It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

I went to the doctor on Wednesday. Three and a half weeks down, 4500 weeks to go. Dr. Bob was really kind and I can't say what favor he did me, for fear others will ask for the same treatment and then he'll be all "Why did I do that for a person who has a blog AND a big mouth?" but he did do me a big favor so thanks, Dr. Bob. He has a last name; I just can't pronounce it. Before I got my new pink cast, Big Sam took 38 staples out of my foot. Only a few hurt because they were bent and embedded in my skin. McLoserstene was in the examining room with me and watched the extractions. Then Sam asked me if I wanted to SEE the staples. Yes of course, right after I witness a bowel dissection. McLoserstene looked because she's a ghoul.

Because I'm so dainty and shy, I told Dr. Bob his glasses made him look old. He had those rimless kind. He replied, "Good!" First time I'd heard that from anyone in Los Angeles.

"How old do you think I am?"
"Don't ask her, she never, EVER gets it right." Offered McLoserstene.
"41?"
"36."

I never do get it right. He then went on to explain that people don't want Doogie Howser operating on them. That most people want older surgeons. Not me, based on all my surgeries, older ones are sometimes out of the loop, never keep up on the innovations in their field and just prefer to slog along doing the same old thing.

"Well, you should go to Oliver Peoples and get some cooler glasses."

He removed his glasses and handed them to me. They were, of course, Oliver Peoples. I'm lousy with ages but good on high-end merchandise.

Then McLoserstene and I went to lunch. This had kept me up the night before, worrying that small children running wild would plow into my crutches and I was going to lie sprawled all over a sidewalk with strollers leaving skid marks on my back. We looked for a handicap space and there weren't any so I asked McLoserstene to drop me off in front of the restaurant. She said she would have to stop and get out my crutches. I didn't think anything of that until she kept driving, and the next thing I knew we were in a handicap spot close to Japan.

"Where's the restaurant?"
"Right over there." I believed her because who would park blocks away when someone was on crutches for the second time? Did I mention it was only my SECOND time? I thought I could make it because obviously the blood loss from the un-stapling was clearly pooling in my brain. When we got to where I thought the restaurant was, McLoserstene kept walking. Turns out it was the building beyond that. I got pissed.

"What the fuck? Why didn't you drop me off in front of the restaurant?"
"There were cars in back of me."

Now, I'm not one of those people who worries that people are going to get mad at me if I get out of a car and wait for my crutches. I assume they will wait because you know, I'm all on crutches and shit. Nor do I care if those people are badmouthing me because I'M NEVER GOING TO SEE THEM AGAIN and oh yes, I'm all on crutches and shit.

"So who cares about those cars? It's not like we're in the middle of a freeway, we're in a parking lot."
"You didn't insist."

I didn't think I needed to.

I've gained 20 pounds since I've been unable to exercise, 20 pounds that I kept referring to as 12 and so far I've only lost 6. I'm woefully out of shape in every sense of the word so needless to say my arms gave out and both my thighs wiped out and I had to sit down on a low wall and wait to be hooked up to a heart monitor. That's when McLoserstene started telling me how to walk on crutches because you know, she wants me to fall down and die so she can clean out the things she covets in my apartment before my family gets there. When she plays around with the crutches at my house and goes fast, she doesn't have a leg that can't touch the ground so she has no idea what it feels like to be worried you're going to fall and fuck up a $14,000 surgery and have to do it all over again. Then she told me my crutches didn't fit! Meanwhile Big Sam, the technician who fit me for them, watched me walk in the doctor's office and told me how well I was doing. I thought she felt bad that she parked so far away and was just trying to blame the crutches. My mom's been using that technique for years but it doesn't work.

Inside the restaurant, I asked one young guy to give me his seat while we waited and he willingly obliged. His friend inquired as to what happened to my foot and if I had any pain. I said I didn't and he replied, "I'll bet the Vikes help." Then the old lady who sat us in the restaurant asked me if I needed anything and I seriously kiddingly replied 'drugs.'
"I've got Vicodins." This is L.A., after all.

Yesterday and today I am very sore. My upper arms are shot and so are parts of my back and I feel my spleen might be missing. Having talked to others who've been on crutches, I was expecting some pain but it's weird when your body hurts more than the surgical site.

End of chat.