again- I am not a good candidate for jail. Jumpsuits make me look bloated.
And so craigslist.org became one of my top timewasters after a coworker found me on the flower bleeding from my ear because I’d just found out how much a broker charges to get you into 450 square foot apartment. She took pity on me, poured me a glass of vodka and pointed my browser to that fairytale place where brokers don’t rip flesh from your upper arm as payment.
But the houses are just a drop in the bucket compared to the overall scariness that can be found there. Need a small ass? Get a mini donkey! Ever thought about moving to San Francisco to live it up with a Caddyfastic light peanut butter man with zero setbacks, check out brotha brotha. Don’t bypass those errors of grammaticalness. Then there’s a packrat whose wife has probably threatened him with bodily injury if he doesn’t get rid of those Car & Driver magazines from 1977. And 1983. And 1992.
Or I could just buy this house. Or should I say houses?
My favorite part is the closing sentence: ONLY SERIOUS INQUIRES!!!! JUST REMEMBER THEY DO NEED MINOR REPAIR YOUR NOT GETTING TWO MANSIONS FOR THIS PRICE OK.
Ok. Duly noted.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I'M TALKING TO YOU J. CREW
Two months ago I got a text message from my friend Becca with a picture and a tagline that said, “I just got engaged!” The picture could not have been more disgustingly adorable, what with the Magic Kingdom castle in the background and rosebushes at every conceivable angle. Both of them were smiling like they’d just eaten opiate-laced sno-cones and her hand was placed strategically on his chest, which is girl code for LOOK AT MY FUCKING RING, BITCHES. Her future husband could not have picked a better place to propose to her because if anything personifies Becca, it’s Disney World in its truest form. Not the scary teenagers in Pluto costumes or the eunuch-esque voice of Mickey Mouse, but that magical tingly sensation you’re supposed to get when you’re a kid and you see the sparkling castle in the distance where Tinkerbell might live. Becca is Tinkerbell, if Tinkerbell were a recovering hippie with a tendency to wear jingly ankle bracelets and frolic through fields of flowers.
Right after the engagement announcement I got word that I’d be playing the part of bridesmaid. I was kind of excited, because if Becca is getting married it’s the real deal. I met this guy over Thanksgiving and to say I approve would be an understatement. Not that she needs my approval- but it sure is less gut-clenching when your friend isn’t marrying a total douche. It also means that there will be less surreptitious sipping from the whiskey flask, which would lead to fewer grain-fueled speeches about how their love is like a bb gun: not too painful and rarely fatal, unless you shoot them right in the eye.
The only issue I have is my selected bridesmaid dress:
Pretty, no? It is. Except when I put it on and it zips up to my bra strap, wherein my upper chesticular region starts to laugh and says REALLY? TRY AGAIN. This is a problem, because J. Crew doesn’t make clothing above size ITSY and I got the largest size they make, knowing as I did that what fits in the waist does not fit in the top, and the top must definitely be covered. Can’t upstage the bride in the middle of her wedding vows with a boobtacular revolt.
So I set out to correct the problem. I ordered a second dress from ebay with the hopes of using the extra material as… something. A wrap? A jacket? A poncho? Because that’s what it’s going to take to move this dress away from the gaping maw of Slutville. A fucking poncho.
When I realized that the task at hand involved things like seam rippers and sewing machines, I thought maybe I could just rectify the situation with some undergarments. Have you ever seen those really ugly garments that look like modernized corsets? I bought one, but not for my waist. I thought that maybe, possibly, if I hooked and lycra-ed them into submission, it might give me a few more inches of zip-able dress. It does. But it makes me look like I’m smuggling really large and strangely poofy dinner plates. Not my most flattering look. So I bought a cardigan, hoping to cover up the inches of material that steadfastly refused to meet in the middle. Also not my best look. I look like I’m about to serve tea in 1956 and, oh, I’m sorry, let me get you a plate for that, I’VE GOT ONE RIGHT HERE IN MY BODICE.
I have from now until April 26th to come up with a viable solution. I’ve even enlisted the help of my mother, who will be lugging a sewing machine up three flights of stairs because the one I’ve got is broken, possibly due to the last time I tried to sew something and I ignored the telltale angry machine noises and let the needle lodge permanently in the plastic siding.
Right after the engagement announcement I got word that I’d be playing the part of bridesmaid. I was kind of excited, because if Becca is getting married it’s the real deal. I met this guy over Thanksgiving and to say I approve would be an understatement. Not that she needs my approval- but it sure is less gut-clenching when your friend isn’t marrying a total douche. It also means that there will be less surreptitious sipping from the whiskey flask, which would lead to fewer grain-fueled speeches about how their love is like a bb gun: not too painful and rarely fatal, unless you shoot them right in the eye.
The only issue I have is my selected bridesmaid dress:
Pretty, no? It is. Except when I put it on and it zips up to my bra strap, wherein my upper chesticular region starts to laugh and says REALLY? TRY AGAIN. This is a problem, because J. Crew doesn’t make clothing above size ITSY and I got the largest size they make, knowing as I did that what fits in the waist does not fit in the top, and the top must definitely be covered. Can’t upstage the bride in the middle of her wedding vows with a boobtacular revolt.So I set out to correct the problem. I ordered a second dress from ebay with the hopes of using the extra material as… something. A wrap? A jacket? A poncho? Because that’s what it’s going to take to move this dress away from the gaping maw of Slutville. A fucking poncho.
When I realized that the task at hand involved things like seam rippers and sewing machines, I thought maybe I could just rectify the situation with some undergarments. Have you ever seen those really ugly garments that look like modernized corsets? I bought one, but not for my waist. I thought that maybe, possibly, if I hooked and lycra-ed them into submission, it might give me a few more inches of zip-able dress. It does. But it makes me look like I’m smuggling really large and strangely poofy dinner plates. Not my most flattering look. So I bought a cardigan, hoping to cover up the inches of material that steadfastly refused to meet in the middle. Also not my best look. I look like I’m about to serve tea in 1956 and, oh, I’m sorry, let me get you a plate for that, I’VE GOT ONE RIGHT HERE IN MY BODICE.
I have from now until April 26th to come up with a viable solution. I’ve even enlisted the help of my mother, who will be lugging a sewing machine up three flights of stairs because the one I’ve got is broken, possibly due to the last time I tried to sew something and I ignored the telltale angry machine noises and let the needle lodge permanently in the plastic siding.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Dude does not look like a lady- rather, lady sounds like a man.
Right now I’m sitting on an eight hour long conference call and if you think I’m listening, you’re right. I’m listening with my magical multitasking skills to three people carry on three different conversations. I can’t tell who they’re talking to but that’s part of the fun. Are they talking to me? The wall? That crazed chinchilla in the corner, staring beadily from his hiding place inside the laptop bag?
Lately I’ve been on lots of these calls and sometimes, if I’m really lucky, I get to fly to The Frozen Tundra to bodily participate in these meetings. I use the term “participate” very loosely because, hello, I am Southern. Southern Folk don’t waste their time on all-day meetings, especially when there’s this handy-dandy newfangled thing call THE INTERNETS and THE ELECTRONIC EMAIL. So mostly I nod intelligently and pretend to take notes. During bathroom breaks I check to make sure my face is still holding up its Moderately Interested look because there’s always the chance I’ll get tired and slip into my WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK face.
Last week was more interesting than most because my boss, Leotissimus, was requested to join the call. It’s not that his mere presence made it interesting because it’s generally real hard to spice up a conference call when you’re stuck on the ass end of it, listening via the telephone in your office. It’s more that Leo has this innate ability to insert his foot square into his mouth, all the way down his esophagus where his toes wriggle around and rip a hole in his spleen. Like that one time he accidentally walked in on a woman pumping breast milk in one of our unused offices, right after someone had told him that a new mother was going to be using it to pump in peace. He just wanted to make sure the door was locked. Imagine her surprise.
He’s normally pretty good with the shit we give him, just like the rest of us. Nobody is immune. My other boss once sent an email to the wrong [redacted] that just said “Kreatur wants a kiss!” That sentence has a long and sordid history and one day I might explain it. But it has nothing to do with my boss wanting a kiss, which is pretty much what The Other Robin assumed. I once returned a phone call from our then-Vice President, like, THE Vice President, the one that’s right under the president, the one that blinks twice and shit sings down the toilet, with “TAG, YOU’RE IT.” In my defense I didn’t know who he was because much like Dick Cheney he just kind of faded into the background, on purpose, so he could surprise unsuspecting employees and make them piss themselves with fear.
The thing is, we all do it. We all do asinine things and later regret that our mother didn’t shoot tequila during her pregnancy because at least then we could claim mental defect. It’s just that here, at The Undisclosed Location, we never let you forget it.
So last Thursday I was sitting in a room with fifteen very unhelpful Yanks while Leo dialed in from Little Rock. We’d had about two hours worth of document revising when the person to my right started talking about how System X was going to communicate with System Y. During a lull in conversation, Leo popped in with “Who was the gentleman that was just speaking?”
Pretty innocuous, right? But the room goes silent and since no one appears willing to speak up, I lean into one of the strategically placed microphones and tell Leo that the last person speaking was Tanya, but Robert was the one a few minutes before. Leo says, “No, the gentleman. The gentleman that was just talking about System X.”
That was pretty much what I was afraid of, so I whipped out my blackberry and sent him a message that said “NOT A DUDE.”
But I’m 700 miles away and there’s probably a 2-3 second lag time between when I hit Send and when he reads his message. Three seconds that could have saved us all a lot of tension. Meanwhile he digs the hole deeper, summarizing what “the gentleman” was just talking about, just to make it clear that he wants the name. Of the gentleman. That was just speaking.
And then The Universe intervened and he finally read his crackberry message. His response? “Oh FUCK.”
It’s a tribute to my upbringing that I kept a straight face.
Lately I’ve been on lots of these calls and sometimes, if I’m really lucky, I get to fly to The Frozen Tundra to bodily participate in these meetings. I use the term “participate” very loosely because, hello, I am Southern. Southern Folk don’t waste their time on all-day meetings, especially when there’s this handy-dandy newfangled thing call THE INTERNETS and THE ELECTRONIC EMAIL. So mostly I nod intelligently and pretend to take notes. During bathroom breaks I check to make sure my face is still holding up its Moderately Interested look because there’s always the chance I’ll get tired and slip into my WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK face.
Last week was more interesting than most because my boss, Leotissimus, was requested to join the call. It’s not that his mere presence made it interesting because it’s generally real hard to spice up a conference call when you’re stuck on the ass end of it, listening via the telephone in your office. It’s more that Leo has this innate ability to insert his foot square into his mouth, all the way down his esophagus where his toes wriggle around and rip a hole in his spleen. Like that one time he accidentally walked in on a woman pumping breast milk in one of our unused offices, right after someone had told him that a new mother was going to be using it to pump in peace. He just wanted to make sure the door was locked. Imagine her surprise.
He’s normally pretty good with the shit we give him, just like the rest of us. Nobody is immune. My other boss once sent an email to the wrong [redacted] that just said “Kreatur wants a kiss!” That sentence has a long and sordid history and one day I might explain it. But it has nothing to do with my boss wanting a kiss, which is pretty much what The Other Robin assumed. I once returned a phone call from our then-Vice President, like, THE Vice President, the one that’s right under the president, the one that blinks twice and shit sings down the toilet, with “TAG, YOU’RE IT.” In my defense I didn’t know who he was because much like Dick Cheney he just kind of faded into the background, on purpose, so he could surprise unsuspecting employees and make them piss themselves with fear.
The thing is, we all do it. We all do asinine things and later regret that our mother didn’t shoot tequila during her pregnancy because at least then we could claim mental defect. It’s just that here, at The Undisclosed Location, we never let you forget it.
So last Thursday I was sitting in a room with fifteen very unhelpful Yanks while Leo dialed in from Little Rock. We’d had about two hours worth of document revising when the person to my right started talking about how System X was going to communicate with System Y. During a lull in conversation, Leo popped in with “Who was the gentleman that was just speaking?”
Pretty innocuous, right? But the room goes silent and since no one appears willing to speak up, I lean into one of the strategically placed microphones and tell Leo that the last person speaking was Tanya, but Robert was the one a few minutes before. Leo says, “No, the gentleman. The gentleman that was just talking about System X.”
That was pretty much what I was afraid of, so I whipped out my blackberry and sent him a message that said “NOT A DUDE.”
But I’m 700 miles away and there’s probably a 2-3 second lag time between when I hit Send and when he reads his message. Three seconds that could have saved us all a lot of tension. Meanwhile he digs the hole deeper, summarizing what “the gentleman” was just talking about, just to make it clear that he wants the name. Of the gentleman. That was just speaking.
And then The Universe intervened and he finally read his crackberry message. His response? “Oh FUCK.”
It’s a tribute to my upbringing that I kept a straight face.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
Awkwardly forward
I didn’t really make good on my promise to finish talking up the events of last year by the time last year was actually over, so I can’t give myself a gold star for Completion of Goal. But I give myself a gold star anyway, because I can, because I’M THE MAKER OF THE GOLD STARS, DAMMIT.
The new year came in with relative quiet, just a clink of some champagne glasses filled with sparkling white grape juice. My friends don’t drink and as it turns out, neither do I. Not really, not anymore. Stomach and I reached a tender truce towards the end of last year and part of our agreement was no more lettuce, no more beer and no more questionable meats. Not that I was a big questionable meat eater or anything- but it’s not like Chinese food comes with a Certified Chicken Meat Stamp. And now I’ve gone and insulted the Chinese food-makers, awesome. But seriously, if anyone has some contacts at Nu Fun Ree, could you let them know that I used to love the shit out of them but since their move downtown it’s like they go out of their way to incite stomach rioting? Thanks.
Since then (“then” being the New year, not the stomach rioting) I’ve threatened to quit my job, received a job offer, declined said job offer, received a raise and a promotion and suffered through influenza type A. In the beginning I made lots of jokes about the type A flu, how it might obsessively balance my checkbook or ferociously scrub the toilet. But the flu was a nasty, mean-spirited bitch and I’m keeping my insults to a minimum. Karma and all.
Anyway, since I so obviously flubbed my previous goal I’m setting a new one- posting at least once a week. Because the interwebs needs some more mindless rambling and useless drivel. [Insert emoticon of your choice] I sort of let the internet go last year, not deliberately, but because I got a little sad. And crazy.
Apparently that’s a winning combination.
The new year came in with relative quiet, just a clink of some champagne glasses filled with sparkling white grape juice. My friends don’t drink and as it turns out, neither do I. Not really, not anymore. Stomach and I reached a tender truce towards the end of last year and part of our agreement was no more lettuce, no more beer and no more questionable meats. Not that I was a big questionable meat eater or anything- but it’s not like Chinese food comes with a Certified Chicken Meat Stamp. And now I’ve gone and insulted the Chinese food-makers, awesome. But seriously, if anyone has some contacts at Nu Fun Ree, could you let them know that I used to love the shit out of them but since their move downtown it’s like they go out of their way to incite stomach rioting? Thanks.
Since then (“then” being the New year, not the stomach rioting) I’ve threatened to quit my job, received a job offer, declined said job offer, received a raise and a promotion and suffered through influenza type A. In the beginning I made lots of jokes about the type A flu, how it might obsessively balance my checkbook or ferociously scrub the toilet. But the flu was a nasty, mean-spirited bitch and I’m keeping my insults to a minimum. Karma and all.
Anyway, since I so obviously flubbed my previous goal I’m setting a new one- posting at least once a week. Because the interwebs needs some more mindless rambling and useless drivel. [Insert emoticon of your choice] I sort of let the internet go last year, not deliberately, but because I got a little sad. And crazy.
Apparently that’s a winning combination.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
ROCK THE VOTE
It's Super Tuesday- go vote!
And don't whine about it. I don't know where to go, I'm not a registered Democrat, wah wah wah. DOESN'T MATTER.
Google "your state + Feb 5 + where to vote" and you're bound to find a list of counties and locations.
DON'T BE A PANSY. GO VOTE.
And don't whine about it. I don't know where to go, I'm not a registered Democrat, wah wah wah. DOESN'T MATTER.
Google "your state + Feb 5 + where to vote" and you're bound to find a list of counties and locations.
DON'T BE A PANSY. GO VOTE.
Monday, January 07, 2008
I'm going to claim sleep deprivation when my bills don't get paid this month
A little over a year ago I went to this wonk-ass doctor who hooked me up to wires and electrodes and a night vision camera in an effort to figure out why I couldn’t sleep. Before that process began, I started off my Quest for Sleep with my generic anti-narcotic doctor. He wasn’t really concerned with the fact that I was hallucinating spiders and bloody beating hearts on my wood floor but was terribly interested in whether or not I was a) depressed or b) depressed and contemplating offing myself. I informed him that I was neither depressed nor depressed with suicidal thoughts. I was fucking pissed and I wanted a nap.
But this time the inability to sleep cannot be blamed on my pantalones loco, my obsessive anxiety or the troll who lives under my bed and pulls my hair out at night. (Note: I’m sure my hair falls out during the day, but staying in one place for eight hours really brings home the total, gut-clenching amount that finds its way to my pillow case. So I’ve stopped blaming it on my rebellious finger-flipping body and have placed the responsibility on my friend the bed troll.) So this time, the no sleeping? Wow. I have a direct culprit that I can blame for my sleepless nights but it turns out that putting a stop to the culprit could be interpreted as animal cruelty and I’m really not a good candidate for jail.
The culprit is Lily, my mildly standoffish cat who is lithe and agile and apparently insane in her membrane. Any time I crawl into bed, day or night, sleep or nap, that bitch ass fur monster finds my antique vanity mirror simply irresistible. And you thought Robert Palmer had the market on that. No. That’s not how this works. That mirror is so irresistible it makes Charlie Sheen’s late 90’s hooker visits look like midnight charity work instead of a skank sex addiction. I’m not sure if it’s a Pavlovian response or a sadistic bend in her kittyality, but I’m about to put an end to this shit. She claws and claws and claws, scraping her paws against the mirror and making it bang against the wall, over and over and over. And over. 2am? And over. 4 am? And over. Time to get up? Here’s Lily, our favorite kitty prisoner, digging her way to freedom through my mirror. This isn’t The Shawshank Redemption. Morgan Freeman is not her best friend. She will not meet up on a Mexican beach in a romantical man reunion. I NEED TO SLEEP.
But this time the inability to sleep cannot be blamed on my pantalones loco, my obsessive anxiety or the troll who lives under my bed and pulls my hair out at night. (Note: I’m sure my hair falls out during the day, but staying in one place for eight hours really brings home the total, gut-clenching amount that finds its way to my pillow case. So I’ve stopped blaming it on my rebellious finger-flipping body and have placed the responsibility on my friend the bed troll.) So this time, the no sleeping? Wow. I have a direct culprit that I can blame for my sleepless nights but it turns out that putting a stop to the culprit could be interpreted as animal cruelty and I’m really not a good candidate for jail.
The culprit is Lily, my mildly standoffish cat who is lithe and agile and apparently insane in her membrane. Any time I crawl into bed, day or night, sleep or nap, that bitch ass fur monster finds my antique vanity mirror simply irresistible. And you thought Robert Palmer had the market on that. No. That’s not how this works. That mirror is so irresistible it makes Charlie Sheen’s late 90’s hooker visits look like midnight charity work instead of a skank sex addiction. I’m not sure if it’s a Pavlovian response or a sadistic bend in her kittyality, but I’m about to put an end to this shit. She claws and claws and claws, scraping her paws against the mirror and making it bang against the wall, over and over and over. And over. 2am? And over. 4 am? And over. Time to get up? Here’s Lily, our favorite kitty prisoner, digging her way to freedom through my mirror. This isn’t The Shawshank Redemption. Morgan Freeman is not her best friend. She will not meet up on a Mexican beach in a romantical man reunion. I NEED TO SLEEP.
Friday, December 14, 2007
The Food Chain of Haters
I am a little concerned for the birds who inhabit the trees outside my building. This isn’t the kind of concern I had for the singing birds who lived outside my bedroom window when I shared an apartment with my brother. That kind of concern stemmed more from my desire to kill every last one of them and my fear that even if I managed to peg them all with my brother’s gun, there was some endless supply of night-singing devil birds that would swoop in and take their place. I spent months shoving various ear plugs down my ear canal in the vain hope that it would block the amplified twee-tweeeeeee-tweeing that began every morning at 3am. And then one day I lost my godamned mind and grabbed my brother’s BB gun from his closet and stomped outside in my pink nightgown and flipflops. I only got two (unsuccessfull) shots off before I noticed my neighbor staring at me from her driveway, ushering her children into their oversized Suburban monstrosity. Ushering in the way you usher unsuspecting bank patrons away from the Crazy holding a gun to a tellers head. No sudden movements, don’t break eye contact, keep your voice soothing and low. I gave her my sweetest smile and told her I was just looking for some breakfast.
Those singing birds were the bane of my existence, they were the rat poison in my coffee, the dirty finger in my eye. The current birds haven’t quite made it to that level, but they are quickly moving up the Hater Food Chain. Right below People Who Don’t Understand The Proper Use of the Interstate On Ramp but above Stepping in a Puddle of Cat Vomit with Bare Feet.
I hate that I have such a horrible relationship with these animals, because for the most part I’m a sucker for anything covered in fuzzies. However, I am comforted to know that other people feel just as repulsed by glorified flying insects and once watched a movie where Zoey Daschenel stole my life. Besides her seriously lacking interpersonal skills, she had a collection of singing devil-birds outside her window and even though the movie was terrible, totally without purpose or other redeeming value, there’s a line she utters while taking a swig of beer:
“What kind of devil bird sings at night?”
Exactly. WHAT KIND OF DEVIL BIRD SINGS AT NIGHT. It’s unnatural. And then she tries to shoot one with a BB gun. And I thought, “What the fuck, this has happened to someone else? Someone ELSE shot at the singing devil birds with a BB gun? VALIDATION IS MINE.”
But the current birds don’t sing, at least not where I can hear them. And if I can’t hear them, no one else can. I hear people two blocks away, just because they thought about blinking. So there’s no singing. I can vouch for that. No, these birds have some kind of crazy, chucktastic diet that gives them serious cases of bird-diarrhea. Runny, chucky messes of bird shit. And it’s not like they can crap on the ground. Maybe even on the roof. These are wily little birds and they know, THEY KNOW, how much I hate cleaning off bird crap from my car. So that’s where they go. On my car.
Before you think, meh, whatever, everyone gets birdshit on their car, STOP. Stop thinking. It’s not like that. I washed my car last night because it set in airport long term parking for four days while I was in Phoenix and it was covered in dirt and airplane funk. This morning I go outside and there are twenty-seven (I counted) separate glops of bird excrement on varying parts of my car. As an added bonus, the biggest chunky mess was on the driver side door handle. Tasty snack for later.
And in case you were curious, like me, I’ll save you the trouble: All you ever needed to know about bird shit
Those singing birds were the bane of my existence, they were the rat poison in my coffee, the dirty finger in my eye. The current birds haven’t quite made it to that level, but they are quickly moving up the Hater Food Chain. Right below People Who Don’t Understand The Proper Use of the Interstate On Ramp but above Stepping in a Puddle of Cat Vomit with Bare Feet.
I hate that I have such a horrible relationship with these animals, because for the most part I’m a sucker for anything covered in fuzzies. However, I am comforted to know that other people feel just as repulsed by glorified flying insects and once watched a movie where Zoey Daschenel stole my life. Besides her seriously lacking interpersonal skills, she had a collection of singing devil-birds outside her window and even though the movie was terrible, totally without purpose or other redeeming value, there’s a line she utters while taking a swig of beer:
“What kind of devil bird sings at night?”
Exactly. WHAT KIND OF DEVIL BIRD SINGS AT NIGHT. It’s unnatural. And then she tries to shoot one with a BB gun. And I thought, “What the fuck, this has happened to someone else? Someone ELSE shot at the singing devil birds with a BB gun? VALIDATION IS MINE.”
But the current birds don’t sing, at least not where I can hear them. And if I can’t hear them, no one else can. I hear people two blocks away, just because they thought about blinking. So there’s no singing. I can vouch for that. No, these birds have some kind of crazy, chucktastic diet that gives them serious cases of bird-diarrhea. Runny, chucky messes of bird shit. And it’s not like they can crap on the ground. Maybe even on the roof. These are wily little birds and they know, THEY KNOW, how much I hate cleaning off bird crap from my car. So that’s where they go. On my car.
Before you think, meh, whatever, everyone gets birdshit on their car, STOP. Stop thinking. It’s not like that. I washed my car last night because it set in airport long term parking for four days while I was in Phoenix and it was covered in dirt and airplane funk. This morning I go outside and there are twenty-seven (I counted) separate glops of bird excrement on varying parts of my car. As an added bonus, the biggest chunky mess was on the driver side door handle. Tasty snack for later.
And in case you were curious, like me, I’ll save you the trouble: All you ever needed to know about bird shit
Thursday, December 13, 2007
A Lethal Injection of Christmas Cheer
So you might have noticed that I never actually finished that whole Look At Me I’m Dying story. I should point out that the events of that story transpired way back in August, when the weather was still flaming hot and I still had a (relatively) scar-free body. Now it’s December and I keep traveling to places like
Because I’m looking to finish talking about the events of this year by the time this year actually ends, I need to get on the ball and do a sum up. Here goes.
After my mother showed up and reaffirmed my conviction that mothers can hear you when you scream in your head, my dad rolled in roughly three hours later. Timetable: Before the surgery. Or even the mention of any surgery. Still vomiting/dry heaving into popcorn buckets but had acquired a private room so as to remain uncontaminated by the Poop Bomb lady.
Right before my parents left to go back to my apartment for the night, I had a sudden flash of the empty cigarette box lying on my kitchen table. Not because I smoke in my house but because I periodically empty my purse of it’s residual crap and the empty box(es) take up valuable space that could be utilized by FULL cigarette boxes.
Normal people would have a) told their parents about their smoking habit many years ago, or b) would have been busted by their parents many years ago. But I’m the child who was so secretive I somehow managed to keep my eighth grade boyfriend under wraps until I was twenty-five. No reason. Just for giggles. So imagine what I can do with a little tobacco habit.
We had a very awkward non-conversation where I told my dad that he was going to get in my car and it was going to smell like an ashtray in an old McDonald’s bag. I also told him he was going to need to move the three or four Virginia Slim Ultra Light Menthol boxes (empty) that would be scattered on the driver side floorboard. Then I looked at my mom and told her that there were going to be empty boxes on my kitchen table. Maybe some in my bedroom. You never know when or where the urge to clean out your purse will strike you. I wished them both a good night and acknowledged that I’d been smoking, off and on, for around a decade.
Two days later they cut out my gallbladder (such a hideous name for an organ). I stayed in the hospital an extra three or four days because I kept passing little alien zygotes in my urine. Before I left a urologist wrote me a prescription for Flomax, a drug that I later learned is designed for MEN with PROSTATE TROUBLE. As I am not a man and I do not have prostate troubles, this ended up being a bit of a concern. Especially when my vision started to go a few days later and WAIT! Let’s google this drug on the internet! Side effects include loss of vision (sometimes permanent). That sounds fun.
A week after the surgery I was still weak and nauseated and oh-so-miserable. So my mother took me to the ER, where they gave me more drugs. And I spent another week following the doctor’s regimen of pills until I decided that those people were morons and I stopped everything. Morphine, Phenargran, Xanax, Valium, Odansetron, Sucralfate, Flomax and Lexapro. Done.
Now that the surgery story is complete, we can move on.
Points of Mild Interest:
1) I have a new scar on my forehead from where my coworker accidentally shot me in the head with a plastic spring-loaded airplane. See the following conversation:
Boss: Don’t point that at Robin – you know liberals and their gun control laws…
Coworker: Oh whatever, I’ve got it totally under contro—WHAP!
Me: SON OF A BITCH!
Coworker: Holy crap you’re bleeding!
Me: SON OF A BITCH!
Coworker: I’m so sorry! It just went off!
Me: YOU SHOT ME IN THE HEAD YOU CRAZY REPUBLICAN!
And now I’ve got a thin half-inch raised scar on my forehead just above my right eye. Gives me a jaunty, rogue-ish look.
2.) My hair is falling out. HA HA HOW I WISH I WAS KIDDING. Apparently this year isn’t through shoving its unlubed fist up my ass. According to my doctor, this can happen to people after a “body trauma.” In my case, the “body trauma” would be the ill-received gallbladder surgery. Anyway, I was doing okay with it, laughing with Mother Nature as fistfuls of my frizzy mane ended up swimming down the drain or coming out in my brush until one day I realized that my hair was falling out. Don’t ask me why one day it just punched me in the face like that, how on Monday I was all, ha ha! my hair is falling out! and then on Tuesday I was all ohmygod I think I’m having a heart attack, my hair, it is falling out.
I ended up sending my hair dresser a frantic text message begging for a hair appointment the next day. I needed bangs. Big, long bangs to cover up the now visible thinning at my hairline.
She obliged. I now have bangs.
If I put in my jaw splint and fluff up my bangs a little, I find myself looking at the 11-year-old me. Just so we’re clear, the 11-year-old me was tall and chubby with frizzy permed hair, braces and a bit of a lisp. I occasionally had to wear head gear. I was a sexy beast.
Friday, November 02, 2007
No biting, small story interruption
A few Sundays ago I packed up my car and strapped the cats into the backseat and started the verbal “Did you forget anything” check with my mother, just like I always do when I leave their house. The last time I was there I left several vital hair-fixing accoutrements on the bathroom counter, like, just in the middle of the counter. I even looked in the bathroom before I left. Twice. Did I see the giant dryer sitting there on the yellow tile? No.
So my mother is going through our traditional ritual and it suddenly hits me that I’ve left my cell phone and blackberry chargers in my old room and my mother, being helpful, dashes inside to get them. She’s gone longer than I expect and I almost get out of the car to see if she’s gotten distracted by one of the stray mini-lizards that Jack, their cat, likes to bring in for play pretties. Like the rest of the family, he gets bored easily and is too much of a pussy to go in for the bloody kill; therefore he leaves their maimed and sometimes legless bodies to hobble and dart around the house. Kind of disgusting when you think about it, so don’t.
Just as I’m about to unbuckle, she comes out of the house carrying my laptop case, the laptop, the laptop charger and, oh yeah, the two things I remembered forgetting. Those two things in comparison to the laptop are worthless. Imagine me, rolling into work on Monday, looking at my desk and going WHAT THE FUCK, SOMEONE STOLE MY LAPTOP. But I’ve got my cell phone charger, so no worries!
I’d like to say I never forget things but that would be lying and liars go to hell. Probably less of a hell than child molesters but it’s hell nonetheless. And sadly, I can’t say this is an abnormal reaction, the panicking and tearing up of the purse and then coming to the (ridiculous) conclusion that the item(s) in question have been yanked by the Thief Fairy. Just last week I was getting ready for a business trip and was packing up my two laptops when I realized that I couldn’t find my aircard. It had been in my laptop case the week before, where was it now? STOLEN, THAT’S WHERE. So I walk down to my boss’s office and give him my nervous smile, which indicates it’s possible I’ve done something bad. Like letting my aircard get snatched. He comes over to my desk and, while I’m rifling through laptop case number one, he sticks his hand in laptop case number two, coming up with, guess what? An aircard! Voila, its is magic!
I’m quite glad that the aircard wasn’t stolen because as it turns out, that trip was canceled twelve hours before my flight, which means I was already packed when my mother called on Tuesday night to tell me my grandmother had gone into renal failure. Now, I’m not going to spend much time on all that because it’s a bit of a downer (Grandmother is dying! Come quick!) and because as it turns out she didn’t die (Grandmother’s not dying! Come quick!) and she’s currently holed up in rehab where her roommate wears socks with ready-made blue holes in the bottom. This is ultimately perplexing to me and I just can’t move on from the scary blue hole socks. If her feet were Mormon, this would make sense. But I didn’t sense any Mormon-ness in her, so, yeah, I don’t really know what to tell you. Grandma’s fine so stop crying.
The aircard was obviously useful because it was how I beamed magic internet particles into my laptop and “worked from home”- if “home” is really 240 miles away. I was working because as it turns out, my vacation hours sit steadily below the USELESS line (less than 10 hours but greater than 3 hours). This was all due to the week-long hospital stay back in August and the ensuing hilarity that made me wish for a bottle of Jack and a straight razor. (note: I THOUGHT I was getting credit for working while my grandmother lay in ICU but as it turns out, I was not. Cruel joke. If you feel like campaigning on my behalf, you can email Bossman@whogivesafuck.com).
So my mother is going through our traditional ritual and it suddenly hits me that I’ve left my cell phone and blackberry chargers in my old room and my mother, being helpful, dashes inside to get them. She’s gone longer than I expect and I almost get out of the car to see if she’s gotten distracted by one of the stray mini-lizards that Jack, their cat, likes to bring in for play pretties. Like the rest of the family, he gets bored easily and is too much of a pussy to go in for the bloody kill; therefore he leaves their maimed and sometimes legless bodies to hobble and dart around the house. Kind of disgusting when you think about it, so don’t.
Just as I’m about to unbuckle, she comes out of the house carrying my laptop case, the laptop, the laptop charger and, oh yeah, the two things I remembered forgetting. Those two things in comparison to the laptop are worthless. Imagine me, rolling into work on Monday, looking at my desk and going WHAT THE FUCK, SOMEONE STOLE MY LAPTOP. But I’ve got my cell phone charger, so no worries!
I’d like to say I never forget things but that would be lying and liars go to hell. Probably less of a hell than child molesters but it’s hell nonetheless. And sadly, I can’t say this is an abnormal reaction, the panicking and tearing up of the purse and then coming to the (ridiculous) conclusion that the item(s) in question have been yanked by the Thief Fairy. Just last week I was getting ready for a business trip and was packing up my two laptops when I realized that I couldn’t find my aircard. It had been in my laptop case the week before, where was it now? STOLEN, THAT’S WHERE. So I walk down to my boss’s office and give him my nervous smile, which indicates it’s possible I’ve done something bad. Like letting my aircard get snatched. He comes over to my desk and, while I’m rifling through laptop case number one, he sticks his hand in laptop case number two, coming up with, guess what? An aircard! Voila, its is magic!
I’m quite glad that the aircard wasn’t stolen because as it turns out, that trip was canceled twelve hours before my flight, which means I was already packed when my mother called on Tuesday night to tell me my grandmother had gone into renal failure. Now, I’m not going to spend much time on all that because it’s a bit of a downer (Grandmother is dying! Come quick!) and because as it turns out she didn’t die (Grandmother’s not dying! Come quick!) and she’s currently holed up in rehab where her roommate wears socks with ready-made blue holes in the bottom. This is ultimately perplexing to me and I just can’t move on from the scary blue hole socks. If her feet were Mormon, this would make sense. But I didn’t sense any Mormon-ness in her, so, yeah, I don’t really know what to tell you. Grandma’s fine so stop crying.
The aircard was obviously useful because it was how I beamed magic internet particles into my laptop and “worked from home”- if “home” is really 240 miles away. I was working because as it turns out, my vacation hours sit steadily below the USELESS line (less than 10 hours but greater than 3 hours). This was all due to the week-long hospital stay back in August and the ensuing hilarity that made me wish for a bottle of Jack and a straight razor. (note: I THOUGHT I was getting credit for working while my grandmother lay in ICU but as it turns out, I was not. Cruel joke. If you feel like campaigning on my behalf, you can email Bossman@whogivesafuck.com).
It's a biter.
Spend more than a night in a hospital and you come to realize that it’s like existing in a suspended reality where time is marked by the arbitrary delivery of green Jell-o and beef broth. It’s a state of being where, thanks to heavy doses of painkillers, a trip to the bathroom becomes the highlight of your day. I mean, where else would you find a seemingly sane woman relieving her bowels on industrial strength linoleum? And upon witnessing said act, respond with neither alarm nor horror and instead calmly notify the nearest be-scrubbed hospital worker?
But enough of all that. Day Two of my hospital stay was just as eventful as the first twelve hours had been, starting with my trip to the nuclear lab. The test itself wasn’t that bad, just a lot of stillness on a cot mattress with a big black drum placed over my midsection for three hours. A screen to my right showed the little nuclear bits going to work on my innards while I tried not to think about alien babies with exoskeletons and dripping mucus. My reverie was interrupted two hours into the test by my lab technician, who informed me they hadn’t been able to view a certain organ. This calls for a morphine injection, stat!
Now, I’ve had this test twice before and each time I’ve been given a morphine injection. I knew what to expect: a swift tingling in my legs spreading upwards towards my heart and down to my fingernails. I would float for a minute and swing gently back to earth. I would want a cookie afterwards. But this time, sweet jesus. It was like flaming balls of acid rolling along my veins until it settled in my stomach, which immediately revolted. As they were pushing my bed out of the nuclear lab I had a stomach contraction so intense I would later swear that the alien baby was gobbling up my internal organs in preparation for its stunning exit through my navel. It was not pleasant.
Thankfully hospitals are prepared for people who spontaneously dry heave and my lab tech had a popcorn bucket in front of me faster than you can say ‘Shoe Sale.’ I heaved all the way down six or seven indistinguishable corridors, straight back into my now spotless semi-private room, a room I was still sharing with my shitastic cell mate.
After an injection of anti-nausea medicine, things calmed down in the stomach region, at least somewhat. I was able to call my mother and tell her I was STILL in the hospital a whopping twenty-four hours later. I know, I know- twenty-four hours. I should get a medal. But seriously, did they misplace their magical illness detector? What was the holdup on getting my alien baby delivered? Could I not just get a stomach transplant?
I ended the call with my mother ten minutes later because even if she didn’t verbally express her grossed-outedness at my dry heaving on the phone in between sentences, I was having a hard time not being grossed out. There’s nothing so miserable as feeling perpetually nauseated with a stomach that says Fuck You at every available opportunity.
Before I hung up I told my mother that I was fine, no need to come up, I was a big girl, no worries. Inside I was screaming Can’t you fuckers fix this? I want my mommy, godammit! But still, as we get farther and farther away from the era when a sniffle warranted a full day at home with mom and ceaseless delivery of Sprite and Saltines, we feel obliged to exert our independence. I can handle this, don’t worry. It’s just an alien baby. People have those ALL THE TIME.
So I closed my eyes and let two fat self-pity tears trail down my cheeks before I drifted off into Candyland. Three hours later I woke up just as my mother was walking into the room. Apparently there’s some supersonic brain wave detector that lets moms know when their children are lying about needing them. Even if said children are skilled secret-keepers with years as practice.
But enough of all that. Day Two of my hospital stay was just as eventful as the first twelve hours had been, starting with my trip to the nuclear lab. The test itself wasn’t that bad, just a lot of stillness on a cot mattress with a big black drum placed over my midsection for three hours. A screen to my right showed the little nuclear bits going to work on my innards while I tried not to think about alien babies with exoskeletons and dripping mucus. My reverie was interrupted two hours into the test by my lab technician, who informed me they hadn’t been able to view a certain organ. This calls for a morphine injection, stat!
Now, I’ve had this test twice before and each time I’ve been given a morphine injection. I knew what to expect: a swift tingling in my legs spreading upwards towards my heart and down to my fingernails. I would float for a minute and swing gently back to earth. I would want a cookie afterwards. But this time, sweet jesus. It was like flaming balls of acid rolling along my veins until it settled in my stomach, which immediately revolted. As they were pushing my bed out of the nuclear lab I had a stomach contraction so intense I would later swear that the alien baby was gobbling up my internal organs in preparation for its stunning exit through my navel. It was not pleasant.
Thankfully hospitals are prepared for people who spontaneously dry heave and my lab tech had a popcorn bucket in front of me faster than you can say ‘Shoe Sale.’ I heaved all the way down six or seven indistinguishable corridors, straight back into my now spotless semi-private room, a room I was still sharing with my shitastic cell mate.
After an injection of anti-nausea medicine, things calmed down in the stomach region, at least somewhat. I was able to call my mother and tell her I was STILL in the hospital a whopping twenty-four hours later. I know, I know- twenty-four hours. I should get a medal. But seriously, did they misplace their magical illness detector? What was the holdup on getting my alien baby delivered? Could I not just get a stomach transplant?
I ended the call with my mother ten minutes later because even if she didn’t verbally express her grossed-outedness at my dry heaving on the phone in between sentences, I was having a hard time not being grossed out. There’s nothing so miserable as feeling perpetually nauseated with a stomach that says Fuck You at every available opportunity.
Before I hung up I told my mother that I was fine, no need to come up, I was a big girl, no worries. Inside I was screaming Can’t you fuckers fix this? I want my mommy, godammit! But still, as we get farther and farther away from the era when a sniffle warranted a full day at home with mom and ceaseless delivery of Sprite and Saltines, we feel obliged to exert our independence. I can handle this, don’t worry. It’s just an alien baby. People have those ALL THE TIME.
So I closed my eyes and let two fat self-pity tears trail down my cheeks before I drifted off into Candyland. Three hours later I woke up just as my mother was walking into the room. Apparently there’s some supersonic brain wave detector that lets moms know when their children are lying about needing them. Even if said children are skilled secret-keepers with years as practice.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Count to ten and see if it bites.
Back in the middle of August I was working in the nursery on a Wednesday night when all of a sudden my stomach region gave me the finger and I collapsed to the floor in pain. It might have scared the kids a bit, but not as much if I’d let out the stream of GODDAMNSHITASHOMOTHERFUCKINGCOCKSUCKER THIS HURTS! I don’t have the money to pay for their therapy bills so I managed to keep my mouth shut and just groan with the kind of fervor that hopefully conveyed the above phrase, just, you know, without speaking.
Instead of going to the ER, which I probably should have done, I just kind of ignored it. This is a tradition in my family and why start breaking with tradition now, when I’m so close to 30? We’ve carved out our own breast lumps and sent them off for testing because asking the opinion of the doctor is just like admitting you’re stupid.
The aftershocks were still kicking my ass the next day so I made an appointment with my gastro specialist, a man who is not known for his sympathy or endearing bedside manner. I don’t like him much and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual, but that following Monday I found myself sharing breathing space with him, trying my best to convey that the pain? It had had been bad? And I wanted to stab myself? But couldn’t? Because nurseries are traditionally scarce on sharp objects?
He nodded abrubtly and left the room for some “papers,” coming back fifteen minutes later smelling like ink toner and Chinese food. According to him, I had 45 minutes to drive home, feed my cats, pack a bag and get to the hospital because shift change was at 6:30 and I didn’t want to get lost in the shuffle.
And then he turned around and walked out. I told you I didn’t like him, and now you don’t like him either. I hadn’t realized the papers he was referring to were admitting papers and I’m not even sure had he said “I’m going to get your admitting papers” that I would have made a connection between leaving the doctors office and checking into a hospital. Which is apparently not called checking-in, but ‘admitting.’ It’s not the Marriot and I now understand the full truth of that statement.
My first night there I was in a double room, which wasn’t really bothersome because I came prepared with earplugs and a sleeping mask. I’ve been in the ER enough times in my life to remember the BEEP BEEP BEEP MOTHERFUCKING BEEP of the heart monitor and the DRIP DRIP WHOOSH DRIP DRIP WHOREFACE DRIP DRIP of the IV line. Not conducive to sleeping. What I was not prepared for started very early the next morning on the other side of the curtained area. My cell mate decided she would start her day with some sporadic moaning and thrashing, followed by thirty minutes of violent pacing in her two square feet of allotted space. If you’re wondering how pacing can be violent then just continue reading, because I can’t say with certainty that I wouldn’t have paced violently if my body was about to drop a bomb on me. **Editors note: That’s not funny yet, but it will be.
While my cell mate continued her pacing I played with my heart rate- forcing it up, WHEEEEE! forcing it down, WHHOOOoooooo. Up! Wheeee! Down, Whoooo. I can do this with my blood pressure as well. Freaks the fuck outta nurses, let me tell you. On one of my down swings I noticed that the pacing behind the curtain had gotten sporadic. Pace pace pace stop, listen, slither plop. Pace pace pace stop, listen, slither plop. It took me a good sixty seconds to figure out what the stopping and slither plop was all about and I can tell you that I now look back on those sixty seconds with fondness. Those blessed sixty seconds spent wondering what the hell was going on, right before my olfactory glands kicked in and bitch slapped me.
She was dropping a bomb, all right. Big, goopey diarrhea bombs. On the floor. Now, this mental image probably isn’t the best but I need you to understand my absolute horror- She was pacing (pace pace pace), stopping at her desired location (stop), tilting her head to the side (listen), unleashing the viscous mass (slither) and waiting until it hit the floor (plop) before starting the process again.
I decided I was mature enough to keep my cool and crawled silently out of bed, pulling along my IV stand to the bathroom, praying for some nose relief. But no, that’s not how this game was to be played. The bathroom had already been bombed; the pee-catcher propped on the toilet was overflowing with poop, the floor was covered with poop and the sink handles were smeared with, two guesses, ok, I’ll give it to you- poop.
Outside in the hallway I overheard two nurse-like-people passing by and decided I’d give them their morning dose of What The Fuck.
“Excuse me ladies, my roommate seems to have had an accident.”
“We’ll get to it as soon as we change the sheets down the hall.”
“I’m afraid that would be too late. Here in about five minutes the River Styx will hit the threshold and I’m not sure I can keep last nights tasty dinner of Glucose Drip down while it makes its way under my bed.”
This catches their attention.
“Is she peeing on the floor again?”
“Peeing on the floor? Again? No ma’am. She’s shitting on the floor. And hopefully there won’t be an “again.”
During this conversation we had attracted the attention of three actual nurses who had started making their morning rounds. While catching them up on the situation I happened to raise my right arm to brace myself against the wall. I may not have been as bad off as Ms. Slither Plop, but I wasn’t feeling frisky and standing up plus conversing plus dragging my IV stand around was wearing me out. The fluorescent lights must have caught my arm just right because in my peripheral vision it looked like I had a flesh-colored cantaloupe strapped to my forearm. Right by the IV line. Upon close inspection it turned out that my peripheral vision wasn’t half bad. I DID have a flesh-colored cantaloupe strapped to my forearm.
“Is this a problem?” I asked, pointing to my IV arm.
“Oh, Jesus. How long has it been like that?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure this isn’t supposed to be comfortable but I have a very angry alien baby gestating in my stomach region and I haven’t been keeping track of anything else.”
“Who did your IV last night? My six-year-old daughter could do a better job.”
“That’s nice. Look, now that we’ve started pointing and talking about it, it appears that it really IS painful and I’d like to take it out. I’m not that squeamish- if you want I can just pull out the needle.”
“Uh, no. Let me get Sheila, she can take this out and start you a new line.”
So while I stood in the hallway with a cantaloupe forearm and a roommate with bowels like the Gulf of Mexico, I contemplated my fate. I had been admitted to the hospital, had a sonogram, been given a ridonkulous IV and slept in a room with a woman who has a habit of peeing on the floor. This was not the fluffy cloud where the Carebears live and I was exceptionally tired.
Instead of going to the ER, which I probably should have done, I just kind of ignored it. This is a tradition in my family and why start breaking with tradition now, when I’m so close to 30? We’ve carved out our own breast lumps and sent them off for testing because asking the opinion of the doctor is just like admitting you’re stupid.
The aftershocks were still kicking my ass the next day so I made an appointment with my gastro specialist, a man who is not known for his sympathy or endearing bedside manner. I don’t like him much and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual, but that following Monday I found myself sharing breathing space with him, trying my best to convey that the pain? It had had been bad? And I wanted to stab myself? But couldn’t? Because nurseries are traditionally scarce on sharp objects?
He nodded abrubtly and left the room for some “papers,” coming back fifteen minutes later smelling like ink toner and Chinese food. According to him, I had 45 minutes to drive home, feed my cats, pack a bag and get to the hospital because shift change was at 6:30 and I didn’t want to get lost in the shuffle.
And then he turned around and walked out. I told you I didn’t like him, and now you don’t like him either. I hadn’t realized the papers he was referring to were admitting papers and I’m not even sure had he said “I’m going to get your admitting papers” that I would have made a connection between leaving the doctors office and checking into a hospital. Which is apparently not called checking-in, but ‘admitting.’ It’s not the Marriot and I now understand the full truth of that statement.
My first night there I was in a double room, which wasn’t really bothersome because I came prepared with earplugs and a sleeping mask. I’ve been in the ER enough times in my life to remember the BEEP BEEP BEEP MOTHERFUCKING BEEP of the heart monitor and the DRIP DRIP WHOOSH DRIP DRIP WHOREFACE DRIP DRIP of the IV line. Not conducive to sleeping. What I was not prepared for started very early the next morning on the other side of the curtained area. My cell mate decided she would start her day with some sporadic moaning and thrashing, followed by thirty minutes of violent pacing in her two square feet of allotted space. If you’re wondering how pacing can be violent then just continue reading, because I can’t say with certainty that I wouldn’t have paced violently if my body was about to drop a bomb on me. **Editors note: That’s not funny yet, but it will be.
While my cell mate continued her pacing I played with my heart rate- forcing it up, WHEEEEE! forcing it down, WHHOOOoooooo. Up! Wheeee! Down, Whoooo. I can do this with my blood pressure as well. Freaks the fuck outta nurses, let me tell you. On one of my down swings I noticed that the pacing behind the curtain had gotten sporadic. Pace pace pace stop, listen, slither plop. Pace pace pace stop, listen, slither plop. It took me a good sixty seconds to figure out what the stopping and slither plop was all about and I can tell you that I now look back on those sixty seconds with fondness. Those blessed sixty seconds spent wondering what the hell was going on, right before my olfactory glands kicked in and bitch slapped me.
She was dropping a bomb, all right. Big, goopey diarrhea bombs. On the floor. Now, this mental image probably isn’t the best but I need you to understand my absolute horror- She was pacing (pace pace pace), stopping at her desired location (stop), tilting her head to the side (listen), unleashing the viscous mass (slither) and waiting until it hit the floor (plop) before starting the process again.
I decided I was mature enough to keep my cool and crawled silently out of bed, pulling along my IV stand to the bathroom, praying for some nose relief. But no, that’s not how this game was to be played. The bathroom had already been bombed; the pee-catcher propped on the toilet was overflowing with poop, the floor was covered with poop and the sink handles were smeared with, two guesses, ok, I’ll give it to you- poop.
Outside in the hallway I overheard two nurse-like-people passing by and decided I’d give them their morning dose of What The Fuck.
“Excuse me ladies, my roommate seems to have had an accident.”
“We’ll get to it as soon as we change the sheets down the hall.”
“I’m afraid that would be too late. Here in about five minutes the River Styx will hit the threshold and I’m not sure I can keep last nights tasty dinner of Glucose Drip down while it makes its way under my bed.”
This catches their attention.
“Is she peeing on the floor again?”
“Peeing on the floor? Again? No ma’am. She’s shitting on the floor. And hopefully there won’t be an “again.”
During this conversation we had attracted the attention of three actual nurses who had started making their morning rounds. While catching them up on the situation I happened to raise my right arm to brace myself against the wall. I may not have been as bad off as Ms. Slither Plop, but I wasn’t feeling frisky and standing up plus conversing plus dragging my IV stand around was wearing me out. The fluorescent lights must have caught my arm just right because in my peripheral vision it looked like I had a flesh-colored cantaloupe strapped to my forearm. Right by the IV line. Upon close inspection it turned out that my peripheral vision wasn’t half bad. I DID have a flesh-colored cantaloupe strapped to my forearm.
“Is this a problem?” I asked, pointing to my IV arm.
“Oh, Jesus. How long has it been like that?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure this isn’t supposed to be comfortable but I have a very angry alien baby gestating in my stomach region and I haven’t been keeping track of anything else.”
“Who did your IV last night? My six-year-old daughter could do a better job.”
“That’s nice. Look, now that we’ve started pointing and talking about it, it appears that it really IS painful and I’d like to take it out. I’m not that squeamish- if you want I can just pull out the needle.”
“Uh, no. Let me get Sheila, she can take this out and start you a new line.”
So while I stood in the hallway with a cantaloupe forearm and a roommate with bowels like the Gulf of Mexico, I contemplated my fate. I had been admitted to the hospital, had a sonogram, been given a ridonkulous IV and slept in a room with a woman who has a habit of peeing on the floor. This was not the fluffy cloud where the Carebears live and I was exceptionally tired.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Ding Dang, Ya'll
I had a whole series of posts planned out, and then I got distracted. This is nothing unusual. I get distracted all the time. I get distracted when I’m driving down the road and a pretty cloud floats by. I get distracted when I see ugly shoes. I even get distracted when I’m talking and a random thought creeps in, forcing me to pause and think while my listener waits with bated breath for me to finish. Or they just walk away.
After the administering of drugs I agreed to see the pyschobabblist because a) it was the only way to keep the drugs a-coming and b) I would get to use the following phrase in everyday discourse: “My therapist says….” Even knowing that my therapy experience wasn’t going to be near as exciting or couture-filled as Carrie Bradshaw’s (I don’t see a crazed Bon Jovi seeking therapy in Arkansas, much less being attracted to a girl who doesn’t frost her hair or spray tan), I did see it as an opportunity to finally figure out what happens in a “session.” I have a close friend who swears by her weekly “sessions” and spends a lot of time at the dinner table discussing “break throughs” and “mental blocks.” Most of the time I grit my teeth because these are things I have told her many, many times, but when it comes spewing forth from the mouth of a therapist, someone to whom you sign over your monthly paychecks, I guess it sounds more convincing.
The first session was probably the most involved, what with the seventeen pages of paperwork I had to fill out. How often did I experience anxiety? What were the triggers for the anxiety? What is my relationship like with my parents? How many times a day did I piss? So I ::cough:: took my time ::cough:: and answered the questions to the best of my ability. I told them that going into work everyday was like putting a cheese grater to my face and having to eat a taco salad garnished with the grated bits off my face and drizzled with bird shit. I told them that I had coked up hamsters running my heart rate, that my neck skin was having trouble remaining attached. I even mentioned my brother’s frequent run-ins with the law and that while I appreciated his dedication and single-minded determination to be the drunkest family member, it was STRESSING ME THE FUCK OUT. Smiley face.
The session itself was mostly unremarkable. Things continued fairly smoothly for the first forty minutes- the therapist spent most of her time going over my paper work and making comments about my ability to so graphically describe things. And then she made a mistake. She tried to pull the staring trick, the one where an individual ceases to speak, thereby intending to make the other person uncomfortable enough to open their trap and spill all their secrets. Only I don’t respond well to those kinds of tactics and stared right back. For four and a half minutes. The clock was right beside her head, so I’m fairly sure I have an accurate time measurement of the staring. She finally gave up and slapped her hands on her knees, drew in a deep breath and asked where I’d grown up. Therapist: 0, Robin: 1
During the next session we talked mainly about my health. Her suggestion was to take an aerobic class. I had to explain that aerobics, running or anything overtly physical was on the no-no list. All that bouncing around forces food back up into my esophagus, which allows the acid to burn fun holes on my vocal chords. I probably came off sounding overly critical during this session, mainly because I have three doctors that do nothing but monitor my stomach and esophagus. I get enough shit from them – Take your Nexium! Don’t take your Nexium! Avoid vegetables! Eat vegetables! Eat small meals! Stay away from breads! Eat a Happy Meal and tell me what happens! -- that I have no desire to hear anyone else’s opinion about what they think gastroparesis is and what I can do to cure it. First of all, it CAN’T be cured. Second, you’re trained to treat MENTAL PROBLEMS, not STOMACH PROBLEMS.
I only went back one more time after that- it was just too much stress on an already stress-filled plate. Thankfully, the doctor that actually doles out the drugs agreed to keep writing me prescriptions. Notice how the therapist, the one who listens to patient bullshit, is not the one who gets to hand out the drugs. She just makes a “recommendation” and the doctor nods his head wisely and hands you a prescription. Good times. I totally should have gone to school for that.
Now that that end is all nicely tied up, I can move on to the most exciting development of the summer: How I Amused Myself Whilst Spending 6.5 Days in the Hospital.
After the administering of drugs I agreed to see the pyschobabblist because a) it was the only way to keep the drugs a-coming and b) I would get to use the following phrase in everyday discourse: “My therapist says….” Even knowing that my therapy experience wasn’t going to be near as exciting or couture-filled as Carrie Bradshaw’s (I don’t see a crazed Bon Jovi seeking therapy in Arkansas, much less being attracted to a girl who doesn’t frost her hair or spray tan), I did see it as an opportunity to finally figure out what happens in a “session.” I have a close friend who swears by her weekly “sessions” and spends a lot of time at the dinner table discussing “break throughs” and “mental blocks.” Most of the time I grit my teeth because these are things I have told her many, many times, but when it comes spewing forth from the mouth of a therapist, someone to whom you sign over your monthly paychecks, I guess it sounds more convincing.
The first session was probably the most involved, what with the seventeen pages of paperwork I had to fill out. How often did I experience anxiety? What were the triggers for the anxiety? What is my relationship like with my parents? How many times a day did I piss? So I ::cough:: took my time ::cough:: and answered the questions to the best of my ability. I told them that going into work everyday was like putting a cheese grater to my face and having to eat a taco salad garnished with the grated bits off my face and drizzled with bird shit. I told them that I had coked up hamsters running my heart rate, that my neck skin was having trouble remaining attached. I even mentioned my brother’s frequent run-ins with the law and that while I appreciated his dedication and single-minded determination to be the drunkest family member, it was STRESSING ME THE FUCK OUT. Smiley face.
The session itself was mostly unremarkable. Things continued fairly smoothly for the first forty minutes- the therapist spent most of her time going over my paper work and making comments about my ability to so graphically describe things. And then she made a mistake. She tried to pull the staring trick, the one where an individual ceases to speak, thereby intending to make the other person uncomfortable enough to open their trap and spill all their secrets. Only I don’t respond well to those kinds of tactics and stared right back. For four and a half minutes. The clock was right beside her head, so I’m fairly sure I have an accurate time measurement of the staring. She finally gave up and slapped her hands on her knees, drew in a deep breath and asked where I’d grown up. Therapist: 0, Robin: 1
During the next session we talked mainly about my health. Her suggestion was to take an aerobic class. I had to explain that aerobics, running or anything overtly physical was on the no-no list. All that bouncing around forces food back up into my esophagus, which allows the acid to burn fun holes on my vocal chords. I probably came off sounding overly critical during this session, mainly because I have three doctors that do nothing but monitor my stomach and esophagus. I get enough shit from them – Take your Nexium! Don’t take your Nexium! Avoid vegetables! Eat vegetables! Eat small meals! Stay away from breads! Eat a Happy Meal and tell me what happens! -- that I have no desire to hear anyone else’s opinion about what they think gastroparesis is and what I can do to cure it. First of all, it CAN’T be cured. Second, you’re trained to treat MENTAL PROBLEMS, not STOMACH PROBLEMS.
I only went back one more time after that- it was just too much stress on an already stress-filled plate. Thankfully, the doctor that actually doles out the drugs agreed to keep writing me prescriptions. Notice how the therapist, the one who listens to patient bullshit, is not the one who gets to hand out the drugs. She just makes a “recommendation” and the doctor nods his head wisely and hands you a prescription. Good times. I totally should have gone to school for that.
Now that that end is all nicely tied up, I can move on to the most exciting development of the summer: How I Amused Myself Whilst Spending 6.5 Days in the Hospital.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
We have a winner
It all started several months ago, when the questionable work environment, the random, incurable health problems and the drunkaholic younger brother insisted on feeding the hamsters that run my heart rate with line after line of cocaine, until the little rodents became so Lindsay-Lohan-ed that not even the threat of a stint in Promises would force them into time-out. It was bearable at first, the cocaine binges coming in spurts, pushing my chest into a jog-esque state. However, things finally culminated with the decidedly unbearable continuous sprints, pushing my heart muscle into an arena I’m quite sure it’s never seen nor felt, not being the kind of body who runs just for the hell of it.
And that’s what it felt like. Like I was running to or from god only knows what, with my body in slow motion. Move hand to keyboard, try not to panic, smile at passing co-worker, try to not panic, hear about brother’s drunken exploits, try not to panic. Until the ‘trying not to panic’ bit morphed into the sudden and abrupt realization that I wasn’t doing a very good job at the not panicking, especially when I couldn’t conceal the violent leg twitching. Always a dead giveaway.
So I packed up my pride and went to the doctor. I sat in the little sterilized room like any other patient, flipping through some inane magazine about hunting dogs, legs twitching, staring at the diagrams of inner ears and holding myself back from picking up the brochure on erectile dysfunction. I guess it was just a leftover curiosity from my youth- always wondering exactly what went on down there. Much as I’m sure men wonder exactly what a uterus does.
And I was fine sitting in that office, a perfectly normal person visiting the doctor to ask for some pills. I was fine right up until the doctor walked in and asked, in his deep and sympathetic voice, “So, how are you?” and immediately burst into tears. Big, gulping, gut wrenching, complete disregard for the mascara tears. In front of a man I had never met. I should have died of embarrassment, but it was like I had immediately been transported back to the age of six, when I’d been careening down Quail Lane Dr. with my three best friends, taking the hill at enormous speeds, laughing at the pure joy of releasing the handle bars when BAM! I crashed straight into a neighbor’s curb, scraping the skin off both knees and elbows. But me? I jumped right back up, no harm done, right? I was a godamn six-year-old badass and nothing was going to stop me from riding home on my now dinged-up bike. So I did, I rode straight home with nary a tear in sight, not until my momma saw my dirt stained face and blood streaked legs and, again with the soft and sympathetic voice, said “Oh, my sweet baby, are you okay?” Tears. Tears, tears and more tears.
Between my hiccupping and snot-wiping, I finally got it all out. I told a single person my stomach-clawing worries and he just sat there and listened. No smug smile, no move for a hug, just listened. Which is good, because I don’t react well to hugs or touching from strangers and while most people can grasp my non-too-subtle vibe, there are those who ignore it anyway. But he continued nodding until I had completely finished, told me I wasn’t crazy like I kept claiming to be and all I needed were a few of these pills.
Pills! Finally! Relief in sight! Though normally I will eschew even the barest of medications, I couldn’t help but wait greedily for my prescriptions. Anything, whatever it takes, just make the coked up hamsters go away.
But there was a catch- he was only a family practitioner, and he wasn’t in the habit of treating mental thingamabobs on a regular basis. So, deep breath, I had to see a psychiatrist. At that moment I wouldn’t have cared if he’d said I needed to have my ear lobes shortened and my pinkie toe removed- I’m an adult, and a reasonably intelligent one at that. I can handle a pyschobabbleist. Just as long as they keep the pills a-coming. I already had my trial tablets in hand with a prescription for a mighty heavy tranquilizer, so I was keen to roll my chubby ass out of the office and straight into Wal-Greens, promising I’d visit his recommended pyschobubble the very next Thursday.
That visit, the one with the pyschotherapydollhead, was quite the adventure.
And that’s what it felt like. Like I was running to or from god only knows what, with my body in slow motion. Move hand to keyboard, try not to panic, smile at passing co-worker, try to not panic, hear about brother’s drunken exploits, try not to panic. Until the ‘trying not to panic’ bit morphed into the sudden and abrupt realization that I wasn’t doing a very good job at the not panicking, especially when I couldn’t conceal the violent leg twitching. Always a dead giveaway.
So I packed up my pride and went to the doctor. I sat in the little sterilized room like any other patient, flipping through some inane magazine about hunting dogs, legs twitching, staring at the diagrams of inner ears and holding myself back from picking up the brochure on erectile dysfunction. I guess it was just a leftover curiosity from my youth- always wondering exactly what went on down there. Much as I’m sure men wonder exactly what a uterus does.
And I was fine sitting in that office, a perfectly normal person visiting the doctor to ask for some pills. I was fine right up until the doctor walked in and asked, in his deep and sympathetic voice, “So, how are you?” and immediately burst into tears. Big, gulping, gut wrenching, complete disregard for the mascara tears. In front of a man I had never met. I should have died of embarrassment, but it was like I had immediately been transported back to the age of six, when I’d been careening down Quail Lane Dr. with my three best friends, taking the hill at enormous speeds, laughing at the pure joy of releasing the handle bars when BAM! I crashed straight into a neighbor’s curb, scraping the skin off both knees and elbows. But me? I jumped right back up, no harm done, right? I was a godamn six-year-old badass and nothing was going to stop me from riding home on my now dinged-up bike. So I did, I rode straight home with nary a tear in sight, not until my momma saw my dirt stained face and blood streaked legs and, again with the soft and sympathetic voice, said “Oh, my sweet baby, are you okay?” Tears. Tears, tears and more tears.
Between my hiccupping and snot-wiping, I finally got it all out. I told a single person my stomach-clawing worries and he just sat there and listened. No smug smile, no move for a hug, just listened. Which is good, because I don’t react well to hugs or touching from strangers and while most people can grasp my non-too-subtle vibe, there are those who ignore it anyway. But he continued nodding until I had completely finished, told me I wasn’t crazy like I kept claiming to be and all I needed were a few of these pills.
Pills! Finally! Relief in sight! Though normally I will eschew even the barest of medications, I couldn’t help but wait greedily for my prescriptions. Anything, whatever it takes, just make the coked up hamsters go away.
But there was a catch- he was only a family practitioner, and he wasn’t in the habit of treating mental thingamabobs on a regular basis. So, deep breath, I had to see a psychiatrist. At that moment I wouldn’t have cared if he’d said I needed to have my ear lobes shortened and my pinkie toe removed- I’m an adult, and a reasonably intelligent one at that. I can handle a pyschobabbleist. Just as long as they keep the pills a-coming. I already had my trial tablets in hand with a prescription for a mighty heavy tranquilizer, so I was keen to roll my chubby ass out of the office and straight into Wal-Greens, promising I’d visit his recommended pyschobubble the very next Thursday.
That visit, the one with the pyschotherapydollhead, was quite the adventure.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Waxing On
To say I've been mildly disinterested in the goings-on of daily life would be a mild understatement and if there's anything I abhor, it's a statement that could have been adjectivified to death. And wasn't. It's like leaving a baby to starve. Or eating picked eggs from the gas station.
I can't think of any witty or humorous transitions for the non-post I'm about to compile, so you'll just have to bear with me. Or move along. My apathy level is right on par with that of a coked up hooker and besides, there's only like sixteen of you out there. I know this because I occasionally check my sitemeter, which is how (transition approaching) I came up with the following: A twisted look into what, exactly, leads people to this site. Obviously the Google team and I need to sit down and have a little chat.
Search words that have, however unfortunately, led people to birdsovafeather:
Prickly feeling after injecting crystal (My personal opinion? A dirty needle and a raging case of herpes.)
Hi, my name's Max and I'm an adrenaline junkie. I need my adrenaline shot every day. (Starbucks is on every corner, douche.)
Big black jumping roach indoors (Hmm. Pesticide and/or a large shoe should take care of that.)
Is it proper ettyqet {sic} to wear shit hose with brown shoes (I have no idea. But then, I don't own many pairs of hose made out of shit.)
Plunger game. (What the fuck.)
What kind of poison can make a hamster die and bleed out of mouth and nose? (Well, I'd be curious to know if you're trying to kill your pet or just ascertain the manner of death. Either way, it's a hamster. LET IT GO.)
"felt the bump" + "ran over" (So, you had a little accident with your ex-girlfriend, did you? Ran her over in the parking lot? Wanting to know if "feeling the bump" qualifies you for legal ramifications? Now, I know I watch too much CSI, but I'm pretty sure you're fucked.)
llama + "stomach acid" (I have no idea, but I'm pretty sure this person was researching biological weapons.)
8 pills singel doze clamydia {sic} (Obviously our educational system is falling below par. If you can't even spell "single" correctly, I can't imagine how you could keep yourself STD-free.)
fetish of wiping poop (Having wiped a lot of asses in my day, I cannot fathom how this would be appealing on a sexual level.)
Crystal light turns my poop red (Stop drinking red Crystal Light. Problem solved.)
Cutting a cake and screaming out the demons (I think this person might be in need of some serious psychological evaluation.)
I have a marble stuck in my throat (Deary Precious Baby Jesus, please send your army of angels to strike this person dead.)
Can a peanut get stuck in my esophagus? (Yes.)
I can't think of any witty or humorous transitions for the non-post I'm about to compile, so you'll just have to bear with me. Or move along. My apathy level is right on par with that of a coked up hooker and besides, there's only like sixteen of you out there. I know this because I occasionally check my sitemeter, which is how (transition approaching) I came up with the following: A twisted look into what, exactly, leads people to this site. Obviously the Google team and I need to sit down and have a little chat.
Search words that have, however unfortunately, led people to birdsovafeather:
Prickly feeling after injecting crystal (My personal opinion? A dirty needle and a raging case of herpes.)
Hi, my name's Max and I'm an adrenaline junkie. I need my adrenaline shot every day. (Starbucks is on every corner, douche.)
Big black jumping roach indoors (Hmm. Pesticide and/or a large shoe should take care of that.)
Is it proper ettyqet {sic} to wear shit hose with brown shoes (I have no idea. But then, I don't own many pairs of hose made out of shit.)
Plunger game. (What the fuck.)
What kind of poison can make a hamster die and bleed out of mouth and nose? (Well, I'd be curious to know if you're trying to kill your pet or just ascertain the manner of death. Either way, it's a hamster. LET IT GO.)
"felt the bump" + "ran over" (So, you had a little accident with your ex-girlfriend, did you? Ran her over in the parking lot? Wanting to know if "feeling the bump" qualifies you for legal ramifications? Now, I know I watch too much CSI, but I'm pretty sure you're fucked.)
llama + "stomach acid" (I have no idea, but I'm pretty sure this person was researching biological weapons.)
8 pills singel doze clamydia {sic} (Obviously our educational system is falling below par. If you can't even spell "single" correctly, I can't imagine how you could keep yourself STD-free.)
fetish of wiping poop (Having wiped a lot of asses in my day, I cannot fathom how this would be appealing on a sexual level.)
Crystal light turns my poop red (Stop drinking red Crystal Light. Problem solved.)
Cutting a cake and screaming out the demons (I think this person might be in need of some serious psychological evaluation.)
I have a marble stuck in my throat (Deary Precious Baby Jesus, please send your army of angels to strike this person dead.)
Can a peanut get stuck in my esophagus? (Yes.)
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Heavy Breathing
Thursday morning we were all slow to get up, especially Kasi, who's reluctance was at least in part due to her "insomniac" status. It is my very humble opinion that a good portion of that non-sleeping can be blamed on someone's mild addiction to Facebook. I am no one to judge because hello, I am totally all over the covert online stalking. Driving past your ex's house is so 1996.
After a quick bite to eat we headed up roads that are commonly known as 'pig trails' in northern Arkansas. I'd been delegated to the driver seat because I am that kid who turns multiple shades of green right before vomiting all over your grey upholstery- and lord knows how hard it is to get that smell out. Best just to let me continue with my controlling personality and let me drive.
After ten minutes of driving up a mountain in a Civic, taking curves at 25mph and staring warilly at the one-foot-high railing, Kasi threw herself without warning onto the front armrest. As it turns out, all three of us are prone to car sickness. And even if we weren't prone to car sickness, those mountain roads would have forced anyone to reconsider the buffalo chicken sandwich they had for lunch.
We stopped at several lookout ponts along the drive, if for nothing else than to put our feet on solid, non-moving ground. Also, the pictures were nice. Even though Kasi delighted in making me nervous by clambering over railings and hanging onto the backs of signs, thus leading to some really unflattering pictures of me, standing with my shoulders up by my ears and eyebrows that fade straight into my hairline.
The whole point of the drive was to stop at Craggy Pointe and do something called 'hiking.' I was promised that the 'hiking' would not involve boulder jumping or climbing or areas without protective railings. Say what you want about me, say that I'm a weeney, that I'm unathletic, that I'm inherently lazy. But just understand that while you are tumbling to your death after a railing gives way, I am probably waiving at the cabana boy for another margarita. And you can't waive at the cabana boy from the bottom of a ravine when your arm is being chewed off by vicious gophers.
The hiking wasn't really that bad, at least not as bad as I'm making it out to be. I did get lots of enouragement from Becca and Kasi, friends who never once rolled their eyes when I told them that we were going to have to stop and rest. Again. Becca kept promising that I would feel such a sense of accomplishment when I reached the top, even pulling out her camera to capture that moment when I finally pulled my ass up the last step. That picture will never see the light of day, a) because I was bracing my upper body on my knees and you can see straight down my shirt and b) you can clearly see the bloody mass of a lung that I lost on the way the way up. I blame the high altitude.
I can't say as I'd hike every day, all day- and I still think people who roll up in the Smokey Mountains for three months of solitary hiking are fucking insane- but I might consider doing it again. For money.
After a quick bite to eat we headed up roads that are commonly known as 'pig trails' in northern Arkansas. I'd been delegated to the driver seat because I am that kid who turns multiple shades of green right before vomiting all over your grey upholstery- and lord knows how hard it is to get that smell out. Best just to let me continue with my controlling personality and let me drive.
After ten minutes of driving up a mountain in a Civic, taking curves at 25mph and staring warilly at the one-foot-high railing, Kasi threw herself without warning onto the front armrest. As it turns out, all three of us are prone to car sickness. And even if we weren't prone to car sickness, those mountain roads would have forced anyone to reconsider the buffalo chicken sandwich they had for lunch.
We stopped at several lookout ponts along the drive, if for nothing else than to put our feet on solid, non-moving ground. Also, the pictures were nice. Even though Kasi delighted in making me nervous by clambering over railings and hanging onto the backs of signs, thus leading to some really unflattering pictures of me, standing with my shoulders up by my ears and eyebrows that fade straight into my hairline.
The whole point of the drive was to stop at Craggy Pointe and do something called 'hiking.' I was promised that the 'hiking' would not involve boulder jumping or climbing or areas without protective railings. Say what you want about me, say that I'm a weeney, that I'm unathletic, that I'm inherently lazy. But just understand that while you are tumbling to your death after a railing gives way, I am probably waiving at the cabana boy for another margarita. And you can't waive at the cabana boy from the bottom of a ravine when your arm is being chewed off by vicious gophers.
The hiking wasn't really that bad, at least not as bad as I'm making it out to be. I did get lots of enouragement from Becca and Kasi, friends who never once rolled their eyes when I told them that we were going to have to stop and rest. Again. Becca kept promising that I would feel such a sense of accomplishment when I reached the top, even pulling out her camera to capture that moment when I finally pulled my ass up the last step. That picture will never see the light of day, a) because I was bracing my upper body on my knees and you can see straight down my shirt and b) you can clearly see the bloody mass of a lung that I lost on the way the way up. I blame the high altitude.
I can't say as I'd hike every day, all day- and I still think people who roll up in the Smokey Mountains for three months of solitary hiking are fucking insane- but I might consider doing it again. For money.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Zerp percent humidity leads to good hair days
The interesting thing about today was not the abundance of incense-burning stores, but rather the fact that I walked for seven straight hours- up the hill, down the hill, up the hill again- and never once broke a sweat. Not even like a pre-sweat where you feel the back of your neck getting hot and the hair around your neck (at least mine, anyway) rebels against the smoothing effects of a straightener and ringlets itself out of sheer defiance.
This was a nice change of pace after the 85% humidity of Central Arkansas.
Midway through the day I found myself wandering through a store full of shoes. Shoes on sale. Racks of shoes. On sale. But as much as I love seeing Irish green flats with delicate bows, I have a foot thing. Not like a nasty foot thing, just a foot thing that usually requires a special order. That is, unless I happen to get lucky and some poor shopkeeper has taken pity on the Big Foots with bony heels and narrow widths. Try finding a size 10AAA. Just try.
I'd changed out of my polka dot flats earlier in the day because they were rubbing the ragged cut on my foot that stems from where Butterbean mistook my dangling foot for a ladder. Always the girlscout, I had planned for this event and packed my favorite (and only) pair of black flipflops. These are the same flops I purchased three years ago from the discount bin at Walmart. In those three years they survived several stints as a cat chew toy and that time in Mexico when ::cough:: someone ::cough:: dropped a lit cigarrette while lounging in a beach chair. This person may or may not have been slightly intoxicated. Either way, the heel of the flop has sported a character buiding half-hole since the summer of 2004. It's safe to say that it was time for The Replacements to roll in.
Because I am vacationing in a land where people do not judge you on the basis of your designer jeans but rather the brand name of your polar fleece, every store we visited had multiple selections of "shoes." Some of these "shoes" are made specifically for walking on creek beds. Others are made for rock climbing. And still others are made for the hippies to buy and wear to Phish-esque shows as they normally have to park way far away, and that's a lot of walking for someone so high.
Attempting to aid in my flop relacement, the girls first convinced me to try on a pair of flipflops made by Choco. Every time I heard this I thought of the Choco Taco at Taco Bell and I just couldn't bring myself to pay fifty bucks for something so ugly.
Later I tried on a pair made by Teva. At twenty bucks this was far more reasonable and far less ugly. So I puchased them just as the store was closing, immediately running outside for a ceremonial trashing of the rubber foam that has carried me from Mexico to Dallas and from Dallas to Asheville. They now lie borken-heartedly in a dumpster off Lexington Ave. I will miss them.
This was a nice change of pace after the 85% humidity of Central Arkansas.
Midway through the day I found myself wandering through a store full of shoes. Shoes on sale. Racks of shoes. On sale. But as much as I love seeing Irish green flats with delicate bows, I have a foot thing. Not like a nasty foot thing, just a foot thing that usually requires a special order. That is, unless I happen to get lucky and some poor shopkeeper has taken pity on the Big Foots with bony heels and narrow widths. Try finding a size 10AAA. Just try.
I'd changed out of my polka dot flats earlier in the day because they were rubbing the ragged cut on my foot that stems from where Butterbean mistook my dangling foot for a ladder. Always the girlscout, I had planned for this event and packed my favorite (and only) pair of black flipflops. These are the same flops I purchased three years ago from the discount bin at Walmart. In those three years they survived several stints as a cat chew toy and that time in Mexico when ::cough:: someone ::cough:: dropped a lit cigarrette while lounging in a beach chair. This person may or may not have been slightly intoxicated. Either way, the heel of the flop has sported a character buiding half-hole since the summer of 2004. It's safe to say that it was time for The Replacements to roll in.
Because I am vacationing in a land where people do not judge you on the basis of your designer jeans but rather the brand name of your polar fleece, every store we visited had multiple selections of "shoes." Some of these "shoes" are made specifically for walking on creek beds. Others are made for rock climbing. And still others are made for the hippies to buy and wear to Phish-esque shows as they normally have to park way far away, and that's a lot of walking for someone so high.
Attempting to aid in my flop relacement, the girls first convinced me to try on a pair of flipflops made by Choco. Every time I heard this I thought of the Choco Taco at Taco Bell and I just couldn't bring myself to pay fifty bucks for something so ugly.
Later I tried on a pair made by Teva. At twenty bucks this was far more reasonable and far less ugly. So I puchased them just as the store was closing, immediately running outside for a ceremonial trashing of the rubber foam that has carried me from Mexico to Dallas and from Dallas to Asheville. They now lie borken-heartedly in a dumpster off Lexington Ave. I will miss them.
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